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

by VICTORIA DOWD

  ‘Lead on, Macduff,’ Bridget said cheerily and picked up the bald cat, who seemed fascinated by the wig.

  ‘Who?’

  I studied Aunt Charlotte for a moment. ‘Is there anyone you do know, Aunt Charlotte?’

  ‘Lots of people, darling. But I’m not sure you’ve met them.’

  We filed out and assembled in the Great Hallway, a process that somehow had the feel of a fire drill rather than a cocktail party. The monkey screamed and applauded our departure.

  ‘I should ring its bloody neck,’ Lord Elzevir grumbled.

  At the end of the entrance hall, Mother immediately slumped into one of the large, dark wood thrones which made her look suitably tyrannical. She was openly giving Mirabelle barbed looks now, but Mirabelle resolutely refused to meet Mother’s gaze. Bridget seemed to be loving the whole experience. It had noticeably elevated her sense of self-importance and she was relishing every moment.

  She stood rigidly holding her bald cat, gently rocking him and cooing. ‘Dingerling, my little Dingerling. Oh, darling, you look a little hot.’

  ‘Disgusting,’ Aunt Charlotte mumbled.

  Bridget began removing the small woolly coat from the animal in the rough, practical way a fierce nanny might whip off a baby’s clothes. She glanced over at Lord Elzevir, whose dishevelled toupee still sat at a bizarre angle. ‘Would this be of any use, Your Lordship?’ She held out the fleecy little cat jacket. ‘I mean, that won’t keep your head very warm, will it?’

  He didn’t respond.

  Mirabelle watched the cat and Bridget both carefully, and it crossed my mind that there was a touch of jealousy in that look.

  Aunt Charlotte stood close by looking appalled in tweed. She’d put on so many layers of jumpers, cardigans and scarves that she looked as if she’d dressed in two or three different people’s outfits at the same time.

  ‘Zavvy wanted drinks served here. He thinks it will be more baronial.’ She didn’t seem to blanch at the word. There was no embarrassment. It was clearly second nature now to refer to their elevated status.

  She grabbed a glass of Prosecco and drank half of it, her eyes closed as if she was drinking in a new calmness. When she held the glass back out in front of her, I could see the lights flickering on the surface as her hands jittered anxiously.

  Lord Elzevir was swaying worryingly close to another suit of armour. ‘Lucy’s going to help serve the drinks since you’ve sent Mrs White over to Verity’s.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lucy’s going to—’

  ‘You didn’t tell me the tart was going to be serving. Where is she?’

  ‘Another glass of Prosecco, Your Ladyship, or have you had enough?’ The young girl had calmed down significantly and had a sour little voice now. Lucy Morello stood by the side of Marsha holding out a silver tray glittering with glasses, her eyes defiantly reflecting the bright pins of light. Marsha took a moment to inspect her as if she was deciding which way the evening should go. Finally, she petulantly took a glass. ‘Thank you, Lucy.’ It was the kind of gratitude you might reserve for a thief forced to return your goods. Only, from the looks passing between Lucy and Lord Elzevir, it didn’t appear that the girl had any intention of giving back anything she’d stolen.

  Marsha twirled the glass in her hand, watching the bubbles burst on the surface of the liquid.

  A brash-sounding electronic doorbell imitated the chimes of Big Ben before a grainy image appeared on a small screen by the door.

  Four faces were peering uncomfortably into a camera. The first leaned forward, a frizzy halo of hair caught in the light. ‘Hi, yeah . . . Hi. We don’t seem to be able to get in. The—’

  ‘Portcullis.’ An older man leaned into the centre of the picture and spoke authoritatively.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Thank you, Gerald. The portcullis is down. Both of them are.’

  Mrs Abaddon stepped out of the shadows and glided silently towards the intercom. She pushed a button and spoke with a calm, collected voice that suggested this was not the first time she’d had to deal with barred guests. ‘Thank you, Mr MacDonald.’

  ‘Ron, please. Call me Ron.’ I took a moment to acknowledge the fact that Mr Ronald MacDonald actually did have a large amount of frizzy hair framing his face. That, however, was where the similarity ended. From what I could see on the small image, he was wearing a high-necked wing collar, a large cravat and a cape that seemed to be fastened at the front by a large pentagram brooch. It was a decidedly disturbing look. He wouldn’t have sold many burgers to kids dressed like that. Unless it was Hallowe’en.

