Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “Look,” he said. “I only wanted to make sure you got home all right, but you probably want to be alone, so I’ll go now and we’ll meet up tomorrow.”

  “Stay.” I sucked in my breath, surprised at my own plea. But it came to me what I wanted—needed.

  Val hadn’t replied, and so I continued. “Please stay. I know it isn’t a seafront room at the Grand Hotel in Woolacombe, but even so—”

  “Of course I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll stay to keep you company. But I don’t want you to think . . .” His gaze darted round the kitchen and into the sitting room, and he added, halfheartedly, “I can sleep on the sofa.”

  “You will not sleep on the sofa.”

  Slowly his green eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Ah well,” he said. “If you insist.”

  He made me laugh and I felt a world better. For a moment, we looked at each other, and then I drew close and our lips brushed. I reached over to the counter, switched off the kettle, and led the way.

  The lamp in the sitting room spilled light into my bedroom, keeping us in semidarkness—quite enough to see, but not too much. We took our time, slowly peeling off layer after layer, and attending to detail. I became momentarily annoyed at the tiny buttons on men’s shirts, but we got over that and at last we were down to nothing. The band holding my ponytail was the last to go, and when my hair fell to my bare shoulders and Val kissed the hollow place at the bottom of my throat, things began to move along a bit quicker.

  * * *

  * * *

  When at last he pulled the covers up over us, we ended where we’d started, staring into each other’s eyes.

  “That was better than the seaside,” I said.

  “What?” His voice was full of mock incredulity. “Better than ice cream and tide pools and eating fish and chips with those annoying little wooden picks?” He gave me a squeeze. “We’ll get there—just not this weekend.”

  We snuggled and were quiet. After a few minutes, I felt Val’s arms round me relax and could hear his breathing even out as he drifted off. But I was wide awake. My mind had cleared, and I thought I could see a path forward. When he stirred and stroked my arm, I said, “What about that cup of tea?”

  “I don’t need anything,” he said, but I heard his tummy protest.

  “Come on, I’ll do us an omelet.”

  Val pulled on his trousers and went to start the kettle while I dashed into the loo to make sure I didn’t have rings of mascara under my eyes. I had two dressing gowns on the back of the door and quickly dismissed the idea of wearing my favorite—a thickly matted chenille number—and instead grabbed a thin, peacock-blue silk robe I’d got from a charity shop—a small spot of embroidery on one shoulder had come unstitched, but it was practically unnoticeable. I dropped the ball, however, when it came to my feet, and padded out to the kitchen in woolly slippers.

  “Hiya,” I said, kissing him behind the ear. He’d already laid the table, and so I took over and cracked eggs into a bowl. As I whisked, Val ducked out and returned wearing his shirt, too.

  I looked down at my robe and tightened the belt. “I should put some clothes on.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” he said, and added, “Unless you’re cold.”

  “No, not cold. You took care of that.” And central heating, too, but no need to mention it.

  “Here, let me cook,” he said. “I’m a dab hand at eggs. One of my few mealtime successes when the girls were young.”

  “Have you heard from them lately?” I asked.

  “Bess rang. I thought it was time I asked them for a visit so you could meet.”

  Val already had been introduced to my Dinah, but I had yet to be face-to-face with his twins, Bess and Becky, aged twenty-four. He had been a single parent from the time they were barely five, after his wife had left them and then died quite suddenly.

  Not that I was worried about meeting his daughters.

  “I look forward to it,” I said, my heart jumping into my throat. “You told them that, didn’t you—that I look forward to it?”

  “Yeah, of course I did.”

  “Good, that’s good.”

  We ate in silence—only exchanging the occasional silly smile. “All right, now,” I said, scraping the last bits of egg from my plate, “you’re going to think this is a daft idea, but if we’re going to continue with the exhibition, we should hire Zeno Berryfield.”

  Val frowned. “Could we trust him? What would become of the event if he gets hold of it?”

