Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap

by Helena Marchmont

  A murderous vicar. It was a fascinating prospect. “What other motives could there be?” asked Alfie.

  “Anthony has a motive, obviously,” said Marge. “He and James would have shared the inheritance from Rose, and with James out of the way, he gets the lot.”

  “He’s such a kind boy that he’d probably be happy with Rose’s bequest to the church, and give them more besides,” said Liz.

  “A kind murderer,” mused Alfie. “Interesting. Anyone else?”

  “Oh, Liz!” exclaimed Marge, making Alfie and Liz jump. “Remember what I saw? In Cheltenham?”

  Liz frowned at her. “That’s just a bit of gossip, dear.”

  “Nonsense. It could be very significant. We’re trying to solve a crime here, aren’t we?”

  Liz sighed. “We don’t even know there’s been a crime.”

  “We’re trying to solve a hypothetical crime. And what if that leads us to uncovering a real crime? Surely we owe it to James.” Marge’s eyes were sparkling behind her oversized glasses. “Alfie, you’ll never guess what I saw.”

  “I don’t imagine I will,” said Alfie, smiling. “Not even if you give me three guesses. Perhaps you should just tell me.”

  “Well,” began Marge, “I had gone to Cheltenham to donate Gussie’s books to the charity shop.”

  Alfie nodded. “I’ve heard about the books,” he said. “I’m sure they’ve made a lot of people very happy.”

  “That’s Cheltenham for you,” said Liz primly.

  “Exactly,” said Marge. “You can get away with things in Cheltenham that would be frowned on in Bunburry. Like being in a torrid embrace with James Fry.”

  Liz tutted. “Gossip,” she repeated.

  “A possible clue,” insisted Marge. “Alfie, he was with Amelia Fairchild. And there was no mistaking what was going on. They were so preoccupied with one another, they didn’t even notice me.”

  Ah, so Amelia was protesting too much earlier. His encounter with her at Frank’s Bridge – she had definitely been on edge. The unstable behaviour of a woman who had just killed her lover? No wonder she had reacted so badly when he asked her how well she knew James Fry – she would be desperate to conceal any link with him, oblivious that Marge had spotted them together. And yet …

  “If they were having an affair, why would she want to murder him?” asked Alfie.

  “Were is the operative word,” said Marge. “We suspected something might be going on, although we weren’t sure. And then suddenly they couldn’t say a civil word to one another. I think he dumped her. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  “That’s not quite the quote, dear,” said Liz. “People are always getting it wrong. It’s actually ‘nor hell a fury like a woman scorned’.”

  “The sentiment remains the same,” said Marge.

  Attempting to unmask a murderer could be an interesting new challenge for his skill. As Alfie had begun developing his start-up company, demonstrating proof of concept, seeking business angels, hiring staff, he gradually realised that he could sense when somebody was lying. He tried to analyse how he could tell. The way they spoke? Body language? A combination of the two? It remained elusive, but he was proved right over and over again. It enabled him to hire the best staff and do the best deals, and was crucial to his rapid success.

  It became second nature to apply it to the other areas of his life as well. There had been that day Vivian returned home mid-afternoon.

  “Enjoy your lunch with Lynne?” Alfie had asked.

  Vivian busied herself with her handbag, not looking at him. “Yes, it was nice to catch up with her.”

  “Oh dear,” said Alfie, leaning back in his armchair with a heavy sigh. “Being a little economical with the truth, aren’t you, my darling? Where were you really? It’s all right, you can tell me.”

  The handbag fell to the floor. “Alfie McAlister!” Vivian exploded. “I swear, you’re the most aggravating man on the planet! It’s like living with a human lie detector.”

  “And? Where were you?”

  “It so happens that I went to organise a surprise for your birthday. And since you’re being such a pain, tomorrow I’ll go back and cancel it.”

  “Another lie!” said Alfie in triumph.

