The Death of Marco Styles
J.J. Campbell
The J.J. Campbell stories follow amateur detective Charles Kingsman de Lacy as he seeks to add colour and meaning to his privileged, easy-going life, although often more by accident than design. He is first stung into action by the murder of an old friend of his father’s, Marco Styles, but his desire to help the police quickly gives way to a determination to solve the case for his own satisfaction …
I
‘… so Richie and Jerry took the guy’s trousers off and kicked him out into the street. You should have seen his face!’
Marco Styles laughed as he finished his story, drained the last of his Sauternes, and put the glass back down, grinning cheerfully.
‘I think that one might have been better over the port, dear,’ Irene Styles remarked as she got to her feet. ‘Ladies?’
Charles Kingsman de Lacy watched the four women leave the room with both regret and surprise. He had been enjoying his conversation with Elaine Styles, who shared his love of the English countryside, even if her preferred use for it was as a backdrop to the slaughter of everything from rabbits to deer. She had been seated to his right at the great mahogany table that occupied the centre of Elthorne House’s dining room, and her departure left him next to his host, Marco Styles, an old school friend of his father’s and now retired from his career as frontman of a once-famous rock band. De Lacy knew very little about contemporary music and less about the band, Marco Lawless, while what he knew of the old man’s exploits at school in the early sixties didn’t make for easy conversation. Fortunately Marco had noticed de Lacy’s surprise and spoke first.
‘I hope you don’t mind us being so formal, but Irene believes the old ways are the best, so we dress for dinner and the ladies leave the room while the gentlemen drink port.’
‘Not at all,’ de Lacy answered, with a brief, self-conscious gesture to the perfectly-formed butterfly of the black bowtie at his throat. ‘It’s nice to see tradition kept up. And speaking of port, I see you’re giving us the Dow 1997. You have an excellent cellar.’
‘Another of Irene’s foibles,’ Marco replied, ‘as with the servants. They’re hired, of course, although old Hartfield has become something of a regular.’
De Lacy had guessed as much, from the manner in which the two maids had served dinner: polished but hesitant, as if unfamiliar with their surroundings. The butler evidently knew what he was doing, or had been given exact instructions by the forceful Irene Styles, with the port decanted well before dinner and standing ready on the sideboard with the bottle beside it. Hartfield now moved forward, placing the decanter on the table beside Marco Styles, who poured a glass before offering it to de Lacy.
Following the familiar ritual, de Lacy filled his own glass before passing the decanter to Adam Carradine on his left, then took a sip of the deep red liquid. It was everything he had hoped for, and the perfect finishing touch to the excellent selection of wines which had accompanied equally excellent food. Irene Styles might be somewhat overbearing and uncomfortably insistent on out-of-date etiquette, but there was no denying that she did her guests well.
‘I apologise for the port,’ Marco Styles remarked. ‘It’s rather bitter.’
‘Not at all,’ de Lacy assured him. ‘1997 seldom fails to meet the mark, and the Dow is no exception. A purist might argue that it has been taken up a year or two before its prime, perhaps, and the tannins are still very much in evidence, but …’
He broke off. His host appeared to be asleep, the glass of port still held in his fingers but his eyes shut and his face set in an expression of absolute peace.
‘Don’t tell me Father’s dozed off again?’ Clive Styles said in apology as he turned from his own conversation.
‘I’m afraid so,’ de Lacy replied, allowing himself a mildly embarrassed smile before turning his attention to what Clive was saying to Adam Carradine.
Both men worked in the City, at jobs de Lacy only vaguely understood, and much of what they were saying was entirely incomprehensible to him. After just a few moments of trying to follow the conversation he turned away, feeling awkward. The butler had left the room and one of the maids was standing in his place with her back to the sideboard, her face expressionless. De Lacy reached out to remove the half-full glass of port from Marco Styles’ fingers, intending to pass it to the maid. The old man didn’t respond at all, his expression unchanged, his fingers remaining as if in contact with the stem of the glass. Then, very slowly, he toppled to one side, landing on the carpet to lie rigid – and very plainly dead.
