Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  BENJAMIN FORD

  SEVEN STEPS TO MURDER

  Copyright © Benjamin Ford 2017

  First published in 2017

  All rights reserved

  Find out more about the author at:

  benjaminfordauthor.wordpress.com

  novels by Benjamin Ford

  Death on Swift Wings

  Murder by the Book (forthcoming)

  Seven Steps to Murder

  Master of the Scrolls

  The Master of Prophecy

  The Master of Time (forthcoming)

  Portrait of Shade

  The Five Tors

  PRELUDE

  Cuthbert Waterfield

  requests the pleasure of your company at

  West Cliff House, Hinchcliffe-on-Sea

  at 6pm sharp on Friday August 5th

  to discuss matters of the utmost importance.

  It will be in your very best interest to attend.

  RSVP to: Poste Restante, Hinchcliffe Post Office

  by August 1st

  CHAPTER ONE

  I arrive on the secluded private beach at Hinchcliffe-on-Sea as the tide is slowly beginning to turn. For the time of year, the weather has turned decidedly inclement, and looking across the English Channel toward the darkening horizon, it seems to my untrained city eye as though a storm is brewing.

  My pocket-watch makes the time a quarter-before-six, and although not convinced of the accuracy of my heirloom timepiece that once belonged to my grandfather, I am nevertheless relieved to be on time. On the not particularly smooth drive down from the city, I became increasingly frantic that I might miss the tide.

  The beach isn’t the easiest place to find. You must leave the main coast road before you get to Eastbourne, and then park in an area of sandy dirt – which I know will become a quagmire after the impending storm. There is then a quite perilous trek down to the private strip of rocky beach, which is only accessible at low tide – hence today’s 6pm timeframe – and then there it stands: West Cliff House.

  The house itself is rather unassuming, even if its locale is not. The immense white cliffs of the South English coastline stretch in both directions, and jutting out of the sea, orphaned from the mainland by several dozen yards of rocky beach, is a slightly lower outcropping of rock probably about a hectare in total by my reckoning, on top of which stands West Cliff House.

  There are wooden steps leading up from the beach. I’m about twenty feet away and crane my neck upwards. I don’t like the look of the steps. They appear rickety and more perilous even than the track that led down from the road. On closer inspection, there is a great deal of slippery green algae and seaweed on the lower steps.

  There is already someone on the steps, almost at the top. I can tell it’s a woman both by the dress she wears and by her long hair. From her attire, I would hazard a guess that she wasn’t aware of the access to West Cliff House. But then, why would you unless you’ve been here before?

  “Hello there!”

  I turn at the voice from behind, to see an older gentleman coming up the beach behind me. He moves quickly on the rocks despite the walking cane clutched tight in his left hand. I cannot tell if he actually requires the cane, or whether it is merely an affectation. Although not excessively overweight, his face nonetheless seems more rotund than the rest of him, with jowls that wobble as he moves.

  “Hello,” I call in return, keeping my cadence carefree. “Are you here for Cuthbert Waterfield’s gathering?”

  “I am indeed,” replies the man, his tone gruff and his manner equally so. He thrusts out his free hand, and I take a moment to decide whether it’s to be shaken, or grasped for steadying. I choose the latter, since the pebbles and rocks on the beach make walking difficult enough without the added awkwardness of a cane.

  “Thank you,” says the man, pulling himself closer to me. We stand together in a shallow rock pool. My feet are cold from the water leaking in through my plimsols. I am hardly attired for our current situation. I laugh, but the man merely scowls at me. I decide that I don’t like him. “This is a bit of a rum-do,” he says, peering up at the steps. “Does our host really expect us to climb all the way up there?”

  I follow his gaze. The woman has disappeared from view by now, and I think that if she can make it up there in a dress (and probably court shoes) then we should be able to. “I guess we have no choice. Those steps don’t look particularly safe, but if Mr Waterfield lives up there then presumably he comes and goes by them.”

  The man makes a face. I guess there’s no love lost between him and Cuthbert Waterfield. Perhaps no-one likes him! “Looks like a storm coming in,” he says, indicating the clouds I’ve already spotted. “We’d best hurry. Wouldn’t want to be caught halfway up the steps when it starts raining.”

  I concur most heartily. I am a fair-weather person at the best of times. I don’t swim if I can help it, and I don’t walk in the rain when I can drive my car instead. I certainly don’t climb outdoor steps in the rain, especially when slipping on them would almost certainly result in death.

  The old man goes first, probably thinking, as I have done – too late – that if whoever goes first slips, they take the other one with them. Presumably he has more faith in his own climbing abilities than he does mine.

  I don’t mind, though. It gives me the opportunity for personal thought as we move slowly up to the top of the outcrop.

  I don’t gaze around as I climb. I’m not that good with heights. Since I’ve not been in quite this situation before, I’ve never really had to face my fear of heights. It’s a great relief to me when I reach the top and my feet are – not quite – on terra firma once more.

  The old man is now walking ahead of me, using a swinging action with his stick. The old coot doesn’t need it after all. Just for show – to gain sympathy, probably. It doesn’t matter. I’ll make use of my own affectations to gain sympathy once inside the house.

