The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  Oldroyd and Deborah arrived in good time. Deborah was excited at the prospect of the murder mystery dinner, and thought it would be great fun. Oldroyd was less enthusiastic about what he considered a ‘busman’s holiday’ type of evening, but he was quite happy to accompany his new companion. He also knew the food at The White Swan was good and he was looking forward to his dinner.

  ‘Good evening, Chief Inspector,’ said Amanda. The strain on her face was still clearly visible.

  Oldroyd introduced Deborah, and they went through to the bar, Deborah clutching her programme notes. They got their champagne and, as they were early, managed to find some chairs.

  ‘Ooh, let’s have a look at this!’ exclaimed Deborah, sipping her champagne and smoothing out the sheet of paper. ‘You’ll have to give me a chance to work it out. You’ve got an unfair advantage with your professional skills,’ she laughed.

  ‘Of course,’ said Oldroyd, relaxing into his easy chair. ‘I’m quite happy to take a back seat. I’m sure these things are not remotely realistic anyway, just a bit of fun. It probably comes down to guesswork in the end.’

  ‘Maybe, but I like a nice puzzle.’

  Oldroyd smiled at her. He liked puzzles too, but solving them wasn’t quite so entertaining when people’s lives were at stake. He didn’t say anything, not wanting to spoil the evening.

  Without realising it, they had sat in a position that allowed them to see the guests as they arrived. It wasn’t long before familiar people started to enter the bar holding their champagne glasses. Carol Ashworth, looking flushed and excited, came in with a man. She saw Oldroyd almost immediately and came over.

  ‘Oh, Chief Inspector, I didn’t expect to see you here! This is my husband, Dennis.’

  Oldroyd shook hands with Dennis, a bald-headed, glum-looking man, who looked as if he’d been dragged along to the event. After this, Oldroyd introduced Deborah to the pair.

  ‘We come to this every year, don’t we, Dennis?’ Carol said, and then continued, not waiting for a reply. ‘It’s a bit expensive, but I always look forward to it. Last year’s was so good. The actors were so convincing and you’d have been proud of me. I worked out who the murderer was, didn’t I, Dennis? Anyway, with you here, Chief Inspector, it’s going to be difficult for the rest of us. We’re going to be up against a professional.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do fine,’ said Oldroyd, smiling and hoping that the couple would quickly move on.

  ‘Well, we won’t hog you, Chief Inspector. I’m sure other people will want to talk to you, but no giving out advice – that would be cheating.’ She wagged her finger at him and laughed. ‘Come on, Dennis, we’ve got to read through the notes. Oh, I’m so looking forward to it all!’ They went off to the far end of the bar, where there were still seats available.

  ‘I think we should move,’ said Oldroyd, ‘or I’m going to get collared by everyone who comes through the door. How about over there?’ He indicated two seats in a corner with a little table, which were not visible from the bar entrance.

  ‘OK,’ replied Deborah. ‘As long as you point out anyone interesting. This is so odd. Here you are taking time out from working on a real case and some of the actual suspects are also here watching a piece of crime drama. And some of them are crime writers themselves! Fact and fiction overlapping. I’m sure some Cultural Studies student could write a thesis on the ramifications!’

  ‘I’m sure they could, but that little encounter has made me all the more determined to keep a low profile. She works at the Baths, by the way. She was there when the body was discovered.’ Oldroyd was beginning to have the same weird, confusing feeling he’d had during his appearance at the festival, and he was beginning to be weary of it. How disturbingly odd it was to have all these people who were suspects in the real murder case around a festival about crime fiction; it was even worse tonight as a fictional murder was to be acted out. He shook his head to dispel the disorientating complexities and sipped his champagne.

  When they were ensconced in their new seats, Deborah began to consult the programme notes. There were short descriptions of the characters, with a photograph alongside.

  ‘So the drama’s called Who Killed Lord Willoughby?’

  ‘It’s always the butler, isn’t it?’ quipped Oldroyd.

  ‘Shut up! How many times have you arrested a butler?’

  Oldroyd laughed and had to admit that he’d never even met a butler, never mind arrested one.