  Mrs Abaddon pushed another button but nothing happened. She frowned and pushed it again.

  ‘Please wait a moment while I attempt to find the remote control, Mr MacDonald.’ Mrs Abaddon turned to Lord Elzevir, who looked suitably mystified. ‘Sir, I believe Mr Ronald MacDonald cannot gain entry as the portcullis is down.’ She spoke these words without a flicker of emotion. ‘Both gates are, sir. The intercom button isn’t working, again.’

  Lord Elzevir began patting down his trousers with one hand and searching through his pockets while keeping a tight hold of the glass with the other. ‘Bloody, buggering remote control. It’s never where I left it. This is you, Marsha. Your bloody Greengage man. Those gates haven’t worked from day one. They never bloody go up.’

  ‘Like a few other things I could mention.’ Marsha stood with her arms folded and raised her eyebrow first at Lord Elzevir then at the girl serving the drinks.

  ‘For God’s sake, where the bloody hell is the remote, woman?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry . . . I . . .’ Marsha’s tone seemed to have shifted distinctly. Her arms dropped and her shoulders sank. She looked around us, the anxiety rippling through her face.

  ‘Oh, this is just so typical of you. How can you forget where you’ve put things so often?’ Lord Elzevir’s slack jowls shuddered beneath his chin.

  ‘I just forget things. It’s—’

  ‘All the bloody time! This is why I tell you not to touch things. You’re wanting a bloody bank card of your own. Well, you just tell me what you’d do with that? Lose it, that’s what. Same as you did with my wallet.’ His eyes bulged.

  ‘It’s just the remote that’s lost.’

  ‘You’re always moving it, that’s why. You’re useless. I don’t understand why lover boy couldn’t have given us more than one remote.’

  She shoved her hands in her pockets as if summoning some courage. This last comment seemed to have provided some spur. ‘Because, dear, you told him you were master of your own castle and only you should be controlling it. Remember? You said you didn’t want any old riff-raff being allowed in, especially if you weren’t here. So we only needed one.’

  A weak voice from the screen called out, ‘We’ve made it through the first gate.’ It was beginning to sound like a TV game show. ‘But the second one isn’t coming up. Oh . . . Oh . . . I think the first one is coming back down.’

  The faces had disappeared with just the eerie view of an empty driveway on the screen now.

  ‘How the hell has that happened?’

  ‘I have no idea, Zavvy. Let’s just go down there and sort it out, for God’s sake.’ Marsha slammed her glass down on a small, antique side table then fixed her gaze on the maid. ‘I’m sure Lucy will have no objections to serving people through the bars. She’s quite used to visiting people like that.’

  The maid’s eyes widened in fury and she turned away muttering through clenched teeth, ‘I might even add something a little special to your drink.’

  ‘Hi. Hello there! This is Jocasta,’ a brittle voice called out from the intercom.

  Lord Elzevir glanced at Marsha. ‘Why you had to invite Ron’s wife I don’t know.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because she’s a practicing witch, that’s why. What’s she going to eat, eye of newt and wing of bat?’

  ‘She’s a vegetarian.’

  ‘Can anybody he
ar us? We’re caught in between the two portcullises, in the gatehouse.’

  ‘Portculli,’ the older man’s voice interrupted again.

  ‘Thank you, Gerald. Portculli.’

  Bridget cleared her throat. ‘Dingerling needs a little ting-a-ling.’ She bent down and carefully attached the lead to the cat’s collar and started walking with it across the room. ‘Dingerling shouldn’t be made to wait, should you, darling? Come along, Mirabelle.’

  Everyone looked across the room to where Mirabelle was standing, looking strangely disconnected. She frowned a little. Bridget lifted her eyebrows and gave Mirabelle a frigid look of impatience. Mirabelle followed without a word.

  ‘What is going on with her?’ Aunt Charlotte whispered too loudly to me.

  I shrugged as if I didn’t care, but there was something disturbing about this new Mirabelle, something in this new dynamic that was off-balance.

  ‘Quite right,’ Marsha nodded, still with that strained look about her, ‘let’s just take the party down there!’

