by R. W. Heber
“In fact,” Dee Dee confessed, “we’re probably the only people on this weekend who’ve read a word of hers.”
“I thought they were all enthusiasts.”
“So did we.”
“But, darlings”—having acted in many murder plays, Priscilla was very positive about crime—“the kind of poison makes an awful lot of difference.”
“Mrs. Worthington.” Dee Dee decided to call a halt and did so with a barbed remark, given whom she was talking to. “This is only play-acting. The game is for everyone to identify the murderer.”
Priscilla’s eyelids quivered, as though she was about to cry. “I’ve brought several costumes. Are your guests dressing up?”
“Only to their own satisfaction. I have to warn you they’re a tough bunch. Getting any enthusiasm out of them is going to be hard work. The man Savage and his daughter will enter into the spirit of things. The others won’t.”
“We rely on you,” Gilroy said, “to get things going.”
“And keep them going,” added Dee Dee firmly. “It’s going to be a long, hard night.”
Priscilla gazed at her hosts, so affable at first, now so demanding. “It’ll be a fun weekend, so you won’t mind the fee being rather small, will you?” the agent had said. What had she let herself in for?
“A hard night for all of us,” Dee Dee said, softening the blow a little. “Would you like to see your room?”
Priscilla was so overwhelmed that she did not dare ask for another drink. Luckily she had a half bottle of gin in her make-up case.
4
THE ASSEMBLED group almost caused Dee Dee Gilroy to burst out laughing. Each person had a different idea of the right clothes to wear for seeing the lions. Welch was in one of the loudest checked jackets ever seen outside a race-track, while his wife bulged in a green spotted silk dress more suitable for a garden party. Hamish had opted for soft blue canvas loafers and a blazer with buttons bearing the lion crest of a London store. Loredana was in a Chanel-style beige safari suit, with large pockets and a silk Hermès scarf tied around the crown of an Australian bush hat. Dee Dee thought. Only Dulcie had on common-sense jeans and a sweater, as had Dee Dee herself.
Two Land Rovers with viewing hatches cut in the roofs stood in the drive. Beside them waited Ted Matthews, the Lion Park keeper, wearing cords and an old sleeveless safari jacket. He was a youngster compared to most of them, with a fresh, freckled face and a boyish smile. He was in a more or less constant dispute with Lord Gilroy, who wanted him to sport a full-scale African hunting outfit, as the rangers did at rival safari parks. Ted, who had a zoology Ph.D. and had spent five years in a South African game reserve, argued that it would look absurd in rural England, even if this was more show business than animal management. Since Ted had both the experience and the instinct for handling big cats, Gilroy had so far given way.
Gilroy introduced this motley group to Ted and apportioned them seats, taking care to put Welch in the vehicle Ted drove. He knew exactly what kind of remarks Welch would make during the “safari” and had no intention of being subjected to them. Naturally the McMountdowns went with Welch, leaving Loredana to flutter her eyelashes vainly at being left to the mercies of Gilroy himself, together with the Savages. Loredana was making a big thing out of having been on safari in Kenya and was not pleased to discover that Gilroy and Dee Dee had been there frequently, while Jemma had been in the Masai Mara reporting on the murder there of an English girl. “I don’t remember that,” Loredana protested. “Who killed her?”
“They pretended it was a lion, but really she’d been hacked to pieces.”
“How absolutely horrid. Men are beasts.”
“What about women?” Jemma said, earning a disdainful frown from Loredana. “Don’t lionesses usually do the killing?”
“Only because the males are too lazy.”
“When did you start the Lion Park, Lord Gilroy?” Jim asked, elbowing his daughter in the ribs to shut her up, but noting that Loredana took offence easily and had little sense of humour.
“The only one in this part of the country,” Gilroy said with pride, as they were let through a high gate in the electrified fence. “They have a hundred acres all to themselves. It’s a big attraction.”
There were still visitors from the afternoon driving round in their saloon cars, past signs warning them it was forbidden to feed the animals, sound their horns, or—most importantly—get out of their vehicles.
“People think they can go up to the lions and stroke them,” Gilroy said. “Not that I’d be sorry if that fellow Welch tried.”
