Mydworth Mysteries--Murder wore a Mask

by Matthew Costello

  Kat laughed. “You mean hungry? Absolutely. And don’t forget – I’ve got a tennis match to play this afternoon.”

  She watched him get up. “Come on then. Oysters or no – there is at least some jolly nice tomato bisque to be had.”

  “Already had a taste, hmm?”

  “Down in the kitchen – couldn’t resist.”

  She followed him out of the library to the dining room, where she could see the weekend guests already beginning to assemble.

  So many questions…

  What was Carmody up to?

  Was he really murdered?

  And, if so, who did it?

  10. Murder Indeed

  Harry sipped his soup and looked around the lunch table. Still around thirty guests staying; some of whom he knew of old.

  But his focus – on just a few.

  Palmer who chatted politely with Lavinia at the head of the table.

  Then Celine, charming, chattering away at the far end, a pair of generals laughing at every little joke she made.

  Sawyer, only a few seats away from her, slurping soup automatically, head slightly bowed, ignored by the guests on either side.

  And finally, Forsyth, who had appeared late, taking the last available seat, next to Quiller.

  The newspaper magnate was no longer holding forth as he had at the party. Instead he toyed with his plate, muttering under his breath to Quiller, both men clearly taking care not to be overheard.

  Harry caught Forsyth’s eye and nodded. The man nodded back.

  Key to everything would be what Forsyth had to say. With Quiller silent, only Forsyth might know just what Carmody had been up to. And why Palmer had cause to kill him.

  Harry looked down the table to where Kat sat chatting to one of Lavinia’s artist friends.

  To a casual observer, thought Harry, just a typical country house lunch.

  Who’d guess that perhaps one of these innocent-looking guests was a murderer?

  “Excuse me, sir,” came Benton’s quiet voice in his ear.

  Harry turned, to see the man leaning in confidentially.

  “A telephone call for you, sir. Dr Bedell.”

  “Thank you, Benton,” said Harry, getting up, with a nod of apology to the table for the interruption, then heading out into the main hall where the telephone stood on a small table.

  He checked up and down the corridor to ensure he wasn’t being overheard, then picked up the phone.

  “Mortimer here,” he said. “Dr Bedell?”

  “Sir Harry, not an inopportune time, I hope?”

  “Not at all. You have something?”

  “I do. Just got back from Chichester morgue, where they let me have a look at Carmody. Thought I should ring you straight away.”

  “You found something?”

  “I did indeed,” said the doctor. “Bruising on the neck and arms, indicative of a struggle immediately ante mortem.”

  “Couldn’t have been caused by the fall?”

  “No, I’ve seen contusions like these many times before, Sir Harry. Signs of a tight grip, arm round a neck etc. Somebody pretty damned determined. Attacked the poor chap from behind, I suspect.”

  “No hint of a cause of death though?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If there was a struggle – could that have caused a heart attack?”

  “Possibly. Depends on how long that struggle went on for. But there is something else I should tell you – though we’ll have to wait for a full post-mortem to be sure.”

  “Go on.”

  “Spotted a very odd mark on the neck, Sir Harry. Some kind of… wound.”

  “Knife wound?” said Harry, thinking immediately of the young kitchen assistant.

  “No, not a knife. Very small, near dots. Couple of puncture marks – almost like a bite of some kind. Then purplish bruising around the wound, and signs of some bleeding. To be honest – not seen anything like it before. At least on a cadaver.”

  “When’s the post-mortem?”

  “First thing tomorrow.”

  “Jolly good,” said Harry. “Let me know as soon as you hear anything.”

  “I will. Rum thing, this, don’t you know.”

  “It is indeed,” said Harry. “Thanks for phoning.”

  “Bye then.”

  Harry put the receiver back on the stand and paused, before going back to the dining room to finish his soup.

  There didn’t seem much doubt about it now. Carmody had been murdered.

  But how? And that all important question… who?