  “The thing is, we could get him to sign an agreement that he couldn’t make a move without our say-so.”

  “You could do it, you know,” Val said, waving a fork. “You could mount the exhibition yourself.”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s too much—the scope. It’s that all-encompassing view that’s needed, as well as a load of practical knowledge. And even if he is a bit odd, at least Zeno’s had experience. I can learn all the good bits and leave off his . . . eccentricites. He’ll be a name and a source. I don’t think we can keep the Charlotte otherwise.”

  Val remained skeptical, but I saw the hiring of Make an Exhibition of Yourself! as a way to continue—it would be difficult enough to tell the board and Mrs. Woolgar what had happened. At least we’d still have a manager.

  I found a toothbrush for Val—Dinah had forgotten hers at Christmas, and we had bought a three-pack at Boots—and we got ready for bed proper, switching off the lights and leaving only a soft glow coming from the front window. Val’s hand slid down my back and hips, and he pulled me closer and kissed my hair and we said good night.

  9

  I’ve two pieces of bread for our breakfast,” I said, and opened a cupboard. “Or cornflakes?” The thought settled on me that I would need to start shopping for the occasional—or even regular—overnight guest. I smiled.

  “Tea,” Val said, drinking the last of his down. “I’ll go home and shower and meet you before we go to the police.”

  Oh yes, that’s right—despite the blue sky and my morning-after-sex euphoria, we had more somber business to attend to. Oona was dead, the police thought it murder, and the exhibition was in danger.

  “The Bertinet by the rail station?”

  “I’ll see you there in an hour.” Val cupped my face in his hands and kissed me softly.

  “Bye,” I whispered, but he didn’t move. “Bye?”

  “Yeah, right—bye.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I dashed into and out of the shower and wandered my flat with my hair in a towel and a cup of tea in hand. I needed to impose order on my day, and so I started a list.

  Tell Mrs. Woolgar. But she wouldn’t be back from Tunbridge Wells until the afternoon. Should I send her a text? Leave a note on her desk? No, wait—I thought of another way to get word to her.

  I would let Duncan Rennie tell her. As the First Edition Society’s solicitor, he would also be the one to arrange for the cartons of rare books to come out of storage and be delivered to Middlebank. After all, I needed to continue searching for the rare copy of Murder Must Advertise.

  Next on my list—prepare a solemn statement for the board. I would end it on a sad, but positive note, and say that we must go on with the exhibition.

  Talk to Adele. At the board meeting last Wednesday week, Oona had recognized her and Adele had been flustered. I should’ve insisted Adele tell me details then, because now I was unsure how she would react to Oona’s death. But as Adele was teaching and wouldn’t be free until the afternoon, I’d send her a text and we could meet after school.

  Zeno Berryfield. Would he be hot-desking today? Had he been hired elsewhere? Would he accept our offer with its restrictions?

  Naomi—I must make certain she kept hold of our April dates.

  I added Mum and Dinah to my list, but perhaps I could wait until tomorr
ow to tell them—I didn’t think Oona’s death had grabbed any headlines.

  And now, to Oona herself. What happened? Was it—as I feared—someone willing to murder to get hold of a one-of-a-kind first edition of Murder Must Advertise? Someone who knew the plot well enough to toy with police by making it look like a copycat murder, using a detective story written nearly one hundred years ago?

  * * *

  * * *

  On the way to meet Val, I nipped into the Charlotte to have a word with Naomi—to assure her we were still on. Just inside the front door, a cluster of watercolorists stood with steaming mugs in hand, speaking in low voices and glancing over their shoulders. At the sight of me, their eyes widened and faces paled.

  “Hello, good morning,” I whispered. “Is Naomi in, do you know?”

  “Not until twelve,” one of the men said.

  “Right, well—I’ll stop back by later.”

  “Are you police?”

  “Me?” Had Sergeant Hopgood been interviewing these people? Did he suspect a watercolorist of Oona’s death? “No, I have a bit of business to sort out. I’ll send her a text.”

