Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap

by Helena Marchmont

  Alfie shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m actually going back to London tomorrow.”

  She let out a long sigh just as the barman arrived with Alfie’s shepherd’s pie.

  “Here you are,” said the barman. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Alfie and then turned to the woman. “But perhaps you would like a drink?”

  “I guess I look like I could use one,” she said. “Well, okay, why not? I’ll have the usual, thanks.”

  The barman nodded and went off.

  Alfie wondered what the usual would be for an environmental activist. Fennel tea with organic honey? Spring water with a twist of unwaxed lemon? He rose and got her a chair, jettisoning the newspaper on the empty table on the other side of the partition. “Please, do sit down. Sorry, I didn’t ask if you wanted anything to eat.”

  “A drink will be just fine,” she said, shrugging off her parka and putting it on the back of the chair. She was wearing jeans and a simple linen shirt but she somehow made them look elegant. She had a delicate, fine-boned face and a slightly intense look. Alfie reckoned she was about forty. “Hi, I’m Betty.”

  “And I’m Alfie.”

  “Alfie?” she said. “Oh no. No, no, no. You can’t be Alfie.”

  He drew back in his seat. What on earth had she heard about him? He couldn’t think of anything he’d done that was dreadful enough to merit this response. Perhaps she too had Googled him and objected to his having made a fortune with his start-up. Would she believe he had always insisted on ethical business practices?

  She shuddered. “That film,” she said. “Alfie, starring Michael Caine. A so-called classic. Horrible, horrible man, just horrible to women. I can tell you’re not like that. You’re one of the good guys.”

  “I am?” he asked.

  “Sure you are. I can always tell. All women can, if they’re honest. But too often, they’re happy to kid themselves.”

  Americans were so much more forthright, thought Alfie. If Betty had been English, she would simply have been complaining in a resigned sort of way about the terrible weather the previous day.

  “So no way am I calling you Alfie,” she said. “I’ll call you Al. Don’t let me stop you eating.”

  Obediently, Alfie took a forkful of shepherd’s pie. It wasn’t at all what he had expected. The minced lamb and mashed potato was no microwaved supermarket meal, but excellent home cooking. He could think of quite a few high-priced London restaurants which wouldn’t be able to match this quality.

  “This is good,” he said in surprise, taking some more.

  “Yeah, it’s always good here,” she said. “Everything fresh, locally sourced.” The barman reappeared and put a half-pint glass in front of her. “Beer included,” she said.

  “I’ve checked with the boss,” the barman said. “He says we can put up your poster about the meeting.”

  She handed over the paper with a smile which Alfie noted was grateful rather than triumphalist.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising his wine glass to her.

  She raised her glass in reply. “Cheers.”

  “What is that?” he asked with interest.

  She took a long swig. “Bunburry Brew. The local real ale. You haven’t tried it?”

  “Not yet.” That made it sound as though he would have an opportunity in the future. But there was no need for him to be involved in the sale of Aunt Augusta’s cottage and he couldn’t see any other reason to return. Still, he could enjoy this final evening.

  “So you’re a Paul Simon fan?” he asked, returning to the shepherd’s pie.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Now, how in the world would you know that?”

  “The song,” he said. “Paul Simon. I can call you Betty, and now you’ve decided to call me Al.”

  She let out a whoop of laughter, then clamped her hand over her mouth as everyone turned to see what was going on.

  “Good one!” she said, still laughing. “You look so proper, I didn’t think you would have a sense of humour.”

  Alfie felt faintly insulted. “Given your views on Alfie, surely it’s better to be proper than improper?” he asked.

  Something in his tone must have revealed his discomfiture, because she raised her hands appeasingly. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything bad. I know you’re one of the good guys, remember? It’s just – well, look at you. That outfit didn’t come from a discount store. You’re one of these high-powered city dudes who just lives to work, am I wrong?”

