THE SUPPER CLUB MURDERS a gripping murder mystery packed with twists (Smart Woman's Mystery Book 3)

by VICTORIA DOWD

  ‘Ah-ha!’ the manic face shouted out into the stunned room. ‘Got you, you buggers!’ A sense of unrestrained glee radiated from the man. He held his arms out rigid on either side as if soaking up the adulation. There was none.

  I felt a sharp pain stab right through my chest, the blood all rushing into the centre of me in great surges.

  He had a thin trickle of carefully applied blood down one side of his chin. The dark stains that pierced his light-coloured jacket were mirrored on the front as well.

  Marsha was nearest to him but hadn’t moved. She didn’t make a sound but watched him with incisive eyes.

  He gave her a bold look in return. ‘Not dead yet, m’dear!’

  Everyone else was frozen in position, scared to burst this moment’s bubble. We all just stared in horrified silence.

  When Marsha spoke, each word was meticulous and cold. ‘So it would appear.’

  She took a sharp breath. ‘Ladies, this fine specimen is my husband. Lord Elzevir Black.’

  Aunt Charlotte was making strange, blustering noises, barely able to hold in her obvious rising anger. ‘What the hell are you playing at, man? You could have scared us to death.’

  Mother looked as though he had, her face the colour of curdled milk. She held her hand to her chest, as if struggling to hold everything in there. ‘I can’t . . .’ She trailed off. Her other hand gripped mine tight.

  A cool voice brought another shockwave to the room. ‘Miss Morello said Your Ladyship required my presence as His Lordship was dead.’ Mrs Abaddon was at the door looking glacial and grey. ‘It would appear that is no longer the case. Should I remain to serve the drinks?’

  ‘Elzevir?’ The hysterical girl stood wide-eyed at her side.

  Mrs Abaddon gave her a sharp look. ‘Lord Elzevir to you, girl.’

  ‘You’re alive?’ The girl said it as though she thought it was impossible. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  Lord Elzevir laughed excitedly, finally lowering his arms to casually take off the now heavily stained jacket. ‘Blood capsules.’ He pointed to the inside of his jacket. ‘Took ages to get them all in the right place.’ He gave an indulgent smile.

  I could still feel the panicked blood racing through my head. I tried to control my breathing.

  Mother’s hand was still in mine, and it was hard to tell who was gripping tightest. ‘OK?’ she whispered.

  I nodded once. But every part of me still rippled with the shock like electricity frazzling through to the ends of my fingers, sparkling in my head.

  ‘What kind of freak show have you got going on here?’ Mother’s anger had surfaced.

  The man’s expression fell. ‘Welcome to my home, madam. And you would be?’

  ‘Pandora Smart.’

  A cruel little smile appeared on his face. ‘Oh yes, one of the so-called Smart Women. Thought you’d love this. You’re all about the murders, aren’t you?’

  I frowned. ‘We’re not “all about the murders.”’

  ‘Not according to your mother’s blog.’ He paused as if struggling to remember and then gave a laugh. ‘Death Smarts.’

  My eyes flicked to Mother.

  The monkey clapped along. He’d been suspiciously quiet till then — presumably he’d seen the trick being set up and understood too well what was happening.

  Lord Elzevir cast an assessing eye over us all. ‘Well, ladies, I’m charmed to meet you.’

  Aunt Charlotte let out a sharp, dismissive noise.

  The monkey screamed in response.

  ‘Can’t you keep your bloody monkey quiet, Marsha?’ Lord Elzevir Black looked around the room. His slightly beaked nose and the flinty shine of his eyes gave him a hawk-like air; an indulgent smile crept over his face before his eyes finally landed on me.

  ‘Pleased to meet you all.’

  A film of sweat had settled on his face leaving it with the pale, greasy look of lard. He stepped out into the room and started to brush himself down. He held up his hands and wriggled the fingers to show us he had nothing up his sleeves. ‘Little trick I’ve been preparing for our newcomers. I like to keep my guests on their toes, don’t you know?’

  ‘A comforting thought for the rest of our time here,’ Mirabelle muttered.

  He pulled a spotted handkerchief from his top pocket in the manner of a cheap magician. In fact, his whole demeanour had a little of the carpetbagger about it — as if there was some trickery to him. He was well dressed but in a way that suggested someone had told him that was how he should dress for this scene. A yellow cravat was bunched unnaturally around his neck and pushed inside his shirt. He threw the blood-stained jacket onto a large wooden chair. ‘See if you can do anything with that, Mrs Abaddon.’