The lions themselves seemed healthy enough, if incongruous lying in the shade of oak trees in English meadows.
“Caesar’s our largest male,” Gilroy said, stopping the vehicle to point at an impressive black-maned lion squatting over a lioness and very actively mating. “Don’t see them at it all that often. Not that there’s much else for them to do.”
“Darling!” Dee protested.
“I’d like a few cubs born here. Tremendous publicity.”
At this moment the other Land Rover drew up, also to watch Caesar in action. Jim studied the occupants’ faces through his binoculars and was amused. Mrs. Welch was affecting embarrassment, Hamish was expressionless, as though this sort of thing were beneath him, Dulcie was openly laughing and Welch had his own binoculars raised to get a close-up view. That pretty well summed them up, Jim thought. Hamish was a cold fish and Welch a sex-obsessed rogue.
As they watched, Caesar dismounted from the lioness, biting her neck gently, then ambled away to lie down by himself.
“He’s limping,” Loredana said. “Poor old thing. He must have a thorn in his paw.”
“No thorn-bushes here,” Gilroy countered, aggravated that he had not noticed the limp himself. “Whatever it is, Ted’ll fix him up.”
“How? I mean, I find it hard enough with my cat.” It was clear that she felt deeply about cats, or at least about her own one.
“Dart him with a tranquillizer,” Gilroy said, casually emphasizing his expertise, “deal with the paw, then inject him with the antidote and get the hell out of his way again.”
“But wouldn’t Caesar be grateful? My little Timmy would.”
“How would little Timmy like having a hypodermic fired into his little behind?” Dee Dee asked, nauseated by all this tweeness.
“Oh, he’d hate it!” Loredana instantly reversed her attitude. “He’s a lion at heart. And he hates the vet. He knows when we’re going there. But he’s so old now, he’s going to have to be put down.”
“It’s a lot kinder,” Jemma said. “I’m all for euthanasia.”
“Regardless of age, I hope.” Dee Dee reckoned they had several euthanasia candidates here this weekend.
“She was thinking of me, rather than her, I think,” Jim suggested.
“Oh no, Daddy. Never.” Jemma leaned across and squeezed his hand.
Far from laughing along with the others, Loredana was annoyed by this inconsequential small talk. Nobody understood her problems. “I only wish I could put darling Timmy to sleep myself,” she moaned.
“Come on, darling,” Dee Dee said to Gilroy, having had enough of this inane chatter. “We haven’t seen the Conservation Centre yet.”
But Loredana wanted the last word. “You have one? How marvellous!” she cooed. “And I must talk to your keeper. Lions are so fascinating.”
“Compared to humans, unquestionably,” said Dee Dee.
The Conservation Centre was a skilful adaptation of an old timbered Elizabethan barn, the only surviving building of the original estate. It housed an exhibition area, a cafeteria, a souvenir shop and the lion keeper’s offices and laboratory.
The two Land Rovers arrived almost simultaneously and Gilroy gathered his group to show them round, not omitting the shop with its car stickers boasting “I’ve heard the Wittenham lions roar!” and mugs emblazoned with the family crest of the stag. In fact, he took them there first, pretending
it would shortly be closing. He’d once heard a marketing man say, “The sale you lose today can never be made again.” It had taken him time to understand the concept that tomorrow is inescapably another day, but once he had, this became a prized motto. Predictably Adrienne bought a crested mug and Dulcie a tea-towel because she felt obliged to, while the others firmly bought nothing.
The exhibition was more rewarding. There were photographs and wildlife montages, while looking down at them were the mounted trophies of the first Lord Gilroy’s big-game hunting. This collection of slightly moth-eaten heads—buffalo, numerous antelope, tiger and, inevitably, lion—had formerly graced the Great Hall at the house. They had been Dee Dee’s first target for eviction after her marriage.
“Bet the animal-rights girls like those!” Welch commented sardonically. “Get a lot of protests?”
“In fact, no.” Gilroy knew what was coming and tried to steer past it.
“Have to close the lions down once our homes is built,” Welch said. “Frighten the families.”
