Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Page 10

  ‘It would give you an air of insanity, believe you me, Carmichael. If anyone spotted a bald-headed giant wearing a stick-on moustache, they wouldn’t even consider calling the police. They’d dial straight through to the men in little white coats, and have you taken away to a place of safety.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ asked the sergeant with a perfectly serious expression on his face.

  ‘I know so. Now, get on with your work, and don’t ever again contemplate the addition of false facial hair to your appearance.’ He had no doubt that Carmichael’s stepsons found him vastly entertaining and great fun, but if he kept no check on his thoughts, he could be as trying as a child himself.

  He held up a hand as Carmichael’s mouth began to work. ‘No moustaches, no beards, no sideburns. I may let you wear sunglasses as it’s so bright out, but that’s the limit of my tolerance. Got it?’

  ‘Got it!’

  ‘Good!’

  ‘Wig?’ The hopeful interrogative barely stirred the air.

  ‘Carmichael?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Apart from the susurration of paper, a blissful silence descended on the office, and Falconer felt himself more at peace with the world than he had felt since before last night’s blood-chilling dream. There was a second, at his firm squashing of Carmichael’s am-dram ambitions, when Nanny Vogel’s face had threatened to swim up at him out of the mists of time, wearing an approving smile, but he dispelled it with an imaginary bulls-eye in the chops with a wet sponge, and felt that he would sleep all the easier for this mental act of mutiny.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday 19th June – afternoon merges into evening

  I

  Luncheon had had a few more takers than breakfast, but the guests were still recovering from their excited excesses of the night before, and ate little. It was afternoon that really revived them, and they arrived in a positive rush, when Jefferson rang the dressing bell as a cue for them to collect their costumes for the forthcoming evening.

  At his word, the billiards room filled with eager figures, anxious that they should be the most peacock-bright character in the drama they were about to perform, and little squabbles broke out here and there, as to who had reserved which mask, whose was the powdered wig decorated with pearls, and to whom the fabulous embroidered waistcoat belonged. There was a small tussle over the ownership of a rich purple velvet creation with a plunging neckline and some exquisite lace, but no actual punches were thrown, and Teddy Newberry emerged triumphant, Aylsa Arkwright retiring from the squabble with an ill grace and a slightly scratched hand.

  Grammaticus could hardly believe his eyes. Although their enthusiasm for the event was unquestionable, their behaviour was not of the refined sort he had imagined. This smacked more of the playground than a grand ball in a fine hotel in Venice, and he hoped they would moderate their moods for the dinner itself. The last thing he wanted was a food fight in his beautiful dining room. The silk wall-hangings alone had cost a small fortune, and he feared that it might prove impossible to remove the bright colour of an Italian tomato sauce, if flung indiscriminately by an over-excited diner. There was no way he could afford to replace that on a regular basis, and he didn’t relish the thought of having to corner a miscreant and insisting that they paid for it, as his insurance company expected his guests to behave like grown-ups.

  But after the first few hectic, almost hysterical minutes, the babble died down, and people began to wait, not without a certain amount of impatience, for their wigs to be combed, powdered, and dressed, and for last minute brushings to remove microscopic particles of dust from the fabrics of the costumes. The exodus was begun after about twenty minutes, by the Arkwrights, as Enoch had been the most reserved in his choice of garments, and Aylsa was still sulking a bit from having lost her bid for the purple, but not too upset to be compensated by the offer of a rich lamé gown that, in reality, suited her colouring better, and enriched the tint of her dull, beige curls.

  A slight hiatus occurred during dressing, when Dwayne Mortte reported that Chef had eaten all the Parma ham, and there was none left for the meal, but Mrs Ironmonger swiftly cut his off at the knees, with the information that she had feared that the beastly little foreigner would not be able to resist the temptation, and had removed a sufficient amount to the small refrigerator in her room on the top floor for safe-keeping.