  She nodded.

  The girl beside her was still weeping in great stuttered breaths. The strange, detached way everyone else was responding made her emotional reaction seem out of place, when in fact it was the only genuine acknowledgement of what had just happened. It was a very disorientating picture.

  Mrs Abaddon turned to the girl. ‘Lucy, take Lord Elzevir’s jacket and go and calm yourself down.’ She spoke as if the girl’s shock was completely out of proportion with what we’d just witnessed.

  ‘I can’t believe . . . I—’

  ‘Be quiet girl! Go!’

  The girl darted across the room and snatched the jacket up. She paused to look at Lord Elzevir. ‘You didn’t tell me. How could you?’

  He shrugged at her, dismissively.

  ‘Get out!’ Marsha barked.

  More loud tears broke from the girl as she ran out of the room.

  Lord Elzevir appeared utterly unmoved. Nothing was very comfortable about this man. A distinct feeling of unease followed him. He just carried on wiping the smears of fake blood from his hands and chin.

  ‘How very funny you’ve been, dear. Now, come and let me introduce you properly.’ Marsha still looked irritated rather than amused, or relieved that her husband wasn’t dead. Perhaps it was just that his tricks had worn very thin, but something about her seemed to suggest there might be more to it than that.

  ‘Ah yes, Champagne all round, I see! Bit of Bollinger or La Grande Dame perhaps?’ It was unbelievable how flippant he was being. He was acting as if faking his own death was a daily occurrence here. Perhaps it was.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Mirabelle looked down when she spoke. ‘We’re just going to have drinks now, are we?’

  ‘Oh be quiet,’ Bridget sighed. ‘We’ve had enough drama.’

  Lord Elzevir grinned. ‘And who doesn’t love a bit of theatre, eh, m’dear?’

  The cross-currents of emotion were utterly bewildering.

  ‘Can’t beat a bit of fizz, eh? Should really be having Black Tower though, I suspect!’ There were traces of an accent on the edges of his voice that he’d obviously worked very hard to conceal. Here was a man struggling to keep something disguised.

  Mother slowly let go of my hand. My palm was damp with sweat, but I didn’t know if it was mine or hers. I could feel my heart fluttering away like a desperate moth against the inside of my ribcage. I fell into the nearest chair, my head still swimming.

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t be so crass. I hate it when you make that joke. We live in Black Towers, with an “s”.’

  ‘You were the one who wanted to rename it. Greystone Castle seemed good enough for centuries of knights and lords.’

  They’d moved on so naturally from his gruesome death.

  ‘It’s Prosecco, anyway.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the cheap ladies you told me about.’

  ‘Be quiet, Zavvy, and come and say hello properly.’

  Mrs Abaddon moved towards him and handed him a drink. He didn’t say thank you or even acknowledge her. He took a mouthful and looked around at our stunned faces. I suspected he often looked very pleased with himself. He laughed. ‘Come on, ladies. Just a bit of fun! Stop looking so stony faced. After all, no one died.’

  CHAPTER 6: THE PLAN

  Lord Elz
evir downed half of his drink and let out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Marsha, come on. It was just a—’

  ‘Let’s not dwell on it.’

  He smiled, enjoying her obvious discomfort. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, dear, but you know how I love to slip out of a maiden before I greet my guests.’

  He gave an odious grin before taking a large enough mouthful of his drink to leave the impression it was quite badly needed. He wiped the palm of his hand down his mouth and chin like a man more accustomed to downing a pint of lager in a pub. ‘Well, I’ve not seen this many pretty ladies in one place since I took a trip down that road in Amsterdam.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Zav,’ Marsha sighed.

  Aunt Charlotte bent towards me and whispered loudly, ‘He means prostitutes, dear.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Aunt Charlotte.’

  Mother had sat back into an overstuffed pink chair, the cushions rising up so high around her that it gave the impression it was swallowing her.

  Lord Black leaned awkwardly over the back of it. It made neither His Lordship nor Mother look particularly comfortable. The lights seemed to flicker on command as another gust of wind circled the castle.

  ‘Welcome to Black Towers.’ He drained the rest of his drink, then held the glass out to Mrs Abaddon without looking at her.

