Diane eyed the remainder of the tray greedily and giggled, “Be rude not to!”
Restored by the imbibed sherry, Lady Felicity glided to the window to observe a stocky young man walking purposefully up the driveway. His demeanour was no-nonsense and his blue eyes looked keen as he viewed the large country house, set in expansive grounds.
“I think we may have another guest,” she announced to the room before heading out of the drawing room. There, she almost collided with Treadmill, who’d sensed he was needed once more. “Oh! Treadmill, could you?” her Ladyship chirped.
As the thick oak door swung open, the wide-shouldered man announced, “Peter Beresford, Police Constable, here for the murder weekend.”
In the drawing room, Diane Pargitter’s eyebrows immediately shot to her hairline. She nudged Frank, who did not appreciate the gesture, his sherry slopping dangerously to and fro with the momentum.
Cecelia gave another feline smile, running a hand over her right hip to smooth a non-existent crease in her faultless cream skirt.
“Did you say you were Mrs or a Miss?” Diane enquired, her inquisitive eyebrows permanently raised as she interrogated, keen to give the impression as the new arrival entered the room that people wanted to chat with her. Her piggy eyes grew more intense.
“It’s Miss. I . . .” Cecelia began, feline demeanour remaining in place as she thought better of what she was about to say.
Diane’s glance flew to Peter, her bat-sharp ears alert for any interesting conversation. Bored with Cecelia, she concluded loudly, “Shame.”
Frank smiled apologetically and Cecelia raised the corners of her mouth briefly as the stocky man with thick dark hair and cornflower blue eyes approached. His clothes, Cecelia judged, were neither new nor expensive.
Treadmill retreated after directing Peter towards the drawing room and Lady Felicity moved towards the latest arrival, who reminded her of a squat and quite ugly bulldog. “You must be Mr Beresford,” she smiled, full of false bonhomie.
He nodded, thrusting forward a large, poorly-manicured hand. “Constable Peter Beresford.”
Felicity recoiled a little at the ferocity of his grip, a rictus smile glued to her lips where a slash of Elizabeth Arden fuchsia lipstick was rapidly fading. “We’re just waiting for our final guest, then I’ll fetch the Major,” she offered. “He has some important business to attend to first.”
Diane barged forward, announcing, “I’m Diane Pargitter and this,” she vaguely gestured over her left shoulder, “is my husband, Frank. The other woman is a Miss Morris.”
Slightly taken aback, Peter recognised Diane as she of the lost dog, recalling that the woman needed appropriate handling. The Lady of the house seemed distracted as Mrs Pargitter took centre stage. Diane leaned in close to inform Peter in a grating whisper, “Hasn’t really got going yet – no one’s very chatty.” she shot a sideways look at Cecelia.
“Not that anyone else could get a word in edgeways,” Frank muttered, holding out a friendly hand for Peter to shake.
“Marvellous!” Diane shrieked, in her absolute element. “Now Peter, would you like some warm dry sherry, or a canapé?” She looked hopeful as the sparse remainder of ham sweated unappealingly on the tray she proffered under his nose.
But as he eyed the offering, Peter shook his head. “Not long had a cup of tea, thanks.” He watched Lady Felicity as she wrung her hands and shot across the room to a safe corner on the pretext of removing a fake yellow chrysanthemum from its tall vase, only to place it back in the exact same position in the arrangement.
From her observation point by the window, Diane cried, “Oh, looks like the final straggler’s here!” Her shrill voice heralded the imminent arrival of the guest who, in her opinion, was cutting it fine by rudely arriving late. “She’s not even dressed for the occasion!” Diane continued, glancing at Lady Manners-Gore for agreement regarding certain social niceties.
Felicity pressed her lips together tightly, then said, “As long as everyone’s comfortable during their stay, that’s all that matters.” With relief, she saw that Treadmill again seemed to have second sight in answering the front door.
Bearing down on the new arrival while Frank, Peter and Cecelia chatted amiably, Diane commented, “I suppose you have to wear that unsightly shade of mustard with that red hair of yours?”
“Sorry?” Lily Green replied, surprised at the other woman’s forthrightness.
“Well, so you should be,” Diane parried relentlessly, seeing no harm in it. “Your jumper is old and bobbly and these people are former thespians.” She gestured around the elegant drawing room with a sweep of her plump hand.
“I–I had to come straight from work, actually,” Lily stammered uncomfortably.
“What do you do – some sort of care in the community, or is it an Oxfam shop?”
Lily drew herself up to her full five-foot five inches, pushing unruly curls from her forehead, where they instantly fell back into place again. “I am . . . a librarian,” she said proudly.
“Oh . . . I can’t imagine anybody having time to read a book these days,” Diane responded scornfully. She watched as a red hue matching Lily’s flaming locks crept quickly up the girl’s neck, her face forming a horrified expression as though she’d been physically slapped.
Within moments, Peter Beresford appeared by Lily’s side, promptly ignoring Diane, much to her irritation. He smiled kindly, showing even teeth as he asked, “Did you say you’re a librarian? I’m a policeman, sort of the same line of business really.”
