Murder Mystery Weekend Read online

  Skelgill nods; she seems to have understood what he is driving at. However, he taps the page with the back of his left hand.

  ‘So – Thomas Montagu-Browne –’

  ‘Is my half-brother.’

  Her interjection is swift and practised – as though she is used to correcting the assumption that the person must be her spouse – or even her twin. He is listed as having the same age.

  Skelgill is still scowling belligerently at the words on the page, like a student reacting unfavourably to his tutor’s criticism. They tell him that catering, room service and cleaning are subcontracted, with temporary staff drafted according to needs. Yesterday afternoon and evening this took the shape of a male chef and two female assistants.

  ‘Just the two of you live here.’

  ‘That is correct – it provides maximum efficiency – we do not experience week-round occupancy. There are various advantages – for example we can enlist a guest chef from one of the Lake District’s many prestigious restaurants. And we are not tempted by cheap foreign labour – the ad hoc housekeeping provides local jobs for local people.’

  Skelgill hands the document back to DS Jones.

  ‘The lady who committed suicide – Mrs Liddell – when did you last see her?’

  Lavinia Montagu-Browne does not seem perturbed that he has put her directly in the spotlight.

  ‘The group returned for afternoon tea at 4.30pm. They had been over at Greystoke – at the forest adventure centre. They arrived together and all eight were in the drawing room. I mingled with them for a few minutes to make sure that everybody was content and that the timetable was still on schedule. Tom remained to dispense drinks, and a waitress served tea and cakes. I left to place the Murder Mystery envelopes with each person’s role and instructions on the dressing tables in their rooms. Then I had other matters to which to attend.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about Mrs Liddell – that seemed unusual – even with hindsight?’

  She regards him evenly.

  ‘They were all in high spirits – laughing and joking about their escapades on the rope swings – I don’t recall Mrs Liddell or anyone else acting out of the ordinary. Of course, one doesn’t know one’s guests intimately. They would better be able to tell you that.’

  Skelgill remains silent for a moment.

  ‘She was drinking alcohol?’

  ‘Oh, Inspector – I think they were all partaking of what you might call sherry chasers with their Earl Grey.’

  Skelgill nods. He is conscious that DS Jones beside him is taking notes in surges of shorthand.

  ‘So what happened next – after tea?’

  ‘I imagine they drifted off to their rooms – I checked the drawing room at around 5.30pm and it was empty. Tom and I cleared away glasses and tidied up, as they would be using it after dinner.’

  ‘So you last saw Mrs Liddell at 4.30?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone in fact after – say, 4.35pm – until – until what you might call the commotion. From the drawing room I went to liaise with chef, supervise the table setting, and finally to prepare for the Murder Mystery.’ She hesitates for a moment. ‘I was to play the part of the intruder.’

  Skelgill looks baffled.

  ‘Could you explain that, madam?’

  Lavinia Montagu-Browne glances at DS Jones.

  ‘The crux of A Murder Is Announced is when the party is assembled for drinks. The lights fail, and in the ensuing melee the door bursts open. An anonymous voice calls out and shots are fired. The room has more than one exit – and so of course there is conjecture over whether someone slipped out under cover of darkness and re-entered to commit the crime.’ She indicates with first her left and then her right hand. ‘As you can see, in addition to the central door behind us, the library has a door at each end, opening onto the respective staircases. So this room makes an ideal setting.’

  Skelgill is now glowering darkly. He feels the weight of an improbable whodunit descending upon his shoulders, and the alarming prospect of having to explain such fiction to the Chief. He gives an involuntary shudder. An antique bracket clock on the mantle strikes the quarter hour; it has a mahogany casement and a large enamel face with a clearly delineated chapter ring and the words Bennett, and Cheapside, London. Skelgill seems to wait for the sound to diffuse before he speaks.

  ‘So you didn’t see anyone until this – this shooting scene?’

