‘Did you see the way she looked at him? She’s besotted, all right. And him! That terrible little thin moustache—he even looks like a cad. If he ever gets his hands on her money, she won’t keep it for ten minutes. They’ll run Van Dine Industries right down into the ground.’
‘But what was Edwin doing bringing that man along? Surely he must have known …’
‘Of course he did. He’s deliberately trying to ruin Petronella’s chances. Keep your eye on him. He may look as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
The discussion was as spirited as the drinks at the Welcoming Cocktail Party. Those who had been present at the arrival of Edwin and Algie were discussing it and filling in the guests who had missed it.
They were all wearing their blood-red name tags with the black Gothic lettering now, Midge observed. That would make it easier to identify, if not keep track of them. Already, some were showing an alarming tendency to wander farther afield than other tours had done. Once the ‘secret passage’—the servants’ staircase—had been disclosed to them, as it must be, there would be no way of keeping track of their whereabouts.
Reggie was being kept busy behind the bar. He had pre-mixed shakers full of the most colourful cocktails and the Art Deco cocktail glasses stood waiting, filled with the bright blue of Blue Train, the clear red of Luigi and the green of Shamrock, giving an extra-festive air to the proceedings.
Midge deftly and inconspicuously refilled the little saucers with salted almonds and peanuts and the larger bowls with potato crisps. Not that it would have attracted any attention if she had done it after a fanfare of trumpets. The guests were becoming too deeply immersed in their role-playing to notice.
Some guests were drifting back to the bar for refills now. After dinner, the cash bar would be in operation and they were making the most of the complimentary cocktails. Making too much of them, perhaps. The snare and delusion of the cocktails was that they were so sweet that the strength of them might pass unnoticed until it was too late. Midge’s forehead furrowed as she saw that several were switching drinks to try another colour which had caught their fancy. Oh well, the recipe for the Prairie Oyster was looming large above them. On their heads be it.
‘Oh, look! Who are they?’ There was a stir as two strangers entered the bar. Several guests smiled tentatively at them. There was a rustle of expectancy, as at a curtain about to rise.
‘Good evening, everyone,’ Cedric said. ‘May I officially welcome you to Chortlesby Manor? I am Sir Cedric Strangeways—and this is my, er … sister, Lady Hermione Marsh—’
It wasn’t quite accurate, but the guests were lapping it up along with the cocktails. Cedric and Hermione had insisted on having titles, allowing art to make up for what nature had denied them. To Hermione’s initial chagrin, the first tour had got her title wrong, preferring the matey ‘Lady Hermione’ to the official ‘Lady Marsh’. Had she kept correcting them, they would have assumed that she was stuffy and stand-offish and it would have diminished their enjoyment. In deference to their trans-Atlantic sensibilities, Lady Hermione she remained. It had to be admitted that this also made the switch to first names after the solution much simpler.
Lady Hermione accepted a Blue Train from Reggie and began to circulate, smiling graciously at the guests. Only when the subject of the Honourable Petronella was raised, did her smile frost over.
‘She’ll be down later,’ Lady Hermione told Stanley Marric, Treasurer of Van Dine Industries. ‘She has … been delayed …’
‘She’s not with that man, is she?’ Stan asked suspiciously.
Lady Hermione lifted an eyebrow. ‘What man?’
‘That’s right,’ someone stage-whispered. ‘She wasn’t here at tea. Maybe she doesn’t know yet.’
‘I think Sir Cedric should throw him out. He’s nothing but a gate-crasher.’
‘Still, it’s better we get a good look at him so that we can make the right decision, isn’t it?’
‘With any luck, maybe somebody will murder him before the weekend is over!’ There was a gust of conspiratorial laughter at this suggestion.
‘They promised us Bramwell Barbour was going to be here—’ The Chandler twins were more interested in the missing celebrity than in the game. ‘Where is he? Did he cancel out? Maybe we can get our money back.’
‘No, no, my dear young ladies—’ Unfortunately, they had made their complaint to Cedric, the weakest link in the chain. He showed faint signs of panic. ‘He’s here. He’ll be down shortly, I’m sure. Unless, of course, he’s tied up with his new book. He’s working hard, you know. Very hard—’
‘They promised …’ One indistinguishable twin appeared on the verge of tears, the other was beginning to look belligerent. ‘We wouldn’t have come, otherwise.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll put in an appearance—’
‘An appearance!’ That wasn’t good enough. ‘He’d better do more than that. They said he’d be with us all weekend.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Cedric began backing away. ‘And I’m sure he will be. Work schedule permitting—’
‘Would anyone like another drink?’ Midge moved in to rescue Cedric before he met an untimely fate. The twins looked ready to murder him and, although he was due for the chop, it was not supposed to happen until after dinner. He had several plot lines to deliver first—if he remembered them.