  *

  Kat walked with Harry past the croquet lawn on the west side of Mydworth Manor towards the small copse of trees which she knew sheltered the tennis court.

  She had her racquet in one hand, and a bag with her tennis clothes slung over one shoulder.

  She’d not played tennis for months, and hoped she wouldn’t be too rusty. Over the years, in various diplomatic postings she’d been a regular player, making plenty of friends through the game.

  Right now, though, she wasn’t thinking about tennis – she was thinking about Carmody.

  “Puncture marks?” she said, as they followed the path together into the trees.

  “Yep,” said Harry. “Strange, no?”

  “My first thought – well, it’s almost too crazy to say it…”

  “Snake?”

  “Yes!” said Kat. “Can be a classic tool of assassination.”

  “I know! Turks lost one of their agents that way in Istanbul. But here in Sussex? Yes, it is crazy.”

  “Guess we’ll just have to wait for the post-mortem. Meanwhile, I’ve got a doubles game to play. Kinda looking forward to it.”

  “Me too,” said Harry as they emerged from the trees into the most idyllic scene. Kat looked around and took in the setting: a perfect grass court surrounded by tall hedges.

  At one end, a green painted changing hut; at the other, a small pavilion with tables set out for teas.

  A foursome was already playing, the game looking to Kat like a light-hearted knockabout.

  Celine was already waiting with her racquet and bag. The singer came over, smiled at Harry, nodded to Kat.

  “Who are we playing?” said Kat, looking around for the other doubles pair.

  “Change of plan,” said Celine. “Singles now.”

  “Oh,” said Kat. “Just me and you?”

  “Yes.” Then, with a bit of an edge, “That okay Lady Mortimer?”

  Kat shrugged, not sure about Celine’s brisk tone. “Sure.”

  “Your dear husband not joining us to watch the combat?” said Harry, looking around the small crowd of guests.

  “He’s… indisposed,” said Celine. “In our room, I believe.”

  One word for it, thought Kat. At lunch he looked positively pie-eyed.

  “We should get changed,” said Celine.

  Kat watched her walk by the side of the court towards the changing cabin.

  *

  “Charming,” said Kat to Harry.

  “Nerves?” said Harry.

  “I thought you said these games were just a bit of fun?” said Kat.

  “Usually,” said Harry. “Just play nicely now, won’t you?”

  “I always do.”

  “Think I’ve got the scars to prove otherwise.”

  “You going to watch?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be the one eating scones and jam and cheering.”

  “For me, I hope.”

  “Of course. The honour of the Mortimers is at stake.”

  “Save me a piece of fruit cake,” said Kat, and she headed over to the changing hut where Celine was waiting.

  *

  The changing cabin, Kat thought, was surprisingly primitive in comparison to places she’d played back home in New York.

  As a girl, she would take the IRT Subway to the Fordham College courts, racquet in its press, feeling more than self-conscious on a crowded subway.

  To find a whole suite of dressing
rooms, complete with showers.

  But England was a different world. And so unpredictable.

  Kat looked over at Celine Dubois as she laced up her tennis shoes.

  Though Kat felt that she herself pulled off the tennis whites in better-than-good fashion, Celine – well – she looked like something else.

  She looks fantastic, Kat thought. But I wonder if she can play tennis?

  She’d soon find out.

  So far there had not been any chit-chat between the two, the atmosphere having turned icy. Kat wondered if the conversation she’d had this morning with Quiller may have put Celine on the defensive.

  Did the singer suspect that Kat now knew all about her affair with Palmer?

  That would make anyone upset.

  “I was wondering…”

  Celine, racquet held firmly in hand, stood up.

  “Yes?”

  Yeah, definite coolness there.

  Too bad. Kat knew that Celine and Lavinia had – at one time – been close. As Kat now knew, that was before her great success as a singer, and the marriage to a movie star.

  “The rules, I mean, American tennis, English tennis, are they—?”