  I don’t know how many others there will be here tonight. Six? Seven? Who knows? It’ll be interesting to find out.

  West Cliff House is, perhaps, a little more impressive close up. It’s wood-clad, whitewashed and with shutters to protect against the elements. There is a lawn to the front and sides, with a path leading from the top of the steps to the front door before continuing around the side of the house. A hedge of Escalonia borders the grounds, its pink blooms offering up a show of colour against the green and white.

  Our host – I presume – acknowledges us. His greeting is perhaps a little unexpected: “Good grief, not another two. How many more of you are there?”

  I react in an equally perplexed manner. “You sound as though you weren’t expecting us?”

  The silver-haired man of an indeterminate age who stands in the doorway shakes his head. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. There are six of you now. Should I expect anyone else do you think?”

  I shrug, a little unhelpfully.

  The man sighs. “Well, you’d better come in then,” he says, standing aside to allow us into his home.

  Inside, the house has a more traditional feel; all wood panelling with tapestries and framed paintings on the walls, and oriental rugs on the wooden floorboards. Sumptuous old furniture litters the main room into which the man ushers us: several antique settees and a well-worn low mahogany table dominate. A huge ornate chandelier hangs from the high ceiling. It looks so heavy that I’m surprised the ceiling can hold its weight. It casts twinkling speckles of light that dance around the room as a breeze from the open window at the far end disturbs the crystal teardrops. I think perhaps the electric supply isn’t reliable as there are wall sconces with unlit candles on every wall, and oil lamps of varying sizes and designs on the small lamp tables and bookcases
around the room. Opposite the open window, the far wall is dominated by an immense stone fireplace, in the centre of which rages a crackling log fire, spitting embers and smoke up into the chimney.

  Despite its size, the furnishings afford the room a cosy and welcoming air – much like our host, even though he was expecting none of us. He turns to me with a weak smile, his voice friendly. “Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr–?”

  “Call me Wilbur,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

  “Welcome, Wilbur.” Our host waves expansively to indicate the other unexpected guests, introducing them as Major Julian Simmons, Mrs Annabel Draper, Ahmed Rashid and Mrs Julia Hardcastle. He greets the other man who came in with me in a most cordial manner. “Dr Runcible, how delightful, after so long. Did you receive an invitation as well?”

  Dr Runcible nods. “It was unexpected,” he says without smiling. They do know one another, obviously, but are not friends of a convivial nature; more on a professional level, I’ll wager.

  Dr Runcible has a most disagreeable disposition. I’ve known him only a matter of minutes, and I decidedly dislike him. I acknowledge the presence of the others, and sit alone. I’m not one for making friends easily, which stems from a childhood spent in a dreadful boarding school. I have no doubt that I will get to know these other guests over the course of the coming weekend, but for the moment I keep my distance.

  I scrutinise them with surreptitious ease as they are all, for the most part, talking amongst themselves. I am not a great conversationalist but rather, you might say, a people watcher.

  Dr Runcible I have already met. His heavy Cornish accent is oddly out of place here in Sussex, but then, as I listen to the others around the room, I know that they too have come from far and wide to be here.

  As grey and bushy as Dr Runcible’s hair and eyebrows are, so Major Simmons has hair white as snow, and whilst I can see that the good doctor’s eyes are blue, the Major has steel grey eyes that seem more alive than those of any man half his age. By my reckoning they have, between them, a good five-score-and-twenty years. Neither of them has any particular dress sense: both wear tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, with good solid boots, and whilst the doctor wears his horn-rimmed half-moon spectacles on a chain around his neck, the Major favours a rather distinguished monocle, tucked into his waistcoat pocket. Each has a pipe clamped between their teeth, and I can tell from the outraged look on our host’s face that he most assuredly does not approve.

  Mrs Draper has all the pious airs and graces of someone pretending to be above their station. She was hired help at some point in her life – a housekeeper. She dresses smartly, yet conservatively, in muted dark tones that match her dark hair. From across the room I cannot tell whether her curly locks are very dark brown or black. When she speaks, her thin reedy voice matches her narrow hawk-like face. She squints a lot – probably too proud (or too stupid) to wear spectacles.

  Mrs Hardcastle appears ill-at-ease. She makes brief eye-contact with me, then turns away hurriedly. Her bright red hair – which clashes with her scarlet attire – is scraped back and pinned up into a severe bun which, along with her dour expression, gives her the appearance of a headmistress.

  And finally, there is Ahmed Rashid. He seems like a fish out of water, though I can tell he has made something of an effort to blend in. His clothes don’t fit him, and they are obviously uncomfortable for him, judging by the way he constantly fiddles with the collar and cuffs of his starched white shirt. Whilst the shirt is too big, the grey flannel trousers he wears are about three inches too short in the leg, revealing the fact that he does not wear socks. When he walks, his feet make a sort of nasty squelching sound in his shoes.

  “So,” Rashid says to me as he sidles over, “you are here for the party also?” There is an odd inflection to his voice; almost French, but not quite.

  I say: “I suppose so. I’m not sure whether it’s a party or not, though. What do you think?”

