Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  The kitchen salesman shook his head. “Don’t bother with your warrants. I’ve nothing to hide. Shall we go up now?”

  ***

  “What is with you, Joe?” Sheila asked. “Why so glum?”

  “Leave him alone, Sheila,” Brenda suggested. “He’s probably fed up that we’ve left a murder behind at the hotel and made him go shopping.”

  Following them through the Lincoln branches of famous names of the High Street, Joe could have confessed that Brenda was right, except that she wasn’t. He was more than happy to leave the investigating to the police, but there was something nagging away at the back of his agile mind, and it would not make its way to the front.

  The key, he knew, was to think about something else. Let his mind wander off along more pleasant routes and it would come naturally to him. But he did not consider shopping with Sheila and Brenda to be a pleasant distraction. He enjoyed their company, but not their habit of passing hours ambling from shop to shop, only to return to their start point where they bought the goods (usually clothing) that took their fancy.

  “And I don’t know why you bother,” he had griped when they came out of British Home Stores empty-handed. “It’s not like I give you enough time off to go anywhere in all this clothing you buy.”

  As far as Joe was concerned, visiting shop after shop after shop had only one advantage. It kept him out of the overcast and damp chill of the day. The streets of Lincoln city centre were crowded; far busier, Joe guessed, than a normal Saturday, but not as busy as they would have been the week before, on Christmas Eve.

  And yet, everyone had that same, indefatigable Christmassy cheer about them. They greeted total strangers, like Joe and his companions wishing them Happy New Year for no good reason other than they were there.

  “I wonder how they’d speak to me a fortnight next Wednesday,” Joe grunted as they passed on into Laura Ashley.

  “One of these days, Joe, you’ll wake up on Christmas morning and have a Scrooge-like epiphany,” Sheila promised. “You’ll open the curtains, then the window and shout down to a little boy asking what day is this.”

  “And then I’d give him a guinea to go to the butchers on Pontefract road and buy the biggest goose… Got it!” Joe snapped his fingers.

  Brenda smiled. “Well here’s hoping you didn’t catch if off Melanie Markham.”

  “No, you idiot. I mean I’ve got what was bothering me.” He dug into his pockets for his tobacco and mobile phone. “You two carry on. I’ll be outside having a smoke. I need to speak with Grant.”

  He stepped back out into the street and after wandering up and down for several minutes, eventually found a seat on a bench packed with people the same age as his club members. Rolling a cigarette, he jammed it between his lips and lit it, then dialled Grant’s number.

  After ringing out for a time, it eventually cut him off and directed him to Grant’s voicemail. He tried three more times before Grant finally answered.

  “I’m questioning a suspect,” Grant grumbled after Joe complained to him.

  “Yeah? Well, get this. The curtains in Grimshaw’s room were open. Do we know yet if his wife opened them?”

  “Can’t say as I’ve asked her. I told you earlier, I don’t think it’s important.”

  “It may just be, though,” Joe argued. “I don’t think Wendy opened them. I think the killer did. I think he opened the curtains, then the window and dropped the gun out. Get your people round to the side of the hotel. There are flowerbeds and planters and stuff all over the place. See if they can find the gun, or if not, possibly signs of one having been dropped there.”

  “Clever stuff,” Grant agreed. “And thanks, Joe. I’ll get someone onto it right away.”

  Joe cut the connection and dropped the phone back in his pocket feeling pleased with himself. All it took was that little distraction and Sheila prompting him.

  “I’ll buy them both afternoon tea,” he said to himself.

  But by the time his two companions emerged from the shop fifteen minutes later, carrying more purchases, the gloom had descended upon him again. Whatever it was that troubled him, it was not the open curtains and window of Grimshaw’s room.

  He took it out on the two women. “I think you only buy all this stuff because you want the brand name carrier bags.”

  “That’s right, Joe,” Brenda assured him. “We’re working our way up to really high quality carriers. C&A.”

  “Woolworths,” Sheila put in. “And the Famous Army Stores.”

