Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

* * *

  * * *

  At the bottom of the spiral staircase, I took the door that led to the refurbished side of the Charlotte. Naomi’s door stood open, and as I passed, I heard Clara’s voice, but high-pitched and anxious. I hovered for a moment but couldn’t make out any of her words, so I reached round to knock lightly on the doorpost before looking in, so I wouldn’t be such a surprise.

  Clara leapt out of her chair. I could’ve leapt, too, at the sight of her—her face washed of color and her bun ever so slightly askew.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you two,” I said, trying to think of a valid reason for being there.

  Naomi looked mildly surprised. “No, Hayley, it’s fine, come in.”

  “I thought I should talk to Ms. Faber,” Clara said in a rush, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear. “About what facilities are available for the opening-night gala. I’m compiling a report for you that will include bids from three caterers.”

  At that moment, the opening-night gala seemed even further away than the actual exhibition, which made no sense. “Thank you, Clara—that’s a topic we hadn’t even started on. I appreciate your thinking of it.” Who has scared her so? Was it Naomi?

  “I should get back to Mr. Berryfield now,” Clara said, and slipped past me.

  “Clara,” I said, and she stopped. I moved us a few more steps away from Naomi’s office door and asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes—super.”

  “It takes time for those left behind to recover after a death. You’d been working with Oona the better part of a year, and I’m sure this is hitting you particularly hard.”

  Clara’s eyes filled with tears. “No, I’m fine,” she said. “It’s only, I keep thinking about the last time I saw her—I had no way to know I’d never see her again.”

  That’s right—Clara was the last person to see Oona alive. “Can you recall how she seemed on Thursday morning?”

  “What?”

  “Was she happy or annoyed or worried or—”

  “I don’t know,” Clara replied with a shrug. “I suppose she was all those things—she was Oona.”

  I understood what she meant.

  “Perhaps,” Clara said slowly, “she was a bit more annoyed than usual when I came back with our coffees that morning.”

  “On Thursday? But I thought you hadn’t left the office except to get lunch at Pret and then later, for sketch pads.”

  “But I’d gone out for coffee, didn’t I say that?” She frowned. “Ms. Faber stopped in and asked if I was going, and if so, would I get her cappuccino, but the café at the Assembly Rooms wasn’t open yet, and so I went around to the Boston Tea Party on Alfred Street.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “Only about fifteen minutes. Ms. Faber was still in our office when I returned.”

  “That’s when Oona was annoyed? And you told this to the police?”

  Clara’s eyes, now void of tears, grew large. “Yes, I did. I must’ve. I’m sure I mentioned it.”

  I knew what that meant—it meant I needed to give Detective Sergeant Hopgood a ring.

  When Clara headed for the spiral staircase, I turned back to stop again in Naomi’s office.

  “Everything all right?” I asked.

  “She seems to be a bit highly strung, don’t you think?” Naomi shifted the papers on her desk.

  “I’d think that’s to be expected after what she’s been through,” I said. “Finding Oona like that. Had you seen much of her on Thursday? Oona, I mean.”

  Naomi tapped her pencil on her lips and said, “Mmm. I put my head in that morning.”

  “And after that?”

  “Crisis with the watercolorists. It took hours to get sorted— I missed my lunch—and then suddenly the police were here, questioning everyone. Terrible, really. So, Hayley, I’ve had a few thoughts about the focal-point display for your exhibition, and if you have a minute, I could just—”

  “Sorry,” I said as if I actually meant it. “I must be off. We’ll talk later. Bye!”

  I would call that more than a little presumptuous, thinking she could stick her nose into our exhibition as if she were the manager and not Zeno. Zeno, who had come up with not one single good idea.

  I continued down the stairs and to the event space and met with a beehive of activity as the Druids—all dressed in white coveralls—moved in. Two fellows passed me carrying several wide, flat stones tucked under each arm.

  “Cairns to the right, dolmen to the left,” Tommy King-Barnes called out, waving his hand one way and a clipboard the other.

  “Aren’t those awfully heavy?” I asked.

  “Prop rocks,” he said. “One hundred percent postconsumer recycled plastic. When you’ve been around for six thousand years, you learn to take care of the environment. Howerya, Hayley?”

  “Fine. Move-in going all right?”

  “A breeze,” Tommy said, ticking an item off his clipboard list. “Zeno said as much, told me Naomi Faber runs a tight ship. You wouldn’t believe some of the cock-ups we’ve had to endure—and only because people don’t take Druids seriously.”

  “Naomi and Zeno have worked together before?” I asked conversationally, but with a flutter in my tummy.

  “Mmm, some oasthouse museum in Kent, I believe. Last year or year before.”

  From somewhere nearby came the sound of a Celtic tune— Enya, I thought, singing about Middle Earth. Tommy began patting pockets until he came up with the correct mobile, then held a finger up to me and turned away as he answered in a breathy whisper.

  So, Naomi and Zeno had acted as if they’d never met. Incorrect, according to Tommy. Perhaps I could pull a few more details out of him when he finished his call.

