Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

by David W Robinson

  “Can it wait, Joe? We’re a little tied up and we’re due on anytime now.”

  “Now.”

  His demanding tone prompted Lee Sissons to jump up. “Who the hell…”

  “Shut it, you dipstick,” Joe interrupted. “This isn’t one of your plays, and you’re not a former Lieutenant in the Supply Corps. Melanie, I need to speak to you now.”

  With a sigh, she ordered Sissons to sit down and accompanied Joe across the room to a quieter corner, where he went straight on the attack.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Reggie Grimshaw years ago?”

  Melanie’s face fell. “Because before he was killed, I didn’t think it was any of your business, and after he was killed, I knew that you knew I couldn’t have done it.” She sighed. “I did, however, tell the police.”

  “And it never occurred to them that you could have been using me to give you cover while you had an accomplice bumping him off?”

  “What?” Melanie gaped. “Is that what you believe?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Joe replied angrily. “And you, yourself pointed me at your own party this morning.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mean me. You’re being absurd, Joe. Listen to me; I had nothing to do with the murder of Reggie Grimshaw. And if you believe otherwise, then… then, just get the hell away from me.”

  Joe took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “Okay, okay. This is all going wrong. I didn’t mean it to be like this. I’m sorry. Let’s just rewind and start again, huh? Tell me how you knew Reggie.”

  “It goes back years,” Melanie replied. “I was in art college. They’d just opened the factory and they needed a kitchen designer. Gerry knew Wendy. They’d met at the Central School of Speech and Drama in London, when I was on placement as a set designer at the Nottingham Playhouse.”

  “He told me about that. But he said you asked him about the murder mystery set up.”

  “That was later,” Melanie admitted. “Anyway, he recommended me to the Grimshaws and I got the job. It didn’t pay much, but it was work and it allowed me to develop my skills as a commercial artist. I was with them for two years. Then I was offered a permanent post in Nottingham as the assistant set designer. It was more in tune with what I wanted, so I took it. That’s also where I took acting lessons, by the way. At the time, the rights to the Grimshaw Kitchens designs were mine, and I got a small commission on every sale they made.”

  “The same way you want to use the rights to my casebooks?”

  “That’s right. When I cut out, I sold them outright to the Grimshaws for a few thousand pounds. There’s nothing underhanded about this, Joe. That deal put money in my bank account and helped me buy my first flat in Nottingham. Anyway, a few years later, Gerry was back in Nottingham, and we met up again, and that’s when I came up with the idea of Markham Murder Mysteries. We needed money to finance it. Actors had to be hired, and they had to be paid for rehearsals so we had to get out there and sell the idea to venues like this, and we needed the plots and the props. It wasn’t cheap. So I went back to the Grimshaws and asked if they would pay me more for the designs. You must understand, Joe, that two thousand pounds, although it was a lot of money at the time, was nothing at the side of the money Grimshaw Kitchens made from those designs.”

  “And I’ll bet Grimshaw told you where to go.”

  She nodded. “And how. Oh, I lost my rag, all right. Told him he hadn’t heard the last of it, but of course, he had. He was within his rights and I couldn’t do a thing about it.”

  “So how did you finance Markham Murder Mysteries?”

  “The same as everyone financed everything back in the nineties, Joe. I borrowed against my flat. I’m still paying for it. Markham Murder Mysteries does well, but we don’t make huge profits because the company, as a company, owes me so much.” She smiled wanly. “I may break even by the time I retire.”

  Joe tossed the information around for several minutes. “If the Midland Kitchens deal had gone through, would it make any difference to you?”

  “Yes and no. It would mean that I could approach them and pressure them into paying me for the designs. But that doesn’t mean I would get any further with them than I did with the Grimshaws, and I certainly wouldn’t murder Reggie to find out.”

  Feeling rather foolish, Joe took her hand. “I’m sorry, I only found out about twenty minutes ago, and I had the idea you had been using me.”

  “So you don’t think I’m a suspect any longer?”

