Birthdays Can Be Murder

by Joyce Cato

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He retired, sir. Some weeks ago.’

  ‘I see. Anyone else?’

  It was generally agreed that several guests had been or were near to the table, the ballroom being so very crowded. ‘That man that was arguing with Miss Greer, earlier. He was there,’ Georges said thoughtfully, then flushed as all eyes turned to him.

  ‘Arguing?’ Mollineaux said sharply. ‘Why didn’t you say this before? What man?’

  Georges shrugged, suddenly very Gallic and very afraid. ‘I didn’t think, sir, Inspector, sir. I thought nothing of it. I was returning from the table with a tray of glasses when I saw Miss Alicia and the gentleman by the big alcove of flowers. They had no drinks, so I approached, but then I saw they were arguing, so I went away again.’

  ‘Arguing about what?’ Mollineaux asked, with no trace of tension in his voice, which Jenny found herself admiring.

  She hadn’t been present for most of the time when Mollineaux had been questioning the others about Jimmy Speight. Now she could understand why they’d been so rattled. She couldn’t imagine him leaving a stone unturned concerning their movements on that tragic morning.

  ‘I could not tell,’ Georges said, indignant now that he was suspected of eavesdropping on the guests. ‘Miss Alicia had her teeth clenched, like this’ – he gave them all a graphic demonstration – ‘and she was sort of hissing her words. Her face was flushed and angry, that’s how I knew they were arguing. So, naturally, I do not intend to embarrass the hostess by offering drinks, so I go elsewhere.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Mollineaux said dryly, and a brief glance of annoyed disappointment flickered over the face of the sergeant. ‘How did the man seem to be taking all this?’ he asked remorselessly, and again Georges gave a Gallic shrug.

  ‘He didn’t seem to mind,’ he said, very nearly smiling in remembered admiration of the other man’s machismo. ‘He looked, you know, amused. The ladies can be so combustible, yes?’

  Jenny wished with all her heart that Georges would drop the fake accent. He was really going over the top now.

  ‘Yes,’ Mollineaux said, so tonelessly that Georges’ man-of-the-world smile collapsed like a bad soufflé.

  ‘Did anyone else witness or overhear this argument?’

  Nobody had.

  ‘Does anybody know the name of this man?’

  Nobody did.

  ‘Can you describe him, please?’ Mollineaux turned once more to the now downcast Georges, who did his best. And as details of the man’s description slowly emerged, Jenny found herself stiffening. She coughed discreetly, but needn’t have bothered. Neither Mollern nor Mollineaux had missed her reaction.

  ‘Yes, Miss Starling?’ Mollineaux prompted.

  ‘I think that sounds like the gatecrasher,’ she said, and Mollern quickly flicked back through his notes. For the first time, he spoke.

  ‘A lady told one of our constables about a gatecrasher earlier on. That you, Miss Starling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mollern glanced at his superior. ‘Trevor Watkins, sir.’ He said the name as if it were in capital letters and inverted commas. Several of the waiters gave one another uneasy glances. The name was not totally unfamiliar, it seemed. Even Martha recognized it.

  ‘What, that crook?’ she gasped, before she had time to choose her words more carefully.

  Mollineaux smiled at the resident cook, but there was no humour in his eyes. ‘I should point out, madam, that no formal criminal charges have ever been levied against Mr Watkins.’

  No. That was probably true, Jenny surmised. She felt instinctively that he was too slippery by half. But the police knew about him all right. A lot of people did, apparently.

  ‘You were right to warn us, Miss Starling,’ Mollern continued. ‘Mr Watkins has quite a reputation.’

  ‘Yes. So I gathered. But for what, exactly?’ she couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘Oh. This and that,’ the sergeant replied, unhelpfully.

  Mollineaux shifted from one foot to the other, and Mollern abruptly fell silent. ‘Are you sure that Mr Watkins was at the table with Miss Greer?’ he asked Georges, who nodded. ‘Very well. Now, to continue. The lights went out and the cake came in. What happened next?’

  ‘Mr Justin gave a short speech and cut the big cake. Several guests took photographs,’ Chase said. Apparently, Alicia had left the speechmaking to her brother. It figured.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The lights went back on, and Miss Greer joined her brother. She called for champagne for the toast.’

