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

by VICTORIA DOWD

  Lucy Morello was already stationed at the bottom of the stairs. She seemed to get around this village with alarming speed. She gave Verity a smile that softened her face, making her look very different to the girl she’d appeared to be when we saw her at the castle. There was none of that hard edge to her, and all the steel had gone from her eyes.

  As we walked quietly down the long corridor and into the room, I saw Verity slot her arm through Lord Elzevir’s, and he gently placed his other hand under her elbow in support. But from the drowsy state he was in now, it looked as if it was him who needed help walking.

  ‘Now, Elzevir, have you been behaving?’ Verity had a subtle grace to her that brought an easy atmosphere to the room.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, Verity. How are you coping? Is this wise?’

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘I can host a few people for drinks. Now, you stop worrying about me, darling, and let’s get on and have a nice evening. We’ll talk in the morning when you’re . . . less tired.’

  He patted her arm gently. ‘All right, but I want to make sure you’re happy.’

  ‘You’re a darling and I’m completely fine.’

  The housekeeper, Mrs Abaddon, had stationed herself at the far end of the corridor, which opened out into a comfortable, well-used sitting room. She too smiled as Verity approached on the arm of Lord Elzevir. ‘Your Lordship,’ she nodded with a thorough, competent look that inspired immediate confidence. ‘Mrs White has laid on some canapes and there is punch, which Lucy will serve when everyone has gathered.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Abaddon. Please do make sure you’ve eaten as well and ask Mrs White to join us. That’s very kind of you.’ Verity ambled slowly towards the large comfortable armchair. She sighed and lowered herself down. Her hand went to her knee and rubbed.

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs White is very strict about coming out of the kitchen. She likes to eat there,’ Mrs Abaddon apologised.

  Verity grimaced a little, whether it was from the awkwardness of this last statement or her obviously painful leg, l was unclear. ‘Now, ladies. I’m so sorry to greet you from my chair. I do hope you will excuse me.’

  ‘Of course, of course!’ Mother gushed and made her way quickly over to where Verity was sitting. ‘I’m Pandora Smart.’

  ‘Oh yes! Ursula’s mother.’ Verity nodded.

  Mother managed to maintain her smile through gritted teeth. She pursed her lips until they turned white at the edges and shot me The Look as if it was somehow my fault.

  ‘And you must be the lovely Ursula that I’ve heard so much about.’ Verity held her hand out to me.

  I looked at her, bemused. ‘My wonderful sister-in-law, Marsha, told me all about you. Such a clever, beautiful young woman. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  I could feel the heat coming off Mother’s annoyance as I edged my way past her.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I’m Bridget.’ I felt a swift push to my side. ‘And this is Dingerling.’

  Verity’s face wrinkled a little as she saw the cat, but she managed to rescue it. ‘How . . . lovely. And . . .?’ She peered past the leering face of Bridget, who was standing just a little too close.

  ‘I’m Mirabelle.’

  ‘She’s with me,’ Bridget added and looked at Mother.

  Aunt Charlotte lunged for Verity’s outstretched hand. ‘Charlotte.’ She attempted to curtsy and fell into the large vase of dried flowers on a side table. Verity didn’t seem to notice — or was too polite to mention it.

  ‘Now, please do help yourselves to food. For goodness’ sake, eat! Lovely Mrs White has put on some marvellous canapes that demand to be eaten.’

  Over on the long, polished dining table was a neatly set-out selection of platters with intricate little morsels and a whole raft of Champagne flutes filled and sparkling under the glow of the chandelier.

  Gerald and Harriet Bradshaw were already loading plates up high into pyramids of food and balancing glasses in their hands. Jocasta’s husband, Ron, was similarly indulging, but his wife lingered in a corner, wrapped in her long black cape that still glittered with rain drops. Her smooth hair was damp and lank against her face now and she glowered across the room towards Joseph Greengage and the vicar.

  ‘This really is very lovely, Verity,’ the vicar said smoothly. ‘Thank you.’

  It didn’t really feel like that. Tense or awkward, perhaps. But not lovely.

  Joseph nodded along.