Sir Cedric was going to be the first victim simply because he was so bad at delivering his lines. It had seemed the simplest solution for one who desperately wanted to be part of the action but was too self-conscious to throw himself into it utterly.
‘I don’t want another drink, I want Bramwell Barbour.’ The speaker’s name tag said that she was Lauren, but Midge did not necessarily believe that. She suspected that the twins thought it the height of wit to exchange their name tags, possibly several times in one evening.
‘Try whistling!’ Brigid said and screamed with hysterical laughter.
‘Who are you?’ Lauren ignored her twin and frowned at Midge. ‘Where do you come into this?’
‘I’m Reggie’s wife; I’m housekeeper and Reggie is butler to Sir Cedric Strangeways.’ Midge went into her cover story. ‘Sir Cedric offered us employment after Reggie had to leave his post at New Scotland Yard because of ill-health.’
‘Ill-health, eh?’ Bertha Stout had come up behind them and was shamelessly eavesdropping. ‘He looks all right to me. What’s the matter with him?’
‘He’s a lot better now,’ Midge said. ‘This country air has done him a world of good. We’re terribly grateful to Sir Cedric.’
‘She didn’t answer.’ Haila Bond closed in on the group, her eyes snapping. ‘Make her answer the question. What’s wrong with Reggie?’
‘Nothing serious, really.’ Midge shrugged. ‘Just a slight heart murmur. It doesn’t bother him at all.’
‘But it bothered Scotland Yard enough to dismiss him.’ They turned and studied Reggie speculatively, measuring his chances as prospective victim—or possibly, about-to-be-murderer.
‘He wasn’t dismissed,’ Midge said loyally. ‘He was invalided out. But the pension—the part-pension—was so small … Besides, he’s much too young a man to hang about doing nothing.’
Cedric had taken the opportunity to slip away while Midge was under fire. He strolled over to have a quiet word with Grace Holloway, watched by several pairs of intent eyes. He was doing quite well but, inevitably, he would begin to twitch before the end of the evening. Fortunately, that could be put down to oncoming symptoms.
‘Lady Hermione—’ Edwin Lupin entered and made his way unerringly to his hostess. ‘How kind of you to have us all here. It’s very sporting of you.’
‘It’s the least I could do—’ Lady Hermione swept him with a remote, contemptuous look—‘for dear Petronella.’ She swept another look over him and ostentatiously turned away. Definitely, she would require a lorgnette if they were to use this script for other weekends.
‘Nuts?’ Lettie, wearing a fetchingly abbreviated maid’s costume with crisp white apron and cap, pushed her serving tray at Edwin. He ogled her briefly, then allowed his face to become a smooth mask.
‘No, thanks,’ he said and turned away.
‘He likes her,’ someone hazarded.
‘No, he doesn’t. He hates her. I’ll bet he knows her. They’ve met before.’
Speculation began to build. Lettie, unsmiling, bore down on the most vociferous group. They silenced at her approach. Meekly, they helped themselves to the hot cocktail sausages and sandwiches on her tray.
‘Mmm, this is good.’ Alice Dain bit into the tiny triangular sandwich. ‘What is it? I can’t quite place—’
‘Chopped toasted almonds,’ Lettie answered, poker-faced. ‘The bread is spread with mayonnaise.’
‘Very tasty,’ Norman Dain approved, disposing of his in one gulp.
‘There’s a lot of almonds around here tonight,’ Dixon Carr commented. ‘What’s the betting on cyanide and that famous bitter almonds smell?’
Lettie moved away, refusing to comprehend the joke convulsing the group.
‘Hey, we didn’t ask her any questions,’ someone realized.
‘Time enough, time enough,’ Dix said. ‘We’re just getting started. Wait until things warm up.’
‘Here comes a heatwave now.’ Norman gestured to the entrance.
The Honourable Petronella stood there, clinging shamelessly to the arm of Algernon Moriarty. They posed there long enough to allow the guests to come to the gradual realization that another scene was about to start. Silence fell, all eyes turned to the couple.
‘You!’ Realization struck Lady Hermione belatedly. She had been talking to Colonel Heather, now she charged forward, eyes blazing. ‘What are you doing here? Who let you in? I gave orders—’
‘He came down with me, Lady Hermione—’ Nobly, Edwin Lupin stepped forward to divert her wrath. ‘I invited him. He’s my guest.’
‘He’s my guest, too,’ the Hon. Pet declared defiantly.
‘How dare you?’ Lady Hermione turned the full force of her rage on Algie. ‘You know you’re not welcome here!’
‘Oh, I say,’ he protested, wincing. ‘I’ve had two invitations. You heard ’em. I mean, two against one …’ He faltered into silence under her furious glare.
‘Something the matter here?’ Sir Cedric doddered forward vaguely. ‘Something upsetting you, Hermione?’