  She was laughing now, despite herself. “If I don’t cancel it, it’s only because I’m so nice. God, you make it absolutely impossible for me to lead a double life. Remind me never to cheat on you.”

  “I can do that,” said Alfie. He went over to her, gently pulled her to her feet, and kissed her.

  “Mmm,” she whispered when he eventually released her, “that was a pretty good reminder.” She twined her arms round his neck. “But my memory’s dreadful. You’re going to have to remind me some more.”

  The old-fashioned ding-dong of a doorbell dragged him back to the present. He wasn’t at home with Vivian. He was in Bunburry with Liz and Marge.

  “Oh good,” said Liz, getting up. “Now we can begin supper.”

  She left the room and returned moments later with her great-niece. He hadn’t known Emma would be here. She obviously hadn’t known he would be here either, but whether she was pleased or not, he couldn’t tell.

  They were introduced properly over home-made steak pie in Jasmine Cottage’s tiny dining room.

  “Emma is actually Police Constable Hollis,” said Liz, not even attempting to conceal her pride.

  Alfie didn’t have to pretend to be impressed. “Here in Bunburry?”

  She nodded.

  “I would have thought Bunburry was far too law-abiding to need a police presence,” said Alfie.

  “It actually requires two of us, me and the sarge,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t believe the things that go on here. For example, we mounted a surveillance exercise on the charity shop following a tip-off that a haul of a very unsavoury books was about to arrive.”

  “I heard the gang diverted the goods to Cheltenham,” said Alfie.

  “Our colleague there is dealing with it, but we’re prepared to provide back-up if necessary,” said Emma. “I’m afraid my job really isn’t all that exciting. Mostly RTAs.”

  Alfie raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Road traffic accidents,” she explained. “The roads round here are so narrow – tourists misjudge things, and locals who should know better take risks.”

  “Oh, Alfie, I’m sorry, this is a difficult subject for you,” said Liz.

  Alfie mustered a smile. “No, it’s okay.”

  Emma was looking both confused and concerned.

  “Alfie’s grandparents,” said Marge. “They were killed in a car crash just outside the village.”

  “It’s okay,” Alfie repeated, sounding more convincing this time. “Really. It was a long time ago.”

  “We all knew it wasn’t your grandfather’s fault,” said Marge. “The whole case was a travesty of justice.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Alfie. “What case?”

  Marge’s eyes widened, magnified by her spectacles. “You don’t know about the case? Your mother didn’t tell you?”

  His mother had told him there had been an accident, but that was all. She hadn’t even let him go to the funeral, leaving him with a neighbour for the day. She came home pale and red-eyed, and rarely mentioned his grandparents again. He didn’t mention them either, for fear of upsetting her. Some time later, she told him the cottage had been sold, and her inheritance let them move into a slightly better flat.

  “I don’t know anything about a case,” he said.

  “Liz?” said Marge quietly. “I dare say you can remember all the details?”

  Liz nodded. “It was a teenager from London, down visiting relatives. He’d passed his driving test the day before.”

  Alfie heard Emma exhale sharply, but he gave no reaction himself.

  “It
was a head-on crash. The driver was charged with causing death by reckless driving. But his family hired a top QC and he got off.”

  “Surely there was evidence of how the crash happened?” asked Alfie as though he was discussing some abstract problem. “Couldn’t the police tell who was responsible?”

  “Oh yes,” said Liz. “I was there with Gussie for all three days of the trial. The police were quite clear the boy was to blame, as was the pathologist.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Alfie. “How did he get off?”

  Liz sighed. “An impressionable jury. An ingenious defence barrister. And Charlie Tennison as the only living eye-witness.”

  “Charlie Tennison?” Alfie was aware his voice was far too loud.

  “You know him?”

  “Scarcely. I don’t move in those circles. I know about him, but who doesn’t? So with all the evidence against him, how did the boy get off?” He could see that Liz was uncomfortable, but he persisted. “Please.”

  “There were character witnesses. One of his masters from Eton. And a vicar. They said what a highly-regarded, upright young man he was.”

