A Party to Murder

by John Inman

  It was the savaged body of Mrs. Jupp that did that. Fully clothed, she lay sprawled on her back on the brick apron before the fireplace, her arms and legs splayed out into the room, while the ball of black cinder that was her head crisped merrily in the flames.

  TO DEREK’S surprise, it was Jamie who acted first. He tore himself from Derek’s grasp and raced toward the body. Grabbing the dead woman’s feet, he yanked her from the fire. Her blackened head gave a muffled thump as it was pulled off the grate. Sparks rained down around it onto the floor.

  In the mask of ash that had once been a human face, a few streaks of red could be seen where the flesh had split open in the heat. Her hair was gone, her ears burned to nothing. In the center of that horrible black ball of cindered meat and bone, the old woman’s mouth stretched wide over flame-blackened teeth as if screaming a silent, anguished wail. But sounds no longer escaped from that awful black hole. All that escaped from there now was a tiny wisp of smoke that curled into the air and was instantly sucked upward, through the flue and ultimately into the stormy, pounding night outside.

  As quickly as Jamie freed the old woman’s head from the fire, he turned away. Like Tommy had done with Banyon, he buried his face in Derek’s chest. Derek accepted him there, his own eyes riveted to the grotesque head still smoking and smoldering at the edge of the grate.

  “Wait,” Derek whispered into Jamie’s hair, brushing him with a kiss while he was there. Easing Jamie out of his arms, he stepped forward to take up the little broom from the rack of fireplace tools and brushed it over the bodice of Mrs. Jupp’s dress, where the fabric had erupted into tiny flames. When the fire on her clothing was extinguished, Derek tossed the tiny broom into the corner as if he couldn’t bear to touch it any longer. He pulled Jamie toward him, wrapping him in his arms once more.

  But for the cheerful crackling of the flames and the sizzle of the logs burning on the hearth, the room fell silent. Only the tumult of the storm outside and the gentle sobbing of Cleeta-Gayle trespassed on the scene.

  That and the reek of charred flesh.

  “I have to get out of here,” Jamie half wept, his lips brushing the front of Derek’s shirt.

  Derek ducked his head and laid his cheek to Jamie’s. “You go ahead,” he whispered. And raising his voice, he added, “All of you. I’ll bank the fire and cover the body. We need to close off this room before the smell permeates the house.”

  Cleeta-Gayle stood in the doorway. She could not seem to tear her anguished eyes from the body on the floor. “Why is her mouth stretched open like that?” she all but gasped. “Was she put in the fire alive?”

  Banyon had the answer for that. “No. We would have heard her fighting, screaming. She must have already been dead when her head was put in the flames. Thank God. The heat made the muscles and tendons in her face contract. That’s why her mouth is open.”

  “More information than I needed to know,” Jamie mumbled, and without looking back, not at Derek or the body or anyone, he squeezed past Cleeta-Gayle and stumbled out into the hall. He was quickly followed by Banyon and Tommy.

  Finding himself alone, Derek, for the second time that day, pulled his T-shirt up over his nose to mitigate the stench of violent death. He set about methodically sealing off the room. Not content to simply bank the fire, he filled a basin with water and doused the flames in the fireplace entirely. It made a bit of a mess and raised more smoke, but there was nothing he could do about that. Stripping a blanket from the bed in the adjoining room, he tucked it carefully around Mrs. Jupp’s body. At the last moment, he checked the old woman’s clothing once more to make sure no fabric was left smoldering. When all else was satisfactory, he blanketed her head, tucking the ends in securely. Leaving her body in front of the now-flameless hearth, he took a final inventory of the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

  Backing into the hallway where the others waited, he surveyed the room one last time, then switched off the light and closed the door, abandoning the stench—and Mrs. Jupp’s cooling corpse—to the darkness.

  As Jamie returned to his place in Derek’s outstretched arms, Derek leveled an unflinching gaze at everyone standing in the hall. Cleeta-Gayle Jones. Oliver Banyon. Tommy Stevens. And last of all Jamie. Before speaking, he laid his hand protectively over Jamie’s stomach as if drawing strength from his presence.