  ‘Apparently he’d had affairs with his solicitor’s wife and the woman who ran the estate riding stables, and his wife knew about it. Now there’s Lady Willoughby – she returned the favour by having an affair with her brother-in-law. Kathryn Willoughby, the daughter, has a boyfriend her father doesn’t like and he’s threatened to disinherit her if she doesn’t dump him. Then—’

  ‘Wait there a moment,’ interrupted Oldroyd. ‘This big bloke is Charles Derryvale, one of Penrose’s enemies. By the way, you’re sworn to secrecy about anything I tell you about these people or the case, OK?’

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector. I don’t want you to arrest me,’ said Deborah with mock seriousness.

  Derryvale lumbered into the bar, flamboyantly dressed in a top hat, with a black cape over his dinner jacket and carrying a black cane. The cape was wet and glistening. Luckily he saw someone at the bar and went straight over, twirling his champagne glass. He didn’t notice Oldroyd, who watched him arrive at the bar and heard him say, ‘Filthy night, Roger; I’m ready for a drink. Fancy something a bit stronger than this champers?’ He looked deprecatingly at the champagne glass and downed the contents in one gulp. ‘Never been a fan myself.’ He remained at the bar, his loud voice and laughter audible throughout the room.

  ‘He looks like something from a stagey 1930s thriller,’ said Deborah. ‘Are you sure he’s not one of the actors?’

  ‘I think he’s one of those people who are acting all the time. Hello! Here comes another. This woman’s conducted a long campaign against Penrose’s alleged plagiarism of other writers’ ideas. She goes on about it all the time; she can scarcely talk about anything else.’

  Esther Stevenson entered, embellishments galore on her art deco dress. She was accompanied by a tall, bespectacled and immaculately dressed man, who was presumably her partner, Leo, the solicitor. What a strange couple they made, thought Oldroyd. He looked extremely conventional compared to her general air of artiness.

  ‘Excellent charity shop buy there,’ whispered Deborah, winking at Oldroyd. ‘They look odd together,’ she said, echoing Oldroyd’s thought. ‘There’s no accounting for who gets off with whom, is there? Sometimes it’s the most unexpected; the old attraction of opposites.’

  ‘Like us, you mean?’ teased Oldroyd.

  ‘Oh no, we’ve a lot in common: after all, you’re concerned with the criminal mind, and I work with people who are troubled. Not a million miles apart, I’d say.’

  ‘Ah, here’s another!’ Oldroyd had noticed John Sinclair entering the bar alone. His rather glum expression suggested a lack of enthusiasm, so why was he here? ‘You’ll like this one. He was the first murder victim’s lover years ago, when they were both young in London. Then they fell out over money.’

  ‘Ooh, a juicy bit of scandal. I bet it was him. It usually comes back to sex and money in the end, doesn’t it?’

  ‘In fiction as well as in fact, judging from what you’ve read out about this evening so far. If only it was so simple, and anyway, in this case, who would we go for, Sinclair or Penrose’s two ex-wives?’

  ‘Well, Penrose sounds a colourful character. He seems to have got around a bit and played both ways. Is there a lot of that stuff in his books?’

  ‘A fair amount, though I’ve not read many; not my style. They’re all about the machinations in the rich set: millionaires, yachts, affairs, jewellery, sex, money. Very popular books, though; I think they feed into people’s fantasies of the high life.’

  ‘Seems like it. He was obviously into those fantas
ies himself, by the sounds of it.’

  ‘He certainly rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way and seemed to enjoy doing it. Anyway, carry on.’

  ‘Right, so Elizabeth Merryfield runs the estate riding stables, but it’s not doing well and Lord Willoughby had been threatening to close it down, even though she had a brief affair with him. What a bastard! He deserves to end up murdered, never mind who did it. By the way, wasn’t there a famous female murderer called Merryfield?’

  ‘There was: Mrs Louisa Merryfield, the Blackpool Poisoner. Killed an old woman she was housekeeper for with phosphorous from rat poison. She and her husband had got the old lady to change her will and leave them the house. She was hanged by Albert Pierrepoint in Strangeways Prison, Manchester, in 1953.’