  “The story as you tell it could make you a suspect in the murder of Reggie, but it wouldn’t account for Naomi. I take it you didn’t know her?”

  Melanie shook her head. “Never met her until Reggie introduced us on Friday night.”

  Joe frowned. “She is the bugbear, you know. There are plenty of people here with a motive for getting rid of Reggie. He was, by all accounts, a complete dictator, and disliked by many people. But Naomi is different. The only one who admits to not liking her is Kendrew… well, Wendy didn’t care for her, either, but she didn’t care for salespeople as a breed.”

  “She’s not alone, and you are absolutely right about Reggie. He was always more concerned with money than people, like so many big business concerns these days, and I’m not entirely happy it’s the right approach.” In an obvious attempt at amelioration, Melanie went on, “Brenda and Sheila appear to be very happy working for you, Joe.”

  “And they should be,” he laughed. “They’ve got the easiest job in the world, working for the friendliest boss.” He stood up. “I’d better get through for lunch. I’ll catch you later.”

  Carrying the new information in his head, Joe made his way through the dining room, where he collected cold cuts and a few vegetables from the carvery, and joined his two companions.

  “Where is Fliss?” he asked. “I told her she should sit with us for lunch and at dinner tonight.”

  “Gone to bed,” Sheila told him. “Poor girl is under terrible stress.”

  “And it’s just as well,” Brenda said, chewing through a lettuce leaf. “We have news for you.”

  “News?”

  “It may open your eyes a little,” Brenda promised.

  “You’re going to tell me that Melanie knew Reggie years ago? Forget it, I already know.”

  Sheila was surprised. “Did she? We didn’t know that. No, Joe, we have something much more devious to tell you.”

  While he ate, Joe listened to them. When they got to their conclusion, he gaped. Once the final message had firmly sunk in, he took out his mobile, dialled Chief Inspector Grant and made arrangements to go to the police station later in the afternoon.

  At the front of the room, the Markham Murder Mysteries players were taking their places. Joe fished into his gilet for his notebook and pen and arranged them alongside his plate.

  Almost on cue, Melanie appeared.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll not dwell on any of the terrible events taking place around us. Instead, I’ll let Inspector O’Keefe and the cast of Haliwell’s Heroes lead us straight into the next scene.”

  The lights at the front came up.

  ***

  On the board at O’Keefe’s shoulder, the tissue had been removed from the photographs, and they now showed Zara Lucescu’s body, a fine weal around her neck, from several angles.

  “Dr Wilson,” O’Keefe began, “at my request, you examined the body of Countess Lucescu. Would you mind repeating your conclusions, for the benefit of everyone else?”

  “Of course.” Valerie Wilson left her seat and moved to the other side of the display board where she pointed to the weal around Zara’s neck. “The ligature marks indicate that the countess was strangled by the cable on the bedside table lamp.” She pointed to a second photograph which showed the lamp and its braided, rayon flex in close up. “Madame Lucescu’s face was pale, her lips blue, a state known as cyanosis which is caused by lack of oxygen, while the rest of her body was livid. These are classic sign
s of manual strangulation. Rigor mortis had set in, so I conclude that the murder must have been carried out sometime during the night.” She directed everyone’s attention to photographs of the room in general. “Note the signs of a struggle. The lamp was found on the floor, quite close to the countess’ body, and pieces of furniture have been overturned. One can only conclude that Madame Lucescu fought quite bravely against her attacker, but he was too powerful for her.”

  “And you therefore assume it is a man?” O’Keefe asked.

  “I know I did not kill Zara, and I believe Miss Theresa and Mrs Sadie Haliwell would not have the physical strength to overcome the countess. I therefore conclude that it was either Mr Crenshaw or Mr McLintock.”

  Both men protested loudly, but O’Keefe silenced them with an upraised finger.

  “I notice she’s leaving her damned husband out of it,” McLintock protested.

  “That will do, Mr McLintock,” O’Keefe replied. “I appreciate your concerns, but Dr Wilson has vouched for her husband, and I am in possession of other information which may have a bearing on the identity of Madame Lucescu’s killer.”

