Bunburry--Murder at the Mousetrap Read online

  “And then by the time the rehearsal came round, he was completely gaga again.”

  Alfie changed tack. “Any idea what this business of his death being unexplained means?”

  Henry shrugged. “I suppose it means it’s unexplained.” There was more than a tinge of sarcasm to the remark.

  “Were you up there when the police arrived?”

  Henry frowned in a theatrical way. “No. Why would I have been up there?”

  “Sorry, I thought this was a day you delivered to the nursing home.”

  Henry nodded. “Yes, of course. But it wasn’t me today, it was Amelia.”

  Alfie glanced towards the back shop. “Is she around?” he asked.

  Henry gave his exasperating laugh. “Just as well I’m not a jealous man, or I’d be wondering why you’re taking such an interest in where my wife is.”

  “I’m just concerned about what happened to William. I thought Amelia might be able to cast some light on what’s going on.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” said Henry dismissively. “Anyway, she’s gone to visit her parents this evening.”

  Alfie thanked him and set off home. He knew Henry was lying. Whatever Amelia was doing, she wasn’t visiting her parents. Perhaps she had finally lost patience and left him. Perhaps she was sitting in the dark at Frank’s Bridge. Or perhaps he was protecting her. Amelia was slight, but shaking a ladder and killing a frail old man, however it had been done, didn’t require much strength. Perhaps Henry and Amelia were in it together. Henry had simply shut up shop on Sunday to come to the rehearsal: there was nothing to stop him doing that again. They could have driven up to the nursing home together, one acting as lookout for the other.

  When he got back, he unpacked the shopping, putting the gulab jamun in the fridge with no intention of trying it any time soon. He dreaded to think what impact it would have on his metabolic system if he ate it on top of the cream tea.

  He had ascertained that at least three of the five suspects had been in the nursing home, but that was no help since he didn’t know when they had been there, and he didn’t know William’s time of death. It might have been hours prior to his being discovered. Amelia was unlikely to tell him anything different from Henry, and he didn’t feel like knocking on the vicarage door.

  But when he got to the Drunken Horse for the Green Party meeting, he found none other than the vicar sitting at a table with Betty.

  “It’s just the three of us,” she said. “What can I get you, Alfie?”

  “A pint of Brew, thanks.”

  She headed for the bar and Alfie sat down.

  “You’ve heard about William?” the vicar asked sombrely.

  “Yes, but I don’t know what’s happened,” said Alfie. “I heard something about the police being involved?”

  “Very troubling,” said Philip Brown. “They’re saying the death is unexplained.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Alfie for the third time in two hours.

  “I’m very much afraid,” said the vicar, “that William may have taken his own life.”

  “Surely not,” said Alfie. “Would he have been capable of that?”

  The vicar was saved from answering by Betty returning with Alfie’s pint.

  “We’ve just been talking about William,” said Alfie in a bid to keep the conversation going.

  “It’s awful,” she said. “Alfie, I’m sorry, since you’ve gone to the trouble of coming to the meeting, but do you mind taking a rain check?”

  “You’d like me to leave?”

  “No, no, no, please stay. But I’ve been out all day and I’ve only just found out about William. It doesn’t feel right to be talking about environmental protection legislation right now.”

  That suited Alfie perfectly.

  “You’re right. We’re all thinking about William. Philip, you really think he might have killed himself?”

  He wasn’t sure how he had expected Betty to react, but he certainly hadn’t expected her simply to say: “Oh, William,” and shake her head.

  “Sometimes, in his lucid moments, he would say he couldn’t bear to be the way he was,” said the vicar. “It crossed my mind that he might have been stockpiling medication.”

  “Would he have access to it?” asked Alfie sceptically. “Aren’t nursing homes very careful to keep it locked away?”

  “I meant his own medication,” said the vicar. “He could have pretended to take it, and kept it.”

  “What sort of medication was he on?”

  “I’m not a medical man – I’m afraid I don’t know. But most of the patients in the home are on all sorts of tablets. I would almost prefer to think that William went of his own accord rather than that someone made a mistake, or it was some dreadful interaction of drugs.”

  “We should all have the right to decide when to die,” said Betty vehemently.

  If only, thought Alfie. His mother wouldn’t have decided to die of cancer before she was forty. His grandparents wouldn’t have decided to die in a crash caused by an irresponsible teenager. And Vivian … He bit down hard on the inside of his lip, so that the physical pain would distract him from the image he had just conjured up.

  Charlie Tennison. A vicar had committed perjury by being a character witness for him.

  There was nothing to say all vicars were virtuous.

  “Were you there when the police came?” he asked Philip.

  “Yes, but I don’t think I was able to be any use to them.”

  “So you hadn’t seen William?”

  “Yes, I had seen him about an hour earlier, I think. He was very drowsy.”

  Betty interrupted: “Do you think he might have taken something by then?”

  The vicar looked confused. “I hadn’t thought of that. He was often drowsy, so I didn’t attach any significance to it. I left him sitting in his chair and went on the rest of my visits.”