  Celine took some steps towards her.

  “Did you just say ‘American’ tennis?” Then – a dismissive laugh. “Your people think they invented everything, don’t they? Suppose you created golf too? Be sure you don’t tell McLeod.”

  Though there was an edge here, Kat kept a smile on her face.

  “No, I just meant… are the rules a bit different?”

  Celine took a moment to respond.

  “The rules, Lady Mortimer, are precisely the same, and the skills required, no different.”

  Kat nodded, while Celine said, with a nod to the door that led out of the tiny dressing cabin, “Shall we?”

  Kat stood up, grabbing her racquet from the wooden bench, thinking, I just may have a real game ahead of me here.

  11. Anyone for Tennis?

  Harry stood at one end of the court, finally alone.

  It seemed that so many of the guests, many who had not seen him in years, wanted to come up, have a few innocuous welcoming words.

  Harry – of course – responded gracefully.

  It’s not as if they would suspect that Carmody’s death was any more than a heart attack?

  As he waited for Kat to come out for the next match, Harry scanned the little groups of spectators, some holding tea cups and saucers, looking about as English as one can.

  Others took the flute glasses being passed on silver trays. Benton was back to overseeing his troops, not helping out with canapés.

  As one of the maids passed by, Harry looked at a glass.

  “I say, what do we have here?”

  The glass of something bubbly sent its steady stream to the surface, but also had a red object at the base as if it was generating the carbonation.

  “Sir, champagne with a spot of brandy and bitters, and a maraschino cherry at the bottom.”

  The girl’s accent… Pretty thick, thought Harry. Yorkshire perhaps?

  “Well, wonders will never cease. English innovation at its finest.”

  “Would you care for one, sir?”

  “Tad early in the day for me, but thank you. Tea and some scones would be just lovely, though.”

  The young server, keeping the tray perfectly balanced, curtsied, and then moved on.

  Which is when he saw Palmer. Leaning against the side of the pavilion. Alone, with neither a cup of fortifying tea or the bubbly concoction.

  And Harry thought, Not too sure what he made of my searching Carmody’s room.

  The note sent to Carmody, folded in Harry’s jacket pocket, felt like an incendiary device.

  And in a way it is, he thought.

  It meant someone had lured Carmody to the grotto last night. And, given what Dr Bedell had said, that meant Carmody almost certainly had been murdered.

  Eventually, Harry would need to talk to Palmer again.

  But for now, that had better wait. Harry had learned, especially working with the ever-strategic Kat, that timing is nearly the whole ball of wax.

  Ball of wax… one of her sayings.

  Wherever do Americans get these expressions from? he thought.

  Which is when two stunning women in near matching and brilliant tennis whites, came out onto the court.

  One of them, his wife Kat.

  *

  Kat positioned herself towards the back, knees slightly bent, racquet up.

  She turned and looked right to see a young man on a high chair, presiding over the net. Lavinia had installed one of her footmen as an umpire. So much for the casual game of tennis that had been promised the day before…

  “Just a little knockabout, to clear the cobwebs away,” Lavinia had said.

  But Kat had been around the English long enough to know that though on the surface a sport might be “just a game”, in practice it was anything but.

  And certainly, Celine didn’t appear to be in any kind of playful mood.

  That referee might well turn out to be helpful, she thought, considering how many arguments she had gotten into as a young girl.

  Was a ball in or out?

  Many a heated debate she had had on that weighty question.

  Facing her, Celine bounced the tennis ball, once, twice, as if testing its mettle, getting ready to serve.

  The service was always so revealing of what kind of match lay ahead.

  Another bounce, then the ball tossed into the air, and Celine’s racquet came back hard and flew in a fierce arc; straight, with a slight angle down, as the tennis ball rocketed at Kat.

  *

  From the deck of the pavilion, Harry watched Kat race to the left to return Celine’s service.

