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

by VICTORIA DOWD

  ‘Oh, the murder hole debacle was all done with ages ago.’ Marsha swept the idea away with her hand. ‘Joseph fitted some sort of extra-strong glass up there. You could jump up and down on it and you wouldn’t go through.’

  The monkey jumped up and down as though he could understand every word she was saying.

  ‘And you’d know all about jumping up and down with Joseph, wouldn’t you?’

  There was a pause. Marsha gave Lord Elzevir another challenging look before she continued with the outline of our tour.

  ‘The last stop is the Peacocks. Millicent and her partner Cassandra live at the far end of the village in Rose Cottage. They are a little . . . well, they don’t come out much.’

  ‘In the daylight,’ Lord Elzevir scoffed.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Zavvy. We’re doing this and that’s it. Look, my lovely old book club’s here and everything. Let’s try and be more . . . inviting.’

  Lord Elzevir laughed. ‘And you’re so very inviting, aren’t you, dear?’ He smiled round us all, but no one was smiling back.

  ‘You’re just sore because you’ve got to go to the Peacocks. My dear husband still owes them for work their interiors shop did here at the castle over a year ago.’ Marsha smiled as if she’d scored a point.

  ‘Inferiors shop, more like. The bloody stuff was shoddy and badly made. Hardly suitable for a residence such as this.’ He quaffed back his drink and held out the glass again. ‘Looked like they’d salvaged it all from the cemetery.’

  Mrs Abaddon refilled his drink, carelessly slopping it down the sides of the glass until it dripped onto the man’s moleskin trousers. She hadn’t given the impression, until now, of being a careless sort of person.

  ‘Watch it there! Cordings’ finest, these.’ He wiped down the legs of his trousers and rearranged the Tattersall shirt. He looked every inch the man playing the part of the country squire.

  ‘You need to go and change.’ Marsha drained her glass. ‘We’re going in an hour and I don’t want us to be late.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ He looked down at the dark splashes on his trousers. ‘What does it matter? We’ll be soaked to the skin soon anyway.’ He gestured at the large windows running with rain. Our blurred figures were all still set out across the glass like a stage set with all its actors carefully placed, poised for the start before the lights go up. ‘It’s belting it down. How are we supposed to move around the village in this? The road’ll be treacherous. Think about Verity.’

  ‘I’m always thinking about Verity,’ Marsha sighed. ‘She doesn’t need to come if she doesn’t want to but she’s very keen. She’ll have Cook and Mrs Abaddon. If we didn’t go out when it was raining, we’d never go out at all. Put some boots on and a coat. We can dash between the houses. It’ll be fun. Remember that? Fun? Something we used to do.’

  Lord Elzevir paused. He seemed to be considering his next words very carefully. ‘Will he be there?’

  ‘Who?’ Marsha had turned her back to the room but, from her tone, it was very obvious she knew the ‘who’ Lord Elzevir was referring to.

  ‘You know who I mean. Him.’ His voice was flat but not emotionless.

  Our eyes swung back to Marsha, who still hadn’t turned. I glanced back at our image reflected on the long, dark windows.

  ‘Greengage.’

  Marsha didn’t move. ‘I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.’

  Bridget stopped stroking Dingerling. ‘Greengage. It’s a type of plum.’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s coming. Perhaps,’ Marsha said slowly. ‘How should I know? And what does it matter if he does anyway? He lives in the village. He has every right to come.’

  Lord Elzevir imitated choking. ‘I think he forfeited his rights when he decided to dip his nib in the village ink well.’

  Marsha turned, her face flushed. ‘It isn’t the time for this.’

  ‘Oh, I think we should warn the ladies what kind of man lurks in the bushes of Greystone. Still hasn’t mended my portcullis either.’

  ‘It’s not broken. You’ve just lost the remote control. Again.’

  ‘Remote control?’ Aunt Charlotte interrupted. ‘You have a remote-controlled portcullis?’

  ‘Zavvy’s idea.’ Marsha lifted her glass to her lips and let it linger there as she watched Lord Elzevir.

  Mother cleared her throat. ‘I think I might need to freshen up after the little incident.’

  Aunt Charlotte frowned. ‘Have you let yourself down?’