“The Lion Park is not going to be closed,” Gilroy said firmly, which was a way of saying that the houses would be built over his dead body. But there had been a sting in the tail of Welch’s remark. This week he’d received a letter from the local council questioning security and claiming that local residents were concerned about certain dangers. He had asked Ted to draft an answer.
Luckily Dulcie came up at this moment, saying, “I’ve something to show you, George.” She grinned at Gilroy. “I’ve never seen lions screwing before. Quite a giggle.” She then led Welch off to examine a map of the estate that she had found hanging in the cafeteria.
“Disgusting, I’d say,” Adrienne chipped in. She was out of temper. It had been hot and bumpy in the Land Rover. She’d imagined they were going straight on to drinks, which was why she had put on the silk dress, and now it was stained with sweat.
“What they were doing was entirely normal,” Gilroy said stiffly, then quoted from his own brochure. “We aim to show the King of Beasts in a completely natural environment.”
Loredana now insisted on having her little talk with Ted. Gilroy directed her to the unobtrusive office door in the far wall of the exhibition area. Characteristically she did not knock, but went straight in.
The keeper’s office-cum-laboratory was thoroughly modern. A wide chrome-legged desk and several filing cabinets stood at one end beneath a window. There was another door in the outer wall, and at the opposite end a long laboratory bench had a steel sink set into it. Two empty glass vials for samples were by the sink. Shelves held a range of bottles and there was a rack of veterinary instruments.
The only thing missing was the keeper himself.
Tempted by his absence, Loredana explored. A letter from the local council lay on the desk, suggesting that the electric fence put children “at risk” and mentioning local fears about lions escaping.
Beside was Ted’s draft reply, stating that the fence had a five-thousand-volt pulse, but very low amperage, and could not kill. He had pencilled on his draft: “The talk in the village is that a developer has been paying people to write to the council complaining. They get £10 a letter. I’m trying to find someone who’ll admit it and name the developer, or his agent. Then we can go to the police.”
Not hard to guess who that is, Loredana thought. Hamish had told her what Welch was after. She wandered across to the laboratory bench. Lying on it was a thin metal cylinder, about four inches long, with a needle projecting from one end. A vial of colorless liquid was beside it. She realized this must be the tranquillizer dart, ready for filling. The needle was almost an eighth of an inch thick. Small wonder the lion objected to being hit by that! She picked it up, tried to see how it worked, failed, and put it down again. She was examining the liquid when she heard the handle turn in the outside door. She put the vial down again, telling herself that she was being extremely naughty.
“Hallo, there,” Ted said cheerfully, though with a question in his tone.
Loredana explained about her interest in lions with unusual brevity.
“It was you spotted Caesar limping, then? Glad to meet you.” He shook her hand warmly, finding her response firmer than he would have expected from her delicate appearance. “I’ll have to take a look at his paw tomorrow, it’s too late today. He’s a magnificent animal, but easier to approach in the heat of the day when he’s sleepy. So, how can I help?”
“How do you keep them fit?” She gestured towards his medicines. “I give my Timmy all sorts of tablets, but what do you give a lion?”
Few professionals do not enjoy talking about their profession. It was a full twenty minutes before Ted escorted Loredana back into the exhibition hall. He took with him his draft reply to the council to give Lord Gilroy.
“We were wondering where you’d got to.” Hamish came up to her immediately. “We’re off to the house for drinks.”
“But I must change first! I simply must.” Loredana reverted to her normal demanding self, though making a point of thanking Ted with the sweetest of smiles.
Gilroy was relieved to see her too. The moment he needed to assemble a group, its members started to wander off. It was one of those immutable laws of nature, the kind they had taught about at Eton, like gravity or the way peas fall off one’s fork. A professional tour leader’s life must be absolute hell!
Before anyone else could stray, he and Dee Dee ushered all the guests into the vehicles and so back to the house. The serious business of the weekend was about to begin. Ted waved before taking his Land Rover again and Loredana blew him a kiss. “Such a darling man,” she said, causing Hamish to look at her askance. He expected her to be faithful in her infidelity. Dulcie noticed the blown kiss and her husband’s expression, interpreted it correctly and quite suddenly decided that tonight would be the night. If Hamish took a trip down the corridor later on, it was going to be on a one-way ticket.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gilroy announced when they were all in the hall, “drinks will be served in the library at six-thirty, that’s in half an hour, and we’ll be handing out the first clues. From then on it’s murder time.”
