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

by VICTORIA DOWD

  Everyone waited for someone else to speak.

  Mother was first, of course. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a leap? Just because she didn’t come home doesn’t—’

  ‘I can’t feel her anymore. She’s not in my astral hole.’

  ‘I should hope not!’ Aunt Charlotte looked appalled.

  ‘Mr MacDonald—’ Bridget grabbed the cat and began viciously stroking it — ‘you’re asking us to believe your wife is dead because you cannot feel her in your—’

  ‘We have had a spiritual link going back over centuries.’

  Bridget paused her hand on the cat. ‘What? Over—’

  ‘Now is not the time to start explaining the other astral planes. She’s missing!’

  ‘Have you tried the church?’ Marsha smiled

  The monkey laughed and flipped over on his perch.

  ‘We’re pagans. We don’t . . .’ his voice faded.

  ‘It’s just that Verity mentioned the reason your wife and the vicar disappeared at the same time last night. That they were having . . . a little astral communication themselves.’ Marsha looked pleased with herself.

  ‘Well done for not mentioning anyone’s hole,’ Aunt Charlotte said as an aside.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Ron stuttered. ‘I came here to tell you my wife might be in danger and first of all I’m confronted with a dead body . . .’

  ‘Oh, I do apologise for leaving my murdered husband at the gate.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Look, I’m just worried. If he’s . . . he’s dead, then Jocasta might very well be in extreme danger.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Mirabelle said quietly, ‘we should mount a search party.’ It was the first time I’d heard her speak this morning and her voice sounded weak and raw. The skin around her eyes was noticeably swollen.

  Bridget stared intently at the side of Mirabelle’s head as if she’d somehow spoken without permission.

  ‘She’s right!’ I jumped in. I quickly glanced at Mother, who looked at the floor. ‘I mean, if someone’s dead—’

  ‘There’s no “if” about it. He’s dead.’ Bridget seemed to enjoy saying that.

  I paused. ‘And someone’s missing, we do need to get up a search party for this gentleman’s wife. She can’t have gone far. If we can’t get out of the village then nor can she.’

  ‘And nor can the killer,’ Aunt Charlotte added.

  All eyes travelled to Marsha.

  ‘And why would I kill Jocasta?’ Marsha asked. She’d noticeably not asked that about her husband.

  No one answered.

  * * *

  We decided a pack mentality was the best approach and that a search party had to involve all of us. It wasn’t so much a decision as more a general inability to organise ourselves. We all just filed out into the hallway, hoping someone else would take the lead.

  ‘Do we really have to go past that . . . body again?’ Bridget asked with her usual touching sentimentality.

  ‘You mean my husband?’ Marsha was focusing on pulling on a pair of leather gloves with such careful precision it made her look like a surgeon prepping for theatre. Everyone’s eyes were on the gloves now.

  Marsha paused and met my eyes. ‘There’s no need to concern yourselves, ladies. We can go into the room above the gatehouse and over the top. The door out onto the drive can be unlocked from the inside.’

  Mother frowned. ‘Wait a minute, why couldn’t Lord Elzevir have used that door last night? Why would he have to be back before the Midnight Gun?’

  ‘Because he’d turn into a pumpkin.’ Marsha’s eyes narrowed. She took a long, impatient breath. ‘Because the door can only be opened from the castle side. Like most castles, it’s built to be impenetrable and there’s no way of opening it from the outside. Otherwise, we’d be wide open to any old riff-raff and invaders wouldn’t we? What would be the point of the blasted gates then?’ She gave us a brusque smile.

  ‘I meant you could have left that . . .’

  Marsha had already turned to leave.

  Mrs Abaddon opened the castle door and we filed out dutifully into the dank air. The wind drove into me, dragging my hair across my face.

  ‘Your Ladyship, I will stay here and tidy away the cups. There’s no sign of Lucy yet.’

  Marsha nodded.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, ‘should we leave anyone on their own?’

  Mrs Abaddon frowned. ‘I won’t be on my own. Mrs White is here.’

  * * *

  The gatehouse sat beneath the cold mist and watched our solemn approach. Only Ron scuttled with any purpose, his eyes rat-keen, his head twitching.