  And if the police found any evidence that the vicar had been in William’s room, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

  “He was one of the first people to welcome me to Bunburry,” said Betty. “He really helped me out.”

  “He was a true pillar of the community,” said the vicar. “Just like Gussie. Both gone.”

  “And James Fry as well,” said Alfie.

  Betty shot him a look of surprise. “Not in the same league,” she said and Alfie noted that the vicar didn’t contradict her.

  James Fry. William had told Liz he had seen the murder while he was in the car waiting for Philip. Why had the vicar left him unattended?

  “James Fry,” he repeated. “I’ve heard some people suggest he might have taken his own life as well.”

  Betty’s expression was now downright questioning. After her frankness to him about Fry, it must sound as though he didn’t accept what she had said, that he was too egocentric to kill himself. But Alfie wanted to hear what the vicar had to say.

  “How did he seem at the rehearsal that night?”

  “He was his usual self,” said Philip.

  Betty gave a sardonic snort.

  “He was in good spirits,” the vicar elaborated. “Or at least, in as good spirits as our theatrical incompetence allowed. He certainly gave no hint of being troubled.”

  “Did anybody see him putting up the banner?”

  The vicar seemed to droop, the lines on his face deepening. “Not that I know. Of course, the police will have ascertained that. But I might have had the opportunity – I simply missed it. He might still be alive if I hadn’t been concentrating on myself.”

  “Oh, Philip,” said Betty gently. “I’m sure you of all people have nothing to reproach yourself with.”

  “You’re kind, Betty, but no. I pray that’s the case, but I can’t be sure. I had got William settled in the car when he said he didn’t have hi
s wallet. He doesn’t keep much in it, but he likes to have it. He liked to have it.” His face appeared even more drawn as he corrected himself. “I went back into the hall to look for it – Marge and Liz had left by that time, but everyone else was still packing up. Rakesh helped me to look, but eventually I told him just to go. William has – had – a tendency to wander, and I checked the gents, backstage, the kitchen – couldn’t find it anywhere.

  “When I came out, it was beginning to rain, so I pulled my coat up over my head. And I was looking at the ground, in case William had dropped the wallet on his way to the car. I didn’t see or hear anything amiss. If only I had looked around me.”

  Betty stroked his hand like a nursemaid soothing a hurt child. “You were trying to help William. You can’t look after everybody all the time.”

  “Thank you for reminding me just how far I fall short in trying to emulate the Almighty.” The vicar was clearly intending to make a joke, but his tone was too despondent for humour.

  “When I got back into the car and told William I couldn’t find his wallet, he was frantic.”

  Or perhaps, thought Alfie, he was frantic because he was in a car with a murderer.

  “And then when we got back to the nursing home, it turned out he hadn’t brought it with him in the first place.”

  It all sounded completely plausible. And it felt as though Philip was telling the truth. But perhaps it was the truth minus a couple of key points. He could have ensured that the wallet was left in the nursing home, giving him the perfect excuse to stay behind in the theatre until everyone else had left.

  Or had the vicar told the whole truth? Had Rakesh concealed himself somewhere and waited until Philip drove off before toppling James? Had Anthony? Had Amelia? Or Henry?

  “Philip, you mustn’t beat yourself up about this,” said Betty. “If I was in your shoes, and told you how dreadful I felt, you would be talking about forgiveness and self-acceptance, not saying how stupid and unobservant I’d been.”

  Philip managed a weak smile. “Bless you,” he said.

  “And let’s not waste any more time on James Fry,” she said, with a warning glance at Alfie. She began reminiscing about William.

  Alfie finished his pint and left them to it. He had spoken directly to four of the five suspects and got precisely nowhere.

  He texted Oscar: “We’ve had a second murder.”

  And back came the reply: “To have one murder may be regarded as a misfortune; to have two looks like carelessness.”

  Alfie closed the phone. Had he been careless? Was he guilty of the equivalent of staring at the ground with his coat over his head, looking for a wallet, while missing the murder? Betty had said Bunburry was full of secret passions, jealousies and hatred. There was too much he didn’t know.

  He wondered if Liz had got any further with designing a trap.

  11. The Mousetrap

  “It’s a long shot,” said Liz.

  “It’s genius,” said Alfie.

  “That remains to be seen,” said Liz.

  “I could do it,” said Marge. “I’ve got all my AA experience. You’re just the prompter.”

  Alfie could see Liz was about to capitulate, and on the evidence of the one rehearsal he had seen, Marge had a tendency to overact. That was fine for The Mousetrap, but not for the trap.

  “But that’s what will be so convincing,” he said. “Nobody will suspect Liz of acting.”

  “So shall I get on with it?” asked Liz.

  “Definitely,” said Alfie.

  Marge looked at her watch. “Oh look, it’s gin o’clock,” she said. “Not for you, Clarissa – you need to keep your wits about you. But Alfie?”

  “Alfie needs to keep his wits about him as well,” said Liz. “Make some tea, dear, that’s a much better idea.”

  She settled herself at the table while Marge reluctantly went off to make the tea. But while Liz radiated calmness, Alfie found it impossible to relax and by the look of it so did Marge. Eventually he suggested that they might watch something on the vast television. Marge duly put on a murder mystery and Alfie was dismayed to find he had missed all the clues and was utterly baffled as to how the detectives had managed to pick them up.

