by J. R. Ellis
Steph suddenly realised what he meant. She pretended to be outraged and put her hand on her hip. ‘Oh, so that’s why you’ve brought me along, sir? To drive you back after you’ve quaffed the champers! And all that about me being lonely with Andy away!’
‘No, no,’ protested Oldroyd, grinning far too widely. ‘I assure you that was not the main reason. But I didn’t think you’d mind,’ he added archly.
‘That’s OK, sir. I’m not that fond of the stuff myself. But I’d go easy on that, too. It would look bad if I had to help my boss stagger to his car, drunk.’
‘Worry not. I want to be alert to watch this trick, not slumped and dozing in a corner.’
Luckily for Oldroyd’s waist, if not for his appetite, there was hardly time for dessert before the guests were asked to move to the part of the house where the locked room was located. Oldroyd’s gaze lingered longingly on the strawberries, chocolate gateaux and millefeuille before he joined Steph.
‘Are you ready?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, sir; I’m sensing the atmosphere.’
The two detectives followed the rest of the well-dressed and excited guests down a corridor lined with huge Victorian paintings in massive gilt frames.
‘I have to say, I’m feeling a bit underdressed, sir,’ said Steph as she watched women with glittering dresses and fur stoles parade ahead of her.
‘Not you,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘And anyway, as my mother used to say on occasions like this: “Nobody’s looking at you.”’
Just before they turned into the lobby, they passed a room that was filling up with yet more people sitting in front of a large screen. The evening’s events were going to be relayed to this room. Oldroyd and Steph were ushered on into the lobby itself, where the bulky television cameras were in evidence plus snakes of thick cable around the room and powerful lights. Lord Redmire was shaking hands and welcoming everybody personally.
‘Ah, Chief Inspector, very nice to see you. And this must be your detective sergeant. It’s a great pleasure.’ His handsome but rather debauched-looking face leered at Steph as he shook her hand. Steph cringed. ‘Please come right down to the front; I have a special role for you tonight.’ He led them to seats at the end of the front row and then returned to greeting people.
‘Well, I don’t like him, sir,’ whispered Steph. ‘He’s one of those men who undresses you with their eyes and makes you feel uneasy.’
‘Yes, I noticed. I’ve met him a few times at bigwig functions I’ve been to with Tom Walker. He’s not a very savoury character – always had a reputation as a womaniser.’ Oldroyd looked around, suddenly feeling uncomfortable himself. ‘I don’t like this; I didn’t realise he wanted us to play a role in whatever’s going to happen. He’s a devious bugger. The mention of magic intrigued me and put me off my guard.’
‘I suppose he’ll get us up to check some equipment or other and say there’s nothing fishy about it.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Bugger!’ he repeated.
‘Come on, sir,’ teased Steph. ‘You were all enthusiastic a few minutes ago. Never mind. I think it’s all very exciting.’ She settled into her seat and looked at the door facing them. ‘Is that the door?’ she asked.
‘Presumably,’ replied Oldroyd, before adopting an exaggeratedly reverential tone. ‘The Door to the Locked Room.’
At that moment, Lord Redmire came to stand in front of the door with a television presenter, who welcomed everyone with the usual jocular patter and outlined what was going to happen when the live broadcast began. There was a flurry of last-minute activity, with sound people moving their boom mics around and double-checking the positions of their cameras. Producers with clipboards called out and cameramen replied. At last things settled down and a voice said: ‘Live in ten, nine, eight . . .’
Red lights went on over cameras, and the presenter smiled at the one in front of him.
‘Good evening and welcome to a special edition of Yorkshire Life. We are coming to you live from Redmire Hall near Ripon, where tonight we are going to see something very special. Something that hasn’t been seen for nearly forty years. I have here with me the owner of Redmire Hall, and the performer of tonight’s magic trick, the Honourable Frederick Carstairs, Lord Redmire.’
During the brief applause, the presenter turned to Redmire, who looked confident and debonair in front of the camera. ‘Well, I thought it was long overdue,’ he quipped, to mild laughter from the audience. ‘The truth is, I thought the secret of this trick had gone to the grave with my father. We didn’t even have the key to that door. But recently certain . . . information, let’s say . . . has come to light and I’m now in a position to repeat his grand illusion.’