  “My lover and myself I know to be innocent,” he said. “That leaves one of you three as the killer. Which means the other two are innocent. How do we weed out the murderer?”

  “Nice,” Tommy sneered, no longer in Banyon’s arms but still standing close to his side. His previous display of emotion seemed to have dissipated. Now he was back to his usual cocky self. “I see you’ve neatly subtracted yourselves from the list of suspects. I’m not sure I agree with that theory.”

  “Nor do I,” Banyon said.

  “Or I,” Cleeta-Gayle chimed in. She had pulled herself marginally together. Her hair and clothes were still a mess, but then they usually were. At least her face had a little more color in it, and she didn’t look like she was on the verge of passing out anytime soon.

  Derek watched them all. And as he stared, he pulled the T-shirt down from his nose to test the air. Thank heavens there was very little hint of burned flesh in the hall.

  “Derek and I know we didn’t do any of it,” Jamie said. “But I guess we can’t expect you to believe us. We probably wouldn’t believe you either. So what are we going to do?”

  Banyon glanced down at the wooden spoon he still held in his hand. As if noticing for the first time the dish towel tucked in his waistband, he plucked it out and wadded it up. “Before we do anything, we have to eat. It’s been a long nerve-racking day, and none of us has eaten since this morning. Even murderers get hungry, I would presume, although I don’t suppose anyone is in the mood for anything grilled on an open fire.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” Tommy asked. He wasn’t smiling.

  Banyon shrugged. “Sorry. A feeble attempt at levity.” He turned his eyes to the others. “What do you say? Anybody else hungry? We can discuss what we’re going to do over dinner. It’s just stew, mind you. I threw a few cans of crap together. I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right,” Derek said, a feeble smile twisting his mouth. “There’s been enough cooking for one day.”

  Tommy cast a final glance at Mrs. Jupp’s door. Derek studied him, wondering if he was reliving what had just happened inside. As if any of them would ever forget it.

  Derek coaxed Jamie toward the stairs, following along behind the others. “Jamie and I will set the table in the dining room.”

  “I’ll make some iced tea,” Cleeta-Gayle added, glancing back, still wiping the tears from her face.

  “Iced tea sounds good,” Jamie muttered, following obediently along at Derek’s heels.

  “I’ll stand guard,” Tommy said, retrieving the knife from his pocket and holding it not quite casually at his side.

  They all stopped to stare at the boy, then at the weapon he held. If anyone had a problem with what he’d said, or the fact that he had suddenly armed himself, they didn’t voice it.

  And who’s going to watch the watcher? Derek idly wondered. But he didn’t voice his opinion either. Instead he led Jamie down the staircase toward the dining room, astonished at himself for suddenly feeling as hungry as he did. After what they had just seen, he hadn’t thought he would ever be hungry again.

  Jamie tugged on Derek’s sleeve, slowing their advance down the hall until the others had gone on ahead.

  When they were alone, Jamie turned around to face him, resting his hands on Derek’s chest. “I’m scared,” he said. “I need you to tell me you love me.” There was a tremor in his voice Derek had never heard there before.

  With a lopsided grin, Derek gently pushed Jamie against the wall and smothered him with his body. “Funny you should ask,” he mumbled with his lips on Jamie’s throat. “I was about to say
it anyway.”

  Derek was surprised to feel a shudder of desire rumble through him like thunder. Before he could act on it, Jamie froze in his arms.

  “Wait! Listen,” he breathed. “The storm. It’s stopped!”

  Jamie was right. Derek stood stock-still, taking in the sudden silence like a breath of fresh air. While he was at it, he basked in the familiar scent of Jamie’s warm body.

  “Thank God,” he sighed. “We’ve had enough rain.” Then he found Jamie’s mouth with his own. And in the midst of that long, sweet kiss, he muttered the words Jamie had asked him to speak. And he said them from the heart.

  “I do love you,” he whispered. “You’re mine now. I’m yours. We belong to each other.”

  Jamie seemed to melt in his arms. Derek liked that. What Jamie said next, he liked a little less.

