Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  Every head turns to face our host. There is silence, so it’s left to me to voice our concern: “How long are we to be here?”

  Waterfield looks in my direction, a frown on his face. “Did none of you understand from the manner in which you arrived here? Surely you could see the tide was coming in?”

  Dr Runcible and I exchange a glance. Our feet are still wet from stepping in the tidal pool down on the beach.

  Mrs Draper’s voice pipes up: “So you invited us here at high tide? When does the tide go out again?”

  “It’ll go out again around midnight,” says Waterfield. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to leave in darkness – far too dangerous. It’ll be morning before you can safely leave.”

  Everyone speaks at once. The general tone is one of outrage.

  “Are you telling us, Mr Waterfield,” says the Major, raising his voice to be heard above the others, “that we are stuck here until tomorrow morning… with no night apparel?”

  I smile. “I’m all right. I don’t wear anything in bed. But even so, it would have been nice to be informed that the stay would be an all-nighter, Mr Waterfield.”

  Waterfield’s face begins to turn puce with anger. It’s not a pleasant sight. “For the last time, once and for all, will you all please understand that whatever invites you received, they were not sent by me! None of you is actually welcome here, but here you all are, and here you must all stay until morning.”

  There remains only one question to ask, and it is asked by none of us in the room, and yet it is asked nonetheless. “If you didn’t send the invite, Bertie, then who did?”

  Bertie? Now that’s a new one. And the voice, though oddly familiar, seems out of place, coming as it does from the hall.

  I turn, as does everyone else, to find a fresh face in our midst. Standing in the doorway, soaked to the skin and with a look of displeasure on his face, is a man who is so like Mr Waterfield in appearance, that he can only be a brother.

  Which explains the moniker Bertie.

  Waterfield’s face betrays his incredulity at this new interloper. “Herbert?” His voice comes from his throat in something like a whisper of disbelief. “Is it really you, Herbie?”

  The stranger’s face broadens into a grin, and they embrace warmly, patting one another on the back. “Yes, it’s me, Bertie. It’s been a while.”

  “Indeed. What is it now – six years?”

  Herbert nods. “Something like that. I only just made it, Bertie. That tide comes in much more quickly than you’d think. And then the bloody heavens opened just as I got to the top of those treacherous steps. Honestly, Bertie, if you wanted to get away from the world, you could have picked somewhere a little more accessible!”

  Waterfield seems to have forgotten his other guests. “If I’d made my home somewhere more accessible then I wouldn’t have achieved my goal of getting away from everything.”

  Herbert indicates the rest of us. “Looks like that didn’t quite go to plan!”

  Waterfield sighs. “These people claim to have received an invite from me, but I can categorically state, for absolutely the very last time, that it was not me who sent them.”

  Herbert reaches into his waterlogged jacket pocket, withdrawing a rather soggy piece of card, which he hands to his brother. “I take it you all received similar cards?” he says, looking at each of us in turn – probably trying to gauge what our angle is.

  I incline my head along with everyone else.

  “Well,” says Herbert, “we seem to have a mystery on our hands. If you didn’t invite us, Bertie, then who did?”

  “And more to the point,” adds Waterfield as he peruses the soggy invite. “Why?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I watch the two ladies over by the fireplace as they warm themselves. The flames leap high within the hearth allowing gold and amber shadows to flicker over the two animated faces. The room is sufficiently large, with the added concern of the huge floor to ceiling windows at the opposite end to the fireplace, that a roaring fire is required to warm us. There are other smaller windows adjacent to those that span the full height of the room, affording views over the English Channel below. Whilst the others in our group of new acquaintances mill around, peering outside or observing the works of art that adorn the walls, Mrs Hardcastle appears to have latched onto the only other woman here, and they seem to be gossiping in hushed whispers. At least she’s keeping out of my way.

  I am curious, though, and in order to better hear what they are saying I move closer, on the pretext of admiring a couple of paintings next to the fireplace that I instantly recognize as being by the artist Lucien Caradoc.