  ‘It’s an absolute pleasure, Vicar. I’d love to have more visitors but . . .’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ the vicar smiled.

  Verity started to move to the edge of the chair, but the vicar, Marsha and Lord Elzevir held up their hands. ‘No, I’ll go!’ Marsha said.

  ‘It’s alright, Marsha, my love,’ Verity smiled. ‘Lucy has been indispensable, she really has.’

  I looked down along the length of the corridor, where Lucy was standing holding a large crystal bowl filled with a dark red liquid that sloshed around it.

  ‘I . . .’ She looked towards the door and then back to the bowl she held so precariously.

  Without speaking, Marsha walked swiftly down the hall towards her. I couldn’t see very well because Marsha’s back obscured most of it, but the next thing I heard was the glass bowl striking the stone floor. The noise splintered out with the great shards of glass. The floor glittered with shattered pieces among the dark liquid pools on the stone. It had spread all over the hallway.

  A perfect hole of silence opened up in the room. I saw Lucy’s mouth hanging in disbelief and her eyes eventually travelled up to meet Marsha’s. ‘Why the hell did you do that?’

  ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ Marsha stammered. She looked back towards us and at the fury unfolding on Lord Elzevir’s face. ‘I didn’t mean it. I don’t understand, I barely touched you. It was an accident. I was going to open the door.’

  ‘Of course! Of course!’ Verity held out her hands. ‘Mrs Abaddon, the door please.’

  She nodded and walked efficiently across the hallway, avoiding the spillage.

  ‘Marsha, please don’t worry.’

  Marsha was already bent down, picking up great blades of the crystal.

  ‘Get up, for Christ’s sake.’ Lord Elzevir’s voice was harsh. ‘Act like a bloody lady for once. You embarrass me wherever we go. You sad, pathetic—’

  ‘Elzevir, enough!’ Verity didn’t raise her voice. ‘Lucy, please clean this up.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please, Lucy. I’d like us all to enjoy the rest of the evening.’

  Lucy waited for a moment. ‘Very well, madam. Since it’s you.’ She gave Marsha a stinging look.

  ‘These people are worse than us,’ Aunt Charlotte said in a low voice at my ear.

  I nodded slowly. Our group had retreated, gathering in a small corner of the room away from the villagers and their hostilities. This wasn’t our fight. We had enough of our own without wading in here, but my thoughts were already working on a quick exit after breakfast tomorrow, devising various reasons why we had to get back early. Mother’s not a swift mover in the morning, but from the look on her face, I assumed she wasn’t going to make any objections to a quick departure.

  In the midst of all the chaos in the hallway, Mrs Abaddon was opening the door to an unsuspecting arrival.

  She welcomed a large man in a long purple coat that swirled out from him on the wind.

  Mother smirked. ‘It’s only bloody Dumbledore.’

  ‘Who?’ Aunt Charlotte was still rearranging the disrupted vase of dried flowers, which now looked more like a haystack.

  ‘Gerald and I have visited all the Harry Potter historical locations,’ Harriet Bradshaw announced matter-of-factly and popped a vol-au-vent into her mouth.

  The man who had entered glanced at Lucy and the mess on the floor, although it didn’t seem so bad now. He frowned before drifting into the room as if he’d been pushed in
on wheels, his over-sized coat flaring out in a great purple circle around him. His hair shone greasy black against the lights; his beard was so immaculately clipped it could have been drawn on in pen. And as he drew closer, that looked like it was a distinct possibility. He’d clearly done something very unnatural to his eyebrows.

  He announced himself with a flourish. ‘Tony Voyeur at your service. The man who sees everything!’

  There was something vaguely distasteful about this statement, and Aunt Charlotte took it upon herself to make sure he knew it. ‘Mr Voyeur, the man who sees everything? Really?’

  His face gathered in on itself and he abandoned his bow mid dip.

  ‘Madam, I have appeared on stage with both Penn and Teller, I don’t mind saying. And Paul Daniels was in awe of my finger work—’

  ‘I’ll bet he was,’ Aunt Charlotte murmured.