‘This trick was invented by your father?’
‘Indeed, in the late seventies, with help from an Italian illusionist called Count Mazarini, one of the greatest illusionists of all time. A team of people came over from Italy to construct it.’
‘I don’t suppose you can tell us how you rediscovered these secrets?’
‘No,’ Redmire smiled. ‘That would be telling, and a magician never explains his tricks.’
‘Oh Lord! He’s a magician now, is he? He gets more like our father every time I see him,’ muttered Dominic Carstairs. Mary jabbed him gently with her elbow.
‘Well, I hope he brings a bit more magic to this than he did to our business,’ said James Forsyth softly.
‘Quiet, darling,’ hushed Alex.
‘So,’ continued the presenter, ‘the door Lord Redmire mentioned is this one behind me.’
The camera panned to the door.
‘Shortly we are going to open it and this will reveal a small room. Lord Redmire will enter this room, which will be examined for ways of escape. The door will be locked and . . . But I’m rushing on too quickly. Let’s see inside.’
Dramatic music was heard from speakers at either side of the door as it opened. Dominic and James groaned. Oldroyd, on the front row, was torn between fascination and apprehension about what was to come next. The camera moved into the room.
‘As you can see,’ said the presenter, leading the camera into the room, ‘it seems an ordinary sort of space, like a study: chair, small desk, window, bookshelf, rug.’ He turned to Redmire again. ‘And you’re going to escape from here, Lord Redmire?’
‘Indeed, but before we begin: I have invited Detective Chief Inspector Jim Oldroyd, from West Riding Police in Harrogate, and Detective Sergeant Stephanie Johnson to carry out a full examination of the room. This is to demonstrate that there are no exits from the room. This examination will be undertaken by unimpeachable people who cannot be accused of being in collusion with me.’
‘Damn!’ whispered Oldroyd to Steph. ‘I just hope Tom Walker’s not sitting at home in his slippers, watching telly. He’ll choke on his whisky!’
‘I shall be locked into the room,’ announced Redmire, ‘and you will pull this curtain across briefly and then back again. When the door is opened, I shall have disappeared.’
‘Well, it sounds impossible to me, but can I now ask DCI Oldroyd and his assistant to come forward.’
More dramatic music, and Oldroyd got up reluctantly with Steph at his side, feeling a little more enthusiastic than her boss.
‘So, Chief Inspector, I bet many of the criminals you catch would welcome a way of escaping from you like this.’
Oldroyd contorted his face into a fixed smile. ‘I’m sure they would,’ he replied through clenched teeth.
‘So, if there’s any way out of that room you’ll find it?’
‘Yes, I’m sure we will.’
‘OK, off you go, then; the camera will follow you round.’
There followed several excruciating minutes for Oldroyd while he and Steph examined everything, including the small cavity under the floor, just as Vivian Carstairs’s friends had done all those years before.
The presenter commented on every detail in an annoying manner that drove Oldroyd wild, but there was noth
ing he could do.
Steph was hard-pressed to avoid giggling during the filming.
Eventually they pronounced that there was no exit from the room other than by the door, which itself was a normal door with a simple mortise lock and two bolts. Steph returned to her seat, but the presenter detained Oldroyd.
‘Very well, then. It is time for Lord Redmire to enter the room!’ the presenter announced dramatically. ‘And then the chief inspector will lock him in.’ Oldroyd shot Steph a despairing glance and she looked down, trying not to laugh.
Redmire stepped up, handed a rather rusty-looking key to Oldroyd, entered the room and sat at the desk. A drum roll began.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the chief inspector will now close the door and lock it.’ Oldroyd duly did as he was told. ‘Can you hear me, Lord Redmire? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here,’ came the slightly quiet but clear reply.
‘So now I will draw this curtain for only fifteen seconds.’
