Murder At Wittenham Park

by R. W. Heber

  However, Gilroy was too relieved to notice any of this interplay between the three. “In fact, there is one more person to come,” he said happily, “but we needn’t wait for her.”

  “Then let’s all have some tea,” Lady Gilroy suggested “and my husband will explain what’s going to happen.” She nodded towards the butler, who had been haunting a long side-table laid with teacups and plates of cake. “We have China or Earl Grey. It will be easier if we all sit near each other.” She led the way to where chairs and sofas had been arranged in a rough semi-circle around a massive Victorian stone fireplace with a coat of arms carved into the overmantel hood.

  Gilroy waited until everyone had whatever they wanted, then placed himself in front of the fireplace, slouching slightly with his left hand in his trouser pocket, and launched into his spiel.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. It is a very great pleasure to welcome you all to our weekend of intrigue, mystery and, of course, murder. As some of you already know, the literary agents of the late Agatha Christie have objected to our using her excellent novels. Personally I would have expected them to welcome an event that might boost her sales.” Here Gilroy gave a delicate shrug, as though there was nothing to be done about the incomprehensible except fail to comprehend it. He followed this with his most winning salesman’s smile. “However, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good. My wife has been writing a whodunit herself, so we’ve utilized that.” Having unburdened himself of this total lie, he instantly embroidered on it. “Naturally enough, she has set her story in a country house like ours, which makes the perfect setting. So our only problem is in allocating the roles. We’ll do that in a moment, when you’ve all had a chance to read the background briefing.” He beckoned to the butler. “Dodgson will now hand out the first set of papers.”

  The outline was commendably brief. In fact, Dee Dee Gilroy was proud of it, and could not resist smiling as people read her text.

  “It is Friday night,” the paper said, “in a house like this. The owner, a rich widow named Louise Sketchley, has summoned her family for what will be a painful reunion. She is facing a massive blackmail demand. Before calling in the police, she has decided to consult the family. Privately she suspects that one of them may be involved. And there is not a single person here who does not have an interest in her fortune.”

  Gilroy scanned the faces of his guests. “With it so far?” he asked. “Excellent. The characters come on page two. My wife will be playing the widow, Louise.” He gave them a sideways smile. “It may turn out to be quite a small part. Now let’s look at the others. First, there is Louise’s fifty-five-year-old brother Norman.”

  It needed only seconds to take in the unsavoury character of Norman Carr, a villainous, self-centred younger brother, always resentful of the wealth that marriage had brought his sister.

  “Well,” Gilroy said, savouring his moment of revenge for Welch’s outburst, “I’d say our developer friend should have a go at that. He’s in the right age bracket. How about it?

  Welch glowered at him. “Its a bloody insult. What if I won’t, eh?”

  “Then you can be the butler. Means your wife has to play the maid. Have to sleep in the servants’ wing too, of course.”

  “Really!” Adrienne protested, pronouncing it “reely.” “The very idea! We didn’t pay good money to pretend we’re servants.”

  “Oh, have it you’re own way, then,” Welch conceded. “What do I have to do?”

  “That comes later.” Gilroy had scored on points and intended holding on to the advantage. “Mrs. Welch can play your wife. As you see from the notes, they’ve had a bit of a row and she sleeps in a separate room.”

  “Not beyond imagining,” Adrienne remarked acidly. She had already noticed that George had his eye on Loredana. “I hope it’s a good room.”

  “One of the best. The Blue Room in the west wing.”

  “And what about me then?” Welch demanded.

  “You’re next door to Louise Sketchley, on the main passage. Strictly speaking, it’s a dressing-room, but quite large.”

  “I’ll make up me mind when I’ve seen it,” Welch said cantankerously and continued muttering.

  Gilroy dealt with the Savages next. They were given the roles of the police inspector and a young crime reporter, respectively, and reassigned to small bedrooms at the end of the long main passage leading to the east wing.

  This left the roles of Louise Sketchley’s two sons. As soon as Loredana read the character of James’s wife, Estelle, she became determined to play her. “A beautiful gazelle-like creature of passionate sensitivity” was what Dee Dee had called her, and there was no way Loredana was going to let that label be attached to Dulcie.