  “Such as what?” Crenshaw demanded.

  “I’m coming to that, sir.” The inspector took out his pocketbook and thumbed through the pages. “Now, you will all recall that after the death of the colonel, the countess asked to speak to me in private. During that conversation, she imparted certain facts to me. Facts which I have subsequently ascertained to be true. She was not a Romanian countess. She was not even Romanian, but a British subject, and her real name was Sarah Lumley. She was, ladies and gentlemen, an agent of His Majesty’s Treasury.”

  The announcement was greeted with gasps from the table.

  “A treasury agent?” McLintock repeated. “But what the devil was she doing here?”

  “She had been working undercover for some months, sir, and having tricked her way into the colonel’s confidence, she was looking into his financial activities… and those of Mr Crenshaw and Captain Wilson, and you, Mr McLintock.”

  There was more bluster from those seated around the table.

  O’Keefe allowed it to settle. “And now, Ms Haliwell, I must ask you, how did your husband finance his business affairs after the war?”

  Sadie surged drunkenly. “I have absolutely no idea. He dabbled a little before the war, you know. Stocks, shares and so on. McLintock should know. His father dealt with all of Gregory’s investments.”

  “I specifically asked about his investments after the war, madam.”

  “Sorry,” Sadie replied. “Can’t help you.”

  “Are you suggesting my father was a crook?” Theresa demanded.

  “I’m suggesting nothing, miss,” O’Keefe replied, “But the countess was investigating his business activities.” O’Keefe cast his gaze on McLintock. “Sir?”

  “I can’t tell you much,” the young stockbroker admitted, “because quite frankly, I don’t know much, but the colonel approached me in 1946 with a large sum of money he wanted to spread over as many holdings as he could. He took some safe stock, some less safe, in an effort to balance his returns.”

  “How much is a large sum?” O’Keefe demanded.

  “A hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds.”

  More gasps came from the table.

  “Did he say where this money had come from, Mr McLintock?”

  “America,” McLintock replied promptly. “Apparently, while he was working with the Americans, on exercises in Devon, he received one or two excellent tips from the Yanks, and he dabbled with money over the course of the war from 1941 until early in ’46, then materialised all his holdings so he could bring them back here to Great Britain.” The stockbroker spread his hands almost apologetically. “All right, so maybe it wasn’t quite above board. You could argue that it was his patriotic duty to put his money into war bonds, but let’s face it, the colonel was already a hero. He’d done enough for this country, and he had a right to expect some return on it.”

  “Of course, sir,” O’Keefe agreed. “Did you actually see the transfer of funds from the USA?”

  “Yes, of course I did. Bearer bonds.”

  “Thank you, Mr McLintock. That is most enlightening.”

  Captain Wilson voiced his objections. “I don’t like the way you said that, Inspector. Are you insinuating that the colonel wasn’t telling the truth when he approached McLintock?”

  “I’m not insinuating anything, Captain. I’m saying he didn’t tell the truth. The truth, sir, lay under the rubble of Chateau Armand.” The inspector smiled. “A fortune in gold bullion which the Nazis had to leave behind when Colonel Haliwell and his team launched their assault on the chateau.”

  “Not that old chestnut,” Wilson snapped. “I warned Zara about that the other night. Take it from me, Inspector, there was no gold at Chateau Armand. I know.”

  “Zara, or Sarah, to call her by her correct name, knew otherwise, Captain. There was a considerable amount of gold at the chateau. Its value was estimated at £150,000. And that, ladies and gentlemen, leaves us with a problem. If Colonel Haliwell had £125,000 to play with, who got the other £25,000?”

  ***

  The lights dimmed, applause broke out and Melanie took the front of the dining room again.

  “There is one final scene, ladies and gentlemen, to be played this evening, before dinner. After that, it will be time for you to present your written solutions and the complete answer will be given to you at breakfast tomorrow morning. For now, Inspector O’Keefe and the cast will be around the hotel for the remainder of the day, and as an extra incentive, there is another murder weapon hidden somewhere in the hotel or its grounds. Study the photographs carefully and they will give you a clue as to where it is and what it is.”