  ‘Oh, no, Inspector – it did not get that far. They were to meet here in the library for classic cocktails from 7pm – my part was scheduled for 7.30 – but somewhere in between – I should say about ten minutes before I was due to make an entrance – they discovered Mrs Liddell.’

  ‘Where were you then?’

  ‘I was waiting in my office – we have staff quarters through in the new wing. Tom came running to tell me to call an ambulance.’

  ‘So it was you that did that?’

  The woman leans forward; she seems pleased with herself.

  ‘Mobile phones do not work within the castle walls, Inspector – a blessing, some would say.’ She pauses as though she invites his agreement – but before he can remark she continues, again her manner becoming somewhat arch. ‘I understand there was an element of confusion.’

  ‘In what way, madam?’

  ‘Several of the party believed that Mrs Liddell was acting her role in the Murder Mystery.’ Again she glances tellingly towards DS Jones. ‘Tom of course knew otherwise.’

  Skelgill, too, looks at his subordinate – she anticipates his thoughts.

  ‘The 999 call was timed at 7.23pm.’

  Lavinia Montagu-Browne nods approvingly.

  ‘After that I ran up to the room. I could see that the woman giving heart massage knew what she was doing – I suggested that the others – excluding her husband, naturally – should come back down and wait in here.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Yes – they were all in shock, of course – in fact a strange euphoria overcame them – but I think it helped to be relieved of the responsibility. And the paramedics arrived within minutes to take full control. Sadly they could not save her. They brought Mr Liddell back from the hospital about two hours later. Alone.’

  Skelgill senses a certain ghoulishness in the woman’s manner – as if this is just another inevitable chapter in the castle’s morbid history. He straightens his posture and begins to cast about the library, looking first to one end and then the other, where the aged oak doors that Lavinia Montagu-Browne has pointed out are set into the bookcases, in mirror image of one another.

  ‘Could you explain to me about the arrangement of the bedrooms, please, madam.’

  She regards him with a look of satisfaction, as one rather revelling in having their expert knowledge slowly drawn from them.

  ‘You have no doubt noticed that this part of the castle – the late medieval – is tall and narrow. It was built with defence rather than ostentation in mind. It does not have a central grand staircase, but a stone spiral stair in the two corner towers. Above us are four floors, each with two bedrooms. The bedrooms interconnect via dressing rooms, while their main doors open on opposite stairs. We have six additional bedrooms in the Victorian wing, but they are not in use this weekend.’

  Skelgill is looking puzzled.

  ‘So, what – each person had their own room?’

  She smiles – for the first time, he realises – and rather coyly, displaying small childish teeth, emphasising the girl-like impression.

  ‘Our guests are generally intrigued by the prospect of the Lord’s and Lady’s bedchambers, Inspector.’ She smirks, and there is a hint of innuendo in her tone. ‘It is part of our unique attraction. The rooms are decorated and fitted accordingly. And of course it means the ladies can dress in privacy and appear downstairs in their full finery.’ Now she looks to DS Jones, as if to gain womanly corroboration for the significance of this arrangement. But Skelgill has drawn his own conclusion.

  ‘So the females
– and males – have separate staircases?’

  ‘In practice that is correct, Inspector. The ladies’ rooms give on to the west tower, the gentlemen’s to the east.’ A small crease appears between her eyebrows, which are unplucked and come close to joining. ‘Of course, there are occasions when the composition of the guests does not accommodate an exactly even split. Indeed the most recent incident in Lady Anne’s chamber involved a small child.’ She gives the semblance of a laugh, just a small sound from her nose.

  Skelgill’s tone is guarded.

  ‘What do you mean by Lady Anne’s chamber?’

  ‘That is what we call the bedroom in which Mrs Liddell slept. It is probably our most haunted room.’ Her voice becomes a little hushed, and she gazes reflectively at her hands; her fingers tighten their grip on one another. ‘Anne de Flamville was a sixteenth century noble – a troubled young woman – more or less exiled to the Barren North. She was found floating face down in the lake.’ She looks up with a jerk of her head, and speaks more briskly. ‘Not one of my ancestors, Inspector – Sir Horace Montagu-Browne acquired the castle in the early 1900s. The heyday of the whodunit, you might say.’

