Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  I thought of that weapon cracking Oona’s skull and worried regardless. I wondered if he would truly leave both Clara and me alive and well and able to point police in his direction.

  Zeno tapped the cosh in the palm of his hand and, as if he’d heard my thoughts, said, “I will be out of your life soon. I have friends, you see. True friends who have agreed to assist me in leaving my current situation and starting afresh elsewhere. There’ll be no trace of Zeno Berryfield left.”

  “They are looking for me. They are looking for Clara.” My heart tripped along and my skin felt clammy. I leaned back against the sideboard to keep from dropping to the floor.

  “Ms. Powell didn’t feel well today,” he said. “You probably passed along that news to any relevant person. And as for you—”

  They think I’m in the cellar, but I wouldn’t tell him that.

  “Well, if you’re going,” I said, “you’d better hop it. Police will be here and you will be caught.”

  “I am waiting for word!” Zeno loomed over me and pointed to the cosh. “And it would do you good to shut it for a few minutes.”

  Behind him, on the other side of the room, Clara crept out of the pass-through, the duct tape still stuck to her ankles. She had the kettle in her hands. I began to shake as she crept forward, and disguised it by pulling on my tether and rattling the dishes in the sideboard. “I hope it isn’t Tommy you’re waiting for, because he’s already spilled everything to Sergeant Hopgood.”

  I gave a ferocious yank and the drawer came flying out, casting forks and spoons across the floor. Zeno lifted the cosh to strike just as Clara rushed forward, raised both arms as far as she could, and pivoted as she took a swing. Water spewed out in an arc as the kettle came down on the back of Zeno’s head with a solid clank.

  He whirled, and—brandishing the cosh—staggered toward Clara, and then crashed to the floor, where he lay motionless and moaning.

  Someone pounded on the door and Clara shrieked, but I heard the voices and yelled, “Police, Clara—it’s the police.”

  They didn’t wait, but burst in—Detective Constable Pye and Detective Sergeant Hopgood followed by four or five uniforms. The DS nodded to Zeno and the PCs surrounded him where he lay. One of them pulled the cosh from his hand.

  “Are the two of you all right?” Hopgood asked.

  I grinned at Clara. “We are.”

  “Well done, Ms. Burke,” the DS said.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I didn’t save the day—it was Clara.”

  Clara, her Oona-bun demolished and with trails of duct tape hanging off her as if she were a silver-gilt ancient mummy come to exact revenge, looked down at the kettle in her hand.

  “Would anyone like a cup of tea?”

  28

  Police took the kettle away, and so Clara boiled water in a saucepan. I kept her company in the small kitchen while the officers busied themselves with telling Zeno his rights. An ambulance came— Hopgood insisted for legal purposes, although I’m sure we all knew that Clara couldn’t’ve hit Zeno hard enough to cause damage. And wasn’t that too bad.

  “You were amazing,” I said to her as we leaned against the kitchen counter.

  She giggled—a disconcertingly high giggle that quickly turned to tears. I made her sit at the table, and I saw to the tea bags, biscuits— oh, look, Maries—and milk and sugar.

  “I miss Oona,” she said, sniveling and using a fresh tea towel to wipe her face and blow her nose. “She would always know what to do and what to say. And I know she could be difficult and bossy, but she could be unexpectedly kind, too. She was very much like my nana in many respects.”

  I leaned over and gave her a hug. Although I’m sure she did miss Oona, I thought that perhaps Clara missed her nana, too. “Look, we’ll need a few days to sort through all this,” I said. “You still have a job, but for now, won’t you please go back to Shepton Mallet?”

  “Yes, of course, I will do that, Hayley.” Clara glanced at me in an oblique manner. “Tomorrow?”

  “I’d be happy to drive you over this evening.” Kenny Pye had appeared in the kitchen doorway. “See you safely there.”

  Clara’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. “Thank you, Detective Constable Pye. That’s very kind of you.”