  ‘God, you know some gruesome stuff! Do you have to memorise it all as part of your police training?’

  ‘If only it was all as interesting as that, and not tedious and mundane stuff about procedures.’

  Deborah continued. ‘So we’ve also got Henry Cavendish – that’s the daughter’s boyfriend. No job, bit of a waster – fond of Kathryn but also of her money. Sounds like a bit of a fortune hunter. Kathryn has told him that her father has threatened to change his will. Pretty strong motive there, then. Now, Angela Willoughby is Lord Willoughby’s sister. She borrowed money from him to start a business as a fashion designer, but is not doing too well. Unfortunately, her brother has insisted that she pay the loan back, as the estate has hit a few cash problems too. Finally, we’ve got Simon Henderson, the solicitor, and his wife, Margaret. She also had an affair with Lord Willoughby, remember, and was devastated when he ended it. She was dazzled by his money and title, and had fantasies about being the “lady of the manor”. Poor deluded woman! Her husband knew about the affair: that’s motive one. Also, Lord Willoughby had found out that he had been involved in some fraudulent property deals and was blackmailing him by making him do the family’s legal work for nothing: motive number two. So there we are. What are your first thoughts?’

  ‘I still think it was the butler,’ said Oldroyd.

  Deborah kicked him under the table and finished her champagne. ‘Fancy another drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Not for me. And I’d go easy if I were you. There’ll be plenty of alcohol with the meal and there’s a bar in the ballroom. You need to keep your mind clear if you want to solve this mystery.’

  Deborah frowned at him. ‘You don’t think I’m going to solve it, do you? Well, I’m going to prove you wrong, even if I do drink. I’m off for a glass of white wine.’

  The bar was getting full and Deborah had just got back with her wine when Oldroyd again noticed someone he knew arriving. ‘Ah, here she comes. I knew she’d make a late entry to create an impression.’

  Susan Lawrence made a grand entrance, literally glittering as the light from the chandeliers hit the sequins on her body-skimming silver evening dress. She swept into the bar and caught the attention of numerous people. However, when some of them saw who it was, they immediately turned away. Undaunted, she marched over with her glass of champagne and engaged Esther Stevenson and her husband in conversation.

  Minutes later, Barry Evans and Amanda Rigby entered the bar, a sign that it was time for the evening’s events to begin.

  Barry began to speak, and the room went quiet. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentleman, and welcome to The White Swan. Once again we are here to mark the end of another successful Crime Writing Festival here in Harrogate, and I would like you to join me in thanking everyone involved this year, whether as an organiser, participant or sponsor.’

  There was a round of applause.

  ‘Of course, this year’s festival has taken place against the background of some tragic events, which I will not dwell on tonight. We decided that it would be best if the festival continued despite what has happened and I want to pay a special tribute to Amanda Rigby here.’ He turned to smile at Amanda. ‘Amanda took over the running of the festival at very short notice and in difficult circumstances. I think she deserves our special thanks.’

  Another round of applause and calls of ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘So now I think it’s time to—’

  There was a sudden disturbance at the bar and a woman screamed. Everyone turned to look. A man had fallen off a bar stool and was lying on the floor. A waiter was crouching over him. Then he stood up and announced, ‘He’s dead.’

  Barry Evans smiled. ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think we’ll find that that poor individual is Lord Willoughby.’ There was some laughter, and people looking relieved. ‘It is now going to be your task to discover who murdered him. So please, will you all come through to the dining room, where the story will continue.’

  ‘I wondered what was going on then,’ said Deborah to Oldroyd, who was chuckling as they made their way through to the dining room.

  ‘I thought they might start with some kind of stunt like that,’ he replied. ‘It creates a bit of excitement, doesn’t it? That little bit of confusion about what’s real and what isn’t.’