  “Estelle sounds exactly right for me,” Loredana insisted brazenly, “and since my own husband hasn’t come, the only man left is Hamish.”

  “What a clever idea,” Dulcie breathed to Hamish. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you, darling. And the role’s cut out for you. ‘Handsome but indolent. A pseudo country squire who’s at his wit’s end for cash and hates his successful brother Tarquin.’”

  “If you say so, darling,” Hamish said, pretending to be bashful and smiling in that private way. He looked at Gilroy. “Which room are we in?”

  Dee Dee gave him a sharp glance. She could just imagine the creaking of bedroom doors and floor-boards there would be tonight and she didn’t welcome it. Not for moral reasons. These wretched people could screw each other’s spouses rotten as far as she was concerned. She was worried because the “murder” demanded various goings-on in the evening as well.

  “You and your real wife will be in the Pink Room on the other side of Louise from Mr. Welch,” she told Hamish.

  “And what about little me?” Loredana demanded.

  “You and your husband are in the Chinese Room in the east wing, beyond the Savages.”

  Gilroy hastened to explain. “The main part of the house is between an east wing and a west wing. My wife and I use the west wing. There’s a plan with the papers.”

  “That leaves me with a room but not a role,” Dulcie remarked, faintly annoyed at being left out.

  “How about the doctor?” Gilroy suggested smoothly.

  Dulcie wrinkled her nose. “Why not Tarquin? He’s described as a great contrast to his brother.” She gave Hamish a sweetly ironic smile. “Intelligent. Successful in the City. I suppose he’s gay?”

  “Well…” Gilroy was embarrassed. “Actually yes. Ask my wife. She invented him.”

  “Yes, he is,” Dee Dee confirmed. “But not outrageously. The important point is that he notices things some men might not.”

  “Done,” Dulcie said. “I’ll be Tarquin. And if Trevor does pitch up, he can be the doctor.”

  “Excellent.” Gilroy rubbed his hands together as if he had just made a sale.

  “Wait a minute,” Dulcie said, consulting her cast list. “We’re still one short. Who plays Louise’s companion?”

  “A Mrs. Worthington.” He had no intention of revealing that she was a hired actress. Must remember she needs a background, he told himself. “She rang to say she’d be late. Now Dodgson will show you all to your rooms. Then you might like to visit our Lion Park before we have drinks and the first clues are handed out.”

  “Bloody waste of time,” Welch muttered.

  “Oh, but we must!” Loredana exclaimed. “I’ve been on safari and I know all about lions. Such exciting creatures. So virile and masculine.”

  “I’ll come,” said Hamish.

  “So virile and masculine,” Dulcie murmured, which Hamish affected not to hear.

  “Then we meet at five-thirty,” Gilroy ordered.

  The guests all moved off except for Welch. “Now listen ’ere,” he said to Gilroy and Dee Dee. “We ought to be gettin’ a discount when it ain’t the genuine article. Stands to reason.”

  “Mr. Welch.” Dee Dee could freeze a furnace if she chose. “If you wish to leave, Dodgson will pack your bags.
”

  This called Welch’s bluff, even though he had not yet unpacked. Leaving would defeat the purpose of his being here, not to mention that Adrienne would kill him. And the way that little piece Loredana had smiled at him gave him hopes for the night, what with both of them being alone in their rooms.

  “You’re not getting rid of me as easy as that,” he said hastily. “I’ll stay. But I want a proper sit-down discussion with your lordship, right?”

  “If you must,” Gilroy agreed. “After dinner this evening. In my office, off the hall.”

  “Soon as we finish the nosh,” Welch said, adding, in an effort to be conciliatory, “what does me wife wear for the Lion Park?”

  “Claws,” said Dee Dee and left the room.