  Sergeant Hopgood put his head in the door. “All right if I have a chat with Ms. Powell in here? You’ll be up after that, Ms. Burke.”

  Kenny carried the tea tray out to the sitting room. We settled on the sofa while a couple of uniforms milled about talking into their radios.

  “Tea?” I asked them.

  “Ta,” they said, and I poured theirs as well as ours.

  “If her nana is like Oona,” I said to Kenny, “it’s no wonder Clara didn’t feel as if she could give up on the exhibition no matter what happened.”

  The DC nodded. “She told me that her grandmother came from Portugal. She married a sailor from Southampton, and when her daughter died in a boating accident, she took Clara in. Her nana has high expectations. Children—and grandchildren—of immigrants need to be super-achievers to satisfy their families.”

  “Sounds like you have firsthand knowledge.”

  He grinned. “My granddad was a boy when he came from India to Manchester in 1956. He worked in the textile factories all his life, and my dad after him, but I was supposed to be a Harley Street doctor, or at the very least, a barrister.”

  “Or a famous writer?” I asked.

  Kenny glanced toward the kitchen—and the inspiration for his PI Alehouse—and his dark eyes glittered. “I’m saving that for my retirement,” he said.

  When Hopgood had finished interviewing Clara, I took her place. I asked as many questions as the detective sergeant did, and—miracle of miracles—received a good many answers.

  “You’ll stop in tomorrow to sign your statement?” Hopgood asked as I heard my mobile ring.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  I followed the ringing of my phone—I’d dropped it when Zeno attacked—and discovered it on the floor in the corner under an aspidistra. It was Val.

  “I’m all right,” I answered.

  “What?” he said. “What’s happened?”

  I winced—I’d done the same thing to him that Dinah had done to me.

  “Nothing. That is, lots, but really I’m fine. We’re at Oona’s flat on Williams. They’ve arrested Zeno—he murdered Oona.”

  Silence on the line. “Are the police there?”

  “Yes, and they’ve taken him off. So you see—I really am all right.” I looked at the time—five o’clock. Was I supposed to be somewhere? “Where are you?”

  “I was just leaving for Middlebank, thinking you were in the cellar.”

  Yes, that’s what I should be doing now.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At Middlebank, Val answered the door. Behind him, Mrs. Woolgar hovered near the hallstand with Bunter at her feet.

  I gave Val a quick hug—and a squeeze that promised more later—and asked, “Did Val tell you, Mrs. Woolgar? About Zeno?”

  “A sketchy account,” the secretary said. A mild reproof, but her face looked drawn with worry.

  “I told her all I knew,” Val said. “Do you want to tell us the rest, or should we wait until you’re—”

  “No, I’m fine, really.” I was knackered, but also washed with relief and, in an odd way, energized and ready to talk. “But I could just do with a cup of tea.” And a proper biscuit.

  The three of us trailed off to the kitchenette, where Mrs. Woolgar put the kettle on, Bunter settled in Val’s lap, and I popped the lid on the biscuit tin.

  “Thank God,” I said, “custard creams.”

  In as clear and concise a manner as possible, I told them the story of my Wednesday—a d
ay that seemed to have many more hours in it than it should.

  “Oona came to Bath, and Zeno followed her—although he had made out he’d been here for a while. She let that flat across the Pulteney Bridge for five months, but Sergeant Hopgood said that Zeno spent his nights in a series of cheap lets—sleeping on sofas here and there.”

  “He kept himself remarkably well, considering,” Mrs. Woolgar commented.

  “He’s vain,” I replied.

  “Your Mr. Kilpatrick broke the case, didn’t he?” she asked.

  “He did, and he’s justly proud of himself.”

  “And the Druid?” Val asked.

  “Tommy King-Barnes is still at the station. Sergeant Hopgood said that Tommy told them that Zeno told him the reason he needed to leave Bath was because I was trying to hold him—Zeno—accountable for a broken glass case here at Middlebank.” I stopped and frowned. “Does that make sense?”

  “No,” Val said, “but go on.”