  “It pains me to contradict you, but yes, you are,” said Alfie with some satisfaction. “As it happens, I’m currently between jobs.” It was close enough to the truth.

  “So, Mister-Between-Jobs, what brings you to the fleshpots of Bunburry?”

  There was no reason not to tell her.

  “I came down to see a cottage I inherited. My Aunt Augusta – “

  She gasped. “Oh my lord, you’re Gussie’s nephew? I am truly, truly sorry for your loss. Gussie was one of the best.” She pushed her glass away as though it was an unnecessary distraction. “I don’t know if you know – I was the one who found her,” she confided.

  Alfie flinched. He imagined Betty coming to the cottage, knocking on the front door, getting no answer, peering through the parlour window, seeing nothing, then peering through the bedroom window, and realising that something was terribly wrong …

  “Did you have a key?” he asked. “Or – did you have to break in?”

  She stared at him in confusion for a moment and then said: “No, she wasn’t at home.”

  “But – ” It was Alfie’s turn to be confused. “I thought she died in her sleep.”

  “She did.” Betty’s voice was soft, reminiscing. “It was a beautiful day. I was out walking by Frank’s Bridge. Gussie loved the view of the river down there. You would often find her sitting reading on the old wooden bench. I saw she had dropped her book, and I thought she had just dozed off. Then when I got closer, I realised.”

  She put her hand over Alfie’s and gave it a comforting squeeze. “She was very peaceful. She was smiling.” She gave a small chuckle. “Not surprising. Gussie and her books.”

  Alfie remembered the empty shelves of the bedside tables. “So she was a keen reader?”

  “She sure was,” said Betty. “Genre fiction, I guess you would call it. That last one she was reading, it made Fifty Shades of Grey look tame.”

  She removed her hand from Alfie’s and took another swig of Bunburry Brew. “When Marge cleared out the books from the cottage, she said she didn’t dare donate them to the local charity shop. She couldn’t imagine they would be considered suitable for display. She took them over to Cheltenham – the folks there are a bit more sophisticated than in Bunburry.”

  Alfie’s slight shock at Aunt Augusta’s reading matter had evaporated. What he now realised was that there was no need to flee the cottage. The bedroom no longer contained a deathbed.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome. For what?”

  “I’ve had a change of plan. Remind me when your Green Party meeting is. I’ll be there.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Never more so,” he assured her.

  She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. “Tuesday, seven pm, here in the snug.” Then she turned to look at the bar, where a newly arrived group was ordering.

  “Oh no,” she said. “It’s the AA. I’m out of here before they try to sign me up again.” She quickly drained her Bunburry Brew, put on her all-embracing parka, and rapidly threaded her way between the tables to the door, as far away from the bar as possible.

  Alfie stared after her. She had seemed to be drinking perfectly responsibly. Why was she fleeing from Alcoholics Anonymous? And what were the AA doing in a pub anyway? Was this an attempt to introduce Prohibition in Bunb
urry? Bizarrely, the people Betty had been avoiding appeared to have bought drinks and were heading in Alfie’s direction. He recognised Amelia and Henry Fairchild and a cheerful, rotund man who he speculated was Rakesh Choudhury, owner of From Bombay to Bunburry. They were too busy chatting to notice Alfie, and settled themselves in the adjoining alcove, hidden from him by the wooden partition.

  There was a rustling, which Alfie deduced was someone picking up the newspaper he had left on their table.

  Henry Fairchild gave a laugh. “Poor old James. The late lamented, eh? Can’t imagine you’re doing much lamenting, Rakesh, not after falling out with him so badly.”

  “That was all a long time ago.” Rakesh sounded uncomfortable.

  “Not so long,” said Henry. “You never did get even with him, and now you’ve lost your chance.” He laughed again. Alfie was growing to dislike his laugh quite a lot.

  “He was a total creep,” said Amelia Fairchild. “And a terrible director.”

  “Terrible,” agreed Henry. “Topping himself was the best idea he had.”