  As the closing credits ran, Liz called him over. “What do you think?”

  “I’m glad we’re on the same side,” he said.

  “Then if you’re happy, I’ll go and make the phone call.”

  The three of them got to the theatre well before eight pm.

  “I’ll put out chairs, shall I?” said Marge.

  “I think it would be better if people were standing. What do you think, Alfie?”

  He agreed. What he wanted was Liz on the stage and the AA gathered below, as far from the door as possible.

  The others began to arrive: Anthony first, then Rakesh, followed by Philip. Henry and Amelia arrived together but appeared not to be speaking to one another. They sat in a row in the seats arranged along the wall and began talking about William in hushed tones. It was clear that nothing more was known about what had happened.

  Emma was the last to arrive, at five past eight.

  “Been busy with your inquiries?” called Henry. “What’s the latest on William?”

  Emma gave him an innocent smile. “I’m off duty. No shop talk.”

  Alfie stood up and clapped his hands. “Now we’re all here, can we start with – ”

  “Just a minute, Alfie.” Liz had climbed up the steps on to the stage. She wasn’t projecting her voice, which was soft at the best of times. “Would you mind if I said something first?”

  Henry cupped his hands round his mouth. “Can’t hear you!” he shouted.

  “Sorry. I’ll speak up.” Liz’s voice was scarcely any louder. “I just wanted to say – ”

  Grumbling, Henry stood up and made his way towards the stage, followed by the others.

  “Thank you,” said Liz. “You all know how to project. Not a skill I’ve learned.”

  “We’re all close enough to hear now. So what do you want to say, Liz?” asked Alfie encouragingly.

  She opened her handbag and took out her reading glasses. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be pleasant,” she said. “In fact, it’s going to be quite distressing.”

  “Get on with it,” muttered Henry, loud enough to be heard. Amelia gave him a look of loathing.

  “I received a letter this morning,” said Liz. “From William.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad,” Amelia burst out.

  “Why was he writing to you?” asked Henry.

  “He often did,” said Liz. “When I visited him, he would get very upset if there was something he had been meaning to tell me and he couldn’t remember what it was. So when he thought of something, he would write it down in a letter. Half the time he would forget to post it, but the other half, I would get his wonderful, lucid messages through the letter-box.”

  The vicar frowned. “He never wrote to me,” he said.

  Liz looked at the floor, and Alfie could have sworn she was blushing. “Perhaps you didn’t share the history with William that I did,” she murmured.

  Alfie watched her admiringly and then remembered she wasn’t the one he was supposed to be watching. Every word she had said had been a lie and yet she sounded utterly convincing.

  “Please, Liz,” he prompted. “Do you want to share what’s in it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.” She took an envelope out of her handbag, stamped, franked, and addressed in a fine old-fashioned hand. Alfie would have considered it utterly authentic if he hadn’t seen Liz create it a few hours previously.

  “Oh!” Emma clapped her hand to her mouth. “That’s Mr Marlowe’s writing. Sorry, Aunt Liz. It was just a shock to see it.”

  Liz nodded sympathetically, then took the letter out of the envelope. “My dear
est Clarissa,” she read. “I am free of my muddled thoughts for a brief moment and for once I could wish that it were not so. I have remembered something so terrible that to forget it will be a blessing, but I must first ensure that you know what I know. I saw what happened to James Fry.”

  There were audible gasps from her audience. Liz paused and looked over her glasses at them, then returned to the letter.

  “I saw it all quite clearly. He was attacked by one of our own. Clarissa, this is to warn you, and to warn the others, that there is a murderer in our midst.”

  Alfie somehow expected to hear the killer’s heart thumping, but there was absolutely no sound in the hall.

  “And you will be as shocked as I to learn that the murderer is – ”

  “Stop!” shouted Alfie, preparing to give chase as a figure detached itself from the group and sped towards the door.

  The figure didn’t stop, but someone else was moving too, hurling themselves through the air. There was a thud, a grunt of pain, and then Emma was astride her quarry, taking a pair of handcuffs out of her jacket pocket, and snapping them on.

  What particularly impressed Alfie was that Emma was talking throughout, albeit a trifle breathlessly.

  “Anthony Ross, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murders of James Fry and William Marlowe. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Epilogue

  “It’s definitely gin o’clock now,” announced Marge, and this time Liz didn’t argue.

  Marge poured three large glasses and handed them round.

  “Cheers,” she said with a celebratory clink. “To the Number One Bunburry Ladies’ Detective Agency.”

  “That’s rather sexist, dear,” said Liz. “Not to mention inaccurate. Redwood, Hopkins and McAlister would be more appropriate.”

  “And let’s not forget PC Hollis,” said Alfie. “It wouldn’t have worked if you hadn’t rung her to warn her what you were doing and she was ready to make an arrest. That rugby tackle was spectacular. Although I have to say I was shocked by the ease with which she lied when she claimed to recognise William’s handwriting.”