  “Tommy swears he didn’t know anything, was only doing a mate a favor, and will tell police anything they want to know—according to Sergeant Hopgood.”

  “Well, Ms. Burke.” Mrs. Woolgar stood and collected cups and saucers. “I’m sure you are looking forward to a quiet evening, and perhaps you’ll take tomorrow off in order to recuperate?”

  “I’ll take the morning off. I don’t think we can afford to have me wasting time lying about on a fainting sofa when I should be—oh, Mrs. Woolgar, we’ve found it! At least, we think we have. Val figured out what Lady Fowling’s odd phrases meant, and we believe the signed first edition of Murder Must Advertise is within reach. Won’t you come down to the cellar with us and find out?”

  * * *

  * * *

  The cellar presented what looked at first to be a solid front of furniture stacked from floor almost to the ceiling. It had been a wooden puzzle I’d taken apart a few months ago, and then had to fit back in, otherwise we would’ve been left with an odd lot of occasional tables and chairs lining the corridor. But the door to Mrs. Woolgar’s lower-ground-floor garden flat lay at the other end of the corridor, and so that would never have done.

  The secretary stood in the open doorway. Bunter sprang up onto a console table with a marble top and from there worked his way deeper into the room without ever touching the ground—he loved cellar expeditions. It took longer for Val and me to make the trek, shifting a highboy this way and a love seat that way, until at last we’d worked our way to the back of the room and arrived at Lady Fowling’s burled-walnut Queen Anne desk with cabriolet legs.

  It had five drawers—one center and two on either side, but we had to move more furniture before we could actually get the drawers open, and we did so with some ceremony. The central drawer was empty. The two top drawers were empty apart from a program for the 1982 grand reopening of the Theatre Royal. Nothing in the bottom right-hand drawer. Val and I stared at the last unopened drawer. Mrs. Woolgar watched. Bunter observed from a nearby fern stand.

  “Go on,” Val said with a nod.

  I pulled open the drawer, and found a small, acid-free—I recognized the type—book-sized box tied with twine. Dangling from the twine was a monocle.

  Lady Fowling had such a way.

  We weaved our way to the door and, under the light from wall sconces in the corridor, loosened the twine and opened the box. Inside, a clean and vivid yellow dust jacket proclaimed:

  Dorothy L. Sayers’

  new detective story

  Murder Must Advertise

  We opened the cover with reverence—not too far, no need to break the spine—and saw an array of signatures.

  “Anthony Berkeley,” Val said with a nod.

  “G. K. Chesterton.” Mrs. Woolgar pointed without touching.

  At least I could recognize Agatha Christie.

  * * *

  * * *

  We had found it—and then some. Under the book, Lady Fowling had left a newspaper clipping dated June 1950. It was a photo of Sayers. She wore a floral frock and a lively hat that seemed to dance even on the static paper. The caption explained that the author of the Lord Peter Wimsey books had been invited back to her former place of employment—S. H. Benson’s Advertising, Ltd.—to unveil a plaque near the spiral staircase, and that both staircase and business had been inspirations for Murder Must Advertise.

  “Such a treasure,” Mrs. Woolgar whispered.

  I replaced the clipping and book and retied the twine. “Mrs. Woolgar,” I said, holding out the box, “would you keep this safe for us until tomorrow? We’ll need to tell Mr. Rennie about it and ask his advice.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Burke, that’s quite . . . yes, I will.” She gently took the package and added, “Would you like me to ring the board members this evening and explain events? Apart from Ms. Babbage, of course—I’m sure you would like to talk with her. And perhaps I won’t wait until tomorrow to talk with Mr. Rennie, either.”

  “Yes, please do—and tomorrow we’ll sort out what to do about the exhibition.”

  * * *

  * * *

  We left Mrs. Woolgar at the door of her flat and—Bunter trotting up the stairs ahead of us—we climbed the stairs. The cloud of Oona’s death had been lifted, but the uncertainty of how we could move forward remained.