  Rashid smiles. His teeth I would have expected to be blindingly white against the olive colour of his skin. Clearly dental hygiene hasn’t been top of his personal grooming regime. “I am hoping for much alcohol. I am not permitted to drink usually, but here there is no-one to tell on me, so I make an exception.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Rashid is obviously feeling in a rebellious mood.

  “So, where are you from?” I say in an attempt to pass the time with small talk.

  He doesn’t respond straight away. It’s almost as if he’s embarrassed to say. “I come originally from Syria. I come to England five years ago, but get into trouble with the police.”

  I nod my understanding of his predicament. “You’ve been in jail?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You’re probably lucky not to have been deported then, Old Chap,” I say, clapping him heartily on the back. “Dare one ask what you did to get you in trouble?”

  Rashid hangs his head in shame. “I am a bad man. I robbed houses to get money for food.”

  “Well, at least you won’t have to rob anyone this evening to get fed,” I say with a grin. He takes my comment in good humour.

  “How do you know Mr Waterfield?”

  I am startled by his question. It hasn’t occurred to me that anyone might question my acquaintance with the host. “Oh, he and I go way back,” I say with a dismissive wave. “What about you.”

  Again with the hanging of his head in shame, Rashid says quietly so that no-one else might hear: “Mr Waterfield was a man I robbed.”

  “I see. Why do you think he invited you here this evening?”

  Rashid shakes his head in bewilderment. “I do not know. Perhaps he wishes to shame me in front of these other fine people?”

  I lean in close to Rashid and whisper: “In which case, Old Chap, what does he want with the rest of us?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  We are all engrossed in conversations within our own little cliques when we hear the first distant rumble of thunder out at sea. I’m not aware of there having been a flash of lightning, so the storm must still be a way off yet.

  With all the illumination in the room, I only now become aware of how darkened the sky outside is as I get up and move over to the full height window opposite the fireplace. I love thunderstorms. That flash of lightning followed by a crash of thunder: it always excites me. I don’t know why. I suppose it could be because the night I was born – so Grandmamma was fond of telling me in my youth – there was a ferocious storm out at sea which spurred on Mother’s labour and brought me earlier than expected into the world.

  I can tell from her agitation that Mrs Hardcastle isn’t of the same ilk. I excuse myself as Rashid follows me to the window, and cross to sit beside the anxious woman.

  “Hello, Mrs Hardcastle,” I say with a calculated smile.

  She nods a silent greeting, all aquiver, not merely with anticipation for the next rumble of thunder. I reach out and clasp her hands in mine. They are clammy to the touch.

  “Oh my; you really are afraid, aren’t you?”

  She snatches back her hands. “I cannae help it,” she says, her Scottish brogue thick with apprehension. “My father was struck by lightning and killed when I was a wee lass. Ye never get over something like that.”

  “You’ve really nothing to fear,” I say, hoping my tone holds reassurance. “Not inside the house, anyway.”

  Mrs Hardcastle takes a deep steadying breath, and smiles at me. “You’re actually quite a sweet laddie, I suppose. Your mother would be proud of your chivalry.”

  “I doubt it,” I say, my voice cold. “I’ve not seen Mother since I was very young. She abandoned me, left my grandparents to bring me up. I don’t speak of my mother.”

  Mrs Hardcastle falls silent and turns away from me sharply. My words have touched a nerve.

  “I have great sympathy for ye,” she says, her voice small. “We have all probably paid a price that we regret in our lives.” She turns and offers me a faltering, conciliatory smile. “I am su
re your mother regrets her actions. Ye just have to understand that everything happens for a reason; we just don’t always know what that reason is till the time is right.”

  I know she’s trying to comfort me, but having brought up the subject of my mother, she’s not doing a particularly good job. I’m keenly aware that our conversation has been overheard by others in the room. I’m not happy about this, but as Mrs Hardcastle said, everything happens for a reason – even though one doesn’t always understand it at the time.

  We are facing the window, Mrs Hardcastle and I, when the rain starts. It doesn’t start gently. It comes down hard, hammering against the panes, distorting the view of the garden with the sea beyond.

  “How is she?”

  The rain hammers down so hard that I believe I can get away with pretending I didn’t hear Mrs Hardcastle’s softly whispered question, and leave her alone as I cross to where the Major is telling Dr Runcible that the sudden downpour reminds him of the jungles of Burma. I guess that’s where he was stationed during the war.

  “Only difference is, there the rain stops as suddenly as it starts, and then everything steams as the heat dries it out quick-sharp.”

  I smile at Dr Runcible’s response: “I don’t suppose that’ll happen here?”

  “No, my good man,” the Major says with a stout laugh, “any more than we’ll get bitten by a poisonous snake or savaged by a big cat!”

  Now there’s a thought! Poisonous snake, indeed!

  “We do seem to be rather exposed to the elements here, Mr Waterfield,” says Mrs Draper suddenly. “I take it we’re in no danger?”

  Waterfield, who has been rather sullen and silent since our arrival, shakes his head. “We’re high enough that even the highest waves won’t reach us, but it does mean that we won’t be able to get down to the beach for a while.”