  Marsha’s expression of cold rage hadn’t moved. She pressed her lips together until they were ringed with a white line.

  Mrs Abaddon poured without looking at Lord Elzevir. The only sound was the trickling of the liquid into the glass. He took another deep swig and let out a long, satisfied breath. ‘Now ladies, has Marsha brought you up to speed with all this madness?’

  Mother’s laugh was joyless. ‘No. Funnily enough, she was a little preoccupied with her brutally slain husband.’

  ‘Oh, that wouldn’t put Marsha off her stride would it now, dear?’

  To be fair, he did have a point. Marsha hadn’t seemed overly distraught.

  I looked at her now, with her vinegar smile.

  ‘I’m Bridget.’ Still squeezing the cat close, Bridget held out one hand in the manner of a queen, as if expecting him to bend and kiss it. He did, and she giggled her way through every note of an octave and then back down again. ‘Oh, my Dingerling, did you see that? He’s not dead after all.’

  It was surreal how everyone except me and the hysterical girl seemed to have slipped back seamlessly into some version of normality when a dead man had just been resurrected before our eyes.

  ‘Goodness me, fine Lady Bridget.’ Lord Elzevir looked down at the bald cat. ‘I take it this is your . . . Dingerling.’

  Bridget smiled coquettishly.

  He turned his head to the side and looked at Mirabelle. ‘And who might this be?’

  ‘I’m Mirabelle.’ She sounded guarded, almost apologetic. Her eyes went quickly to Mother and then looked away. Nothing had been the same since our trip to the Hebrides. We nearly died — and lots of other people did. Mirabelle thought it would be the ideal environment to tell me that, far from being a saint, my beloved father had been a philandering arsehole. She’d kicked a hole right through me, and Mother doesn’t like anyone doing that except for her.

  ‘So—’ Lord Elzevir fell into a large chair near Mother — ‘what’s the plan of action then?’

  I watched bemused as he continued to wipe the traces of fake blood from his mouth like it was no more than a little sauce rather than the vivid remains of his recent non-death.

  ‘You know very well, Zav, and don’t pretend otherwise.’ Marsha remained standing. ‘The safari supper—’

  ‘Safari supper,’ he spluttered and leaned closer towards us. ‘Did you ever hear of such a thing?’

  ‘It’s quite common these days.’ Marsha stared at him. ‘If you’re under sixty, that is.’

  An awkward silence passed through the room.

  The monkey clapped again.

  ‘Control that bloody animal, will you?’ Lord Elzevir snapped. He seemed to swing so quickly between different moods.

  ‘Quiet now, Dupin,’ Marsha said wearily. ‘Perhaps he’s had a little shock.’

  I listened to the rain tapping away at the large, black windows and watched Marsha. Her little jab about age had been quite right. She did indeed look at least twenty years younger than the mottle-faced man opposite. Needle-thin veins wormed through his cheeks in a way that suggested not every decision he took was a healthy one. The whites of his eyes had a dirty, tarnished colour to them, as if they’d seen too many things they regretted. Each of his teeth was outlined with a dark brown stain. He gave the impression of someone wearing make-up to age them and seem more dishevelled than he actually was.

  ‘We’re setting off at eight. So be ready for then. We’re stopping at Verity’s first—’

  ‘Ah,’ Lord Black interrupted again, ‘murder at the vicarage! What, ladies?’

  Marsha sighed wearily. ‘We live in hope, dear.’

  ‘I think we’ve had enough death for one night.’ Mother sat starch stiff in the chair looking pointedly at Lord Elzevir.

  He ignored Mother — which is never a good idea.

  ‘Wait.’ Lord Elzevir’s smile faded. ‘Is Verity involved in this nonsense?’

  ‘You know very well she is. It was her idea.’

  ‘I didn’t know she’d be hosting anything. Are you sure she’ll be all right?’ his voice had a more genuine note to it now. He took another large mouthful of his drink. ‘Poor love.’

  He swung round to Marsha again. ‘Do you think she’s really up to all this. I don’t want—’

  ‘Your sister will be absolutely fine. She asked for the staff to go down there to help. We don’t need them up here again tonight, and it looks like Miss Morello might need a little break from your antics.’ Marsha’s laugh was hollow.