  ‘The man is a glutton, Mr Grammaticus. I’ve seen him in there, stuffing choice mouthfuls down his throat and hoping that no one will notice. Anything toothsome and not nailed down finds its way down that revolting character’s gullet, and he’ll cost you a fortune if you don’t curb his appetite somehow, or organise an adequate system of stock-taking for the comestibles.’

  Jefferson heard the good sense of her suggestion, but was slightly miffed that she should criticise any aspect of his running of the hotel. His nod of agreement was, therefore, somewhat cold, as he departed for the library to see that Steve Grieve had set up the bar, and had sufficient Bellinis made in advance, for what he optimistically expected to be an onrush of takers.

  Sneakily, on his part he believed, the peachy potions were the only ‘inclusive’ cocktail for today, as today was the main event, as far as participation was concerned, and any other concoctions – side-cars and white ladies came to mind – would be added to the guests’ bills at the end of their stay. This lot didn’t appear to have any loyalty to what they threw down their necks, and he confidently expected them all to opt for the freebie.

  II

  On the dot of the cocktail hour, a babbling stream of rainbow hues began its descent of the grand staircase, the chattering heads oblivious of their surroundings, as they flaunted their silken and velveteen grandeur to each other, and Jefferson took advantage of their lack of attention to anything other than themselves and each other, to snap a few photographs on his mobile phone, from his position, unnoticed in the office doorway.

  For this first weekend, he had only been able to use shots of the staff, posed in their glad-rags, for publicity. A few discreet shots of his guests in Carnevale costume would do much to enhance his brochures and advertisements, and he was aware of an opportunity, almost passed over in its obviousness.

  A posed shot of boating on the river, or the taking of afternoon tea on the lawn was perfectly acceptable, but to capture this crew in their masks and wigs, in full fig, was a licence to print money, so long as he made sure that his camera did not dwell on any excesses that the evening might produce. As individuals they were as anonymous as shop window mannequins, due to the full-face masks, and even the most commercially sharp of them could not hope to profit from the exercise.

  A quick trip up to his room saw him arrayed in his outrageous red and white outfit, a mask over his face showing only his eyes. Glancing in a mirror, he realised that even his own mother would not have recognised him, and that he looked positively terrifying. That should get them talking, and then when they caught sight of the Freemans in their costumes … That should give them a real turn: something unforgettable to pass on to their friends and colleagues. Free publicity was worth every penny he never spent on it.

  Standing around in the library, the dozen or so souls gathered made sufficient noise for four times that number, and he noticed, from his place of concealment just outside the library door, that the consumption of Bellinis was slower than on the evening before. That was as expected, as he was sure that they had learnt that dulling the senses too early in the proceedings would blunt their enjoyment of the entertainment to come, and were thus moderating the flow of alcohol to their brains.

  And that was all to the good, for with a little relaxation, they should give of their utmost in the acting of their characters, and then catch up with after-dinner dinks when they felt they could relax. This was also a plus point, as he realised that if the hotel offered enough inclusive drinks – the components of which he got at a steal of a discount –
then the real, local costs in food for breakfast and lunch, would be diminished, showing a concrete saving on outgoings.

  Making a sudden entrance with a booming ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen’, there was an initial second or two of silence, as the stunned guests looked on what had appeared in their midst. Then a couple of the ladies shrieked in surprise, and a nervous laugh arose from the men, to cover up the shock they had felt when the figure had appeared amongst them. It had seemed, to one or two of them, at least, that the Devil himself had joined the feast, and their nerves, already heightened with excitement, were now taut as wire.

  Taking a quick, gratified look round at the surprise and consternation his outfit had caused, then rubbing his hands together in a moment of almost Dickensian glee, he ushered his guests through to the dining room, checking a handy unnoticeable pocket for the little spiel he needed to deliver, before he could launch the good ship ‘Murder/Mystery Weekend’ on the high seas of his commercial ambitions. Percy, at the very least, would be glad to get things underway, as she had been squawking like a demented chicken since they had assembled, her nerves, as the author of the drama, clearly getting the better of her. When everyone was settled into their places, and a certain amount of leeway had been allowed for them to get used to the sheer bulk of some of the costumes, he cleared his throat noisily, pulled his pre-prandial script from the aforesaid concealed pocket, and began to read in his best courtroom voice.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I beg your attention please, for tonight’s inaugural event. Allow me to set the scene for the forthcoming entertainment. As I informed you yesterday, you are at a grand ball in Venice during Carnevale. You are all moneyed figures, known to European society, and have been allotted a private dining room at this function, so that you may eat without interruption from the hoi polloi.’