  I should have been scared, but all I could feel was the slow, cold spread of exhaustion soaking up through me.

  Dad’s shape stood sentry at the portcullis, though what he was protecting was doubtful. I hoped it was me, but hope is a silly creature. The low burn of his eyes on me was almost too much to resist, but now was not the time to be weak, to give in or forgive him. Punishment is an essential part of life. I didn’t look at him.

  Sadly, what my eyes drifted to and landed on like carrion was the dead outline of Lord Elzevir, still in his last moment. His body so conspicuous and solitary. The cannonball rested innocently to the side. Only the glossy pond of blood condemned it. From what I’d seen, what I could remember, he hadn’t even had time to look up. I tried to stitch the pieces together, build a story from what we’d seen — a strange and ill-formed little monster of a story. I pictured Lord Elzevir looking towards the gate as it closed him in. The gate lowered before the Midnight Gun went off. So he saw the gates lower. Then bang! His head cracked like an eggshell and all life was gone. Quick and sudden. It made no sense, but death doesn’t. It makes all this great expanse of life very senseless.

  Dad drifted between me and the sprawled-out body as if he thought his spirit standing there could in some way protect me from death.

  ‘Very ironic,’ I muttered.

  ‘What is?’ Mother was pin-sharp this morning, noting everything I was doing. She’s always bloodhound keen round me when there’s a death. It seems to spur her into life.

  Aunt Charlotte bent and looked up into my face. ‘Don’t you go having another one of your turns now, will you, dear? You know what I’ve told you about looking at dead bodies.’

  I sighed.

  Ron shot us a concerned glance.

  ‘Up here.’ Marsha nodded towards the small door at the side of the gate where we’d seen Lord Elzevir go yesterday evening. She had a flat, almost disinterested look about her. I noticed how she didn’t even glance at her dead husband. Not even her basic curiosity had been sparked. She didn’t flinch. Perhaps that was her way of guarding herself against death. We all have our ways. The journey over from the world of the unbereaved is long and arduous. She was only just starting out.

  Bridget went up the winding stairs first, nursing her wrinkled cat that still stared up at her hatefully. Dingerling was increasingly taking on a bad aura, as if he was Bridget’s own little daemon.

  Mirabelle followed her.

  I edged my way round the narrow, low door. The stone was wet with a dull, tea-coloured sheen, the pungent scent of damp clung to the air. Our footsteps had a cold echo to them. I trod carefully, the steps uneven and worn low in the middle where countless feet had smoothed a path.

  We climbed the steps in silence, small white clouds of our breath lingering in the cold morning air. There was a small slit of a window halfway up the stairs, so slim it only allowed a snippet of light to fall on the steps. I peered out like a prisoner and I could see all the way across Dartmoor to where the mist met the land as if the sky had just fallen on it. The fog seemed to be moving closer hinting there was something alive about it, seeking out a way down towards the village. Any traces of early light had been almost completely obscured already. I thought of the tales of a place whose myths still lingered out there. They were just told to scare away outsiders — like us. Well, I was scared enough now to want to leave. The only trouble w
as how to get out.

  I looked at my phone. Still nothing.

  Ron was behind me.

  ‘How was the road this morning, Mr MacDonald?’ I asked.

  ‘Joe Greengage was out. Says it’s flooded bad. Him and Lee are going to try and get a tractor through. There’s no way Jocasta could have left the village. She’s still here somewhere.’

  Another breath of wind circled the stairs and the sound of the rain rose in a river around us. It was beginning to feel like we really were in some sort of production that was being very carefully stage-managed by someone. I looked up ahead but I could only see Mirabelle’s back in front of me.

  At the top of the stairs, a small room opened out which was only just big enough for all of us. I drew back into a corner and tried to take everything in. Huge chains hung either side of the room. They were the mechanism for the two portcullis gates, the top sections of which were now both visible where they stood open. The chains were on what looked like large cogs that presumably turned round when they lowered.