  Mother shot her The Look. ‘I meant Lord Elzevir’s near-death experience.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Perhaps we should head to our rooms.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Marsha slammed her glass down and turned towards the door. ‘Mrs Abaddon, I’ll take them up. I could do with some fresh air!’ She looked pointedly at Lord Elzevir. ‘You can stay and clear up Lord Elzevir’s mess.’ She nodded towards the bloody iron maiden.

  Mrs Abaddon raised an eyebrow but said nothing — as if this wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to perform a strange, random duty.

  ‘That’s right.’ Lord Elzevir seemed to stagger a little. ‘You go and have a good natter with them all about Joseph Greengage and what you get up to in an afternoon.’

  ‘We get up to talking through all the maintenance jobs you want doing and your bloody stupid portcullis.’ Marsha turned to us as we all began to wander behind her. ‘Elzevir wants his portcullis to be like a garage door.’

  ‘Bloody good idea, it is.’ His words were blending into one another a little too much now.

  ‘It’s never worked. You’ve had to sit in the car for half an hour or more trying to get the bloody thing to work. When it’s up it should be down, when it’s down it should be up.’

  ‘Greengage knows all about that sort of thing . . . Carrying on with young Scarlett Bradshaw as well now, isn’t he?’

  Marsha looked stung.

  We started to file out of the room, our heads bowed, almost as if it was us who should be in disgrace. I glanced back at the room and the open iron maiden, still dirty with fake blood. The incident felt so distant, and both Lord Elzevir and Marsha had acted so indifferently that it seemed now as if it couldn’t possibly have happened at all and I’d somehow imagined the whole thing. Which I’ll admit has happened before — but I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.

  I paused for a moment and looked back at Lord Elzevir. ‘Wait, Lord Black?’

  He raised his head, but the saggy piece of skin that bulged over his eyelids hung too low over his eyes to allow much movement. They had a hooded, weary look to them. But there was still a hint of something dishonest lurking there.

  ‘What’s your cook called?’

  ‘Cook? Why? She’s dreadful . . . Theresa White. Or as I like to call her, Theresa Sh—’

  ‘So you’re Lord Black.’ I picked up the map. ‘The vicar is Vert or “green”. There’s Greengage the plum, Mrs Peacock, Miss Scarlet, and your cook is Mrs White?’

  ‘Can’t imagine cook is married, must say,’ he slurred.

  ‘Where’s Colonel Mustard?’

  ‘Who?’ Marsha was at the door looking equally bemused. ‘There’s only Lee left, if that’s what you’re asking, and he’s not in the military. He’s a farmer. Or will be until Zavvy evicts him. Why, do you know him? Lee Colman?’

  ‘Can we just get on?’ Mother turned and walked out.

  Marsha waited for us in the hallway. ‘Sorry about all that with Zavvy.’ She said it in an off-hand way as if he’d just made a small faux pas rather than staged an elaborate and bloody murder scene. ‘He drinks too much and thinks he’s being entertaining. He gets a little . . .’

  She paused and stretched her mouth apologetically until her lips were very thin. Her eyes glimmered in the dull light as if a new sheen had just washed over them. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it when he’s . . . Anyway, yes, let’s get on. Ignore him.’

  But her anxious eyes seemed to say that she couldn’t. I looke
d at her hands, so beautifully manicured, yet the telltale edges of each nail were bitten away and picked until they were raw. She adjusted her thick string of pearls and they clicked against one another. I caught a glimpse of a livid, circular bruise on the side of her neck. It was small enough and deep enough to have been made by a thumb. This woman had the worrying signs of someone who might be too entrenched to fight her way out.

  But who can say what goes on behind closed doors?

  What was certain, even then, was that this safari was possibly going to be a little bloodier than we’d first imagined. Just how much bloodier would be a surprise to us all.

  CHAPTER 7: THE SAD AND THE DEAD

  The tension lingered on Marsha’s face even though we’d left the room, and Lord Elzevir, behind. She was a lot more self-conscious, as if she’d just remembered we were guests and not just people who happened to be there while they had an argument.

  ‘You mustn’t mind us. Always a lot of banter here.’ She smiled, looking for expressions of acceptance and understanding. ‘He doesn’t mean any of it. Well, he might about that little tramp, Scarlett Bradshaw.’