  Mrs Draper seems quite calm, whist her companion is rather animated with concern. “Really, my dear,” Mrs Draper squawks, waving her bony hands about her, “this house is simply wonderful. We shall be quite comfortable here overnight.”

  “But I must get back to my husband,” replies Mrs Hardcastle, plainly agitated. “I cannae stay here tonight. He’s expecting me back by ten o’clock.”

  “Calm yourself, my dear,” says Mrs Draper. “I’m quite certain that Mr Waterfield must have a telephone. You can place a call to your husband and let him know that you will be home in the morning.”

  Close to tears, Mrs Hardcastle nods. She catches my eye as I linger a little too long by their side. “My husband doesne like me going out on my own,” she says in a sniping voice, her words directed at me. “He only agreed because the invitation I received made this evening sound important.”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” I say, trying to smile reassuringly. “My landlady will no doubt be wondering where I am. She doesn’t allow me a key, so she’ll be waiting up. But she’ll only wait up for so long, and then tomorrow I’m going to be in for it.”

  I can see that my words have done nothing but irritate Mrs Hardcastle, although they appear to have amused Mrs Draper.

  “I’ll wager that your ‘landlady’ is in fact your mother,” says Mrs Draper with a smile, not noticing her companion’s look of annoyance. I don’t care for the sarcasm, and walk away before I say something I’ll regret. My temper is not my best attribute, so I have been told.

  Still, at least I’ve not been to prison.

  This thought passes through my head as I approach Rashid. I don’t much care for gentlemen of an Arab persuasion. They remind me of the men who used to come to see my Grandmamma when Granddaddy was away on business. I don’t think all those men were Arabs. There were Africans aplenty, as I recall, and a Chinaman once or twice. I believe she was also visited by an Indian one time.

  Back then, I didn’t know what they were doing, coming to the house at all hours of day or night, disappearing upstairs with Grandmamma, and after a half hour or so, they would come back down looking very pleased with themselves, and Grandmamma would follow shortly after, dressed in her finery, counting money. ‘Best not to ask questions,’ she would say when I opened my mouth to speak. And then when Granddaddy came home, they would kiss and he would put his hand up her skirts and chuckle, telling her what a naughty girl she’d been.

  I shudder as the memories come flashing through my mind at the same time as a flash of lightning outside lights up the blackened sky. The thunder comes quickly and loudly, making me jump.

  It has always seemed odd to me, I think now as I quietly observe Rashid, that the men who came to see Grandmamma were all darker skinned. It is also rather odd, now that I remember these horrid thoughts, that not only was my grandfather not displeased with what he clearly knew Grandmamma got up to, he actually seemed to encourage her to continue with her wanton wickedness.

  Back then I mightn’t have known what was going on, but older and wiser now, I know full well what went on upstairs behind the locked bedroom doors. And clearly that sort of work paid well. When Grandmamma died, I found so much money stashed around the house – in drawers, in pots and vases, in shoes in the wardrobes and in coat pockets, under the mattress and under the floorboards – that I b
ecame wealthy overnight. I had to keep my sudden new found wealth a secret though. Most of my old friends from back then were little more than scroungers. If they’d known how rich I had suddenly become, that money wouldn’t have lasted long. I’d never been able to say no to friends – and so I didn’t give any of them the opportunity to ask.

  I wonder whether this young Arab chap is like the blackamoors that were frequent visitors back home? I wonder too if he is a purveyor of fine women such as Grandmamma, or whether his taste is for a more earthy type. I cannot bring myself to ask though. It would be impolite when we’ve barely been introduced. I realise I shouldn’t generalise into racial stereotypes, but I can’t help it: such is my nature.

  I decide I should make an effort. I say: “Hello. Rashid is it?”