  ‘Who served the glasses that the Greer twins drank from?’

  There was a long, pregnant pause. Eventually a voice spoke from somewhere near the back. ‘I did.’

  It was a waitress with frizzy blonde hair. None of the other catering staff knew her by name, but Jenny recognized her at once. She was, of course, Margie Harding.

  ‘And after the toast was given?’ Mollineaux carried on, seeming to give no undue importance to this piece of information.

  ‘Everyone drank,’ Chase said, beginning to lose colour.

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Mr Justin fell to the ground. A moment later, Miss Alicia did the same,’ Chase continued. He said the words stiffly, and with little emotion, but they dropped like leaden weights into the sudden, silence.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Mollineaux said heavily.

  Eleven

  JENNY DIDN’T BOTHER going to bed after the catering staff were let go and the rest of the household regulars were dismissed. It was already 5.30 a.m., and bed didn’t seem worthwhile. Besides, who could sleep?

  She learned from the inspector that Sherri Greer was upstairs, and sedated. Mark Greer was still at the hospital, but there had, as yet, been no word of Alicia. The police were everywhere, not surprisingly, and the library had been commandeered as an ‘incident room’. She’d noticed Chase practically tiptoe past it the last time he had brought tea to the troops.

  Finding herself at a loose end, she took herself off for a walk around the village that was, as yet, still asleep and largely in ignorance of the events at The Beeches. She knew that wouldn’t last long. Once word got around about the sensational happenings, the quiet country village would resemble an ants’ nest. And the arrival of the press wouldn’t help. Jenny shuddered. She didn’t like the press. Not one little bit.

  Leaving the village behind, she began to traipse across the meadows, finding herself facing the large lake an hour or so later. There she stopped and sighed. It was nearly seven now, and the sun was beginning to generate a little more warmth. Birds, with hungry mouths to feed, dashed everywhere, and out on the well-stocked lake, a carp jumped. It looked idyllic. But a sense of darkness still hung over her. She sat down on the dry grass and arranged her voluminous skirt around her knees. Then she sat, stiff-backed, staring out across the lake.

  There was no point in trying to pretend it hadn’t happened, she mused grimly. Facts had to be faced. And, as far as she could see, there were three strong possibilities. One: someone had intended to murder Justin Greer, and had succeeded. Two: someone had intended to kill Alicia Greer, and may (or may not) have succeeded. Only time would tell. Or three: someone had intended to kill someone else entirely (identity yet unknown) and had failed.

  Three seemed very unlikely, and although she put it to the back of her mind, she knew she would still have to consider it. Even as improbable as it seemed, stranger things happened at sea – as her grandmother had always insisted on pointing out.

  So, was it one or was it two? Of course, it could be a combination – maybe someone had wanted both the twins dead? Either way, it was an undoubted fact that Justin was dead. And who wanted him that way? Arbie for sure, Jenny thought sadly. Babs Walker possibly. Cliché or not, it was often true that a woman scorned was a very dangerous animal indeed. And add to the fact that Babs had just lost out on her dream of a rich and easy life, then Jenny could well see the self-absorbed and single-minded Babs exac
ting a horrible revenge.

  And then there was Tom Banks. The disillusioned, fired, but once-loyal company man. What thoughts ran through the mind of an otherwise decent, ordinary man when his working life came to an abrupt end? His loyalty rewarded with unfairness. His livelihood cut off. Just what lengths might he go to? And, Jenny reminded herself grimly, shifting on the hard earth and trying without success to find a comfortable spot, just what on earth had he wanted with a paper knife? Justin had not been stabbed. And if it had been poison (and Jenny really had no doubts about that), what use was a knife?

  Unless it had been dipped in poison and then put in a glass or a bottle? Jenny sighed angrily. Now that really was far-fetched, and a very depressing indication of how lost and floundering she was.

  So, supposing Alicia had been the intended target? Well, only Margie Harding would want her dead. Her husband was besotted with the beautiful blonde, that much was obvious. Unless love had turned to hate somewhere along the line, in which case, had Keith secretly begun to resent the break-up of his once happy marriage? Did he miss the love and companionship of his children more than he let on? Had he come to resent Alicia and her money and her possessive ways? Perhaps he was riddled with regrets. In which case, Keith Harding was a very fine actor.