  “I will tell you who will be relieved by his passing, and that is the reverend,” said Rakesh. “It was only a matter of time before James persuaded Rose, and then where would the reverend have been?”

  “Speak of the devil,” said Henry.

  A thin elderly man wearing a clerical collar was approaching, guiding another elderly man who clung to his arm.

  Rakesh stood up. “Good evening, Reverend. Good evening, William. Let me get you a seat.”

  From his vantage point, Alfie could see Rakesh shift tables and chairs together. The vicar carefully helped the other elderly man off with his coat, and settled him down.

  “And how about a drink?” said Henry. “The usual?”

  “You’re very kind,” said the vicar, and Henry headed off to the bar.

  A young woman was now approaching the group. Her dark hair was in a neat bob, and she had an almost military bearing. She wasn’t remotely fat but the way she moved suggested muscular solidity.

  “Thought I was going to be late,” she said. “Hello, Mr Marlowe, how are you?” She bent down to the elderly man in the chair and gave him a kiss.

  “All the better for seeing you, my dear.” His voice was quavery. “May I get you a drink?”

  “No, you’re fine – hello, Anthony, I’m just going up to the bar. What can I get you?”

  Poor Anthony from the flower shop had now joined them. He was slightly taller than the young woman, but he seemed insignificant beside her. “No, please, what can I get you?”

  “Nonsense,” said the young woman firmly. “You got them last time. Pint of Brew?”

  He gave his shy smile and nodded.

  Alfie caught sight of Marge and Liz coming in. He stood up and moved to the edge of the group, giving the impression of just having arrived rather than having been an eavesdropper. He walked over to meet the two ladies and gave what seemed to be the group’s standard greeting: “Something to drink?”

  “Lovely,” said Marge. “Gin and tonic, please. Easy on the tonic.”

  “Same for me, thanks,” said Liz.

  He went to the bar and found himself next to the young woman. “So you’re part of the group?” he said.

  She turned and looked at him, a long, appraising look. Despite her youth, there was an indefinable air of authority about her. He felt as though he was being subjected to some test and he wasn’t sure whether he had passed.

  “The AA?” she said.

  Given the amount of drink that was being ordered, this was a very odd meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m one of them. And you are – ?”

  “Loosely attached,” he said. “I was invited by Liz and Marge. My name’s Alfie.”

  “Oh, you’re Alfie?” Her brown eyes widened and she studied him again. He still didn’t know what the verdict was. “I’m Emma, Liz’s great-niece. I’m so very sorry about Gussie.”

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the barman giving Emma her change and asking for Alfie’s order.

  “I’ll save you a seat,” she said.

  When he returned with the drinks, Marge took him over to the elderly man sitting beside the vicar.

  “This is William Marlowe, our founder director, who led us for almost twenty years, didn’t you, William? Let me introduce Alfie, Gussie’s nephew.”

  The old man brightened. “Gussie’s nephew, eh? Great girl, Gussie. Haven’t seen her for a while, though.”

  Alfie was going to speak when he caught Marge’s warning shake of the head.

  “I’m not living at home at the moment,” the old man told him. “She probably doesn’t know where I’m staying. Tell her I’ll take her out dancing next Friday.”

  “I’m sure she’ll enjoy that,” said Marge, “Alfie, this is Philip Brown, our vicar.” She quickly introduced him round and Alfie was grateful that, presumably in order not to distress William, everybody kept their condolences to sympathetic looks.

  “We’d better start,” said Henry, whose beige jersey and grey chinos were scarcely less dingy than his supermarket overall. “We’ve got to make a decision,” Henry went on.

  “Indeed,” said the vicar. “But first, I think we should have a moment’s silence for James, to think our own thoughts of him.”

  There was an outbreak of coughing from Henry which Alfie reckoned was deliberate rather than involuntary. The vicar bowed his head, as did Liz and Marge. William’s head was already bowed: he had nodded off. But the others exchanged glances that suggested they had no desire to commemorate the late director. Silence was observed until Henry said: “Right then, what are we going to do? I don’t see any alternative to cancelling.”