  And while Kat was strong – a great tennis player in Harry’s opinion, she always beat him – she now had to scramble to return the ball.

  Kat’s shot wasn’t much of a threat to Celine and the French woman won the first point easily.

  Harry took a sip of tea, then smeared a scone with cream and jam, took a bite – and settled back to watch.

  Back and forth the game went, the rallies getting longer, as slowly Kat got her “legs”, found a bit more control.

  Harry and the other spectators clapped the points politely, as more guests began to drift towards the court, attracted by the sound of a real game in progress.

  And no doubt about it, thought Harry. This is a real game. Celine Dubois isn’t going to take prisoners here.

  Kat’s turn to serve.

  Harry knew to his own cost how hard she could power these down. Not for her the genteel underarm serves that some of the Embassy wives used to deploy back in Cairo.

  Her first serve clipped the line, kicking up chalk and flying past Celine before she could even prepare a shot.

  Harry saw the singer pause, staring at Kat, eyes narrowing.

  Uh-oh, he thought. Snake’s been prodded with a stick.

  He watched as Kat served again. This time Celine was ready for it – smashing her return across the net and straight into Kat’s stomach.

  A collective “oooh” rang around the court from the spectators.

  Harry saw Kat gasp and bend double in pain, then crouch.

  “Terribly sorry,” said Celine, approaching the net and – to Harry’s eye at least – putting on a good pretence at concern. “Awful accident. You okay?”

  Doesn’t look that sorry, thought Harry, wondering if he should go to Kat’s assistance.

  But he knew his wife wouldn’t appreciate that. He watched as – true to form – Kat stood up, brushed the mark of the ball from her top – and smiled at her opponent.

  “Not to worry,” said Kat. “Your point. Good shot, Celine.”

  He saw Kat smile at him before returning to the back line to serve again. But he knew from the steely look in her eyes that she wouldn’t give up now until Celine was beaten.

  No doubt about it, this had
been – up until now – Celine’s show.

  But Harry was pretty sure it wouldn’t stay that way.

  And when Celine lost the game and the umpire rather nervously called out, one game all, Harry thought this is turning into quite a match.

  *

  Come on, Kat said to herself, twenty minutes later. You’re better than this.

  But Kat had to admit that Celine was not only an amazing singer, she moved on this court like a pro.

  Every game had been hard-fought, the ball zinging across the net. Kat wondered whether the sedate surroundings of Mydworth Manor had ever seen such a women’s match.

  Nonetheless, she felt she had finally found her footing.

  And she knew that her backhand, always troublesome for some players, was her secret weapon. Strong, fast – that backhand shot always went exactly where she wanted.

  So, settling into a rhythm of returns, Kat took the points and heard “five games all”. The score finally tied.

  Now – it was anyone’s game.

  *

  But then, as Kat prepared to receive serve again, Harry spotted some late arrivals, to the right, midcourt.

  Horatio Forsyth and, walking with him, Gerald Quiller.

  Timing, Harry thought again. Questions to be asked and all that.

  At last, the chance to talk to the man who was so sure that Carmody had been murdered – and who feared he might be next.

  Harry got up from his table by the pavilion and walked around the court to where Forsyth and Quiller now stood.

  “Mr Forsyth,” said Harry, approaching.

  Harry saw the publisher look over, his eyes rheumy. Maybe a tough night? Quiller turned and looked as well, his eyes actually beady, the man’s pivot, slow and precise like the sluggish beam from an ancient light house.

  Or like a hungry owl, Harry thought.

  “Sir Harry, er, umm, good day.”

  Harry smiled and gave a nod to Quiller.

  “I was wondering, Mr Forsyth, if we might have a private word?”

  Forsyth shook his head, almost angrily. “I’m happy for Quiller to hear whatever we talk about. But not here. Somewhere a little more discreet, if you don’t mind.”

  Harry looked over at the match. The umpire pronouncing “deuce”, the game tied, with the last points up for grabs.