  And then there was the gatecrasher, the very unwelcome, very shady Trevor Watkins. Had his argument with Alicia been serious? Deadly serious?

  Jenny sighed. It was no good – she had, as yet, nowhere near enough information to go on. And pointless speculation would only drive her up the wall.

  She wished she had lunch to prepare; that would at least give her something to do. But Martha had reclaimed the kitchen the moment the last of the police had left. And, of course, she mustn’t forget Jimmy Speight. Had he been murdered also, and if so, why? Gossip had it that he was a prize snoop. Had his long nose sniffed out some trouble somewhere? Had Justin’s argument with the boy been more than that? Had Justin in fact killed him? And if so, had someone known it, and killed Justin in revenge?

  If the death of the gardening boy had been no accident, Jenny mused, then the perpetration of it pointed firmly towards the residents of The Beeches. But she couldn’t see how either of the boy’s parents, intent on revenge, could have turned up at the party without being spotted. A dustbin man and his equally lowly wife would have stuck out like a sore thumb at the party of the local lord of the manor. And who could there have been at that party who even knew Jimmy Speight, let alone wanted to avenge his death?

  There were just so many unanswered questions. Still, she couldn’t sit here brooding all day long, she acknowledged, and got slowly to her feet.

  When she returned to the house, the first person she saw, in a group of people milling aimlessly about in the hall, was Mark Greer, who’d obviously only just returned from the hospital. He was holding a glass of brandy and looked almost happy. It made Jenny stop dead in her tracks.

  ‘Another glass, sir?’ Chase asked, and it was then, noticing that the bounce was back in the butler’s step, that she realized there must have been good news from the hospital.

  ‘Thank you, Chase. I really shouldn’t – it’s such an ungodly hour for it. But I will. To Alicia, my darling daughter, and may she have a speedy recovery. I just can’t tell you what it meant when the doctors finally told me she was going to live.’ His voice, drained and exhausted though it was, was full of the joy and relief he must have felt, and Jenny felt herself swallow. Hard.

  Inspector Mollineaux, she noticed, drank to the toast with a mug of tea. Martha was dabbing her eyes on her apron, and even Sergeant Mollern allowed himself a smile. It was at the high point of this heartwarming scene that cold reality intruded with an abruptness that was shocking.

  ‘Ah, Miss Starling. Where exactly have you been?’

  Jenny jumped guiltily, and immediately felt angry at doing so. She gave Inspector Mollineaux, who had spoken with such sharp suspicion, a cold glance. ‘I took a walk around the village and lake.’

  ‘I see.’ The inspector was obviously not best pleased. ‘I was wondering if you had any objection to staying on for a few days. I know you’re due to leave today, but I’ve asked Mr Greer and he assures me they have the room.’

  ‘To be sure,’ Mark agreed wearily. ‘I’m sure Martha would appreciate the extra help.’

  Jenny was sure that Martha would do no such thing, but she smiled absently at him. For a moment she said nothing. Finally, she turned to Mollineaux, her chin angled at a slightly higher degree than normal. ‘I imagine you’ve asked others to stay on as well?’

  Her voice held a distinct challenge. If she was a suspect, she wanted to make damned sure she was not the only one.

  For a second, Inspector Mollineaux looked startled at her quick wits, then his eyes narrowed. For a long moment the two of them stared at one another, he looking at her like a fox might contemplate a buzzard. He knew it was no ordinary bird he had here, and the talons and beak made him pause.

  ‘Yes. That is, I will, once they rise,’ Mollineaux conceded reluctantly. ‘The overnight guests have very wisely tried to get some rest.’

  ‘And …’ Jenny hesitated and glanced at Mark. But there was no help for it. ‘And Mr Banks?’ she asked quietly.

  Mollineaux nodded. ‘I have told Mr Banks not to leave his home town.’

  ‘Eh? What’s Tom got to do with it?’ Mark roused himself, the enormous strain of the last few hours beginning to tell in the shortness of his temper. ‘Tom’s a good man, and Justin should never have fired him. He wouldn’t have, if I’d known in time what was going on. I won’t have Tom upset like this.’

