Seven Steps to Murder

by Benjamin Ford

  Waterfield hurries from the room, leaving the rest of us staring at one another in bewilderment. Finally I motion to Major Simmons. “Sorry, but perhaps we should do as our host says – for your own safety. There’s no telling what he might do if he comes back and finds you still here.”

  The Major snorts. “You want to lock me up?”

  I nod. “I think it’s for the best.”

  “Well, just make sure I have some whisky in my room!”

  I am unsure whether it pleases me or not that it is I who gets to lock up Major Simmons on behalf of our host. The Major himself doesn’t seem too bothered about being incarcerated. I suppose if he’s whisky-sodden enough he won’t remember anyway.

  It’s hard not to feel sorry for him in a way. The Good Lord made him the way he is, and through no fault of his own he’ll be imprisoned if the truth about him gets out. Would he be better off out of it, like poor, defenceless Rashid? Would the world be a better place without either of them?

  I have preconceptions about those of a homosexual nature, and yet having been able to get to know both Rashid and Simmons over the past day and a bit, those preconceived notions have gone by the wayside. They are no less a human being than any of the others here.

  What’s not so palatable is the fact that they both knew the truth about Albert Waterfield’s murder and kept their silence to maintain their own secrets. It’s unconscionable that such actions should be allowed to go unpunished. As Rashid has escaped criminal proceedings, perhaps the Major should also?

  There are a great number of secrets being gradually unearthed here this weekend. Was the pursuit of the truth all that this weekend was about? I am not so sure now. Retribution seems much more the order of the day, and it is far from over.

  Who will be next?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  After locking Major Simmons in his bedroom, unlike the silence of last time I am greeted on my return to the drawing room by a cacophony of voices, each striving to be heard above the others. It’s difficult to believe that just three people can make so much noise.

  Waterfield has returned from his brief sojourn out into the rain. He doesn’t appear that wet, so I guess he came back in as soon as he saw me taking Major Simmons up to his room. His voice is the most strident of the three. I can hear that he’s trying hard to placate Mrs Draper – who’s wailing like a widow at a wake – and Dr Runcible – who’s trying to be heard above the screeching woman, but not having much luck.

  “Please, you both need to calm down,” Waterfield is saying loudly, holding down Mrs Draper’s wildly gesticulating hands as her panic escalates.

  “One of us will be next, you mark my words!” shouts the doctor, mirroring the woman’s panic with his own paranoia.

  “Now why in heaven’s name should anyone else get hurt?” says Waterfield a little more harshly than I’m sure he intended. “Not only is my brother now locked safely away, but none of us that are left have done anything wrong.”

  “Then why were we brought here?” Mrs Draper demands, wrestling her hands from Waterfield’s grasp.

  Waterfield is about to say something, and then his face takes on a deflated expression. He shakes his head and shrugs helplessly. “I really don’t know.”

  They all turn as I enter the room.

  “Is the Major safely locked up now?”

  “Yes, Mr Waterfield,” I reply with a slight inclination to my head. “I locked him in his own room, and locked the bathroom so he can’t get through, and just for safe measure, I also locked the adjoining room.” I thrust the keys into Waterfield’s hands. “It’s up to you whether to let him out again or not. He hasn’t done anything to any of us, after all.”

  “Actually,” says Dr Runcible thoughtfully, “we don’t know that. It could just as easily have been Major Simmons who shot M Rashid. I’ve been racking my brains, trying to think back to the moment we all ran from the room after hearing the shot. The Major was already by the door.”

  Waterfield looks a little lost at the notion, and shakes his head. “I don’t believe that. What possible motive would he have for killing Rashid?”

  “They have a history together,” I say after a moment. “It’s a past that Major Simmons most likely wouldn’t want to become public knowledge. Perhaps the Major shot M. Rashid to prevent such a thing.”

  “Well, my brother did claim he was innocent. Perhaps he was telling the truth. Maybe on this occasion he’s not the killer.”