  I slipped through the room, past Mother and Aunt Charlotte, who were both watching me intently. In the centre of the room was the murder hole, covered over with thick glass. Crouching down, I ran my finger round the small window on the floor. Thick, old concrete sealed it in. A layer of dirt and moss had settled there. It hadn’t moved in a long time.

  ‘Nothing can get through that.’ Marsha was looking at me. ‘Thick reinforced glass. The Bradshaws insisted on it so that a person could stand on it. Although why anyone would want to is beyond me.’

  I leaned right over and peered through the mottled glass. Directly below was the crumpled body of Lord Elzevir. He looked so small from up here — unreal, as if he wasn’t a man at all. I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them, a face was peering back up at me just below the glass. The eyes locked with mine, two black stones. I fell back, the air caught in my chest.

  ‘Dad,’ I whispered. A dim light sparkled across the back of my eyes. Purple motes drifted in and out of my vision. The stone walls were closing over me. The light dribbled away.

  The next thing I saw was Mother’s face above me.

  ‘Mum,’ I panted. Her hand touched mine.

  ‘Come on,’ her voice was quiet.

  ‘He’s here, Mum.’

  As her face dwindled into the shadows, I thought I saw her lips move around the words, ‘I know.’ But nothing was clear this morning.

  CHAPTER 25: NEVER CROSS A WITCH WITH RUNNING WATER

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ were the first words I heard as I came round.

  ‘Nothing that need concern you.’ Mother was businesslike.

  ‘What do you mean, “Nothing that need concern you?” My wife is missing! There’s been a murder!’ Ron paused. ‘Sorry, Marsha.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Still there was that flippancy in Marsha’s tone.

  ‘Well, you certainly don’t sound very worried about it.’ Bridget raised her eyebrows.

  Marsha shrugged, and I wondered if, from this angle, she could see down the murder hole to the small body of her dead husband. If I looked, would Dad’s eyes still be there glaring back at me?

  My head pounded.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Mother said quietly. ‘I’ve got you.’ She held my hand and I could feel Aunt Charlotte’s arm around my shoulders.

  Aunt Charlotte smiled. ‘All OK.’

  Ron was growing increasingly agitated. ‘All I’m saying is, there’s a killer on the loose and this young lady has just started talking about someone else being here. Her dad!’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Mother said flatly. ‘That’s none of your concern.’

  ‘What? There’s been another . . .’

  ‘He died many years ago,’ Mother added.

  A bemused look spread over Ron. ‘Look, I don’t know who you people are, but I sense a bad omen. I’m going to find my wife.’

  * * *

  No one spoke much on the way out of the castle. My legs felt empty, but I’m used to that now. I checked the small door out onto the drive and Marsha wasn’t lying, there was no handle, no way in from the outside. There was a bracket each side of the door on the inside and a large beam of wood had to be lifted in and out before the door could be pushed open.

  As we crossed the bridge over the moat and down onto the long gravel drive, I noticed two people out on the lane. The Bradshaws.

  ‘Good morning,’ they called, as if a man hadn’t been killed last night by a cannonball.

  They looked along our faces and their cheeriness faded.

  ‘Marsha.’ Harriet nodded with a new solemnity as if she’d just remembered the murdered lord under the gatehouse.

  ‘Morning, Harriet. Gerald.’ Marsha’s face barely moved. ‘Out for a walk round the scene of the crime?’

  They both looked affronted. ‘Of course not! Gerald had a metal detectorists’ meeting down by the moat. Which I believe I did mention last night before anyone was . . . before . . .’

  ‘Which I now cannot partake of,’ Gerald said stiffly, ‘as I have been robbed.’

  ‘Robbed?’ Mirabelle frowned.

  ‘Yes, I only noticed this morning. My detectorist equipment has gone from my shed. I don’t think anyone has made it up to the village though. The roads are all still flooded, so the meeting’s off. Whoever took my equipment is still here!’

  ‘I’ve told him before,’ Harriet continued, ‘it’s worth a lot of money and he shouldn’t—’

  ‘If I may just ejaculate for a moment.’ Everyone looked at Gerald.

  Harriet cleared her throat. ‘You mean interject, dear.’