  Marge was rocking at speed now. “His father paid them to say it, I’m sure of it. Or intimidated them into it. That jury was so gullible.”

  Alfie noted that Liz didn’t contradict her.

  “I’m afraid he came over very well,” she said. “He was very tearful. He said there was nothing he could do to avoid the crash – your grandparents’ car had been on the wrong side of the road, and he had tried to swerve but there wasn’t enough room. He said his heart went out to your family, and he was sure it had just been a moment’s inattention. Between him and his barrister, the jury was left with the clear impression that your grandfather was a doddery old fool who should have had his licence taken away years ago.”

  His vigorous, energetic grandfather, eyesight and reflexes as keen as they had ever been. His practical, capable grandmother – his mother’s parents, dead because of a reckless boy racer. He didn’t have to ask Liz how Aunt Augusta had reacted to Charlie Tennison’s crocodile tears.

  Emma was looking at him with undisguised sympathy. He detested being an object of pity. But he noted that this was the first time her attitude towards him had been clear.

  “Anyway, a long time ago,” he said again. “This is an excellent steak pie.”

  “We like to make sure Emma eats properly at least once a week,” said Marge. “Otherwise she exists on crisps and chocolate.”

  “Chocolate’s a bean and potatoes are vegetables, so that’s two of my five a day,” said Emma.

  He was grateful that they were happy to let him change the subject and keep the conversation light. But Alfie sensed that Marge’s attention wasn’t fully on what was being said. Over dessert, she suddenly asked Emma: “Are you involved in investigating what happened to James Fry?”

  “Marge, dear, Emma keeps telling you she’s not a detective.”

  “Just a bog-standard uniformed plod,” said Emma. “I actually asked the sarge the other day if there was going to be an investigation.” She put on a gruff baritone. “Trying to create work for others, Hollis? Time on your hands? I can remedy that in an instant. What’s to investigate? Bloke up ladder, rainy night, bloke slips on ladder, end of. End of him, at any rate. Now get on with your paperwork.”

  Alfie laughed but Liz tutted. “Your sergeant turns laziness into an art form.”

  “He’s all right,” said Emma. “Just so long as I don’t get between him and his pint.”

  “So in your professional opinion, there’s something odd about James Fry’s death?” asked Alfie.

  “I don’t know. Not on the face of it.”

  “Policewoman’s intuition?”

  She gazed at him coolly and he wondered if the word “policewoman” was now politically incorrect.

  “If the police aren’t investigating it, we are,” announced Marge.

  “In a hypothetical way,” said Alfie quickly as Emma seemed about to speak. “An intellectual exercise. Like a 3D jigsaw. Motive, opportunity, that sort of thing. Liz and Marge were going to apply the expertise they’ve developed from watching box sets.”

  He was aware he was babbling and equally aware that he was babbling in order to convince Emma of the innocence of the plan. He didn’t want her insisting that this was a matter for the authorities and they must have nothing to do with it. She couldn’t stop them, but Liz would probably refuse to participate in a scheme vetoed by her great-niece.

  “In fact,” he said with a guileless smile, “even if you can’t investigate officially, might you be able to do some unofficial investigating? Just to help us?”

  “Emma, that would be marvellous,” said Marge. “You could pass on any little snippets. Couldn’t she, Liz?”

  “I make it a rule not to interfere with my great-niece’s professional role in any way,” said Liz firmly.

  “You’re not interfering at all, Aunt Liz,” said Emma. “This sounds interesting. I can’t promise anything, but the sarge is away on a course tomorrow and I might have some time to spare.”

  She was less po-faced than he had thought. As the evening drew to a natural close, he said: “Would you be free for a drink some time?”

  That cool appraisal again. “Could be.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night?”

  “That would work. With the sarge away, I should finish my shift on time for once. I’ll text you when I’m clear. See you in the Horse?”