  ‘Can you hurry up, please,’ the disembodied voice called. ‘It’s freezing and it’s belting it down out here.’

  Mother took out her phone. ‘I’ll check the weather.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Just one thing.’ Marsha was pulling on a coat. ‘We’re having superfast broadband fitted in the village.’

  ‘How nice,’ Mother complimented.

  Marsha grabbed a handful of umbrellas from a stand and opened the door. She looked out doubtfully and put the umbrellas back. The wind flooded the hallway, leaves circling and rain splattering the stone. She put her handbag over her shoulder and started to walk out into the courtyard.

  ‘There’ll just be a short interruption to service while they power down the exchange.’

  Mother, Aunt Charlotte and I looked at one another. ‘All of it?’ Mother asked.

  Marsha turned to us. ‘Essential work, they told Joseph, to allow for the upgrade. It’ll only be for a day.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sure you don’t have anything that urgent. You’re in the countryside now, ladies!’ She said it with a flourish and pulled up her large hood.

  I quickly took out my mobile. Nothing. No signal. No Wi-Fi.

  ‘It’s only a day,’ Mother said quietly, looking at her own phone.

  ‘And what could possibly go wrong in one day, eh?’ Aunt Charlotte replied archly.

  The three of us looked out at the torrential rain filling the black sky before looking back at each other.

  CHAPTER 10: TO CAPTURE THE CASTLE

  I stepped out into the cold grit and dazzle of the rain blowing into my face. Torches cast only moments of light into the darkness. The wind had a harsh, ragged edge to it, whining round the courtyard.

  ‘I shall lock up here, Your Ladyship, before I make my way down to Miss Verity’s house,’ Mrs Abaddon said.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Marsha began walking. She had an absent look about her, as if something else was distracting her.

  We hurried down to the gatehouse across the slippery stones. The air was fast with rain, drumming relentlessly across our hunched backs. Our bodies curled round like leaves battered by the wind. Threads of water made their way down my neck and under my collar. It certainly wasn’t the night for a safari of any description.

  I looked over at Mother. She seemed small, almost fragile, huddled into her swathes of scarves. She gave me a hurried glance but turned away. We’re not good at dark and stormy nights anymore.

  The outline of the castle was blurred against the troubled sky. The flag whipped like a damp rag on the wind. It was an empty, weak moon shrouded in cloud but the torches kept burning, pulled in all directions by the gale, sending shadows running up the walls. Lord Elzevir seemed oblivious to his wig flapping perilously in the wind. He was watching me with those vulture-like eyes. He was drunk, yet there was still an astute sharpness in his look. Nothing escaped this man. Everything was fair game to be lined up and shot at.

  Lord Elzevir pointed at the tortured flames that remained lit. ‘Gas!’

  ‘Yes, it’s the sausage rolls!’ Aunt Charlotte called back.

  He squinted at Aunt Charlotte then downed the glass of watery fizz and strode on ahead.

  Lucy Morello scampered along behind, her mouth half-open and eyes pinched into small slits. She had more than a passing resemblance to a rodent, all hurried and agile. Even in the bitter wind and rain she still managed to carry the large silver salver laden with tall Champagne flutes. Small beads of rain ran down the sides of the glasses, glittering in the torchlight. It pooled on the bright metal of the tray.

  ‘Bloody hell, she’s fast!’ Aunt Charlotte nodded at the girl as she neared the gatehouse. ‘She didn’t even spill a drop.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll have you out in a jiffy,’ Marsha called to the expectant faces behind the bars of the gatehouse. ‘There’s a manual override in the room above the gatehouse.’

  The four caged guests watched us stonily through the bars. In the torchlight, disguised by shadows, they didn’t look at all like four innocent villagers on their way to the neighbours’ for drinks. Imprisoned, the bars instantly cast them in a much darker light.

  And then I saw the tall, thin scaffold at the side.

  I pointed towards it. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Marsha swung round to look at me, a stray curl falling from beneath her large, fur-rimmed hat. Her water-blue eyes shone out in the darkness.

  ‘It’s an old gallows,’ she smiled smoothly

  My mouth cracked open.

  ‘Of course it’s not!’ She shook her head lazily and laughed. ‘It’s Joseph’s scaffold platform. Some of the beams were rotten and we’re having some renovations done, aren’t we, dear?’