  ‘Just standard procedure, Mr Greer,’ Sergeant Mollern interrupted, soothing ruffled feathers with an expertise that was surprising in such a blunt-looking individual. ‘We must keep tabs on all the guests at the party.’

  ‘And what about that Watkins man then?’ Mark demanded belligerently. ‘I hear from one of your constables that he’s an out-and-out crook. You don’t want me to put him up in the house as well, do you?’ he asked, but heavily, as if he already knew the answer.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. I’ve already had a word with our Mr Watkins and told him that I would appreciate it if he stayed available for questioning for a few days. A constable’s escorted him back to London, but he’ll be returning with a bag.’

  Sometimes, living deep in the countryside had a price, like no nearby hotel being available to put up unwanted guests, for instance. Mollineaux was sympathetic but firm, and Jenny suspected that it wasn’t often he didn’t get his own way.

  ‘Very well.’ Mark gave in without a fight. He seemed drained of all energy suddenly. ‘Now, I really must go and see if my wife’s awake yet. If she is, she’ll want to know about Alicia.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The small group watched him in silence as he made his way upstairs, a stoop-shouldered, broken man. Then, as if on cue, Chase headed off and Martha scurried for the kitchen, and Jenny was just turning to head for the sanctuary of her own room when Mollineaux called her back.

  ‘Just a moment, Miss Starling.’

  Reluctantly, she followed him into the small lounge off the library, which he appeared to have made his own private office. He waved her into a chair, which she took, and noticed that Sergeant Mollern had entered and stood by the closed door. She glanced warily at Mollineaux, who smiled at her. He was a handsome man, and he had a handsome smile, but Jenny wished heartily that he was smiling at someone else.

  ‘I must just make a phone call. I won’t be a moment.’ He lifted the receiver, and dialled once. ‘Hello, get me Vanchester 305621, please. Inspector Hopcroft.’

  Jenny almost groaned out loud. She’d known this was coming, ever since she’d seen the look of recognition in his eyes earlier on. Oh well. Best to get it over with, she supposed.

  ‘Hello? Clive? This is Randolf. Yes. Mollineaux.’

  Jenny had never thought of Mollineaux as a Randolf. A Lawrence, perhaps. Or
maybe even a Geoffrey.

  ‘Yes. Oh, I’m fine. What’s it like up north?’ Mollineaux dispensed with the pleasantries without taking his eyes off the woman seated, so composed, in front of him. ‘The thing is, we’ve had a particularly nasty murder down here. A young man at his birthday party was poisoned. His sister very nearly died along with him. Yes. I know. The thing is, we’ve got problems, as you can expect, with a house full of guests, staff and whatnot, and as of yet we’re not even sure who the intended victim was. We’ve also got another, rather peculiar, fly in the ointment, and that’s why I’m calling you. You’ve come across this particular fly before. She goes by the name of Jenny Starling.’

  Mollineaux paused, then nodded. ‘That’s right, a cook. A rather, er, striking lady. Now if I remember right, wasn’t she a suspect in that murder you had up there a year or so ago?’

  There followed an even longer silence, during which time Mollineaux’s eyes widened, narrowed, and widened again. Finally, he sighed heavily. ‘I see. So Chief Inspector Gunn was … Yes. And it was really like that? Yes. I see. Right. And she had nothing to do with it at all? Not even a doubt or two? No. Right.’ Mollineaux sighed again. ‘In this case the family is rather prominent, and I’m already coming under pressure from the top brass for a quick solution. But yes, I’ll bear it in mind. ’Bye, and thanks.’

  Mollineaux hung up and leaned back in his chair. ‘That was a very interesting call, Miss Starling,’ Mollineaux began, and she had no trouble at all in picking up the undertones of sarcasm. ‘According to our mutual friend, Chief Inspector Gunn and his team didn’t solve the Enderby murder at all. You did.’

  Although she couldn’t see him, Jenny had the distinct impression that Sergeant Mollern had just shifted uneasily behind her.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that,’ she demurred faintly.

  ‘No? According to our friend Inspector Hopcroft, Enderby’s killer would have got away scot-free, if it hadn’t been for you. Only you, it seems, managed to sift through the clues and come up with the name of the killer.’ Mollineaux’s voice had been getting progressively tighter, chillier and more sardonic as he’d talked, and now Jenny sighed deeply.