II
‘And why were you at Elthorne House, Mr de Lacy?’ the police sergeant asked.
She was small, compact, and looked young for her rank, while her bobbed blonde hair and the splash of freckles across her nose seemed curiously at odds with both her uniform and her brisk, efficient manner. Nevertheless, he had heard her addressed as ‘Sergeant McIntyre’ by a constable, a man at least ten years her senior, and his tone had implied considerable respect.
‘I am a guest of Mr and Mrs Styles,’ he explained, ‘but does the need to question me imply that you suspect Mr Styles’ death to have been in some way suspicious?’
‘No,’ she answered, ‘but we do need to know who was present at the time and where to contact them, just in case there are any complications.’
‘Ah,’ he went on, ‘of course, but if you should have cause to make further investigations, please don’t hesitate to call on me. I have some small reputation as an amateur of detective work.’
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr de Lacy,’ she told him, her voice now carrying a touch of asperity. ‘These things are best left in the hands of the police.’
‘As you please,’ he told her, and sat back in his chair as she moved on to talk to Adam Carradine.
The death of Marco Styles had left him feeling shocked, but no more. His father had had distinctly mixed feelings for the dead man, and de Lacy knew he’d been invited to the house mainly in the hope that he might get on well with one or another of the family’s three daughters; Miriam, Elaine, and Louise. All three had their charms, in different ways. Miriam, the eldest child, was tall and elegant, beautiful but with just a touch of artificiality. She was also rather cool and reserved, with all her mother’s consciousness of class. Elaine was very different, blonde and well built, full of life and of confidence in her abilities and position. Louise was also blonde, but relatively delicate, with an otherworldly, almost fey manner. Unfortunately they were united by a sense of entitlement he found more than a little off-putting. Then there was their mother, the precise, elegant, and painfully elitist Irene Styles, who was very definitely not his idea of what a mother-in-law should be.
He was also puzzled. The police seemed inclined to accept the obvious explanation for the death of Marco Styles: that he had suffered a heart attack after a lifetime of over-indulgence, and the paramedics who had been first on the scene hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Nevertheless, the situation struck de Lacy as odd, especially just how suddenly the old man had died, and he felt it his duty to draw the circumstances to the attention of the police. The pretty sergeant seemed the most amenable of them, and he waited until she had finished talking to Adam Carradine and the hired staff who had been on duty that night before asking to speak to her once more.
‘How may I help you, sir?’ she asked, with no more than a touch of irritation in her voice.
‘I am not entirely convinced that Mr Styles’ death was natural,’ he began. ‘For one thing, he died in a matter of seconds, no more, and without a sound. His body was also curiously rigid, while …’
‘Are you a doctor, Mr de Lacy?’ she interrupted.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t really do anything, as a matter of fact, at least not in the sense of having a profession, but I am something of an amateur …’
‘Please be assured that the matter will be thoroughly investigated,’ she cut in. ‘You will have the opportunity to make a full statement in due course, but in the meantime please sit down.’
‘Very well,’ he answered, producing the glass from which Marco Styles had been drinking port, ‘but at the very least I suggest that you have this analysed for traces of poison, most likely tetrodotoxin, or something similar.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind, Mr de Lacy,’ she told him as a new man entered the room.
He approached the sergeant, who addressed him as Inspector Morden.
‘I’ll take it from here, thank you, Sergeant,’ the inspector said, then turned to de Lacy, ‘and if you could just sit down, sir.’
‘Certainly,’ de Lacy responded. ‘But I was just saying to Sergeant McIntyre …’
‘Sit down, sir,’ the man interrupted, his tone now aggressive.