‘Oh, Uncle Cedric—’ The Hon. Pet relinquished Algie’s arm briefly to hurl herself at Sir Cedric. ‘Aunt Hermione is just being nasty because she didn’t invite Algie herself. But Edwin did, and I want him to stay, too. You don’t mind, do you?’ She tweaked his ear. ‘You will let him stay, won’t you? Say you will—please, please, please!’
‘Anything you like, my dear.’ Sir Cedric patted her fondly. ‘Friend of yours, eh what?’
‘Oh yes, Uncle Cedric. Thank you, thank you, thank—’
‘Cedric,’ Lady Hermione said chillingly, ‘I want to speak to you! In private!’ She led him from the room.
‘Don’t go,’ someone called out irreverently. ‘You’ll be sorry!’
‘Hoo, boy, is he gonna get it!’ someone else said.
A small party detached themselves from the others and stalked after Sir Cedric and Lady Hermione. They had placed their bets on the main suspects and they were going to shadow them in the hope of discovering something incriminating.
‘There, that’s settled—’ The Hon. Pet flashed them all a brilliant smile. ‘Now, Algie, darling, get me a drink!’
Algie sketched a salute and departed in the direction of the bar. Lettie moved over and offered Petronella her tray. The Hon. Pet looked, hesitated, then caught up one of the toasted almond triangles.
‘I simply adore these,’ she cooed. She bit daintily and munched while an interested audience waited to see whether or not she was going to drop dead on the spot.
‘Delicious,’ she said, and took two more. Most of her audience watched avidly, although a couple of restless ones had begun to drift away, rightly suspecting that there were more red herrings than almonds in the sandwiches.
‘There he is!’ Midge was close enough to hear the triumphant whisper of one Chandler twin to the other. She followed the direction of their combined gaze.
Bramwell Barbour was sidling into the bar, obviously trying to be inconspicuous. He was failing dismally.
‘Does your mother know you’re out … ?’ Lettie hummed softly, giving her short skirt an extra swish.
‘Bramwell! … Oh, Bram!’ The Chandler twins closed in on him in a pincers movement.
‘Oh!’ Bramwell Barbour flinched visibly as the twins bore down on him. Only by an effort of will—made against his better judgement—did he appear to stand his ground.
‘Bram! Bram!’ they cried. ‘Surprise!’
‘Er, yes. Yes, it certainly is. What are you two doing here? I mean, I never expected … I thought …’
‘Oh, you know us,’ Brigid, or perhaps it was Lauren, giggled. ‘We just can’t tear ourselves away from you.’
‘Where’s Amaryllis?’ the other one asked, on a note of dawning hope. ‘Didn’t she come over with you?’
‘Oh yes, yes, she’s here.’ He looked around wildly, but Amaryllis was not in sight. His gaze lighted on Midge.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded frantically. ‘Where’s my mother?’
‘Mother?’ Dixon Carr’s face went blank with astonishment. He turned to Lettie, who was gripping her tray so savagely that her knuckles were turning white. ‘That’s Bramwell Barbour? The one who writes all those tough sexy books? You mean he travels with his mother?’
‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Lettie spoke between clenched teeth. ‘He’s utterly under her thumb. It’s a wonder he dared move out of his room without her permission.’
‘Amaryllis took the car into Salisbury.’ Midge spoke quickly and loudly, trying to drown out the conversation going on beside her. ‘She left well before tea. I thought she’d have returned by now, but I’ve been too busy to check on it. Hasn’t she come back?’
‘She can’t have.’ For once, Bramwell spoke decisively. ‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘Oh.’ That was fairly conclusive. If Amaryllis had not been seen recently by her son, it was because she was not in the vicinity. It was unthinkable that she should be anywhere within the confines of Chortlesby Manor and not have come down to meet the tour with Bramwell. Also, he would never have been allowed to wear that tie if his mother had seen it first.
‘Then where is she?’ Bramwell seemed on the verge of panic. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’ Midge tried to soothe him. ‘Perhaps she ran out of petrol or had a flat tyre.’ ‘Then why didn’t she call me? She should have let me know.’
‘This is incredible,’ Dix murmured to Lettie. ‘I just can’t believe it. All those macho books …’
‘Don’t worry—’ Brigid said.
‘Never mind—’ Lauren said.
‘You’ve still got us!’ they chorused.
‘But I don’t wa—’ He stopped himself just in time. ‘I want my—’ He stopped again.
‘Unbelievable.’ Dix shook his head. ‘It just goes to show, you can’t judge an author by his books.’
‘You certainly can’t,’ Lettie snarled.
‘Tell me,’ Dix said carefully. ‘What is his mother like?’
‘I could be sued,’ Lettie said, ‘if anyone heard me giving a true description of that man-eating sow!’
‘Please!’ Dix winced, holding up his hands.
‘Wait until you see her!’
‘But if she hasn’t come back, perhaps there’s something wrong. Maybe she’s met with an accident … a serious accident.’
‘Not her,’ Lettie sighed. ‘No such luck. That old battleaxe is too tough to die.’