  Smug grins from several of the diners appeared at the thought of being a VIP, and he knew that soon he would have them eating out of his hand. ‘During the meal, a member of staff goes unaccountably missing, and a search for him will discover him dead. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my unpleasant task for the evening.’ A chorus of ‘Aaah!’ went round the table in mock sympathy, as he went on, ‘He is, in fact, a career criminal of mongrel origins called Willie Nickett.’ A small titter of laughter greeted the name, and he continued with enthusiasm.

  ‘Beside your plates you will find details of your own characters, pages only to be turned at a given written or spoken instruction. Through this, you will learn more about your own back story, with details you can reveal at will, and others, that you may conceal, unless directly asked about.

  ‘As an efficient tool for opening the curtains on our performance, I shall now read a list of names and nationalities for the benefit of you all, but at this point, only you know who you are.’ And he read:

  ‘Gathered in the private dining room at the fateful dinner are Albert de Pub Boer, a South African gem dealer, and his wife, Zelda.’ A small nod of appreciation was exchanged between Enoch and Aylsa Arkwright, and Jefferson realised that it would not be long before everyone had, probably unconsciously, given away who they were.

  ‘Also present are Herr Doktor Klaus Heraus, a well-renowned German psychiatrist who denigrates marriage, and his rather racy girlfriend, Fraulein Inge Gefinger-Flex.’ At this second announcement, Lew and Sue Veede both smiled, confirming his opinion of their lack of guile.

  ‘Also in attendance are Jean-Luc Plume de Ma-Tante, a French aristocratic amateur sleuth and his wife Emmanuelle.’ Fruity Newberry’s head came up with a self-important jerk, and the sexual undertones of his wife’s name caused Teddy to indulge in a very small blush.

  There were a couple of wolf-whistles at the announcement of the latter name from the no-longer-young gentlemen present, who remembered a film from their past that, perhaps, they should not have indicated that they had seen, but it was all grist to the mill for the success of the diners’ acting, if there were already character traits established.

  ‘Also seated at the table are a Dutch couple, Peter van der Skiddink and his wife Yolande, about whose activities a curtain shall be drawn.’ This was, actually, a red herring, as these were padding parts designed for Percy and Lloyd, so that they could remain in the thick of things, and assess how the off-the-cuff drama worked, but even they could not suppress a little movement of the body, to indicate that they had been allotted these parts.

  Bradley and Fudge Baddeley’s ears now pricked up as Jefferson smiled, and intoned. ‘The private dining also admits to the pleasure of the company, all the way from the US of A, of Mr Seymour Skinflicks, and his luscious actress wife, Miss Miracle Belledame.

  ‘And finally, tonight we are also graced with the company of the famous Italian crime writer, Gianni al Forno, and his beautiful, dark-eyed wife, Florentine. I give you, ladies and gentleman, the cast for tonight’s performance of Death of a Footman.’ This appeared to be right up Mark and Madge Berkeley-Lewis’ street, and brought forth approving little smiles.

  ‘Between courses you will have full access to the ground floor of the hotel to conduct your investigations, and when you are re-seated, I shall apprise you of any updates on the situation, or new pieces of information that you might like to take into account. For this evening – for one evening only, ladies and gentlemen – I am your host; the American manager of your Venetian hotel, Willard Hamilton-Goldfish III, and my only raison d’etre is the comfort of the esteemed guests in my establishment. Please feel free to avail yourself of my services throughout the course of the evening.’