  “How do we know which of them is guilty, and which is innocent?” asks Mrs Draper plaintively.

  I sigh deeply. “We don’t, which is why they must both remain locked up until someone alerts the police.”

  “That should be on Monday, when my receptionist tries to contact me and discovers I’m nowhere to be found. Like I’ve already said, she knows where I am this weekend, so she’ll call the police when she realises something’s wrong.”

  “So, in less than forty-eight hours we should be off this godforsaken rock – no offence, Mr Waterfield.”

  Waterfield smiles at me disarmingly. “None taken, lad. Don’t forget, I selected this property for its isolation. Godforsaken is probably a very good description, all things considered.”

  “Did you say you came here after your wife’s death?”

  Waterfield nods. “After she died I just couldn’t bear to live where we spent our entire married life. I sold the house immediately and looked for somewhere that wouldn’t remind me of her.”

  “It’s odd, if you didn’t wish to be reminded of her, that you should have photos of her on display by your bed.”

  “I know, lad. For the first six months that I was here, there was nothing at all to remind me of dear, sweet Annie. But gradually, all the things I’d packed away into boxes began to come out. The photos, the Fabergé egg, the artwork that belonged to her.”

  “And then of course you had the stained-glass in the atrium constructed with familial likenesses, and the ceiling in the library painted with Annie’s likeness.”

  “I know. As much as I wanted to have nothing to remind me of her, I found I couldn’t bear not to have her face looking at me. And so, Westcliff House became a shrine to my darling Annie.”

  “And to your vanity,” I add with a little sarcasm. “I mean, placing yourself and Annie in the parts of Adam and Eve in the library ceiling; putting yourself and your brothers in the stained-glass atrium ceiling? That’s vanity taken to its most extreme if you ask me.”

  “Well I didn’t ask you!”

  “I know – I was just commenting on how odd it is that you have transformed the house with effigies of yourself and your family. I can think of no-one else with such vainglorious tendencies.”

  Waterfield smiles almost apologetically for his outburst, but stops just short of actually apologising. “Well, when all is said and done, I didn’t really expect to have guests here.”

  “Why such a large house then, Cuthbert?” asks Dr Runcible.

  Waterfield shrugs. “I make no apologies for my vanity, or for my desire for solitude. This house served both purposes quite magnificently. I had the interior remodeled to my own taste, but the house was already this size when I bought it.”

  “Who lived here before you?”

  “Some old film star I believe, who bought the place as a weekend retreat or a holiday home. She threw lavish parties for her friends where they could dance long into the night without disturbing anyone, and no prying photographers can take photographs from the mainland into the house, so it’s great for privacy.”

  “It was Marion Bartholomew, wasn’t it?” says Mrs Draper animatedly. “I read stories of her retreat on the south coast where she entertained the likes of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton; Clarice Heathcote and Dame Margo De’Ath.” She clasps her hands together in excitement. “Oh, I dreamed of how extravagant those parties must have been.”

  “You’re quite right, of course,” says Waterfield. “It was Marion Bartholomew. I’m not sure that it was
her who had the house built, but she lived here into her declining years, and certainly spent wild summers here in her prime with her friends.”

  “There was a scandal, as I recall,” sniffs Dr Runcible disapprovingly. “An illegitimate child who died in mysterious circumstances.”

  Mrs Draper shakes her head wildly. “No, that’s not right. There was an illegitimate child, a boy I believe. He murdered one of his mother’s friends whom he believed to have attacked her during the course of one of her parties.”

  Runcible snaps his fingers. “Yes, you’re quite right, Mrs Draper. The boy was institutionalized, and his mother pretty much abandoned him. She died without ever seeing him again by all accounts.”