  Brenda rounded off their taunts. “And a genuine, top of the range, Lazy Luncheonette.”

  “Signed by Joe Murray,” Sheila suggested.

  “Come on,” he ordered. “Let’s find somewhere for that cup of tea.”

  ***

  In a hastily arranged change of schedule, the Markham Murder Mysteries players took their places at the front of the dining room just after one o’clock.

  On the board behind the players, convincing photographs of the now deceased Kerry Dolman and her room, had been pinned up

  Standing before her audience, the first thing Melanie noticed was the absence of Joe and his two companions.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said into her microphone. “Because of the terrible events of this morning, the police have asked us to continue with our little drama, so what we’ve arranged is by way of a question and answer session. Inspector O’Keefe will question the suspects here in front of you all, and I will then throw the floor open to questions from you, our sleuths. I also hope you will forgive us, but some of the events in Haliwell’s Heroes mirror the awful crime which took place here last night. Unfortunately, we didn’t have sufficient time to change them.” She took a step back, and held out her right arm. “I give you, Haliwell’s Heroes.”

  There was a round of polite applause. Leaving the camera to Danielle McMahon, who had played Kerry, Melanie backed out of the dining room, into the lobby, where she collared Cliff Denshaw.

  “Do you have any idea where Mr Murray is? I wondered if he was still with the police.”

  “As far as I’m aware, madam, he and his two lady friends were going shopping in Lincoln.”

  “Ah. Right. I’d better not ring him, then. If you see him would you tell him I’ve been asking for him?”

  ***

  Inspector O’Keefe checked his notes. “It seems that Miss Dolman has been shot in the temple by a small calibre pistol. Do any of you own such a weapon?”

  “I have a Webley Mark IV,” Wilson volunteered. “Thirty-eight calibre. It’s my old service revolver.”

  “I see, sir,” said O’Keefe. “And do you have that pistol with you?”

  “Well, yes. It’s in my room.”

  O’Keefe looked suspiciously on the captain. “May I ask, sir, what possessed you to bring it with you?”

  “Well… well, when the colonel invited me, he told me old Mickey Crenshaw would be here, and I assumed it would be a regimental reunion. Good Lord, Inspector, I even have my mess dress in my room.”

  “I see. Would you like to fetch that pistol, sir?”

  Wilson appeared relieved at the request and hurried from the room to obey.

  “And you, Mr Crenshaw? Do you own such a revolver?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do, Inspector,” Crenshaw replied, “but it’s not here. It’s at home, and home is a hundred miles away. Birmingham.”

  O’Keefe paced irritably around the table. “What can you tell me about Miss Dolman?” he concentrated on the recently widowed Sadie. “Madam?”

  “I know nothing about the girl, Inspector,” Sadie replied. “Gregory had decided it was time to write his memoir, and he commissioned her to do the research and write it on his behalf. That is all I know.”

  “There’s no question, then, of a, er, liaison between the colonel and Miss Dolman?”

  O’Keefe’s provocative query produced a howl of protest from Theresa, the two men and Valerie Wilson.

  “Be quiet,” Sadie ordered
and silence fell at the table. “Do you all take me for a fool? I know all about Gregory and his dalliances. However, my husband was also a terrible snob, Inspector, and I doubt very much that he would have involved himself with a common librarian, which, as far as I’m aware, was Dolman’s calling before he appointed her.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Mrs Haliwell. We’re left, then, wondering about the motive for both killings. Why should anyone wish to murder the colonel and, more to the point, why would anyone wish to murder his biographer?”

  The door opened and a worried Captain Wilson burst in.

  “Well, sir?” O’Keefe asked.

  “It’s gone. My revolver is gone.”

  ***

  Sat at the rear of the room, Les Tanner, Sylvia Goodson, and Julia and Alec Staines applauded as enthusiastically as anyone.

  “We could do with Joe here,” Alec said.

  “If Murray can work it out, I’m sure we can,” Tanner objected. “I must say, their research is good.”