Sergeant McIntyre had already taken the port glass, so de Lacy resumed his seat with a touch of regret. Inspector Morden was tall, bulky to the point of corpulence, and had the air of a man impatient with such things as well-meaning amateurs. He also showed open distaste for the trappings of wealth and privilege, and a distinct lack of tact, looking around the dining room with a disapproving eye, and apparent indifference to the distress of the family. This was not a man it would be easy to get on with, which was a shame, as the more de Lacy thought about events the more it seemed likely that Marco Styles had been murdered.
De Lacy looked around the saloon bar of The George with an air of approval. The oak panelling, the upholstery of sage-green leather, the prints of rustic scenes and grand old houses: all were in accord with his personal taste. Even the list of wines chalked up on a nearby blackboard wasn’t entirely without interest, but he postponed further investigation for dinner and ordered a pint of beer, chosen from among the selection of real ales on offer. It proved excellent, and he took his seat in a mood of contentment tinged only slightly with regret for the circumstances that had brought him to the pub.
He had been asked to remain in the area by Sergeant McIntyre, and although Irene Styles had said that he could stay at Elthorne House, he had left after the second night, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief. Not that they seemed to be particularly upset, especially not Clive, who had even gone out to play golf with Adam Carradine the following morning. Irene had been close to fury at the presence of so many police and ambulance men in the house, but otherwise she had seemed as relieved as she was saddened. Only the daughters had taken the death at all badly, especially Louise, the youngest and most sensitive. De Lacy had been glad to leave, and after a leisurely morning spent investigating the local hostelries he had decided on The George, which was in the village of Great Aldbury, just a few miles from Elthorne House. There had been more luxurious choices, and more convenient choices, but none with such an appealing combination of old world charm and comfort. It also provided an opportunity to keep an eye on what was going on, just in case, as he suspected, that there was more to the death of Marco Styles than met the eye.
He had drunk a third of his pint and was considering the possibilities offered by the lunchtime menu when a new arrival caught his attention; a young woman with bobbed blonde hair, dressed in white jeans and a light, roll-necked jumper of a striking cerulean blue. It took him a moment to recognise Sergeant McIntyre, and another to adjust himself into a position that he hoped would suggest languid refinement before she noticed him and started over.
‘No longer on duty, Sergeant?’ he enquired as she approached.
She didn’t trouble to answer, but sat down in the seat opposite his, watching him from clear grey eyes for a moment before speaking.
‘Mr de Lacy, how did you know that there was a neurotoxin in Mr Styles’ glass?’
‘I didn’t,’ de Lacy told her, ‘but it seemed probable that there would be. The last words of Marco Styles, you see, were “it’s rather bitter”, referring to the port. We were drinking Dow 1997.’
‘And?’ she demanded.
‘And,’ de Lacy stated, ‘the Dow 1997 is an extremely fine port; perhaps rather young still, but already elegant, with complex, well-developed fruit, and good balance, while at the finish it creates what we call a peacock’s tail in the mouth, displaying a whole spectrum of glorious flavours. It is not bitter. Mine, certainly, was not bitter, and I cannot imagine a man of Mr Styles’ experience making such a crass remark, not without reason. Therefore …’
‘Therefore you suspected that there was something in his glass?’ she finished for him.
‘Exactly,’ de Lacy continued, ‘although I had no reason to think of the incident as anything more than an oddity until afterwards. He died without a sound, and his fingers were almost rigid, but had gone limp by the time the paramedics arrived. That suggests a powerful neurotoxin, the sort of thing that would interfere with neurotransmission. Was it tetrodotoxin, of I may ask?’
‘I am not at liberty to give out that information,’ she told him.
‘Ah,’ he went on, ‘but you are plainly interested in the case, despite being a uniformed officer and off-duty. I appreciate your need for discretion, but please be assured that I am only trying to help. As I mentioned before, and think I have now demonstrated, my expertise might well prove useful. The more facts I know, the more I can help.’
‘You should be answering my questions, Mr de Lacy,’ she told him. ‘This is a murder enquiry, and at this stage you are a suspect.’
‘Shouldn’t I be answering Inspector Morden’s questions?’ he responded. ‘What’s he like, Morden? I got the impressive of a rather unsympathetic man; terse, serious.’