  “Promise me you’ll get us out of this house alive.”

  Derek’s continuing kiss was the only promise he gave. For deep down inside he knew, he knew, it was the only promise he could give.

  “Just stay with me,” he said in lieu of lying. “Never leave my side. If we do that, we can protect each other.”

  And with that, it was Jamie who made the promise. “I will,” he said. “I promise, Derek. I won’t let myself out of your sight.”

  FOR ALL their talk of hunger, their plates of beef stew were left barely tasted. A loaf of bread, still in the wrapper, had not been touched at all. None of them were in the mood for formal dining, so they hardly noticed that the candles weren’t lit, the glassware was mismatched, and Banyon had set out a roll of paper towels to be used as napkins, since he couldn’t find the real thing in the kitchen. The five of them sat around the table, avoiding each other’s eyes. Their thoughts had turned inward. Even Jamie sank into despair after the horror of what he had seen upstairs. He cast a sidelong glance at Derek, wondering how he was coping with what they had witnessed. Under the table, he pressed his knee to Derek’s leg, needing the contact. Banyon spoke first. He glanced around the table, at the food, at the people not eating it. “I’m sorry. I told you I wasn’t a very good cook.”

  Cleeta-Gayle took up her napkin and patted a mouth that had not seen a single bite of dinner. “It’s not your fault. It’s this house.” A flash of desperate hope appeared to light her eyes. She leaned her elbows on the table and eagerly gazed around from face to face. “How do we know the killer isn’t hiding somewhere on the property? Maybe it isn’t one of us at all?”

  Banyon was quick with an answer. “Don’t you think we would have heard someone else moving about? It’s a big house, but it’s not a rambling mansion. There are only so many places to hide.” His eyes darted around the table, scanning each face. “Who could have got into Mrs. Jupp’s room earlier? She’d obviously been dead awhile. Who had access to her? Who was closest?”

  Most eyes turned reluctantly to Cleeta-Gayle. Tommy was the only one who didn’t look reluctant about it at all. He was also the one who voiced everyone’s suspicion, even if they were too meek to voice it themselves. His gaze held no sympathy as he studied the woman in front of him.

  “That’s right, dear. Heads don’t cook in a minute. This had to have happened hours ago. You were just across the hall from her. You both went upstairs after Mr. Jupp fell. None of us has seen either of you since. While we were all in other parts of the house, you had plenty of time to sneak across the hall, bash her in the head, and when she fell into the fire, you just left her there to sizzle.” Banyon laid a hand on Tommy’s arm to silence him, but Tommy shook it off. He continued to glare at the woman he had accused of murder.

  Cleeta-Gayle stumbled to her feet. Her chair toppled over behind her, crashing to the floor, making everybody jump. Her eyes traveled to each of them in turn. “You think I killed Mrs. Jupp? You think I left that poor old woman to burn in the fire?”

  Jamie was the only one who looked down, uneasy beneath her accusing gaze. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m sure none of us really thinks that.”

  “Speak for yourself!” Tommy snapped. Then a nasty grin twisted his mouth as he studied Jamie instead. “Or maybe you and your boyfriend are the ones we should watch. You could be backing each other up with your alibis.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” Derek barked. “We don’t know any of you people. Why would we want to kill you?” Jamie watched as a light of understanding brightened Derek’s eyes. “That’s what we should be searching for, you know! We should be searching for what it is that brought us all together. There must be something we all have in common. An acquaintance, maybe. Something that made the killer decide to lure us all to this house together and pick us off one by one.”

  “But why would anyone want to kill us?” Jamie pleaded. “Who could hate us that much? And why?” Banyon fiddled with his glass of iced tea, using a fingertip to draw a smiley face in the condensation on the side. Iced tea still filled it to the brim. It had not been tasted.

  “Do you think we haven’t already been trying to figure that out? The only one of you people I know at all is Tommy. And we’ve only been acquainted personally for a couple of weeks.”

  Cleeta-Gayle shot a wary glance in his direction. “How do we really know that?” she asked, her voice as cold as the tea in her glass. Banyon was so surprised by the suspicion in her words, he sat mute. Tommy did not.