  Skelgill’s countenance tells of his unease with the direction of travel – but curiosity gets the better of him.

  ‘And this affair with the bairn – what was that about, madam?’

  ‘Oh, yes – nothing sinister – but typical of the sort of thing we experience. We hosted an extended family for their Christmas break. The principal married couple were using the two top-floor rooms for their children. They put their youngest child – just a toddler, eighteen months – to bed in Lady Anne’s chamber. They locked the connecting door so her siblings would not disturb her. The parents were directly below. In the morning they were woken by the faint sound of crying – but when the mother went up the stair she found the outer door locked as well. They imagined one of the brothers had crept in and was playing a prank. But when the other children were summoned they were all present and correct.’

  Skelgill is impatient for the outcome.

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘Well, by enormous good fortune the key was perfectly aligned in the keyhole – I was able to push it out with my spare – and we gained entry. Otherwise there would have been a challenging job for the fire brigade.’

  ‘And the bairn was on her own?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘She locked herself in?’

  ‘Aha – that, Inspector, is a matter of conjecture. The parents insisted she had never before climbed out of her cot – and certainly not whilst zipped into a sleeping bag – it would have taken some extraordinary gymnastic vault! And then to crawl like a caterpillar to the door and to reach up and engage the key – in their modern home they have no such locks. But, of course, she was too young to provide an account of her actions.’

  Lavinia Montagu-Browne regards Skelgill and DS Jones in turn and, content with their bemused looks, gives a snort of triumph. Clearly the principle of strange goings on is something to be celebrated, as far as she is concerned. She unclasps her hands and pats her thighs, as though she rests her case.

  ‘Would you like to see Lady Anne’s chamber just now – or I imagine you will want to speak with Mr Liddell – and, perhaps – my half-brother?’

  Skelgill takes a moment to formulate his response.

  ‘Aye – all of what you’ve just said, madam – in that order.’

  3. LADY ANNE’S CHAMBER

  Sunday, midday

  ‘On the advice of your constable I have kept it locked – the interconnecting door as well.’

  While Lavinia Montagu-Browne stoops to insert the blackened iron key, Skelgill exchanges a sharp glance with DS Jones. That PC Dodd took such a precaution – without exactly going to the lengths of declaring the bedroom a crime scene – suggests that something about the situation had troubled him, albeit that his report did not stray from the plain facts. His visit, in the wake of the ambulance, had taken place during the period while Will Liddell was absent.

  ‘So nobody has been in – since when, madam?’

  The woman rises to face him.

  ‘I should say it was 8.30pm last night – I showed the officer around the empty suite and he was with me when I locked up.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘And this external door – it was unlocked at the time?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She looks puzzled. Skelgill realises she is probably unaware of the account they have received – that the room was locked prior to the discovery of Scarlett Liddell’s lifeless form. He sees no requirement to enlighten her.

  ‘Mr Liddell hasn’t needed to retrieve any personal effects?’

  She regards Skelgill a little suspiciously.

  ‘No – I have kept both sets of keys – we have a secure cupboard in my office.’

  ‘What about yourself, madam – have you been in?’

  For fleeting moment a frown clouds her features. ‘Oh no – I quite understand – you would want the suite left undisturbed – don’t forget I am something of an amateur sleuth when it comes to whodunits, Inspector – or, at least, when it comes to laying down clues – and red herrings.’

  Skelgill looks discomfited by the prospect.

  ‘Madam – it is standard police procedure to treat all apparent suicides as suspicious deaths in the first instance. It’s our job to provide sufficient evidence for the Coroner to bring a verdict of suicide, in order for a death certificate to be issued. It’s in the family’s interest – and that of the wider public.’

  ‘Of course, Inspector – let me guide you – I can perhaps highlight the salient points.’