  Lord Elzevir made no effort to respond.

  ‘Verity’s a marvel with design. She came up with this design and Joseph just whizzes around all over the place, mending and painting. See, he put the wheels on it Verity suggested. Isn’t that clever?’

  Lord Elzevir was grumbling his way along. ‘Joseph this. Joseph that. He’s here more than I am, the bloody plum.’

  He swayed towards a small arched doorway at the side of the gate. I could make out the first couple of damp stone steps shining silver with rain, curling round and up into the darkness of the small tower. He struggled to find his footing.

  ‘Be careful, sir,’ Lucy called. There was genuine concern on her face, but as she turned to Marsha it quickly melted into spite.

  ‘Mrs Abaddon, please escort His Lordship and then, if you wouldn’t mind, use the side gate to go down to Miss Verity’s. She’ll be expecting you to assist Mrs White. Thank you.’

  Mrs Abaddon nodded to Marsha and she too disappeared up the steps with much surer steps.

  ‘So you’ve finally decided to grant us admission then, Your Majesty.’ The face of a young, angular looking woman was framed by the bars. A large steel pentagram hung down her chest, similar to the one Mr MacDonald was wearing. She spoke in fast, angry breaths. ‘We are utterly soaked. I can’t believe—’

  ‘It’s raining, Jocasta,’ Marsha sighed heavily. ‘It’s always raining. That’s why it’s called Greystone.’

  ‘Well, no. Actually, I think you’ll find, Marsha—’

  ‘Oh, Gerald, darling.’ Marsha leaned towards the bars. ‘We don’t need another history lesson now.’

  It was the older man we’d seen earlier and he was looking a little deflated now. He’d seemed very grey on the intercom panel and I’d assumed that was because it was a black-and-white screen. But seeing him in the flesh, he was just as monochrome.

  ‘I’m sure you and your wife can discuss such exciting matters later,’ Marsha added snidely.

  An equally grey woman stepped forward. ‘I think you should listen to him.’ Gerald nodded appreciatively as she continued, ‘As a prominent member of the Archaeologists’ Rural Society Executive—’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Marsha smiled, ‘the ARSE. I think we’ve heard quite enough about the ARSE,
thank you.’

  ‘—Gerald is a highly respected conservationist of some of rural England’s most historic buildings. If it hadn’t been for him and myself leading the charge, this castle would have been utterly destroyed.’

  ‘Don’t we know it,’ Marsha murmured.

  ‘Harriet is quite correct.’ Gerald gave a sanctimonious smile. ‘We have single-handedly prevented some of the most egregious so-called upgrades planned here. Sadly, not the remote-controlled portculli, though. Which I think we can see are an utter disaster.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Jocasta’s face sharpened. She scraped a swag of black hair back. It had a very unnatural blue green shine to it. It was clearly dyed, and very recently by the look of the inky stain on her skin framing her face. ‘When are you going to get us out of here?’

  Marsha turned to Mother and me. A reluctant smile leaked out across her face. ‘Let me introduce you properly to our prisoners.’ She held her hand out towards the gate. ‘Jocasta and Ron are our resident pagans, as you can see from their lovely capes. Gerald and Harriet, as you’ve heard, are the moral guardians of our history. And these,’ she said, gesturing to us, ‘are my old book club chums, the Smart Women.’

  The faces stared back impatiently at us through the bars.

  Bridget was lowering herself down onto the large cannon by the side of the portcullis.

  ‘Be careful it doesn’t go off,’ Aunt Charlotte laughed.

  ‘No. It’s a Civil War—’

  Marsha shook her head. ‘Yes, yes, Harriet. Thank you.’

  ‘Bloody thing goes off every night,’ Ron muttered and drew the black cape around him.

  ‘It’s—’

  ‘The Midnight Gun.’ Marsha sounded weary, as if she’d been called upon to explain this many times before. ‘Elzevir likes it.’

  A low, guttural wave of thunder rose up from the village. The sound spread like a warning. I looked through the bars and could see Mrs Abaddon walking into the darkness down towards the road as Marsha had instructed.

  ‘Perhaps our prisoners, sorry, guests would like some drinks, Lucy.’ Marsha looked at the girl expectantly. ‘You can serve them through the bars, dear. It won’t be a novelty, I’m sure.’