  ‘Scarlett Bradshaw,’ I repeated slowly and looked down at the map.

  Marsha seemed surprised that I still had it. She placed a manicured finger on a house halfway down the road from the castle. ‘The Cottage. She’s Harriet and Gerald Bradshaw’s daughter. They’re not our favourite friends.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like many people are.’ Bridget let the cat down, and for the first time, I noticed it was wearing a collar with a lead. The hairless cat ambled about, looking strangely naked crawling across the flagstones.

  Marsha began to walk on ahead as she talked about the villagers. ‘Harriet and Gerald Bradshaw are our resident archaeologists and history buffs. All very Sealed Knot and metal detectors. Drives Zavvy mad.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘You know. About the castle. This should be preserved. That should be preserved.’ She turned and smiled. ‘We’re so preserved sometimes it feels like we’ve been pickled.’

  ‘Quite a lot of the time, I should imagine.’ Aunt Charlotte turned to me and mimed downing a glass of something.

  Marsha looked unamused but continued. ‘They’d get a preservation order on toilet paper if they could. Always complaining about our renovations.’ She waited and passed a glance over us all. ‘You know what it’s like.’

  Clearly, we didn’t.

  ‘To be honest, it sometimes feels like we’re living in a museum.’

  ‘Oh, Marsha, you’re not that old!’ Aunt Charlotte smiled.

  Marsha tilted her head.

  ‘Not sure about Lord Elzevir though,’ Mother murmured.

  ‘It means we’re left with all manner of nonsense and paraphernalia we have to conserve.’ Marsha held out her arms to the walls. From the number of lances, shields, pistols and rapiers set in great swirls and spiked designs, they could have hosted a full-scale battle in this place, which is always useful when Mother comes to stay.

  ‘Look. Just look at this.’ She guided us over to the side of the corridor and pulled back the corner of a large, threadbare tapestry.

  ‘A wall,’ Aunt Charlotte nodded. ‘Very nice. Good stones.’ She patted them heartily.

  Long oak beams, their grain darkened with age, were set into the wall. Marsha ran her fingers down the edge of one plank, and just before she reached the stone floor, she started to pull. She glanced up at us and raised an eyebrow before turning back and dragging the wood towards her. It opened like a small door.

  I bent and peered into the small stone cave hollowed out of the wall.

  ‘A priest hole,’ Marsha whispered conspiratorially.

  ‘A priest’s what?’

  Marsha looked at Aunt Charlotte.

  We were silent for a moment staring into the dark cupboard in the wall.

  ‘It’s where priests hid if people were coming to the castle,’ Marsha said quietly.

  Mother turned to Mirabelle. ‘Oh, you know, Mirabelle, for when people are trying to hide where they’re living!’

  A large crease gathered between Mirabelle’s eyes, and the frightening thought occurred to me that she might just be about to cry. I looked away quickly.

  ‘Let’s not be jealous now, Pandora,’ Bridget sneered. ‘Friendships change.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Aunt Charlotte’s voice echoed. She had most of her head inside the small hole now, and I could only hope she wasn’t considering wedging all of herself in there. ‘How on Earth did they fit inside? You can’t swing a cat in here.’

  ‘We could try.’ Mother looked down at Bridget’s feet, where Dingerling was crouching like a small, shaved familiar.

  Marsha nodded solemnly. ‘Many died.’

  ‘What, cats?’ Aunt Charlotte peered back at her from inside the hole, her eyes glistening out of the darkness.

  ‘No,’ Marsha looked puzzled, ‘priests. Many priests died from starvation or asphyxiation in priest holes. There’s tell of a local priest, here in Greystone — the Bradshaws told us about him. The village was full of Roundheads, sweeping the area. They were crawling the streets in search of a Jesuit father, Richard Wyatt. They sent out the priest hunters to track down those in hiding and on the run.’

  ‘Right.’ Aunt Charlotte’s face lit as she pulled herself out from the hole. ‘I get you. Kind of like Nuns on the Run but with priests . . . and more deaths.’ She had an intensely serious expression on her face.