  “Really, Les?” Julia asked.

  “Hmm, yes. The Webley thirty-eight was one of two variants carried by British Officers in World War Two. And that Captain Wilson spoke of mess dress. Spot on. A lot of people would refer to it as number one or number two dress, but its proper name is mess dress and it’s different to numbers one and two. Short, cutaway jacket.”

  At the front of the room Melanie took the microphone. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Inspector O’Keefe and the dinner guests are open to your questions.”

  Tanner stood immediately. “Captain Wilson, may I ask was your revolver loaded?”

  “Yes,” Wilson replied. “But the ammunition was old. Left over from the war. I doubt that it would have fired.”

  “Who else had access to your room?” Alec Staines demanded.

  “I don’t know. No one, I suppose, but someone must have been in there to steal the revolver.”

  “If I may venture at this point,” O’Keefe interrupted. “If anyone should find the revolver, would they hand it to me, please. There is a reward for its discovery.”

  From across the room, Owen Frickley pointed to the board with photographs of the dead woman. “Inspector, who opened the window in Kerry Dolman’s room?”

  “It was open when we entered the room, sir. Forensic did check it for fingerprints, but the only ones found on it were Miss Dolman’s. We assume the lady preferred fresh air.”

  “Is that significant, do you think?” Julia muttered to the table. “I mean it’s bloody freezing outside.”

  “Yes, Julia, but remember this is a play, and we were told that it’s set in 1950,” Sylvia reminded her. “But we don’t know the time of year.”

  “Ah. Right. Sorry. Forgot.”

  Alec stood up again. “Inspector, earlier on, Countess Lucescu asked to speak to you in private. Could you tell us what was said in that discussion?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t divulge the nature of the information. I can, however, say that Madam Lucescu is not a suspect.”

  The question and answer session went on for a further twenty minutes, during which time, Les Tanner made copious notes, the Staineses only a few. Eventually, Melanie took centre stage again, and called the session to a close.

  “The video recording of this scene and the questioning of Inspector O’Keefe will continue to run for the rest of the afternoon, to let you seek any pointers. Finally, may I just say that the reward for finding the revolver, as mentioned by Inspector O’Keefe, will be a bottle of champagne.”

  While the rest of the room applauded, two tables in front of the Sanford 3rd Age Club members, Robbie Kendrew, jumped to his feet and marched out.

  ***

  Kendrew stood at the Twin Spires’ entrance chain smoking, and chewing spit on his grievances, made worse, according to him, by the suspicion that he was a murderer.

  “I’m one of those fools who would never hurt a fly,” he protested to Gerry Carlin and Billy Norman.

  “I’m sure they’ll clear you eventually,” Billy said in an effort to soothe the younger man’s irritation.

  “To do that, they have to find who really shot Reggie. And this isn’t one of your damned plays. This is for real.”

  “Buggered up our entire schedule,” Gerry said. “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me. Things to do, you know.”

  To Kendrew’s surprise, Gerry did not go back into the hotel, but stepped out into the grounds and moved to the right hand side of the hotel. “I thought the cops had banned us all from going out there.”

  “Special dispensation, old flower,” Billy replied. He laughed. “Shouldn’t really be telling you, but we have things we must do outside.” He crushed out his cigarette. “Catch you later.”

  ***

  It was turned two when Joe settled into a side seat at the front of the service bus running on a circular route from Lincoln City Centre up around the Minster and back down again.

  “We could have walked it in twenty minutes,” he grumbled as he paid their fares.

  “Up that hill?” Sheila asked. “Carrying all this?” Sat with Brenda on the double seat adjacent Joe, she gave a passing nod to her own carrier bags and those of her best friend.

  “Sherpa Tensing made it up Everest carrying more than that,” Joe pointed out.

  “That’s because there were no buses running up Everest,” Brenda riposted.

  The bus driver pulled away and the vehicle roared along the inner ring road, turning left up the steep hill on the A15.