  The young Arab chap turns to face me. He is, I must confess, rather good-looking. His body is well proportioned – neither fat nor skinny, and yet not too muscular either – though he is just the wrong side of being too tall. I judge his height to be around six-feet-four inches. He positively towers over the rest of us here, even our host, who must be a good six-foot-plus himself. His olive skin is smooth and blemish free, with just a wisp of facial hair beginning to show. His black hair is oiled back off his forehead, and he has a proud nose and a very wide mouth. If only his teeth had been white he would have been the perfect epitome of his kind.

  “My name is Ahmed Rashid,” he says with a smile, deploying diplomacy over irritation. “You may call me Ahmed, or you may call me Monsieur Rashid.”

  I stand corrected. There is a degree of annoyance to his tone after all. I decide to humour him. “As you wish, M. Rashid.”

  I cannot fathom why he uses the French title, until I realise the metal badge he wears upon the lapel of his oversized jacket is the stylized grenade symbol of the French Foreign Legion.

  I have to admire him now. I once toyed with the thought of joining, but have long since decided I’m just too much of a coward.

  I indicate the badge. “You wear it with pride.”

  Rashid touches the badge and corrects me. “I wear this with honour. I lost a number of very dear friends in the last conflict. Even though I am longer serve as a member of the Legion, I cannot forget them. We laid down our lives for one another on so many occasions. I would do so again without hesitation – for the right person.”

  The look he shoots in my direction hides some secret meaning that is as yet unknown to me.

  I ask of him: “Why did you leave?”

  Rashid doesn’t immediately respond. He is staring wistfully into the distance, and for a moment or two I believe he has an eye open to his past. But then from the corner of my eye I see the object of his attention.

  This main drawing room in West Cliff House is filled with such finery that it’s impossible not to think we’re in a museum. Such artifacts must surely be worth more money than God possesses. Yet here were are, seven strangers in this house belonging to a man whom most of us apparently don’t know, sipping the very finest of champagnes from his very expensive looking, exquisitely carved cut crystal glasses, seated on sumptuous antique Georgian furniture and surrounded by artwork and objet d’art as though it’s an everyday occurrence.

  And amidst all this finery, the one thing that has captured Rashid’s attention is a rather small, but by no means plain and ordinary, egg shaped ornament. It is gold – and I know it’s got to be solid gold – and encrusted with more diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires than I ever thought possible on one piece. Its ostentatiousness makes it obscene to me, and yet its sparkling luminosity makes it oddly exquisite at the same time.

  I nudge the Arab. “That’s pretty, isn’t it? Probably worth a few bob, too, I reckon.”

  He turns and gives me what I can only describe as ‘the look’. If he’d been wearing spectacles, he would have peered over the top of them in consternation.

  “Pretty?” He seems somewhat scandalized at the perfunctory description of what, to him, is quite clearly the most beautiful artifact in existence. He drags me over to the glass display cabinet set between two of the smaller windows.

  On closer inspection, I must admit that it seems somewhat more delicate and refined that I at first thought. It is so extraordinarily exquisite, in fact, that it takes my breath away. I can understand perfectly why it has a gilt and glass display case all to itself.

  Rashid waves his hand expansively across the front of the cabinet. “This, my friend,” he says with an odd degree of pride, “is possibly the finest Fabergé Egg in the world. It is, to me at least, the seventh wonder of the art world. Inside that egg, like Russian dolls, are a further five eggs, perfectly graduated in size, until finally the last egg opens to reveal the Star of St Petersburg – a perfect, flawless diamond of exceptional clarity.”

  He looks at me, and I can see the excitement in his eyes. He seems suddenly alive with a lust that’s reserved for precious artifacts rather than a person. “This,” he says in a jealous whisper, “is probably worth more than everything else in this house combined.”

  I recall that Rashid has already told me that he spent time in jail, and that he’s already robbed our host once. I understand what he’s contemplating, but cannot decide whether or not he already knew this piece of perfection was here.

  I lean close to him. “If you’re planning on stealing it, then have a care. I fear this gathering is a trap, perhaps for us all.”