As he did this, dramatic music began once again. At the end of the fifteen seconds, the music stopped and the presenter drew back the curtain. There was silence. Every member of the audience in both rooms was enthralled. Oldroyd had forgotten his embarrassment as he unlocked the door and opened it. It was empty. This produced a chorus of ‘ooh’s from the audience, and even Oldroyd appeared impressed. He had certainly seen no way out. The small cavity was inspected but found to be empty, and the camera moved inside to confirm the fact that Redmire was not there.
‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, Lord Redmire has completely disappeared from a locked room. But that’s not the end: he will now return. So I ask the chief inspector to close and lock the door again.’ There was a repeat of the locking, curtain-drawing and music.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, the chief inspector will once again open the door to this strange room and reveal . . . well, let’s see!’
When the door was opened, Redmire was again sitting at the desk. Applause and shouts of ‘Bravo!’ came from the audience, but Oldroyd had a strange feeling: something wasn’t right.
‘And there he is, ladies and gentlemen! What an amazing trick! Lord Redmire, can you—?’
The presenter’s patter stopped abruptly. Redmire had neither said anything nor moved until that moment. Then his body toppled sidewise out of the chair and the knife sticking out of his back became visible. Blood splattered on to the floor.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ muttered Oldroyd to himself, before pandemonium broke out.
Two
On the Redmire Hall estate was a neat terrace of workers’ cottages. In one of these, a retired estate worker was watching the transmission from the Hall, and was horrified when the body came into view. He was wondering what on earth was happening when he heard a knock at the door.
He opened it and looked out. The light was starting to fail, and the sun had set behind the big sycamore trees across the yard. A large moth fluttered soundlessly past his head, attracted by the light coming from the house. He saw a figure standing to one side of the door and recognised the visitor straight away.
‘Oh, it’s you. Come in.’ He turned back down the short passageway towards the living room. ‘This was—’ He never finished the sentence because a garrotte had been looped around his neck. His assailant’s grip tightened and, after a short struggle, the victim sank to the floor.
Back in the Hall, screams erupted all over the lobby and could be heard from the adjoining room, where people were watching the gruesome scene on the large screen; chairs tipped over as people sprang to their feet.
‘Daddy!’ shrieked Poppy. ‘Oh my God!’ She tried to run towards her father’s prostrate body.
‘Leave it to the police, darling,’ said Tristram, holding her back.
‘Freddy!’ wailed Alex, and promptly fainted into the arms of James Forsyth.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted Dominic.
On television screens across the county, the camera wobbled, the picture cut out and the viewers were returned to the studio at West Riding Television Centre.
It fell to Oldroyd to try to establish some order. Setting aside the terrible personal implications of being involved in this horror live on television, and probably being watched by half of the West Riding police force and his superiors, he sprang into action.
‘Stay back, everyone, and try to keep calm.’ He stood in front of the door while Steph went into the room to check that Redmire was as dead as he appeared to be. Thank God she was here with him! Not that they looked the part of police detectives, in their smart clothes. ‘This is an incident scene. No one must enter that room or touch anything. I am going to contact police headquarters and the ambulance service now. Please: everyone in this room remain here, as we shall need to take statements. I repeat: sit down and try to remain calm.’
‘He’s dead all right, sir. I think the knife has gone right into his heart.’ Steph was reassuringly practical and composed. ‘Shall I guard the door?’
‘Yes, good idea. Some of the family will want to get in, no doubt, but don’t let anyone through.’
Oldroyd called HQ in Harrogate, followed by the ambulance service. Then he surveyed the wreckage in the lobby. There were overturned chairs. Some people were cowering and sobbing in corners, while others sat white-faced and rigid.
The family had remained at the front, closest to the door, and Oldroyd tried to assess who might be in a fit state to take some control. Dominic Carstairs was still angry and ranting on about his brother’s stupidity while Mary tried to quieten him. Poppy was still weeping hysterically while Tristram tried to console her; likewise James Forsyth was attending to Alex, who had regained consciousness. Alistair Carstairs was sitting with his head in his hands and Katherine’s arm over his shoulder. Oldroyd decided that Antonia and Douglas Ramsay were the best bet and went over to them. They looked stunned but reasonably calm.