  Marsha frowned but continued. ‘The old lady of the castle was Catholic and had the priest sheltered here for months. She was good at hiding him. Very good. Nicholas Owen himself built this priest hole.’ Marsha nodded towards the tiny stone chamber.

  Our faces remained blank.

  ‘Nicholas Owen built many of the priest holes and tunnels. He was the principal priest hole creator at the time of Elizabeth the First. They lead all over. Smugglers used them after that for a while.’

  ‘Good title.’ Aunt Charlotte nodded, still with an intense look of concentration. ‘Principal Hole Creator. The Creator of the Principal Hole. Hole—’

  ‘Enough!’ Mother snapped.

  ‘Fiendishly clever, some of them were.’ Marsha parroted the words with pride but it sounded distinctly like borrowed knowledge. However disparaging she was about the people fighting to save the history of the castle, she’d definitely memorised these snippets of historical significance about her home.

  ‘Nicholas Owen was tortured and killed though, of course,’ she added flippantly. ‘He’s the patron saint of escapologists and illusionists. So Tony tells me, anyway. Very appropriate, given my husband lives here. His Lordship’s very good at sleight of hand and trickery.’ There was a bitter note to this final comment.

  We all busied ourselves looking at the hole in the wall.

  ‘Well, that’s according to Tony, anyway. I don’t know how much of it is true, but they say the ghost of an emaciated priest drags itself from this hole in the night and is so starved its bones crack and clip against the stones.’

  A thread of cold air passed down my neck.

  ‘Tony?’ Mirabelle glanced anxiously into the hole as if he might still be in there.

  ‘Tony Voyeur, remember? Our resident magician. You’ll meet him later. He’s doing a very controversial gazpacho.’

  ‘Are we all expected to join in?’ Aunt Charlotte looked worried. ‘I’m not very nimble.

  ‘Soup, Aunt Charlotte,’ I explained quietly.

  ‘Yes, cold soup.’ Marsha began to walk away down the long stone corridor. ‘Not enough effort, according to my husband. There’s been a lot of emails.’

  A solemn air had settled over our group. In single file, we climbed a narrow staircase that circled round. I could hear Aunt Charlotte behind me, breathing quite heavily.

  The stones were worn and the lighting poor. More than once I saw Mirabelle’s foot slip as she walked ahead of me. She seemed very unstable, and it occurred to me how much more fragile she was generally. I didn’t kno
w what was more disturbing, the thought of her falling or the thought of her falling on me. She still hadn’t spoken much and was avoiding Mother. This was a definite thunder cloud waiting to break.

  As we surfaced at the top of the staircase, the room opened out into a long corridor lined with dark wood panelling. There was an undisturbed feel to this part of the castle as if Marsha and her husband did not come here as much. There’d certainly been no renovations. The thick black handles on the windows were rusted and didn’t look like they’d been used in decades. It would have taken a huge amount of strength to open those now. The window frames were riddled with holes and a few panes of glass were cracked. It was such thick, distorted glass that it cast an oppressive light that suggested we were no longer permitted to see the outside world very clearly. As if we were being sealed in.

  The walls were hung with various portraits.

  ‘Family?’ Aunt Charlotte panted.

  ‘No idea who most of them are,’ Marsha said dismissively. ‘All look pretty miserable though, don’t they? They say this corridor is haunted by a lady who was murdered by her husband.’

  We let the comment hang in the air. Marsha smiled self-consciously. ‘Lady Greystone is said to have been beaten and held hostage by her husband. I think we’ve got a painting of her somewhere.’

  ‘Could this be it?’ Bridget enquired. ‘The one with the brass plaque below saying “Lady Greystone”?’ She gave Marsha a self-satisfied little smile.

  ‘Oh, how clever of you, Bridget!’ Marsha lifted the corners of her mouth but no one could have described it as a smile. ‘Lord Greystone was her fourth husband. He married her for the money, you see. Legend is she killed him as well.’

  ‘What do you mean “as well”?’ Mirabelle spoke hesitantly, staring at the sombre painting.

  ‘She killed all four husbands.’ Marsha leaned in conspiratorially. ‘They say she rides out across Dartmoor down towards Tavistock in a carriage made of her husbands’ bones, a skull of each one on the corners. She travels with a great black hound with blood-red eyes.’