  Waterfield sighs. “How terribly sad. I’ve not heard that part of the story before. I knew about the parties, and I knew there was some sort of scandal. I thought there had been some sort of sexual intrigue during which a young woman became pregnant, and the incident was hushed up, only to come to light years later when the illegitimate child sought out Marion to uncover the truth.”

  “Well,” I say rather more lightly than I perhaps should, “whatever happened back then, there appears to have been some sort of scandal involving someone’s illegitimate child. As it was so long ago, I doubt we shall ever know the truth.”

  “Was there a murder though?” asks Mrs Draper.

  Waterfield shrugs. “I really don’t know. It bears no relevance to our current situation, though.”

  “Doesn’t it? Is it a coincidence that the house has a history of murder? Perhaps what’s going on now has nothing to do with Herbert, and more to do with this mysterious illegitimate child.”

  “How do you mean, Mrs Draper?” I ask, intrigued by her proposal.

  “Well, what if that child was institutionalized after committing murder all those years ago, and has recently been released? He – or she – might have come here to continue their barbaric act of retribution. They might be so unhinged that they don’t know – or don’t care – who they’re killing.”

  We all glance at one another in turn. It’s obvious that we are each mulling over Mrs Draper’s hypothesis, gauging its validity. Eventually, though, we all come to the same conclusion.

  “That can’t be it,” I say.

  “Why would that child have invited us all here?” asks Dr Runcible.

  “I’d have noticed someone skulking about before you arrived,” says Waterfield.

  Mrs Draper sags in a deflated manner. “Well, it was just a suggestion.”

  I nod emphatically. “And it was a good suggestion, just a bit flawed.”

  “Do we know for sure that no-one else is here in the house with us?” says Mrs Draper. “Do you know for certain that there are no secret passages here in the house?”

  I laugh, a little too callously. “Cut into solid rock, and down under the beach to somewhere on the mainland?”

  Mrs Draper rounds on me. “Well, why not? We’ve all been so concerned that one of our number was the killer, and that now Herbert’s locked up we’re going to be safe.”

  “And Major Simmons!”

  “Yes, Dr Runcible, and Major Simmons. Both people, whom we thought might have been the killer, are now locked up. But what if there’s someone else lurking in the house? What if there is a secret passage, leading to the mainland? We could all still be in real danger.”

  “I’m telling you, there’s no secret passage,” says Waterfield resignedly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, Mrs Draper, I have the original plans for the house in my study, and there are no secret passages marked on it.”

  “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one though. Have you ever looked for one?”

  Waterfield frowns, and then shakes his head. “I must confess, no – I’ve never looked for one, because such a notion has never occurred to me. But I really think you’re mistaken in such a belief.”

  “Perhaps we should try searching for an entrance to a secret passage,” Dr Runcible suggests.

  “It’s a waste of time. There’s no passage, and no secret killer. Why would we look for something that’s not there?

  “Because, Cuthbert, if there is a secret passage, it’s our way out of here!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I must confess to admiring Dr Runcible’s thinking on the matter of secret passageways. Many an older house, so I’ve often read in crime fiction, has at least one secret passage. West Cliff House has its secret room beyond the library, which Waterfield uses as his study. If there’s a secret room, it’s possible there’s a hidden passageway or stairwell, hewn out of the rock.

  There’s nothing to say the outcropping that West Cliff House stands upon is made entirely of rock. There’s subsoil and shale visible on the cliff-face itself. It would be difficult – but eminently possible – to dig downwards and then out, creating a secret stairwell. It makes sense, actually. The wooden steps that we used to climb up to the house yesterday were perilous to say the least, and it’s hardly surprising to me that they collapsed. Surely such an occurrence was only a matter of time?

  They were an accident waiting to happen.

  Does the doctor maybe have inside knowledge of the property? Waterfield isn’t the first owner, after all. It’s perfectly feasible that Dr Runcible has been here before and knows of another way out. Perhaps he merely cannot recall how to access the hidden panel.

  And if Dr Runcible knows the way out, then equally, someone else might know the way in.