  I must admit, it’s almost too easy. A self-confessed burglar, surrounded by beautiful and valuable items, and now confronted with the most beautiful and valuable of them all. He really only has one course of action available to him.

  He smiles at me. “I like a challenge,” he says. “All I require is a diversion.”

  I believe he might just get the diversion he needs.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Our host – for wont of a better description, even though he maintains that the invitations were not sent by him – has graciously agreed that we might a) have a decent meal this evening, and b) spend the night – although, as he quite rightly tells us in a lighthearted manner of faux-joviality, he can no more guarantee that our night here will be a pleasant one than he can guarantee that any of us will enjoy his food.

  “I am not,” he says resignedly, “a cordon-bleu chef, but I feel certain I can muster something at least edible.”

  Mrs Draper agrees to assist in the kitchen, and they disappear leaving the rest of us to chat amongst ourselves to pass the time.

  Herbert Waterfield, somewhat bombastic in tone, says: “So, why are the rest of you here? If my brother didn’t send the invitations out, then someone else did. Perhaps one of you sent them?” His gaze wanders around the room, settling finally upon Rashid. “I’m guessing each of our invites said the same thing – that it would be in our best interests to come here this evening?”

  Rashid nods. “That is what mine said. But I cannot think of anything that someone could have on me.”

  “No?” There is a sneer to Herbert’s voice. It is apparent to all that the pair are acquainted in some way. Perhaps Herbert was in the Foreign Legion with Rashid? He certainly looks the type. He’s much more rugged than his more slender brother, and his skin tone suggests time spent out of doors in more temperate climes. His close cropped hair and obviously broken nose, along with his constantly shifting beady eyes give him an air of criminality. Maybe they were in jail together?

  Unlike Rashid, Herbert’s clothes are of a far superior quality, and a more tailored fit to his physique. His cravat gives him a more dapper look that detracts from his otherwise crooked air.

  Rashid seems ill at ease in Herbert’s company. I fear tempers may flare before the night is over. There is a clear and present animosity between the pair that might yet spill over into violence.

  “Please, I do not want trouble,” Rashid says, holding out his hand. “I do not know why I am here. I think curiosity got the better of me.”

  Herbert laughs suddenly, and I think for a m
oment that he will shake Rashid’s hand. But he doesn’t. He instead walks past the Arab and goes over to Major Simmons.

  Now in my periods of people watching, I have seen folk react in many ways when confronted by people and situations that they dislike, and I know instantly that there is a past history between these two – and it’s not a good history.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t old Julie Boy!” Herbert hisses malignantly.

  It’s somehow disconcerting to see an Army Major squirming beneath the withering gaze of a civilian – and yet that’s precisely what’s happening before our very eyes. Not only is the Major squirming, but he’s also perspiring.

  “You haven’t changed, have you Bert! Still a bully!”

  “Well, you know what they say, Julie Boy – a leopard never changes its spots.”

  I think it’s more than a little disrespectful, referring to the Major in such a disparaging manner. The man’s a decorated war hero, for God’s sake.

  I’m not going to be the one who puts Herbert in his place however. Call me a coward if you like – but I don’t want to get on the wrong side of this clearly vindictive man. Who knows what he might start saying about me!

  The Major looks as though he’s about to retort with a pithy comeback, but changes his mind when Herbert folds his arms and raises a single eyebrow.

  Somehow I feel that saying to the Major that a leopard never changes its spots can be responded to with another old adage: a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

  Neither is a man to be trifled with, I fear, and so I decide to steer clear for the moment.

  I leave them to their hushed confrontation, looking for better conversation in Dr Runcible. “So, do you know those two?” I say, jerking my thumb backwards over my shoulder.

  Runcible laughs, his ruddy jowls wobbling like a jelly as he does so. “All piss and vinegar, those two.”

  I’m somewhat taken aback by the doctor’s forthright manner, but find it infinitely more preferable to that of the other men in the group.