Mrs. Worthington clapped, to Gilroy’s consternation, and the others followed suit faint-heartedly. She had spent an industrious hour with Dodgson, working out how the notional poison would be planted. After that she had taken on board a little fortification, in the shape of the gin from her suitcase. She was now all set for her role as animator-in-chief.
“Darlings,” she announced, “I don’t know about all of you, but I can’t wait for the first clue.”
“Speak for yerself,” Welch was heard to mutter, before Dee Dee firmly chivvied them all upstairs to change, Mrs. Worthington included.
“Am I dreaming,” she asked Gilroy, “or has that woman been at the bottle?”
“Sounded a bit like it,” Gilroy agreed gloomily. “Have to tell Dodgson to keep the drinks locked up.”
“Which you cannot do, honey. This is an all-inclusive weekend, remember? Right through from the beer to the brandy. When are you seeing Welch?”
“After dinner.”
“Well, for God’s sake, don’t sign anything.” Dee Dee was tempted to insist on being present, but that would be too demeaning for her husband. “Now, I am about to transform myself into Mrs. Louise Sketchley. And don’t you dare applaud when I come down.”
Half an hour later, rather too punctually, Jim and Jemma Savage descended the great stairway. Jemma paused to fondle one of the carved unicorns at the bottom. “It is rather splendid, isn’t it, Daddy. Think of the work this must have taken.”
As they stood there, the muffled sounds of an altercation came from somewhere close by.
“Officially it’s murder time,” Jemma whispered. “We’d better listen.”
The voices were easily traceable to an oak door off the hall, leading to the room that was Lord Gilroy’s office, though neither of them knew this. It sounded as though two men were arguing, but not l
oudly enough for the words to be distinguishable. Then suddenly one bellowed sentence came through distinctly.
“You bloody well will! Or else!”
There was a brief silence. Then a third, less belligerent, voice added, “You haven’t any option.”
The reply was inaudible. It also sounded as though the threat might have ended the conversation. Jim and Jemma backed away from the door in case it was opened.
“That was Mr. George Welch shouting,” Jim remarked. “No question about it. God, he’s a thug.”
“It did sound terribly real,” Jemma commented. “I mean, not like acting at all. But who were the others?”
“No idea. Better make it the first of my detective’s observations.” Jokingly her father pulled out a small red spiral-bound notebook and recorded the time, 6:31 P.M., and the words. Then they went through into the library, where the butler was on duty with a drinks tray.
They were the first arrivals. Dee Dee greeted them, looking superb in a long flame-coloured dress, with a diamond choker and diamond earrings.
“Meet Mrs. Louise Sketchley,” she said genially, “rich widow and blackmail victim. This might be the last occasion she’ll be able to wear her best jewels, unless the blackmailer is defeated, so she’s loaded on the lot.”
“Which will remind her relations of just how much she’s worth and what they stand to inherit,” added Gilroy, who wore a well-cut dinner jacket, yet somehow still looked as if he had only hired it for a salesman’s conference. “Since you’re the first down, would you like to read the first clue?”
“Why not?” Jemma agreed.
“But first,” he said, childishly pleased with all this “first” punning, “you can be the first to have the first drink. What’s your poison, ha ha?”
“An orange juice and lemonade, please. And I hope it won’t kill me!”
A look of panic came over Gilroy’s dimpled features, as though he had suddenly realized that his rented trousers were unzipped. For a moment Jemma thought she might be the first intended victim. What had actually taken him aback was that he had failed to reckon on non-drinkers. They had orange juice on the drinks tray, but Dodgson needed to go to his pantry to fetch lemonade. It was a relief when Jim Savage asked for an ordinary “G and T,” the standard drink of the Surrey stockbroker belt where he and Jemma lived. Gilroy winced at the expression, but at least gin and tonic was easy and he poured it himself, mixed another for Dee Dee, and gave himself a Scotch and soda.