  After the two women had finished their shopping, Joe treated them to tea and scones in one of the many cafes around the High Street before boarding the bus. He was glad to be on their way back to the hotel, and he had a sneaking suspicion that the same applied to his two friends. Events at the Twin Spires, and Sheila’s overnight illness had taken the edge off their normal gusto for retail therapy.

  “So, have you worked out what’s nagging you, Joe?” Sheila asked as the bus plodded up the hill away from the city centre.

  He shook his head. “As usual it’s something tiny, and insignificant. It’ll come to me before the weekend is out. I’m sure it will.”

  “Is it about the real killing or the pretend one?” Brenda asked.

  Joe studied her cherubic features. She appeared deadly serious, but the slightest twitch to the corner of her mouth gave her away.

  “I told you, I’ve already solved the murder mystery weekend. And I’m not wrong. No, no. It’s the real thing. There’s something… but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “I bet you managed to put your finger on it last night.”

  Joe fumed. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

  “I think we’re surprised, Joe,” Sheila said. “It’s so unlike you.”

  “So what do you think I’ve been doing since Alison left?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Sheila retorted, “and quite frankly, I don’t want to know.”

  “Whereas I’d love all the gory details, Joe.” The twinkle was back in Brenda’s eye.

  He shook his head, glaring comic defiance at her. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

  “No. You probably kiss, steal their purse and run like hell.”

  Ten minutes later, back at the hotel, Joe spotted Gerry Carlin making his way from the side of the building to joined Billy Norman near the entrance, where he lit a cigarette. Puzzled, Joe nodded to the men as he passed, and left the two women to retire to their room while he sought out Chief Inspector Grant.

  “Sorry, Joe, but you were wrong. We checked the outside, under Grimshaw’s window, and there was no sign of the weapon.”

  “Me? Wrong?” Joe grinned “It has been known to happen.” More seriously, he asked, “So you’re no further forward.”

  Grant shook his head. “Chief suspect is definitely young Kendrew, but we don’t actually have anything on him, so we’re keeping an open mind.”

  “Searched his room?”

  “Clean,” Grant confessed
. “It would help if we could find the weapon. These acting bods have one, but we’ve looked at it. Movie gun. Barrel isn’t even drilled out. It can fire blanks, but nothing else.”

  “Oh, hey, talking of the drama group, I thought you’d banned everyone from wandering around the grounds, except for the car park. Only I’ve just seen one of them coming from that side of the building.” He pointed to the left.

  “I gave them permission, Joe. It’s part of the act.”

  “Oh.” Joe grinned. “But you’re not gonna say what?”

  Grant grinned back. “No. I swore I wouldn’t. It’s up to you master sleuths to work it out.”

  “Well, if there’s anything else I can do to help, let me know.”

  “There is,” Grant admitted. “Look, it’s New Year’s Eve, Joe, and we’re all going home shortly. I’d appreciate it if you just keep your eyes open and ear to the ground. We’re all supposed to be off tomorrow, but you have my number if anything turns up.”

  Joe felt gratified by the request. “You can count on me.”

  Still puzzled by Gerry’s actions and the overall planning of the drama, Joe made his way into the dining room. The crowd had thinned out considerably, and he guessed the police were nearing the end of the interview process. The players, minus Gerry and Billy, were seated in a group to his left. Les Tanner, Sylvia Goodson and the Staineses still occupied their table at the back of the room and were arguing quietly over something. The fictitious murder mystery, Joe guessed. In front of them Robbie and Fliss Kendrew were deep in debate, and over to the right, Naomi Barton sat with other members of the Grimshaw party. Wendy Grimshaw was noticeable by her absence and as Joe walked in, Owen Frickley and George Robson made their way out, giving their chairman a nod of greeting as they passed.

  Joe joined Tanner, Sylvia and the Staineses.

  “Girls took you shopping, did they, Joe?” Julia asked.

  He nodded, one eye firmly on the TV screens. “Anything happen here?”

  “Tons of stuff,” Alec replied, “but most of it in the play, not in real life.”