  “I guess you’ll just have to take our word for it!” he snapped at the woman. “Don’t you start. It’s bad enough we have to put up with nasty looks from the fucking help!”

  “Not anymore we don’t,” Derek said, more to himself than to anyone at the table.

  Jamie blinked, a sudden clarity suddenly invading his senses. He turned to stare at Tommy Stevens. “You’re right,” he said, eyes wide. “They hated us from the start.” His mind was suddenly racing. He sifted through his thoughts, trying to make sense of it all. “Why did they hate us so much? Doesn’t that seem a little strange?”

  All eyes turned toward him, staring. “Jamie…,” Derek mumbled, but he didn’t finish his thought. A furrow formed between his eyebrows as he stared down at his plate, obviously considering what Jamie had said.

  “But there’s still no connection,” Banyon interrupted. “There’s still nothing to show why any of us were individually chosen.” He leaned forward, his eyes flashing angrily. “What the hell is the motive? What is the common thread that brought us all here? And why would anyone hate us enough to destroy the cars so we can’t leave? And trash the phones so we can’t call out? And how the hell did they collapse the fucking bridge?”

  Cleeta-Gayle was standing at the sideboard now. She had poured herself a glass of wine. It shook, untasted, in her hand. “Please stop swearing,” she said softly.

  All eyes swiveled to her. She looked so frightened, so beaten down, Jamie pushed himself to his feet, intending to go to her. To comfort her.

  But it was Banyon who made the effort first. He rose from the table and approached the woman, coaxing her into a gentle hug. Jamie watched, entranced, as she closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest. Only then did she begin to quietly weep.

  “I’m scared to death,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to die in this horrible house.”

  Tommy sat watching his lover comfort the woman. He was doe-eyed in wonder, as if he were as amazed by this development as he was by any of it. He finally tore his gaze away and turned to Jamie and Derek.

  “The bridge had to be a fluke,” he said, eyeing them closely for their reaction. “Nobody could have planned that. Still, it fit right into the killer’s plans. He must have been thrilled.”

  “Maybe not,” Jamie said. “If he had an escape plan, it must have been the road. Now he’s trapped here too. Just like us.”

  A comforting hand stroked the back of his neck, and Jamie almost smiled at the familiar heat of Derek’s touch. He tilted his head back and Derek’s fingers slid into his hair.

  While continuing to caress Jamie’s scalp, Derek directed his words to the room, to anyone who c
ared to listen. “None of us wants to die here,” he said. “I think we need to look at this like the cops would. We have to figure out the clues.”

  “What clues?” Jamie asked.

  Derek offered him a patient smile. “It’s like we talked about earlier,” he said gently. “We need to figure out why the pictures are missing from the walls. That’s the most obvious clue, and the one that’s most puzzling to me. We were clearly brought here because of something we’ve all done, or something the killer thinks we’ve done. And the one who brought us here had a connection to this house. A close connection. In fact, the killer must have been a relative or friend to the old couple in the basement.” Derek’s eyes flashed impatiently at some of the obstinate looks he received. “Don’t you understand? The killer’s face was in those pictures, which meant he had to get rid of them so we wouldn’t know. Why else would they be removed? Our resident madman needed this house to stage his little show, and he was willing to kill the old couple to make it happen. To keep his identity secret, he did away with all evidence of his own presence in this house and in the lives of the old couple who owned it.”

  Tommy tore his gaze from Banyon, who was still comforting the woman by the sideboard. He leveled his gaze at Derek. “That makes sense,” he said. “But how do we prove it? That’s the most important question.”

  “We have to find the pictures,” Derek said. “We have to search the house!”

  Cleeta-Gayle twisted herself free from Banyon’s arms. She stared about the room through terror-filled eyes.

  “No!” she cried, suddenly pushing Banyon farther away, causing him to stumble back and almost fall. She glared in turn at each and every face staring at her. Her fists clenched at her sides, and she trembled in fury. Suddenly it was there. In the line of her jaw. In the fire in her eyes. Anger. And mindless, undiluted panic.