As she recovered slightly at the prospect of speaking to someone who seemed friendly, Lily gazed after Dianne’s huge retreating floral bottom. “How’s that?”
“Well, having an interest in human nature. The quest for knowledge, discovering the truth.” As he spoke, his keen blue eyes crinkled at the edges, something Lily found very endearing.
“I don’t know if telling a library patron they should have brought a book back last Thursday is quite the same thing as fighting crime on the mean streets, but I do love a good detective novel.”
“Excellent! We should definitely team up. I assume we’re allowed to work with other people – I’ve not had much experience of these events,” Peter smiled with hope in his eyes.
“Me neither. I just thought it all sounded really interesting, so I should make the effort to–”
At that point a large man with an unruly moustache, ruddy cheeks and thinning mousy hair was ushered into the room by Lady Felicity, making Lily quite forget what she was going to say. She hadn’t even noticed that Lady Manners-Gore had left the room.
The man cleared his throat theatrically and boomed, “Welcome one and all! I am Major Manners-Gore and I’ll be your host for the weekend. I assume you now know one another . . . Don’t forget – any one of us could be the victim, so watch out!”
The tall, arrogant figure of Simeon Bailey lit a cigarette as he slid into the room behind the Major, his shrewd eyes scanning the people within. Bailey’s expression remained set in a mask of arrogant derision as the Major continued.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour, after which I’ll give the first clue to get you thinking for tomorrow. Please feel free to have a look around the Hall in the meantime – my study has framed photographs of Felicity’s spectacular Ophelia. . .”
Cecelia suppressed an overwhelming urge to chortle.
“And Reggie’s, I mean, the Major’s magnificent King Lear that achieved rave reviews,” added Lady Felicity, having no idea what had amused the elegant woman who smiled enigmatically beside her.
Having permission to nose about, Diane Pargitter was out of the room like a shot, helping herself to the last of the withered ham as she passed.
Cecelia wandered off on her own to explore, finding herself alone in the Major’s study where she began to search the contents of the desk. It was ornately carved with many drawers and pigeon holes, taking her some time to locate anything interesting. As the carrying voice of Diane Pa
rgitter grew closer, Cecelia reluctantly abandoned her task, slipping silently from the room as Diane barrelled down the corridor towards her.
“Having a good poke about? I think it’s fascinating, seeing how other people live,” Diane exclaimed, stopping abruptly.
“Very. It’s a beautiful home,” Cecelia agreed stiffly.
“Oh, come on, let yourself go! You don’t have to stand on ceremony – the Major’s not watching. Is this his study? I bet there’s all sorts of interesting things in here.”
Cecelia smiled tightly, edging sideways past Diane and Frank in the narrow passageway. Before she was out of earshot, Diane commented in a loud voice, “Needs to loosen up, that one. We’re all here to have a good look round. Nobody likes a stuck-up madam.”
Frank looked skyward and prayed for the ground to swallow him up.
Cecelia continued undaunted, descending a steep staircase leading to an array of cellar rooms set out in a semi-circle. She breathed in the musty, unwelcoming atmosphere as her eyes quickly grew accustomed to the dim light emitted by the inadequate bulb overhead.
Trying each door in turn, she found that all swung open; the rooms within holding nothing more interesting than the pervasive waft of damp, abandoned furniture and unpleasant mould. But when Cecelia approached the remaining door, it was locked. She sought a small torch from her handbag, crouching to squint one green, inquisitive eye to the keyhole. Unsurprisingly, the inner room was dark but she could just make out row upon row of bottles on one wall. Cecelia slipped agile fingers into a secret pocket in her jacket and retrieved a key. It slid easily into the lock and turned, enabling her to enter and shine the torch in a wider arc. The beam showed bottles in blue and green hues, some ridged, some marked POISON; others had complex Latin names and stained labels.
Cecelia approached the small, dirty window shaped like an eyebrow, finding it looked out onto a stone paved area and a line of close-set iron railings that held back a steep bank of earth at the ground level of garden. The dim little room contained a battered desk strewn with old papers and she glanced at several of the pages to assess their content. Above the desk on a squat shelf at eye-level, Cecelia saw a few books and one in particular stood out as interesting. The air was stale with a residual whiff of iodine and carbolic, telling of the numerous experiments that had taken place in the subterranean cramped laboratory. Having seen enough, Cecelia retreated, relocking the well-used old door before she climbed the stairs to the ground floor.
Retracing her steps along the corridor, Cecelia glanced over her shoulder then listened at the study door. The awful woman and her poor husband appeared to have gone, taking their investigations elsewhere. No sound met her ears and she slipped inside to return the key to the secret drawer in the Major’s desk. The very fact had been publicly trumpeted in Antiques Quarterly in a lengthy article about the Hall’s treasures – an absolute gift to any burglar. Cecelia had ensured the opportunity to examine an exact copy of the desk held by a London dealer, delighting in persuading the young male assistant to demonstrate the precise location of the secret drawer and how the spring mechanism could be used to open it.