  But Skelgill steps across in front of her. He holds out a restraining palm, in the manner of a traffic cop.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave us to ourselves for the time being, madam.’

  Lavinia Montagu-Browne looks for a second like she is about to stamp her foot – but in the event she does not attempt to argue. Rather grudgingly she presses the key against his palm – and then digs into the pocket of her skirt and produces a slightly smaller one, which she also hands over.

  ‘For the interconnecting door.’

  ‘We shan’t be long, madam. We’ll come and find you to organise seeing the others when we’re finished.’

  She nods obediently, though there is a distinct look of disappointment in her dark eyes. She takes a couple of paces backwards, obliging her to step down from the cramped stone landing onto the spiral stair. She seems reluctant to depart.

  ‘Inspector – in case I don’t get the chance – my half-brother, Tom. I ought to warn you that you may find his manner rather awkward.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘He suffers from a form of autism – he’s highly intelligent – but he finds discourse uncomfortable – especially if he is being questioned – he may come across as rude, cantankerous – or perhaps unreasonably obstructive – but it is just his manner, you understand?’

  Skelgill stares at her for a moment; he senses DS Jones is watching him, no doubt interested in his reply.

  ‘There’s nowt so strange as folk, madam.’

  *

  Skelgill’s first impression is of a large bedchamber, low ceilinged and gloomy, despite south and west facing windows – undersized and recessed into the thick stonework, like those of the library. A four-poster bed – unslept in, though the counterpane is disarranged and a pillow has been pulled out from beneath the covers – dominates the room. He looks for lights – but there are only individual table lamps and a standard lamp in one corner. He switches them all on. He turns in time to see DS Jones squat to gather up a loose white bundle from the carpet between the bed and the external wall – for a split second he thinks it is a cat – until she raises one arm and lets the item unravel – it is the feather boa. He strides across and takes it from her. He examines the fabric of the item minutely, scowling like a biologist presented with some new species to classify
.

  ‘This is braided cord these feathers are stitched to.’ He whistles through his teeth. ‘You wouldn’t snap that in a hurry. Non-stretch as well.’

  He passes it back to DS Jones – two-handed she expands it like a hank of wool: the ends are tied together to form a continuous loop.

  ‘She must have twisted it round her neck, Guv – then looped it over the hook.’

  Skelgill is baring his teeth.

  ‘Let’s have a deek.’

  They move into the bathroom. Sure enough on the back of the door is a solid brass hat-and-coat hook. A white towelling robe lies crumpled on the floor in the corner, more or less beneath. Skelgill grabs hold of the longer spur and gives it a couple of hard tugs – the device is secured by four slot-head screws, size 6 he guesses – it feels to him that if it were a climbing hold he could trust it with his weight. It is set just above his eye level; he is five or six inches taller than his colleague.

  ‘Stand there – try it – see if this stacks up.’

  DS Jones makes a face of exaggerated trepidation. But she passes the boa over her head like a garland, twists it once and then reaches up to loop it over the hat spur. She turns easily to face him.

  ‘It’s long enough, Guv – possibly too long.’

  ‘If she’d put in a few more twists – that would have shortened it. Like if you spin yourself round.’

  With a rueful grin, DS Jones ducks out of the noose.

  ‘I’ll skip that part of the experiment, if you don’t mind.’

  However, she backs against the door, beneath the hook, and bends her knees to demonstrate a second point.

  ‘There’s not a huge margin of error, Guv – she would have needed to make her legs give way – in which case her weight would still have been partially supported.’

  ‘Or jerk them off the ground completely.’

  DS Jones frowns as she tries to imagine whether such a contortion would be possible. Skelgill meanwhile starts to make a cursory inspection of the contents of the bathroom. An array of toiletries has been neatly merchandised upon a glass shelf; it has the look of a beauty counter in an upmarket store. His face is grim – lotions and potions that do not smell of ground bait are anathema to him.