  As he exchanged numbers with her, Alfie saw Liz and Marge glance at one another. He was pretty sure they thought he was asking Emma on a date, and they clearly approved of the idea.

  Emma and Alfie left Jasmine Cottage together, but if there was any twitching of lace curtains, the ladies would have seen him hold open the white wooden gate for Emma, follow her down the three stone steps and then head off in the opposite direction without even leaving a chaste kiss on her cheek. They would just have to be disappointed, he thought.

  He prepared for the first night in his new home, wishing he could feel the friendly presence of Aunt Augusta watching over him. He would have to make do with the living. He went to the old-fashioned phone on the bedside table and dialled Oscar’s number.

  “De Linnet household. Lane the butler – ”

  “Oscar.”

  “Alfie. What’s the matter?”

  “Charlie Tennison. Do you know him?”

  “Teflon Tennison? Of course I know him. That’s why I avoid him at every opportunity. And I advise you to do the same. How on earth have you – ”

  “Just tell me about him.”

  “My poor boy, do you never read the gossip columns? Currently on his fourth supermodel wife, will become Lord Caversham when his aged parent finally shuffles off this mortal coil, property tycoon, finest stable of racing cars in the country.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What do you think of him?”

  “I think he’s a loathsome, devious crook, and I’m an excellent judge of character. The master of the dodgy deal but whenever there’s any sort of investigation, nothing sticks to Teflon Tennison. He’s not involved in this murder of yours, is he?”

  “He was responsible for the crash that killed my grandparents,” said Alfie tonelessly.

  There was complete silence on the line. Then Oscar murmured: “The crash. I remember hearing the stories. Old Caversham bought him an Aston Martin V8 to celebrate him passing his test. He must have gone down to the Cotswolds to show it off to the Savile cousins. He was up in court because people had been killed, but he was acquitted. I had no idea it was your grandparents.”

  “No reason why you would know. My grandparents were just an unfortunate elderly couple from a small village. Their names don’t merit recording in the gossip columns.”

  “Alfie. Come back to London. I can’t bear to thin
k of you alone down there in that godforsaken hole. Come back and we’ll paint the town a fetching shade of magenta.”

  He was alone wherever he was. Aloud, he said: “Let me finish undercoating Bunburry first.”

  6. A Country Walk

  “Hey, Al!”

  Alfie didn’t register the call until the sound of running feet and a shout of “Al! Wait up!” reminded him that Betty had renamed him.

  “Out for a walk?” she asked when she caught up with him.

  “As you see.” Alfie displayed the waxed jacket and walking boots he had just bought in Bunburry’s outdoors shop.

  “Quite the country gentleman,” she said. “All you need is a deerstalker and plus-fours to complete the look.”

  He had been pleased with his purchases. “What’s wrong with my look?” he demanded.

  “You look like a model in a catalogue. Cute but impractical.”

  “Please, don’t hold back on my account, just say what you think,” said Alfie.

  “Cute, impractical and sensitive. A winning combination. I’m out for a walk too, and was going to ask if you wanted to tag along, but I wouldn’t want those lovely new boots of yours to get mussed up.”

  “And I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of the pleasure of my company. My boots will have to take their chances. Where are we going?”

  She looked up at the sky and studied the scudding clouds. “A shower or two at worst. Wildshaw Woods, okay?”

  He had been to Wildshaw Woods many times as a boy but never for a walk. The woods had been a source of delicious terror. Everybody, or at least everybody under the age of ten, knew that the woods were haunted. It was a trial of bravery to go into them unaccompanied. They would huddle in a group at the edge and then go in one by one. When Alfie’s turn came, he would pray his air of nonchalance disguised his agitation as he headed into the gloom. At any moment, a menacing branch might hurtle towards his unprotected back, or a terrifying figure might leap out screeching from behind a tree. Knowing it was going to happen, and that Andrew Henderson and Kevin Fletcher would be responsible, didn’t help. Even now, in the safety of Bunburry High Street, he gave a reminiscent shudder.