  “What do you say,” Val offered, “we don’t talk about books or mysteries or exhibitions or murder this evening?”

  “Agreed.” I checked the time—gone seven o’clock. “Pizza?” I asked as we reached the entry.

  The buzzer sounded.

  Val and I stood there, staring at the door, until I sighed with great effect and said, “Oh, all right. This better be good.”

  It took me a moment to recognize this young couple on the doorstep. Clara had abandoned not only her business suit, but also her Oona bun and now was dressed in corduroy trousers, boots, and a large woolly jumper. Her dark, straight hair hung past her shoulders. Behind her, Detective Constable Pye—or rather, Kenny—wore denims, shirt, sweater, and a dark jacket with a faint tartan to it.

  “Don’t worry, Hayley, we’re not stopping,” Clara said with a wide smile. “I rang my nana and asked if Detective Constable Pye could stay to dinner to thank him for driving me over, and so we’re on our way to Shepton Mallet.”

  “How lovely,” I said—and meant it, although I realized I would need to give up the idea of introducing Kenny Pye to Dinah.

  “Also,” Clara said, “Sergeant Hopgood has been in touch with Oona’s solicitor, and as she had no family, they’ve asked me to help sort through her possessions. Apparently, all she had was in two lockups in Taunton and it’s mostly hardware, display cases, and drapes for exhibitions. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could use a few things and so put Oona’s name in the program?”

  I had a feeling Oona would be all over this exhibition. “Yes, if we’re allowed, that would be lovely. Now, you enjoy these days off, Clara, and I’ll see you on Monday—why don’t we begin our day here?”

  “Kenny,” Val said, “see you tomorrow evening in class. Do you remember the topic?”

  “I do,” Kenny replied, and even in the dim light I saw his dark eyes shine. “How the end of one story is the beginning of another.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Val and I had the laziest of Thursday mornings, but eventually we readied ourselves to face the world. He had an afternoon class to teach, and I had to sort out what the First Edition Society was to do about the exhibition. I no longer felt apprehensive about what Naomi would allow and what she wouldn’t, but concerned myself instead with what the board would say and whether they would want to form a managerial committee to run the event. If that happened, I wondered how many bottles of sherry we’d get through before April came.

  “Time I looked in with Mrs. Woolgar,” I said to Val, who was checking his email on his phone. “
I’ll see you downstairs before you leave.”

  The secretary’s door was open. I took a deep breath and went in.

  We exchanged good mornings in the nick of time—only a few minutes before afternoon began—and I dived in.

  “Thank you for explaining our situation to the board. I’m sure you were able to discuss the need to name a new manager, and although I realize that I have no qualifications, I believe it would be best if I at least put my name down. For appearances’ sake, only. Of course, if the board members felt that we should continue to search for a . . .” I was running out of steam. The computer screen reflected in Mrs. Woolgar’s glasses and I couldn’t see her eyes, and so I gave up. “I know you had great faith in what Oona could do, but—”

  “No, Ms. Burke,” Mrs. Woolgar cut in. “My trust was not in Ms. Atherton.”

  “But her ideas—the way she could bring Lady Fowling and her life to people today.”

  “Ms. Atherton talked a good show at the board meeting,” Mrs. Woolgar said. “But what did we know of her follow-through? No, Ms. Burke, it’s you I trust. I know you have come to treasure her ladyship’s reputation and would never put it in jeopardy. You trusted Ms. Atherton and so I trusted you.”

  “You did?”

  “The board has all agreed, and Mr. Rennie, too, has voiced his confidence in your ability to carry off the exhibition to the credit of the Society and her ladyship’s memory. And so, over to you, Ms. Burke.”

  “My.” It took me a moment before I could speak without choking up. “Well, first things first—we’ll need to finalize the menu for the opening-night gala.”

  We had a brief exchange about crab puffs and then I excused myself and went out to the empty front entry, quivering. I dashed up the stairs and met Val coming down. We stood on the library landing at Lady Fowling’s portrait.