  As the room dissolved into chatter, Melanie made her way across to Joe. “A word?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He pocketed his notebook and acknowledging Brenda’s sly grin with a wince, followed Melanie to the front of the room.

  “I spoke to Gerry earlier,” she announced. “Normally, he delivers the solution. However, he’s happy to stand to one side tomorrow morning, and we’d like you to deliver it.”

  “I, er, oh…” Joe felt his cheeks burning. “Come on, Melanie. I’m no performer.”

  She smiled coyly. “I wouldn’t say that.” More seriously she urged him, “You are so close to the solution that it’s incredible, and we’ll give you the full written solution to fill in any gaps. And you keep telling me you’re the DJ for your club discos.”

  “I… Oh, all right then, but if I bugger it up, it’s your fault.”

  She beamed. “That’s great. I’ll announce after breakfast tomorrow. Oh, did you, er, book the table for tonight.”

  Joe blushed again. “Hell. I’m sorry. With the two real murders and all the running around…” he trailed off lamely.

  “It’s no problem,” Melanie let him off. “Why don’t we just have dinner together here. In the restaurant next door?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get off down to the cop shop.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  On the way there by taxi, Joe rehearsed his approach. Grant, he knew, would be amenable. Idleman would not. The new found knowledge he had gleaned from his best friends would persuade her.

  To Joe’s surprise, the taxi driver did not make for the city centre, but instead, turned north along the inner ring road.

  “Too many bleed’n’ blocked off streets, guv,” said the driver. “Only about a mile, but you gotta give a bitta ground afore you can make any.”

  Driving through suburban Lincoln, it would take less than five minutes to get to the police station. January 1st. New Year’s Day, and while the town might be busy with drinkers and diners, the side roads were devoid of traffic. Joe could imagine the scenes in the cottages, bungalows and rambling detached houses they passed along the way. Parties, get-togethers which would run on until late night/early morning as famil
ies reminisced about the year just past and prepared for the one to come. He and his friends would engage in the same way, but not until they returned to Sanford tomorrow.

  When the driver turned south again, towards the city centre, Joe caught a fleeting glimpse of Lincoln Castle, its hilltop location overlooking its domain, and he remembered it had been one of the places on their itinerary, one of the places scratched thanks to the actions of a person or persons, as yet unknown, who had tried to solve problems the wrong way.

  The police station, sited just outside the city centre, off the western ring road, had an air of function about it. A long, low rise building, sitting well with its surroundings, but with an air of austerity as if warning callers off.

  Announcing himself in reception, he was shown to the open plan CID room, where only a few officers were on shift, and into Grant’s small enclave, partitioned off in one corner, and there, as he had anticipated, Sergeant Idleman voiced her immediate objection.

  “Sir, Kendrew is under caution, and we should not let members of the public see or speak to him. It may jeopardise our case against him.”

  Having listened to Joe, Grant disagreed. “Our job is as much to protect the innocent as it is to prosecute the guilty, Sergeant, and so far we haven’t had any luck trying to draw Kendrew out.” For Joe’s benefit, he added, “He’s said nothing to us other than he’s innocent. That’s all we get out of him. He won’t even tell us why he went to Naomi’s room this morning, and he hasn’t even asked for a solicitor.”

  “I think he may be telling the truth, Phil, when he says he’s innocent, and I know why he went to her room. It’s the reason he’s saying nothing,” Joe pointed out, much to the dismay of the sergeant, “but I need to confront him with the things I think I know.”

  “You think you know?” Idleman protested. “You mean you’re not certain?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant. I think I know. Ten minutes with Kendrew will prove it one way or the other. And you two will be sat in with us, so you know I won’t be screwing around with your case.”

  At length, despite Idleman’s continued reservations and Joe’s refusal to divulge his information, Grant ruled that the meeting would be allowed, and the two police officers led Joe along the ground floor to a large interview room where Kendrew was already waiting with a uniformed constable in attendance.