  There was an enthusiastic round of applause as he finished his little pep talk, and Jefferson realised that he had landed them, hook, line, and sinker. They already believed in their characters and, the mood being thus propitiously set, he announced the service of the first course. A gasp rose from the assembled company as the Freeman brothers entered with the food, the sinister masks of their jester’s outfits leering ominously in the soft light from the chandelier. They really did look intimidating, when costume was coupled with height, thought Jefferson, as he surveyed the shocked faces of the ladies present. That one of them should be the victim, and not the murderer, was obviously a great relief, and their appearance had made the stage set seem even more real. These were alien creatures from a foreign land, and had been adroitly presented as such to the players, and gave every appearance of being allied to the brooding red devil who had announced himself as the fictional hotel’s manager.

  The only negative comment came from Enoch Arkwright, who hissed a little too loudly for comfort in his wife’s ear, ‘Glad to see they’ve got rid of that darkie couple and got in a couple of good old English lads. You know how I feel about darkies.’ Aylsa did, and she knew why he felt as he did, but she ignored him; in fact she snubbed him, thoroughly embarrassed that he could utter such words in front of relative strangers, and turning to the diner on her right, commented on the general impression made by the entrance of the two, impressively tall, disguised figures.

  As for the masks of the diners, although fantastic in their air of the surreal, these had been removed to imbibe when they had gathered in the library, and at the moment were discarded beside their place settings, to be ignored until the prowling around, and the interrogations to be carried out, after the murder had been committed.

  In the kitchen, Chef shooed Dwayne Mortte outside for a cigarette, so that he could gather his wits for the next offering to the dining room, and let his eyes roam around his little kingdom. Everything was as it should be, with the exception of an unidentified object on the kitchen table which proved, on closer examination, to be just over half of a small, uneaten quiche, and if Chef wasn’t mistaken, there were chanterelle mushrooms just under its golden surface.

  Ah, yes, someone must have put it down here unfinished, rather than eating it in the staff room. And he did adore chanterelles so much. Surely, he thought, the natural gluttony that had dictated his adult bulk asserting itself in the form of undeniable temptation
, they would not miss it. He could tell them that he had thrown it in the ‘poobell’ (rubbish bin), as its origin was unknown. His hand stretched out. His fingers grasped. His mouth opened in greedy anticipation. No one would ever know. With an almost sexual pleasure, and the phrase, ‘Oh, Ah cannot reseest you, mah leetle treasure,’ his teeth bit into the soft, yielding surface of the enticing morsel.

  III

  DI Falconer had had a longer day at the office than he had anticipated, and was home much later than anticipated. He had planned to go to a little bistro he knew that served excellent French food, but if he didn’t get a move on, he would not arrive in time to order, and he had nothing in particular in the house for his supper, having planned to pick up a few groceries on the morrow. After a day drowning in paper, he looked forward to nothing more than a well-cooked morsel or two, and an early night with his book, in the hope that the scenario enacted in the novel he was currently reading would oust all thoughts of Nanny Vogel, and give him a less hectic night than he had enjoyed (not!) the night before.

  He turned the key in the lock of his front door, and was surprised when no furry little form arrived to greet him. At least one of his three cats, Mycroft, Ruby, and Tar Baby, usually made the effort, but this evening there was a disquieting silence and lack of movement that stirred him uneasily. There was something afoot, if his detective instincts were not at fault.

  Slowly, he entered the house, his first thoughts being that the cats had fled because of intruders, but one slightly nervous peek round the sitting room door soon dispelled this myth. No human form had defiled his castle, but nonetheless, his desk and the carpet surrounding it were strewn with what appeared to be the aftermath of a snow storm; a positive haunting of more pieces of paper, this time in minute form.

  Three guilty figures had been startled into immobility by his cautious approach to the room, and three feline faces looked alarm at him, at this unexpected discovery, and his small cry of surprise suddenly galvanised them into life, as they fled, a trio caught red-pawed, to try to utilise the cat-flap all at the same time, in a squawking bunch of guilt and panic.