  From behind me, I heard, “Sorry, could we—”

  I turned to find three bigger-than-life mannequins wearing togas, their feet not touching the ground. Then I saw the live arms round their middles, and one of them waved a hand.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry!” I said, and stepped out of the way, backing up straight into the stack of faux stones. They shook as if the earth had trembled. I moved again, into a short corridor that led to a small storage area. Really just an alcove where a few folding chairs were resting against the wall and, behind them, something large and flat, wrapped in brown paper with a label that read Greg Renshaw, artist with a colorful swish and his phone number.

  I remembered the watercolorist who had told Naomi he would leave a framed piece behind to collect later. Although Naomi had claimed that no single person had managed the watercolorists’ exhibition, this fellow had spoken as if he had been in charge. Perhaps he could confirm Naomi’s alibi for all of Thursday afternoon. Of course, she had told everything to the police and they had naturally followed through and checked it, but after Zeno had lied about seeing Oona, Clara had forgotten she’d gone out for coffee, and Naomi was trying to push exhibition ideas on me—I would be hard-pressed to trust even my own alibi.

  I snapped a photo of the artist’s contact details and left.

  18

  DS Hopgood, please. It’s Hayley Burke.”

  I phoned this time, because who knows where these police officers got off to during the day, and I didn’t feel like waiting in the lobby at the station on Manvers Street.

  Kenny Pye came on the line. “Ms. Burke?”

  “Yes, here I am again, turning up like a bad penny.” When he didn’t argue, I went on. “There are a few things I’m not sure you know about. Should I come down?”

  “How about I meet you for a coffee?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, all right—where?”

  “The café on the Pulteney Bridge?”

  I started walking in that direction as I said, “An excellent idea. I’m not too far away.”

  “Ten min
utes, then.”

  I stepped up my pace, arrived in seven, and waited on the pavement for DC Pye, who arrived not a minute later. We scanned the offerings in the window, went in, and ordered before nabbing a table that looked out on the weir. Now, this was a civilized way to conduct a police interview.

  “Am I beginning to annoy everyone at the station with my frequent appearances?” I asked.

  “Are you saying you’d rather be in Interview #1?”

  I laughed as it occurred to me that Kenny Pye was really a nice, well-rounded fellow. Probably in his late twenties, a police officer, and a writer of 1920s detective stories starring a PI named Alehouse. I wondered if he was married or had a partner. I wondered if I could get Dinah to come down for a visit and I could introduce the two of them.

  Our coffees arrived along with my rock cake and his sausage roll. Kenny got his notebook out, and I remembered my business. First, Clara and her coffee excursion the morning of the day Oona was murdered.

  “I believe she’s still suffering shock,” I said, “and may not be aware of the importance of telling you every single detail of that day.” Difficult to remember that had been only the week before, it seemed like ages.

  Pye bit off the end of his sausage roll and chewed while he jotted something down.

  I proceeded with caution. “Are you suspicious when someone forgets to tell you about where they were and when?”

  “Witnesses withhold information for different reasons,” Pye said, and stuck out a thumb as he listed them. “They don’t think it’s relevant. They’re afraid it is relevant, and don’t want to get themselves or someone else in trouble. Or they truly don’t remember. At first. If someone said to you, tell me everything you did a week ago Monday, would you be able to that? Down to the last detail—on the first go?”

  I couldn’t even have given him the high points, much less the detail. I understood what he meant and was happy that Clara wouldn’t be in trouble.

  “Now, about Naomi Faber and Zeno—” and I passed along what I’d learned.

  Pye flipped pages back and forth, chewed, jotted, and nodded once or twice.

  “Did you know that already?” I asked. “Because I keep finding out these things and turning them over to you without knowing what you will make of it. If I’m repeating myself, if you and Sergeant Hopgood know all this, then I’m only wasting your time.”

  The DC flipped his notebook closed and stirred what was left of his coffee before he spoke. “It can help to have someone else—that is, not the police—ask a few questions. You can get an entirely different sort of answer that way.”

  “Detective Constable Pye,” I said, “are you saying I am actually a useful part of this enquiry?”

  He grinned. “Don’t tell Sarge.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The quiet over the next two days got on my nerves. My visits to the Charlotte became unannounced to find out if anyone was actually working on the exhibition. Once, I caught Zeno banging on about some event in County Durham at which he’d re-created the Lambton Worm. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but didn’t dare ask. Twice he had abandoned the office to chat with Tommy the Druid downstairs, but most often he would be in Oona’s office flipping through pages of detective stories while Clara tapped into her tablet.

  At Middlebank, I sat in the library and examined the books in the last few cartons that had come from secure storage, making notes about how they might be used in the exhibition. I came across a pristine edition of Sayers’s Gaudy Night and carefully opened it to read the first line. Before I knew it, I had finished two chapters, and had to force myself to put the book down and return to my search. But nowhere did I come across a first edition of Murder Must Advertise signed by members of the Detection Club in 1933.

  I reread Lady Fowling’s draft letter to Dorothy L. Sayers, hoping to find a clue I’d missed. Adele said her ladyship would’ve loved to set a puzzle that needed to be solved. What puzzle would that be? I walked out on the library landing—Mrs. Woolgar had gone to lunch with Mr. Rennie—and had a chat with Lady Fowling.