  He looked confused and irritated. ‘I know what I mean, Harriet dear. Who was on Countdown February 1992?’

  ‘Did you ejaculate there too, Mr Bradshaw?’ Aunt Charlotte asked.

  ‘Many times! And Mrs Bradshaw can attest to that.’ Gerald folded his arms defiantly. There was pride in this man’s face.

  ‘Interject, dear. Interject.’ Harriet smiled nervously.

  ‘I’m trying to, dear. I’m trying.’ He shifted around uncomfortably. He took a breath to gather himself. ‘I would like us all to pause and think for a moment what is different.’

  ‘My husband is dead.’ Marsha’s face was cold.

  ‘My wife is missing,’ Ron added.

  ‘Missing?’ Harriet said. ‘Again?’

  ‘No . . . . But I meant . . . Well, I meant what is different with the castle?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Gerald. My husband’s dead. You were intending to have your sad little meeting moments from his body and you’re still banging on about the renovations. We haven’t done anything since the last set of works you objected to. Does that satisfy you?’ Marsha turned away.

  ‘No, no, Lady Black. I’m not ejaculating very well, am I?’

  ‘Interjecting, Gerald. Interjecting.’ Even Harriet was growing impatient now.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right Harriet. But look. I was going down to the moat to . . .’ Gerald was pointing down the bank towards the moat, his face bunched in confusion.

  ‘There’s no time for this!’ Ron blurted. ‘Jocasta’s missing.’

  ‘What do you mean, missing?’ Harriet repeated. ‘She does like a wander.’

  ‘She is missing! She didn’t come home at all and I need—’

  ‘Will you just listen?’ Gerald shouted. ‘The ducking stool is down.’

  The words brought silence. A bemused look crossed our faces and followed where Gerald was pointing to a large wooden pole that looked remarkably like a see-saw with one end of it down in the water.

  Marsha started to walk slowly towards it. We followed, almost trance-like, trying not to let any stray thoughts in.

  * * *

  The ground beyond the gravel drive was boggy. As I lifted my feet, claggy mud sucked them deeper as though it was trying to hold me back. The bank down to the moat looked treacherously steep and slippery.

  We neared the strange contraption, and I c
ould see the mud around it had been disrupted quite a lot. Large hollows and footprints were visible in the worn-away grass. Long gouges were cut into the mud. Something heavy had been dragged through it. The central strut of the device was perilously close to the edge where the bank fell away into the black water. The other end of the long, thick pole was sunk beneath the surface. Rain pitted the water’s surface and ran down the length of the long, aged beam.

  ‘I’ve said it before, this is not for use.’ Gerald sighed.

  We looked doubtfully at each other. It was hard to imagine why anyone would have been trying to use a ducking stool.

  Clearly, Gerald’s thoughts had not yet made the leap the rest of us had.

  ‘It’s sixteenth-century and needs constant maintenance.’

  ‘It is constantly maintained, Gerald.’ Marsha shook her head. ‘As you well know.’

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, Lady Black, that can’t be right. The cantilever system is perfectly balanced. It should not fall into the water without a weight on the other end, otherwise the stool will rot in the water. It should be out of the water in its naturally calibrated state.’

  I looked at Ron and then quickly at Mother, who was staring into the murky waters.

  ‘We need to raise it.’ Mother didn’t look for any questions.

  ‘Exactly! Just what I was saying. We need to—’

  ‘Be quiet, dear,’ Harriet said.

  He looked at her in confusion. ‘I . . .’

  ‘If only a weight will sink it,’ she kept her voice low, ‘then there is something on the other end of it.’

  He paused and then realisation flooded his face. ‘Oh!’

  She nodded and all eyes settled on Ron. He stared at the grim water.

  The wind raked through my hair, wet strands flicking across my eyes as I squinted against the rain.

  ‘Right, Gerald,’ Aunt Charlotte said decidedly, ‘this is your moment! You’re up. Raise the ducking stool!’

  A moment of solemn duty crossed Gerald’s face as if he’d been waiting a long time to hear those words. He looked at his wife, who was all keen encouragement. And he stepped towards the ducking stool. ‘With your permission, Lady Black.’