  The group heaved a sigh of relief. One of them even smiled and waved as I left, calling out, “Cheerio, then.”

  On my way to the Bertinet, I worked on a text to Naomi.

  Wanted you to know we are committed to the exhibition regardless of— I paused and considered my words—the terrible event of yesterday. Let’s talk.

  I admired the text—it acknowledged what had happened but stated my determination that life must go on. Just not for Oona. I didn’t want to gloss over her death, but I couldn’t help thinking if roles were reversed, Oona would forge ahead.

  Hitting send, I walked into the coffee shop, and was greeted with the sight of a full case of pastries and a gentle kiss from Val—as close to heaven as I’d ever come.

  Over breakfast, we divvied up our day. Val, naturally, would take over explaining to the people at Bath College our current circumstances and reassure them the exhibition was not in jeopardy. We would visit the board together—the Moons loved Val, and Maureen Frost had a professional respect for him, so no trouble there. Jane Arbuthnot, however, could be temperamental and easily swayed by the secretary’s opinion on the matter.

  “I’ve asked Duncan Rennie to talk with Mrs. Woolgar.”

  “Good to have a solicitor on hand.”

  “Yes, good for the Society—and for the secretary.” With scant evidence and no courage to ask questions, I had formed the idea that Glynis Woolgar and Duncan Rennie were an item.

  “Why don’t we wait until she’s been apprised of the situation before we talk to the board?” Val suggested.

  “Right, that would be better. I’ll catch Adele this afternoon when school ends and take her to the Raven. Maybe you could meet us there later.”

  I finished my almond croissant with a light dusting of icing sugar on my cardigan and a stickiness around my mouth. Val, sensibly, had eaten a ham-and-chutney roll and looked none the worse for wear. I did my best with a damp tissue before we headed the short distance up Manvers to the police.

  * * *

  * * *

  At the station, we gave Sergeant Hopgood a detailed account of those who knew about the first edition of Murder Must Advertise, signed by the Detection Club. We piqued his interest for certain with our tale of Stuart Bulldog Moyle.

  “Have you seen him since?”

  We shook our heads.

  “I’m in touch with Arthur Fish,” Val said, “the lecturer from last week. They seemed to know each other. I’ll leave you Arthur’s details.”

  Oh God, the literary salons. My mind jumped ahead to next week. Margaret Raines—a retired detective chief superintendent to talk about the Metropolitan Police in fact and fiction. Raines now wrote novels, police procedurals, and so could cover the topic from both sides.

  “And so, Sergeant”—I thought there was no harm in asking again—“you’re absolutely certain Oona truly was murdered? She didn’t have an accident?”

  “It doesn’t look as if she went over willingly,” Hopgood said. “But was it planned or a violent act in the heat of the moment—a knock on the head and a shove? The prints in the office and on the stairs are turning up nothing unusual.”

  “When can we get back into the office?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound cold and calculating. “The thing is, when the Society finds another exhibition manager, we will need that work space.”

  “We’ll be finished at the site by the end of today,” Hopgood said, “but we’ve gathered a great deal of material—books and papers—and we’re not ready to release them yet.”

  “Oona made a lot of sketches about displays and such,” I said. “They’ll be useful as we continue. And also—those books belong to the First Edition library.”

  “They will be returned, Ms. Burke, all in good time.” Hopgood placed his open hands palms down on the table as if bracing himself. “Now, I don’t need to remind the two of you that this is a police enquiry, and as such, we will brook no interference on the public’s part.”

  My jaw dropped. “We haven’t done anything.”

  “No, of course you haven’t,” the sergeant said. “Let’s keep it that way. Mr. Moffatt?”

  “Does that mean you don’t need Arthur Fish’s contact details?” Val asked, a thin veneer of innocence over mischief.