‘Who’s best placed to help me get control of things?’
Antonia struggled to reply. ‘I think Richard Wilkins, the estate manager; he knows . . . Oh – that’s him now over there.’
Oldroyd looked over towards the door and saw a portly man enter the room wearing a worried and puzzled expression. He walked briskly over to Oldroyd.
‘Chief Inspector, isn’t it?’ Oldroyd nodded. ‘I’m Richard Wilkins, the estate manager. What’s going on? They said there’s been an accident of some kind.’
‘Worse than that, I’m afraid. Lord Redmire’s been murdered.’
‘What? No! Impossible. How? He was doing that trick, wasn’t he?’ Wilkins added lamely.
‘He was, and I’m afraid that’s how the killer got to him. He disappeared from the room all right, but when he reappeared he was dead – stabbed in the back. No sign of the killer.’
‘But that’s . . .’ Wilkins seemed unable to comprehend what had happened.
‘I’ve contacted police headquarters and the ambulance service; they’ll be here soon. I have to stay here until they arrive so I wonder if you could make an announcement in the other room and . . .’
‘What’s happening?’ A female member of the Hall staff rushed into the lobby and over to them. ‘It’s chaos in the other room. People are hysterical. What happened to Lord Redmire? I saw him fall and . . . Oh my God!’ She looked towards the open door of the locked room and saw the body on the floor.
‘He’s dead . . . murdered,’ said Wilkins. ‘We’ve got to help the chief inspector here. We can’t expect the family to do anything.’
‘OK,’ said Oldroyd to Wilkins. ‘Go into the room where people were watching this being relayed and announce that everyone must stay where they are for the moment. And can you,’ he said to the woman with Wilkins, ‘go and get help from other staff to bring water and glasses for everyone.’
When they’d left, Oldroyd addressed the people in the lobby. ‘Just try to stay calm, please. We just need to remain here until help arrives.’
‘How can we do that when
there’s a murderer on the loose?’ said an angry Dominic Carstairs.
‘On that point, it’s safer if we all stay together here. This murder has obviously been planned, so I don’t think we’ve got some crazed killer on the rampage.’
‘But that’s ridiculous, I’m not . . .’ Carstairs made as if to leave the room.
‘Sir, please sit down and try to be patient. This is a murder enquiry and procedures must be followed.’
No one argued with Oldroyd when he spoke in this authoritative way. Carstairs did as he was told and the room went quiet apart from whispered conversations and muffled sobs from the still-distraught Poppy. The television crew had flopped on to the ground, with their backs against the wall. The presenter had his head in his hands. Oldroyd sat down on a chair.
‘I’ve got to stop this; it’s becoming a habit,’ he remarked to Steph with grim humour, remembering the business at the Red Chapel in Halifax, where he’d witnessed a sniper kill a man in front of an audience of music lovers.
‘Well, sir, I’m certainly glad I came now,’ Steph returned in kind. ‘It’s proving very exciting – though not exactly in the way I’d expected.’
‘I always say there’s never a dull moment when you’re working with me. I’m sure this is going to be fascinating, but the repercussions could be terrible.’ He shook his head and thought about DCS Tom Walker and the odious Chief Constable of West Riding Police, Matthew Watkins. Live on television without permission and then this happens. It was just the kind of publicity they hated; no doubt he was going to be carpeted at some point.
To the detectives’ relief, it wasn’t long before they heard the sound of sirens, and pulsing blue lights eerily lit the now darkening sky outside. As the ambulance crew arrived in the lobby, Oldroyd was relieved to see the tall figure of Tim Groves, the forensic pathologist he’d worked with for many years, striding in unhurriedly and carrying his bag. He was always a very sane and sensible presence.
Tim smiled in greeting at Oldroyd. ‘Jim, what on earth have you got yourself into this time? My wife was watching it; I was in the study upstairs. She called up saying I could expect a call from DCI Oldroyd as there’d just been a murder at Redmire Hall and you were there. I didn’t believe her at first, but sure enough, here we are!’