  Upstairs Jim and Jemma Savage were settling into their chintz-furnished rooms. Each had a tall Gothic window overlooking the park and the lake, with elaborated swagged curtains that matched the wallpaper. When Dee Dee had done the house up after their wedding, her father was still paying the bills. Hunting prints hung in Jim’s rooms, prints of Guardsmen and officers in Jemma’s. Vases of flowers stood on side-tables. The only snag was that they had to share a bathroom.

  “Daddy,” Jemma exclaimed, coming into her father’s room, “this is the real thing. This is how the nobs live.”

  “Probably nothing on the Blue Room, the Pink Room, and the Chinese Room.”

  “I’m going to take a peek at all of them. And sneak a few pictures. There has to be a story in this. Will you enjoy being the cop?”

  “Within limits.” Jim Savage had reservations about the way the police worked.

  A light knock on the door interrupted them. Jim called out, “Come in,” and to their surprise Lady Gilroy entered. She had changed into jeans and a sweater, presumably for the Lion Park excursion. She apologized for disturbing them.

  “Please don’t get me wrong over this,” she said to Jim, “but you are some kind of real-life detective? Is that right?”

  “Not exactly. I was an insurance assessor.”

  “I suppose that would do.” She was doubtful, then became more positive. “We certainly want to avoid insurance claims.”

  “You’ve taken special cover for this weekend?”

  Dee Dee’s face fell. “I bet that husband of mine hasn’t. The point is, we have some nice things here, especially the silver. We don’t want to lose them.”

  “You mean your guests might steal the spoons?”

  “How can I stop them? Would you keep an eye on everyone for me? It would be a huge relief. After all, that is the policeman’s role.”

  Jim felt obliged to agree and instinctively began asking questions. Whom did she have fears about?

  “I wouldn’t put it past that ghastly man Welch. Or his wife. Between you and me, he’s after our land for a housing estate. We refused. You heard how rude he was.”

  “Could he turn nasty?”

  “If it’s possible to be nastier than he’s been already. He’s an absolute shoot. And he’s got some trick up his sleeve. I feel it. That blonde is his lawyer.”

  “I’ll keep a discreet watch on him, Lady Gilroy. If it’s any help.”

  “That’s really kind of you. Thank you. See you downstairs.” Lady Gilroy exited stage left, as they say, and left the field clear for Jemma.

  “Is Welch a crook, Daddy? You were giving him one of your looks.”

  “Let’s just say that one way of cashing in on an unsold building is to burn it down. Nothing was ever proven, but we felt he was a bad risk. He was on our blacklist.”

  “Does he know you know?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Doesn’t take long for reality to intrude, does it?” Jemma observed reflectively.

  “Never does. That’s the problem with amateur dramatics. Someone always hates someone else’s guts and the next thing you know there’s blood on the floor.”

  In other spacious rooms along the thickly carpeted main corridor of the house, the other guests were preparing for the Lion Park outing and considering the conveniences and inconveniences of their rooms. The corridor led off in both directions from the head of a magnificent oak staircase, with newels carved in the shape of unicorns. It was wide and well-lit.

  Loredana, luxuriating in the pagoda-and-willow-tree wallpapers and silk curtains of the Chinese Room, which had been lavishly done up for Mr. and Mrs. Gregorian, appreciated that for Hamish to get to her in the night would involve his passing the doors of “Louise,” Welch, and the Savages. Thank goodness the carpets were deep. She wished the rooms had telephones, like a hotel. Then Hamish would be able to alert her when Dulcie was out of the way or asleep. She went through into the bathroom and began laying out the bottles of Clarins body lotions and astringents, of scents and oils which she could not manage without. There were sixteen of them, which she considered was traveling very light. At home her thirty-five bottles left Trevor no space at all for his shaving-kit. If only they had a bathroom as large and luxurious as this one!

  Then her thoughts reverted to the coming night. That loathsome man Welch had been looking her over in a very suggestive way. Just let him try propositioning her! But how was she going to get together with Hamish? They had discussed slipping a pill into Dulcie’s last drink, just to make sure she did sleep. Well, that was his job, not hers. Dulcie had been making some oddly knowing remarks, too. Was she getting suspicious?