  She could be quite blunt about what she thought or wanted me to do—yes, it was a painting, I remember that—but today, her ladyship kept schtum. I’d heard Sergeant Hopgood use that word and knew what it meant.

  “All right, fine,” I said to her after asking a few pointed questions. “I’ll change the subject.” I gazed at the figure of Lady Fowling, full length on a larger-than-life canvas, and wearing a backless, burgundy satin, halter-top evening dress. Cut on the bias, it draped elegantly to the floor. The artist showed her half-turned and looking over her shoulder, her hand resting on an empty wingback chair. I knew that enigmatic smile by heart. I fancied she had been about my age when she sat for the portrait. Or, more correctly, stood.

  “Did you keep that lovely dress you’re wearing? Because, on top of everything else I have to worry about, I need a fancy frock for the opening-night gala. And, you know, if you did and if I came across it, and if it fit, and if you didn’t think it was too presumptuous of me . . . do you think I could wear it?”

  I heard the front door click closed, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I went to the railing and looked down.

  “Mrs. Woolgar?”

  “Yes, Ms. Burke. I’m just in from lunch.” She said it in all innocence, but she’d already hung up her coat, so she must’ve been standing there a minute or two. I blushed. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your meeting,” the secretary added.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, well, it’s all right. I was only on the phone.” My phone lay on my desk downstairs. I prayed it wouldn’t ring and give me away.

  * * *

  * * *

  Thursday at the Charlotte, I’d had to sit through another session listening to Zeno’s inane ideas for displays. A map with pins showing where each book in Lady Fowling’s collection had been set. Mildly interested, I had asked what we would do about all those imaginary places authors had invented, but he had gone straight on to another one of his so-called brainstorms. He suggested we show the many kinds of locks involved in a locked-room mystery—rim lock, rotating bolt, lever lock, slide—was ironmongery that fascinating?

  Exasperated, I gathered my things together to leave, but paused in the doorway and ginned up my courage. “I feel there is a certain energy lacking in the ideas we”—a charitable use of the word we—“are coming up with. We need a bit of drama, you know. Something to grab the imagination of those attending. Let’s leave it there for now. See you in the morning.”

  Val rang after his evening class and let me witter on about my frustration.

  “We could explore Lady Fowling’s affection for each of the main writers of the Golden Age of Mystery,” I said. “We could group books appropriately, and the signage could contain quotes from letters and inscriptions—personal things written to her ladyship. What about a whole investigation into her own detective? ‘Who Was François Flambeaux?’ One of those screens where detectives were listed on one side, and attributes on the other, and people would have to match them up? We could get a mannequin and dress him in character. What did Flambeaux wear?”

  “I don’t know,” Val said, “but those sound like the ideas of an exhibition manager to me.”

  “Silly,” I replied, but smiled. Then I remembered the problems with displaying fragile items without damaging them. Light, humidity—Zeno knew about those concerns. But what would he do with my ideas if I handed them off to him?

  Val and I fell silent—listening to him breathe was a comforting pastime on the phone, as we had had precious little time together since Tuesday. The week wouldn’t end any other way. He had a day full of meetings at the college on Friday, and I would be off early Saturday to visit my mum. We were back to needing time, and not having any until something broke free.

  “Have you heard from the girls?” I asked.

/>   “Bess is being slippery, and I don’t know why. Becky has a plein air session this weekend at the site of an Iron Age fort in Dorset.”

  “Plein air in winter?” I asked. “That’s dedication for you.”

  “Says the woman who’ll spend half the day poking round tide pools in November,” he replied.

  I laughed. “That’s because I knew you would warm me up after.”

  “I would do now, too.” We fell into a moment of silent longing punctuated by my heavy sigh.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I arrived at the Charlotte Friday morning, Clara sat alone in the office.

  “Mr. Berryfield has gone to carry out more measurements of the front entry,” she explained. “He seems to have an idea.”

  At last.

  “Good. Now, Clara, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you going back to Shepton Mallet for the weekend? I’m sure your nana is eager to hear how your job is going.”

  Before she could answer, there came a clanging and rattling from the spiral staircase. Zeno, on his way up and in a hurry.

  “Ms. Burke—excellent. Delighted you’ve arrived. Would you mind?”

  He held out a tape measure and I took it.

  “What are we measuring?”

  “The stairs,” he said. “Come out, now, and I’ll go to the next landing, and you can reel the tape down.”

  I followed him out and he ran round and round and down, and when he’d arrived at the lower landing, he looked up and said, “Fire away.”

  I obeyed but, as I did so, asked, “Mr. Berryfield, why do you need these measurements?”

  “Confirmation, Ms. Burke—all shall be revealed! What do you read just to the top of the railing?”

  “Fifteen feet and—”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Just as I suspected,” he muttered, then let go of the tape and ran back up the stairs and into the office. “Come in.”

  Clara had stayed put in her chair in the far corner. Zeno took a flip chart—the kind that usually sat on an easel—from behind the desk and looked at us both with a gleam in his eye.