  He mentioned that his receptionist knew where he was, and would call the police when he didn’t turn up for work on Monday. Was the receptionist perhaps privy to the secret?

  I sidle closer to Waterfield as he and I enter the library. We’ve split into pairs to check the rooms for hidden panels. It’s going to take forever, tapping on walls and stamping on floors, but even though Waterfield remains convinced that no such secret passage exists, he has decided to humour the doctor.

  Anything is better than sitting around doing nothing.

  “Do you perhaps find it a little strange that Dr Runcible is so convinced that there must be a hidden passage?” I whisper.

  Waterfield turns to stare at me. “I have wondered about that.”

  “It’s almost as though he’s been here before. Has he?”

  Waterfield shrugs. “Not to my knowledge. Not whilst I’ve lived here, at any rate. But even if he has been here before, why should he know of any mysterious passageway?”

  “Perhaps he’s used it,” I suggest. “Just how well do you know him?”

  “As well as anyone knows their old family doctor. He was our mother’s physician, and was around a lot during our youth. He’s an old family friend, if you like.”

  “But what do you actually know about him?”

  Waterfield frowns. “What are you getting at, lad?”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, what if he has something to gain from the death of one of us? Maybe we’re all here at random, and only one of us is the proper intended victim. The others are just to divert attention away from the real culprit and the real motive.”

  “That could be said for any one of us, Wilbur.”

  I nod. “Indeed. But – it’s been the doctor who’s convinced us that there’s a secret way out. What if that is his escape route and he’s forgotten where it is, or he knows of its existence, but not its location? He could be using us to locate it, and will kill the rest of us to make good his escape.”

  “What would he hope to gain, and from whom?”

  I shrug. “I’m certain it’s no coincidence that your residence was selected for this gathering.”

  “And I firmly believe there is no secret passage here for him to use as his escape route.”

  I tap the side of my head. “You’re not thinking clearly, Mr Waterfield. He’ll certainly want a foolproof way of escaping if he plans on killing all of us, so it makes perfect sense for him to get us searching for something that actually exists. The seclusion of yo
ur house makes equal sense: there’s little chance of disturbance, and a clear route of escape.”

  Waterfield frowns. “Wouldn’t that indicate that he’s been in all our houses at some point in the past?”

  “Possibly. When you were selling your London home, how did you find West Cliff House?”

  Waterfield is silent for a moment, deep in thought. “I believe I saw it in Country Life.”

  “And where did you see this issue of Country Life? Was it perhaps in the surgery of Dr Runcible?”

  “I don’t recall. I was under him at the time for depression following Annie’s death, so it’s entirely possible.”

  I smile. “Well, there you are then. He probably already knew about the house and its past – and the advert might have made mention of secret rooms and passages.”

  “Actually, I remember now.”

  “Remember what, Mr Waterfield?”

  “Where I saw the copy of Country Life. It wasn’t in Dr Runcible’s surgery. I can’t believe I forgot! I must have blocked it out.”

  “Where was it, Mr Waterfield?”

  “When I found Annie in her bedroom, I telephoned for Dr Runcible to come right away. She wasn’t dead, but she was close. By the time Dr Runcible arrived she was gone. He called the police and they came and took statements, photographed the room and all its contents. And there was a copy of Country Life lying open on Annie’s bedside table. West Cliff House was there – a full page advertisement. There were photographs of some of the rooms, and its location, and details of its history.”

  “There you go – Dr Runcible must have left it there for you to find. Did he put it into your head to move?”

  “Actually yes. He said a complete change of scenery would do me good. When I found the magazine, I always assumed Annie had been looking at it. We’d spoken in the past about finding a country retreat.”

  “I’m guessing though that a house such as this isn’t what you’d pictured as a potential country retreat?”

  Waterfield shakes his head. “Far from it. But I got it into my head that Annie had been looking at it, and so I decided to come and take a look myself.”