  The others began to protest but Henry spoke over them: “How can we possibly go ahead without James?”

  “I’ve already sold tickets for every night,” murmured Liz.

  “You’ll just have to give people their money back.”

  “That seems a great shame. It’s a fixture in Bunburry’s Christmas celebrations,” said the vicar.

  “But we can’t do it without a director,” said Henry. “And we went through all this when William felt he couldn’t continue. Nobody wanted to take it on except James. So who’s going to volunteer?”

  Alfie generally exercised caution. But sometimes he felt that something was right and just went for it, trusting that everything would work out. He had that feeling now.

  “If you really haven’t got anybody else, I’ve done a bit of work in the theatre, and I’d be more than happy to help.”

  Eager faces turned towards him.

  “Alfie, that would be wonderful,” said Marge.

  “An answer to prayer,” said the vicar with a smile.

  “I thought Gussie said you were a businessman?” said Henry suspiciously.

  Aunt Augusta had talked to people about him? Aunt Augusta had talked to Henry Fairchild about him?

  “I was – I am,” Alfie explained. “But I took some time out to do other things. And that included working with a theatre company in London.”

  “And you’ll play Detective Sergeant Trotter?” said Rakesh.

  Alfie shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. You can’t direct a play and act in it at the same time. It doesn’t work.”

  Henry replaced his glass on the table with a thump. “We all said that, didn’t we? But James wouldn’t give up his role. So now nothing’s sorted. I told you we’d have to cancel.”

  “Alfie, couldn’t you try?” Marge’s voice was pleading. “Kenneth Branagh does it – he directed Murder on the Orient Express and was Poirot at the same time. And Gussie told us what a keen actor you were when you were at school.” She turned to the rest of the group. “He played Hamlet, you know.”

&nb
sp; “No, I didn’t really – ” Alfie’s protest was drowned out by the reaction of the others.

  “Well then, that’s all right,” said the vicar with relief. “Detective Sergeant Trotter will scarcely be a challenge after all those Shakespearean soliloquies.”

  “Such good news – Gussie is still looking after us,” said Rakesh Choudhury.

  “I’ll give you my prompter’s script,” said Liz.

  This could be the perfect distraction; one he couldn’t avoid without letting other people down. He would have to concentrate on learning his lines, and the rehearsals would take up time as well. Anything to block out thoughts of Vivian.

  “So, next rehearsal on Wednesday evening as planned?” said Marge.

  “Not at all – time is of the essence.” The contradiction came from an unexpected quarter – William Marlowe, now awake, and speaking firmly and decisively. “We’ve only got a few weeks left. Gussie’s nephew needs to see what we’ve been doing as soon as possible. We must have a rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.”

  “But William, tomorrow’s Sunday,” said the vicar.

  “It may be your one day of work, but you’re not conducting services non-stop. You can spare the time,” said William. “Right, everybody, two pm in the theatre for a couple of hours.”

  “We’re working as well,” said Henry Fairchild.

  “You’re working,” said Amelia. “I’m due some time off, remember?”

  William Marlowe waved a dismissive hand. “The prompter can read in for you, Henry.”

  Since everybody seemed to be raising objections, Alfie reckoned he could as well. “I really can’t direct and take part, especially when I won’t have learned my lines.”

  William Marlowe turned a gimlet gaze on him. “Well, of course you can’t, boy. Detective Sergeant Trotter doesn’t appear until well into Act One. We’ll rehearse up until then. And you get those lines learned as quickly as possible. Good. Class dismissed.”

  He stood up and began fumbling for his coat.

  The vicar, chuckling quietly, helped him into it. “That’s us off,” he said. “Goodnight, class. See you at two tomorrow.” As he passed Alfie, he said: “Very glad to have you here in Bunburry. You’ll be most welcome to come and worship with us tomorrow.”