  He leaned forward and stared at us. ‘With the cards, madam. With the cards. I’m not known as the Seer of Greystone—’

  ‘No?’

  ‘—for nothing.’ He looked down worriedly at his leg, where the bald cat was circling him and padding at him with its claws out. ‘Who does this familiar belong to? Jocasta, darling, is this your succubus?’

  She gave him a cool look.

  Bridget shuffled over primly and picked up the cat. ‘Dingerling is mine, thank you very much, and he doesn’t suck anything.’

  Tony Voyeur attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace as he drifted dramatically towards Verity. Lord Elzevir and Marsha were still in heated whispers in the opposite corner. Lucy continued to clear the mess in the hallway. Although most of it was gone now, she still had a sour look of resentment on her face.

  I stood quietly and watched all their little dramas unfold with an increasing sense of unease.

  * * *

  We didn’t stay much longer at Verity’s house after that. The party had already begun to separate out into various factions. Whether they were warring or not wasn’t obvious yet, but the residents of Greystone clearly had more history than one of Gerald Bradshaw’s Sealed Knot re-enactments, and not all of it was good.

  CHAPTER 13: THE HOUSE OF MAGIC

  As we opened the door to the street, the wind sheered across us as if a train had suddenly sped past a station platform. The fierce, sharp air took my breath away. Long, thin bars of rain shone as they caught in the small pool of light. It was a sea of sound washing down the muddy, small road, rushing in a great cascade. Flurries of leaves rolled through the air and piled around the entrance in wet heaps. The wind buffeted us back at the door.

  ‘It’s biblical out there.’ Mirabelle had been very quiet until now and she spoke hesitantly. She glanced at Mother and then quickly at the vicar. ‘Sorry.’

  He smiled. ‘No need. You’re quite right. It really is something.’ With his thin face and round eyes caught in the light at that moment, it struck me that there was something vaguely reptilian about this man.

  Mother looked down at the mud sliding past the door. ‘Can’t you part the sea or something?’

  ‘’Fraid not, ladies. Come on, let’s be brave.’

  The tip of Verity’s cane was tapping down the hallway behind us.

  ‘Woah!’ Lord Elzevir was holding out his arms. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘On a safari supper party, I believe.’

  ‘No chance, Verity. Look at this. You can’t go out in that. You’ll be over in seconds.’

  ‘Dear brother, when you can stand upright without swaying you can lecture me on how stable I am on my pins.’ She was already pulling on a large, padded coat while leaning against the bannister. Lucy Morello had paused and put the dustpan and brush to the side. She was diligently helping Verity to negotiate the cane and the coat.

  ‘Marsha, speak to her.’ Lord Elzevir turned savagely to his wife.

  Marsha sighed heavily. ‘She needs a little fun. We can help her. There’s enough of us. This has taken weeks of organising and she really wants to come.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ was his only response.

  I glanced at Mother, who didn’t look entirely pleased to be heading out. Aunt Charlotte just shrugged.

  The brutal wind drove the rain past the open door. As we filed out with our heads bowed, it caught each one of us as if it was trying to drag us down the street. A distant beat across the moor was clearly thunder. An occasional light blinked in the darkness, presumably houses, but none of their outlines were visible anymore. As we walked down the small path, I could barely even make out the shape of the castle or the church now. Beyond the light from the house, I couldn’t see my feet on the road, which was now no more than a thick slurry of leaves and mud. I looked out at the black rain.

  The magician theatrically wrapped his coat around himself in a swirl of material, drawing it up in a great scoop through the air.

  ‘My house is just here!’ he called. ‘Over on the left.’

  We followed in weary procession, separated out down the unlit street. I could hardly see who was with us anymore in the dark road. Voices drifted in and out of the torrential rain and the low whistle of the wind. It was a feral night, the unwelcoming kind that’s not the sort for noticing the small things.

  Mother was near me and casting occasional vicious looks at Mirabelle and Bridget. The cat looked appropriately evil in the darkness. Aunt Charlotte was just behind being stoic with a no-nonsense stride. But the others, the villagers, they were all blending into a mess of broken conversations that were snatched away on the wind and snapshots of faces lost in the dark. This was a harsh, disorientating world we had stumbled into.