Seb entered the kitchen with a grim expression and announced, “Got ‘em wandering all over the place before dinner now. Funny bunch, they are.” He flopped down with a sigh, having relocated the luggage to the corresponding bedrooms.
“Her Ladyship’s all a dither because that Dr Death’s lurking about like a bad smell.”
Kitty almost dropped the sherry glass she was carefully drying, turning hurriedly as if Simeon Bailey were immediately behind her, his gloved hands holding a piece of flex taught before he thrust it around her pale, thin neck. “Why’d they call him that, then?” Kitty asked, looking nervous as she returned the glass to a tray for Seb to carry back through to the drawing room.
He smiled knowingly, keen to impart the gossip. Nella, completing the decoration on an enormous sherry trifle, shook her head as Seb cleared his throat and said, “There was what they called ‘an incident’ involving one of his rich patients. He’s one of them brain doctors, those that reckon they know the meaning of your dreams. All a bit creepy if you ask me–”
“But what happened?” Kitty interrupted, her impatient eyes growing huge.
“Hold your horses – I’m getting to that. Anyway – after giving this posh woman a rundown of what he thinks her dreams mean, she goes and kills herself. . .” Seb looked immensely pleased with himself as he examined the untidy nails of his left hand.
“But that’s awful! Poor woman, she must have–”
“Never mind that,” Nella reprimanded, “get this trifle in the refrigerator and make a start on those pots.”
Seb looked thoughtful, adding, “He acts like he’d rather be back in his posh London clinic. Wonder what he’s come for?”
With sharp impatience, Nella tutted loudly and poured hot tomato soup into a large oval tureen. “Dare say we’ll soon find out, good or ill.”
AN UNTIMELY DEPARTURE
Sufficiently replete, Major Manners-Gore stood to reinforce his large and in charge status and bellowed, “That was a truly enjoyable meal. Now let’s get on with the murder!”
Kitty, collecting dishes, shivered at the mention of death, even if it was only playacting.
“Will we be dressing up?” Diane asked, leaning forward hopefully.
The Major stopped in his tracks and raised one bushy eyebrow, considering the question from the woman halfway down the long dining table. He assessed that she really was rather unfortunate-looking: paint covering the worst cracks; overly-plucked eyebrows perched atop small porcine eyes, all set in a puffy, ill-defined face with an abnormally wide red mouth resembling a knife slash. Smiling expansively to reveal yellowing teeth beneath a hedge of moustache, the Major forced himself to be pleasant. “You may wear whatever you wish.”
Diane pursed her lips in disappointment and sat back in her chair while Lily breathed a sigh of relief.
“How do we do it, exactly? I’ve never been to anything like this before,” Lily asked, smiling to hide her apprehension.
Aware that the majority of people were acting novices the Major explained, “You’ll each be given a script and clues. We,” he spread his arms theatrically to indicate both his wife and Kitty, “will act out our parts amongst you. You must work out who the killer is when one of us,” he grinned like a wolf, “is murdered.”
The Major then turned as Felicity Manners-Gore cleared her throat next to him. “Oh, thank you my dear,” he said, taking possession of the pile of scripts he had just been handed and distributing them, noting that his wife had thoughtfully marked each one with the name of a guest.
Cecelia raised a well-manicured hand and asked, “Do we actually have to assume the role of a character, or are we working as a group to solve clues?”
The Major fixed the rather attractive young woman with a dark beady stare. He was slightly unnerved as she steadily held his gaze with startling and unusual green eyes that glinted like an exotic animal. Faltering slightly, he explained, “The event will be similar to a theatre production with our staff playing the roles. But if remembering character personas sounds too much like hard work–”
Diane forcefully interrupted, “Let’s do it that way! It’ll be boring if we just follow each other around this big old place trying to solve clues. There’re always people,” she glanced accusingly around the table, “who take over and then it’s no fun.” She saw a hot pink flush creep up Lily’s neck and smiled with satisfaction.
“I will not be joining you,” Simeon Bailey announced suddenly, pushing the script away from him with distaste. He leaned back in his chair, sullen-faced; his words were cold with a sinister undertone so that the entire room was mesmerised and Lily wondered if he was acting.
“Come, come Simeon. You agreed that we would–”
“I’m down from London to discuss some business with you, but this charade isn’t something I wish to be part of.” Simeon Bailey’s arrog
ant features were set like granite.
Lady Felicity gave a nervous cough and picked at a bead of white cotton on the tablecloth with her delicate shell-pink nails. The man was being a total beast and he was clearly determined to ruin this weekend for everyone.
“The choice is yours,” the Major continued, unable to think of anything to convince the man he’d known for over thirty years. He didn’t appreciate being shown up in front of strangers.
“Sounds like a hoot,” Frank Pargitter blurted in an attempt to break the tension. Putting down his script he added, “Must admit I wasn’t keen when Diane first mentioned it. But now I’m here–”
“Oh, do be quiet Frank! The Major was talking,” Diane reprimanded her husband sharply. She beamed around the table, her piggy eyes almost disappearing as her cheeks swallowed them up.
The Mystery at Fig Tree Hall Page 3