‘He’s a good policeman,’ she replied, somewhat defensively. ‘He works hard.’
‘A bit of a brute to his juniors?’ de Lacy suggested.
She shook her head.
‘No, but he expects a lot of effort, and results.’
‘And no doubt appreciates those who provide them, thus improving your chances of a move to CID and further advancement if you manage to get anything from me, I imagine?’
She gave him an irritated look and hesitated a long moment before speaking again.
‘No, it was not tetrodotoxin.’
De Lacy waited, hoping she would carry on, then spoke himself.
‘And it was? I have some knowledge of biochemistry, by the way.’
She gave him a doubtful look, glanced towards the bar as if to assure herself that they were not going to be overheard, then carried on.
‘We don’t know, except that it’s nothing obvious. A sample has been sent away for further analysis. What we do know is that it is very, very powerful. His nervous system must have shut down within seconds.’
‘Intriguing,’ de Lacy responded.
‘It also breaks down very quickly once inside the body,’ she continued. ‘In fact, if we hadn’t asked the lab to test the glass we’d never have noticed. Thank you.’
‘It’s my pleasure to be of service. And, if I may ask, do you have a suspect, aside from myself?’
She ignored his question and asked another.
‘What do you gain by this, Mr de Lacy?’
‘Marco Styles was an old friend of my father’s,’ de Lacy replied, ‘and more importantly, a human being. I deplore the taking of human life, which to my way of thinking is excusable only in very exceptional circumstances. That’s my main reason, but I enjoy working out complex problems in any case, particularly if it allows me to put my specialist knowledge to good use.’
‘OK, and I think we can safely eliminate you anyway, given that without your input we’d probably never have realised that Marco Styles had been murdered.’
‘Not at all,’ de Lacy insisted. ‘I must remain a suspect, albeit one low on the list of possibilities. Certainly I’d hope to continue
helping you with your enquiries, as the expression goes.’
‘Do you know anything else?’
‘I know something of the family background, which might be relevant.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Marco Styles was at school with my father, Latchley College on the Sussex Downs, where I went myself as a matter of fact.’
‘A public school?’
‘Of course, although a very minor one and somewhat bucolic by the standards of Winchester or Eton. It’s mainly for the children of local farmers and businessmen, and all the more so back in the sixties. Marco Styles was one of those wild, precocious boys, always determined to make his name in the world, as he did. He was the driving force behind the school band, in which my father played the saxophone, rather badly I suspect, and only as a stand in. Marco was good, very good, and so were Jeremy Blake and Richard Vine, who went on to form the core of Marco Lawless. My father was younger than them and lost touch during the late sixties but they picked up the threads again twenty years later. By then Marco had retired to the life of a country gentleman and was keen to get in with the county set – or rather, Irene was. My father used to live at Bournestock, just a few miles from here.’
‘And they’re rich?’
‘Perhaps not as rich as you might think. Certainly they’re not as rich as Irene would like to be. No doubt the royalties still come in, and they may have investments, but Marco hasn’t worked for years. The only one who brings in any income to speak of is Clive, and he no doubt has his own affairs to see to. That’s why I was invited, you see, in the hope that I’d hit it off with one of the girls.’
‘That seems a very mercenary attitude.’
‘Mercenary is a word that perfectly describes Irene Styles. She was from a family with more sense of place and history than money, but was very much part of the London scene in the sixties, not just as a socialite either, but as a model. I believe she went through a series of up-and-coming young men before she latched on to Marco, but I suspect she was the one who kept him together during the latter part of his career and generally ensured that he remained focused on making money. They had children very late, you know, which is telling, and from the conversation last night I know she was the one who chose to purchase Elthorne House, which had apparently been in her family some generations before. Left to his own devices, I imagine Marco would have retired to a life of modest comfort in London. He was an easy-going old boy, in fact, for all his reputation, and it’s hard to imagine anybody wanting to kill him.’
The Death of Marco Styles Page 1