  Hopgood’s eyebrows quivered, then smoothed out into a single thick line. “As I’m sure you remember, we consider the gathering of evidence a one-way street. Ms. Burke,” he said, “as you are the most familiar with the papers and such that we’ve recovered from the site, I would like you to—shall we say—interpret them for us. Tomorrow morning? We’ll give you your own room and provide as much tea as you can drink.”

  Police station tea? Less a lure and more a deterrent.

  “Yes, all right.”

  “And the rare book—I’ll have an officer search your library.”

  I envisioned police parading up and down the staircase at Middlebank. I thought we had done with that.

  “Must you? I’ve almost finished searching the library and, really, I don’t believe it’s there. And we are well and truly secure now,” I reminded him. “Not like in October.”

  Hopgood acknowledged that fact with a nod. “I’ll send Pye over.”

  Oh well, that’s all right then—I liked Detective Constable Pye. Maybe Val could be there, too, and as we searched the books, I could listen in on the two of them talking about fictional detectives. I might learn something.

  The sergeant glanced down at the short list of people we’d given him. “Is there anyone else?”

  With Oona’s treatment of those who worked for her, her past was probably littered with possible suspects, but as that included me, I decided not to call attention to it. “We haven’t got far enough into planning for many people to be involved,” I said. “And I know little of Oona’s private life. Wouldn’t Clara have information on any recent jobs?”

  “We’ll see. Pye is with Ms. Powell at the moment,” the sergeant said.

  “He went to Shepton Mallet?” I asked.

  “No, she’s at the flat here in Bath where Ms. Atherton was lodging.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once we were outside the station, I said to Val, “I need to check on Clara. Why is she here? And at Oona’s flat? She’s a girl, she shouldn’t be alone talking with the police.”

  “She’s not been cautioned,” Val replied. “They only want to know if she has any more information. And she is an adult.”

  “I think about Dinah in Clara’s shoes,” I said. “Bess and Becky are adults—how would you feel about them being questioned? Even if it is Kenny Pye.”

  Val frowned. “All right—you go. I’m off to talk with the department head at college. But after t
hat, I’ll go with you to see Berryfield.”

  “Good. But prepare yourself—he’s a case.”

  We parted, and I headed up and across Pulteney Bridge and down William Street to a long, straight terrace and Oona’s temporary digs. The building had a keypad entry, but all I could do was press the button for her number. I identified myself and heard the lock snick as it released.

  I took the lift to the second floor and I encountered another keypad at the door of the flat, but one of the women PCs stood ready to let me in. The flat had a compact entry with a narrow hallstand and a screen—a live camera showing the downstairs entry. Within, DC Pye occupied a chair and Clara teetered on the edge of the sofa with tea things on the table between them.

  The constable stood. “Ms. Burke—the sarge thought you might pop by.”

  Did he indeed—Hopgood the mind reader. “Hello, good morning,” I said. “Clara, how are you?”

  Vestiges of her job clung to the PA. Although she had dressed in trainers, denims, and a long sweater, she had pulled on her suit jacket, and her hair remained in a high, Oona-style bun.

  “Hello, Hayley, good morning,” she said, taking her glasses from the table and putting them on. “I’m terribly glad you stopped in. Won’t you sit down? Would you like tea?”

  “No, thank you.” But Clara looked crestfallen, and so I said, “Oh yes, why not. I could just do with a cup.”

  “The kettle’s not long off the boil—it won’t take me two ticks,” she said, and hurried into the kitchen.

  I glanced about the place—sparsely furnished, but pleasant and airy with a view south toward the rugby pitch.

  “Had you visited Ms. Atherton here?” Pye asked.

  “No,” I said, settling on the sofa, “but of course I had her address for our records. That’s how I knew where to find you.”

  “There now,” Clara said, returning with the pot. “I’m sorry I’ve only Maries to offer.”

  I eyed the plate of thin biscuits on the coffee table. As far as I was concerned, Maries—and their doppelgänger, rich tea biscuits—were good only for crushing and mixing with a great deal of melted chocolate to use in a tiffin.