  Dulcie herself was being blandly polite to Hamish as he unpacked, noticing with disgust when he laid his pyjamas out on the bed that they were stained as usual, and thankful that the butler was not unpacking for them. However, she had more important things on her mind. Welch had just told her triumphantly that his meeting with Gilroy was scheduled for after dinner and she must be ready with the contract.

  Hamish himself had not yet been told of his intended part in the business, yet he seemed on edge, Dulcie thought. Perhaps he guessed that this weekend was no free lunch. Or was he nervous over sneaking out to the wretched Loredana’s room? When Trevor was away and he slipped out, after she was asleep, to go to Loredana, she would watch him return across the village street in the dawn, then go back to bed and pretend to be still asleep. Had that saved their marriage? It didn’t seem to have. In fact, he was behaving with unbelievable gall. As she changed, Dulcie confirmed her decision to have it out with him this weekend.

  She heard a car scrunch on the gravel outside and looked through the window to see a taxi disgorge what could only be the last guest. From above, her face was obscured by a large straw hat extravagantly decorated with flowers. It was odd that a woman should come on this kind of weekend by herself.

  Priscilla Worthington arrived from the station complete with a huge suitcase and a model’s make-up box. She was around fifty, slim, of average height, and with an exceptionally pretty face that had not quite withstood the attentions of time. She needed a good friend to tell her to use less make-up.

  She had been talked into this job by her agent and, more convincingly, by the arrival of her quarterly telephone bill. Normally she would never have taken such a dubious form of acting. Not an actress of her talent. Not someone who used to appear on TV and was asked to open supermarkets. However, the gloomy splendour of Wittenham Park and the suave appearance of Lord Gilroy in his boating jacket when he greeted her persuaded her that it might be quite amusing after all. She began to cheer up.

  “What a perfect setting for a murder!” she gushed after Gilroy had introduced Dee Dee. “This is going to be the greatest fun.”

  “I’m so glad you feel like that,” Dee Dee said quickly, “because you’re the murderess.”

  “Why not! I was a great hit in The Mousetrap.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Gilroy said, “we’ll explain the plot straightaway. We’re running to rather a tight schedule this evening. Have to get the show on the road and all that, and luckily the rest are upstairs changing.”

  Having thoughtfully provided Priscilla with a stiff gin and tonic, which Dee Dee
guessed she would prefer to tea, they launched into the details.

  As the characters of Louise and her family were outlined, Priscilla began calculating the many opportunities that the staircase, the stone-flagged Great Hall and the library offered for dramatic entrances and exits.

  “Being the widow’s companion,” Dee Dee explained, “you have more access to her private rooms than anyone else. You’re also determined to get your legacy. When, over dinner, it sounds as though she’ll rethink her will, you decide to act. You don’t know who the blackmailer is, but you suspect it’s her brother. He’s sleeping in what had been her husband’s dressing-room, next to hers. So it should be easy to throw suspicion on him.”

  “And how do I kill her?”

  “Poison,” Gilroy said. “You put it in the bedtime drink you bring her every night. But tonight you talk her brother into taking it for you.”

  “Are you sure he won’t see through that, darlings?” Priscilla slipped into her theatrical way of calling everyone “darling” without realizing it. “Or is he an utter fool?”

  “Why should he suspect anything?” Gilroy reacted as if insulted, but it was being called “darling” that had upset him more than the implication of idiocy.

  “Well, I would.”

  “Then you’d better sort out some stage business with the coffee-cups. Or the after-dinner brandy. Talk to Dodgson. You can work it out between you while we’re at the Lion Park. Give you a chance to get to know the house too.”

  “Just what kind of poison is it?”

  “What kind?” They hadn’t bothered with this aspect. It was as bad as those army instructors who always wanted to know the calibre of weapon you were using. “The fatal kind, of course. What does it matter?”

  “An awful lot, darlings. Cyanide is very quick. Arsenic’s very slow. There’s hemlock and aconite. You ought to read Agatha Christie.”

  “We have, God help us,” Gilroy exploded “Until the cows come home.”