  ‘I’ve got Mrs White to go over there and sort out the starters. She’s there already cooking some sort of mini wellingtons and crab cakes. Verity asked if Mrs White could stay on to help clear up and I’ve said she can just go home after that. Mrs Abaddon will lay everything out. Verity’s actually very excited.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure she’ll be—’

  ‘Yes, Zav, I’m sure.’ Marsha turned to us and smiled as if we’d suddenly been readmitted to the conversation. ‘You’ll meet Verity later. She’s the first house on our route.’

  I was still holding the map. Verity Black’s was next to the Vicarage.

  ‘Zavvy just worries,’ Marsha continued. ‘Verity had a riding accident a few years ago and finds it a little hard to get around. We take care of her.’

  She’s only doing nibbles. We’re off to Tony’s for starters.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Lord Elzevir threw himself back heavily into his chair and looked around at us all. ‘Greystone’s very own Paul Daniels.’

  ‘Who?’

  Lord Elzevir flashed a confused look at Aunt Charlotte.

  ‘Tony’s a magician,’ Marsha said. ‘Used to be quite big until . . . well, I don’t really know what happened. Came down here to get over it all, whatever it was. Probably cut someone in half. Anyway, calls himself the Seer of Greystone. Hosts all these séance evenings and Ouija board sessions. Very popular with the WI, I’m told.’

  I consulted the map. Aunt Charlotte pointed out Greystone Lodge across the road from Lord Elzevir’s sister. ‘Pagans slash fast-food clowns here,’ she said. She moved her finger to the house opposite on the map set just a little back from the road. ‘Disgraced magician here.’

  ‘Let’s hope he can magic a bit more space in that little dolls’ house of his.’ Lord Elzevir seemed mesmerised by Bridget’s rhythmic stroking of the hairless cat. ‘Full of voodoo nonsense and spiritual hooey.’

  ‘My, my, Lord Elzevir.’ Bridget smiled. ‘What a lot of godless characters you’ve got here. Magicians, voodoo and pagans. Whatever next? The Devil himself?’

  ‘He’s already here.’ Marsha downed her drink. ‘At least that’s what the locals say. Over at Widecombe the
y say they saw a man drinking beer, and when it ran down his throat, they heard it sizzle and saw steam rise out through his mouth. There’s a lot of superstition out here on the moors.’ Her eyes never left Lord Elzevir.

  Another taut silence fell.

  I watched as the monkey reached out with his nimble little fingers towards Lord Elzevir’s head. From the back, the little animal carefully lifted the edge of what was clearly a toupee before dropping it down again. Lord Elzevir frowned and, not realising what had happened, smoothed his hand over his head. He took another drink. The monkey clapped and gave me a cunning little smile. Marsha winked at the monkey.

  ‘It all sounds like a lovely, fun evening.’ Mirabelle said in a flat voice. She gave a weak smile, trying so hard to be nice that it was positively nauseating. I preferred her before when she was leering at me from Mother’s side and judging my every move. Mother was studying Mirabelle.

  ‘Yes,’ Marsha began, ‘on to Greystone Cottage for the main course.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Lord Elzevir was beginning to sound like a petulant teenager faced with a family Christmas. I should know. I’m twenty-seven but I still have the urge to be surly, especially living with Mother and the family Christmases we have to endure. They’ve never been any good since Dad left — well, died.

  ‘The Bradshaws.’ Marsha raised a knowing eyebrow at Lord Elzevir, as if she was somehow intending to provoke him. ‘Harriet and Gerald are Greystone’s resident historians, self-appointed protectors of our village’s heritage and a general broadsword in our side. They have blocked and objected to every single piece of work we’ve wanted to do on the castle. The fight over the murder hole nearly turned very nasty indeed.’

  ‘Murder hole?’ Aunt Charlotte repeated slowly.

  ‘Hmm. It’s a hole they used to pour boiling oil out of onto invaders and attackers.’

  ‘I’ll have to look into getting one,’ Mother said tartly.

  ‘Bloody waste of time and a lot of money. We literally had to preserve a hole in the roof! Unbelievable.’ Lord Elzevir grunted. ‘And I had to pay to make it safe! Safe, I ask you! It’s called a murder hole. What’s safe about that?’

  The monkey did a little back flip on his perch. He reached out towards Lord Elzevir’s wig again and gave it a cheeky little flick. Lord Elzevir frowned and drank as if he was inhaling it. The little monkey was getting bolder, and it was beginning to have the distinct flavour of a well-practised routine.