  There was a lot of chatter as people took their seats at a series of large round tables, each place being marked with a card. Oldroyd was relieved to discover that no one involved with the real case was on the same table as him and Deborah. There were eight people on each table, and all over the room people were introducing themselves. Oldroyd picked up the menu; the meal was going to be the best part of the evening for him. Duck liver pâté with toasted seeded bread, chicken chasseur with potatoes dauphinoise and green beans; a nice bottle of a smooth Italian red. Deborah chose French onion soup and a goat’s cheese parcel with red pepper salad and fries: all too lightweight for his liking.

  As soon as orders had been taken, an actor dressed in a smart suit and trilby took the empty area in the centre of the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Drake and I have been called here this evening because a murder has taken place. Lord Willoughby collapsed in the bar and was pronounced dead. We now know that he was poisoned.’

  Here there were some cries of ‘Ooh!’ as people began to enter into the spirit of the evening.

  ‘In order to solve this murder,’ continued the detective, ‘I am calling on you all to assist me in the investigation. After all, however many brains we have here tonight, they’re better than one!’

  Here a ripple of laughter went round the room.

  ‘I think you all have a copy of this briefing.’ He held up the programme notes. ‘Which tells you a little about the suspects. And now I’m going to introduce them to you and ask each a few questions. Think carefully about what they say and what you’ve been told about each one.’

  ‘I could pull rank on him and take charge of the investigation,’ Oldroyd whispered to Deborah. ‘But that would be greedy, as I’ve already got one to be getting on with.’

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ she whispered back.

  The inspector proceeded to call out the characters in turn. They had all been sitting at different tables with the unsuspecting guests, which caused another frisson of excitement. The inspector confirmed the identity of each and interrogated them about their relationships in the family and about their motives.

  After this, the starters were brought out and the actors toured the tables, answering any questions from the guests. Oldroyd ignored all this and started on his pâté. Deborah had written down a list of questions on the back of the notes, and neglected her soup while she listened carefully to everything that was said.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Oldroyd between mouthfuls, affecting a superior disdain. ‘There won’t be enough information to clearly incriminate any particular suspect. You’ll have to go on your gut instinct in the end and make an informed guess.’

  ‘Is that how you work, then, spoilsport? I thought it was all about the patient gathering of evidence.’

  ‘Oh, it is, but sometimes you have to use your instincts when deciding which line of enquiry to p
ursue.’

  Deborah shook her head, put down her notes and made a more determined attempt to eat her soup. She looked at Oldroyd’s plate and decided to get her own back by reigniting their discussion about meat eating. ‘You shouldn’t be eating that; producing pâté is cruel.’

  ‘I thought that was only foie gras, where they force-feed the birds.’

  ‘That’s the worst, but imagine all the poor ducks slaughtered for their livers.’

  ‘Well, the rest of the bird is eaten too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Does that make it any better?’

  Oldroyd smiled at her. ‘Nice try, but you’re not going to make me feel guilty tonight. I’m enjoying myself,’ he said, and popped a piece of toast smothered with pâté into his mouth.

  Deborah stuck out her tongue at him.

  The rest of the meal was eaten amidst a hubbub of whispered conversations as couples who were engaged in solving the mystery tried to discuss their ideas without giving anything away to the others on their table. Oldroyd was glad that Deborah was keen to do this without his specialised help, as it gave him the chance to relax his mind and savour the meal and the wine. It wasn’t possible to forget the case completely, as he kept catching the eye of the suspects. Directly across from Oldroyd’s table, Charles Derryvale smiled and waved a languid hand at him.

  Sinclair, on the next table, greeted Oldroyd cursorily and then turned away, seemingly embarrassed. Susan Lawrence, on a table in the corner, gave him nothing but a frown. Only Esther Stevenson came over briefly to introduce her partner and say that she was pleased to see Oldroyd here.

  ‘Well, what do you think of this, then?’ asked Deborah. Having finished her goat’s cheese parcel, she was writing notes. ‘My chief suspect so far is the sister, Angela. I thought she was very shifty when the inspector asked her questions. I don’t think she was close to her brother, and her business would have been at stake if he’d called in her debt. I think we’re being pushed towards suspecting the solicitor, who came over as a nasty piece of work, and he had a double motive, but I think that’s too obvious. What do you think?’