  The magician man was certainly there, just up ahead, looking like a pantomime villain experiencing a down period in his career that was slightly more prolonged than he’d have liked.

  Lord Elzevir swayed in and out of view and slipped repeatedly as he tried to grab at Verity’s arm to steady her.

  ‘Zavvy, stop! You’ll have her over.’ I saw Marsha push his hand away. She turned to Lord Elzevir with sudden anxiety and he gave her a look that promised recriminations.

  The vicar was a tall, dour shadow striding down the street, his hands tucked behind his back and nodding to Jocasta and Ron as he passed. The pagans seemed extremely disgruntled in their damp velvet capes. In fact, everyone looked decidedly miserable, even the keen village historians. From what I could make out, the staff — Mrs White, the cook who we’d never seen, Mrs Abaddon and Lucy Morello — were all still at Verity’s and there was no plan for them to join us. But it seemed like I’d miscounted. Someone was missing already, I was sure. At that point, I neither minded nor cared. There was no need to. I just wanted to get this over with. But the thought did start to play at the edges of my mind, that if someone had asked me after all this was over who was present at which points, I wouldn’t have been able to answer with any degree of certainty.

  Marsha and Lord Elzevir were still viciously whispering to each other, and I felt sure I heard her say, ‘It’s your fault. He felt uncomfortable.’

  But by the time we got to Tony Voyeur’s house, I couldn’t have cared less who was still with us. It was only a five-minute walk, but the wind was raw and my clothes were heavy with rain.

  As everyone filed into the house, I stood momentarily in the small entrance hall, pausing to enjoy the respite from the rain. I slipped my hand inside my coat to feel the reassurance of the Bible and looked round guiltily for the vicar. He’d already gone in and was down the hall in what looked like a sitting room, helping himself to a large glass of red wine and cleaning the rain from his glasses. He looked like the kind of vicar who was never without his dog collar. He probably even wore it to bed. As he smeared his glasses round the inside of his jacket, I saw the suspicious little grains of his eyes darting round the room. He looked nervous. But then everyone seemed to look a little on edge, even then.

  I moved down the hallway and into the cluttered sitting room. There were certainly plenty of distractions in this house. Ever
y surface was cluttered with a strange array of bric-a-brac — a crystal ball on a plinth, next to a miniature coffin with a coin slot that said ‘Funeral Fund’. A skull was positioned alongside a plastic dagger that looked like a toy, a Ouija board had been set on a low table with an empty can of beer and an ashtray left in the centre of it. The whole room had a pub-closing-time smell about it, a cold, dank air that had soaked up years of this man’s neglectful life. This was the smell of too many days spent in dirty clothes with sour breath, the smell of loneliness and a man who had stopped caring. It was a shabby space that was no less cramped beyond the hallway. Mismatched furniture occupied most of the floor space, and old sofas were littered with limp cushions and threadbare throws, one of which bristled then moved when Dingerling came prowling in. It was only when it opened its eyes that it was obviously another cat peering from the mess of tatty blankets.

  ‘Come in!’ Tony flapped his hands. ‘Come in! Welcome one and all.’ He said it as if he was about to put on a show.

  He was.

  He opened out his vast coat to reveal a T-shirt with the words ‘Magic in my wand’, stretched across his belly. The word magic had faded. Everything about him inspired a sad, cheap, end-of-the-pier feeling.

  A poster on the wall behind him read ‘Tony Voyeur — the Man Who Sees Everything!’ Another, in the corner declared, ‘Voyeur — he sees what other men don’t.’ And then there was a very artful one with a tiny Tony pictured inside the head of a woman, with the tag line below, ‘Tony Voyeur — he’ll get inside you.’

  I looked at him and frowned.

  He quickly produced a plastic bunch of flowers in his hand and leaned over towards Jocasta. ‘For the lady they all love to love.’ He winked, and I felt myself flinch involuntarily.

  Jocasta simply arched an eyebrow and left the flowers in his hand.