HOW TO COMMIT MURDER IN A BOOKSHOP

C. L. Taylor

AT LEAST one of you will die tonight!” Amy, dressed as an elf, complete with hat and bells attached to the laces of her Doc Martens, is standing on a stool in the centre of the bookshop. For the last five minutes she’s valiantly tried, and largely failed, to explain the rules of the murder mystery game to the attendant readers, authors, literary agents and publishing professionals who have gathered in Paper Palace – London’s largest, oldest and most established bookshop – for their annual Christmas party.

Eleanor, Amy’s colleague and lead bookseller, looks on sympathetically. Normally their Christmas parties are more of a drink-and-mingle affair, but this year Amy suggested that they play a game instead. Her thinking was, because no one ever really mingles outside of their groups, that it might be a good way of getting their guests to interact. Eleanor couldn’t help but agree. In her experience the lesser-known writers huddle together in corners, and the well-known authors attract readers like bees to honey – well, the confident ones anyway. Most readers are of a more nervous disposition and tend to avoid interaction completely, preferring the company and safety of the books. They’re Eleanor’s favourite kind of human and she loves watching the way they reverentially drift from bookshelf to bookshelf, occasionally pausing to softly stroke a spine or carefully remove a novel from its resting place before they lovingly turn it over in their hands.

Publishing professionals are a different species. To Eleanor, who’s in her early fifties, they all look so impossibly young, thin and fresh-faced. They’re the newest recruits of course – overworked and underpaid but huge fans of literature, still so excited to acquire, market or publicise novels they love and launch them, with fanfare, out into the world. There aren’t many publishing employees that are the same age as Eleanor but those she can see have the same weary air of cynicism. They have survived the industry, possibly brought up children too, carried the weight of household tasks, and now they’re too exhausted to do anything else. There are a lot of agents in this group too. In contrast, the sales guys (both male and female) exude a confidence and bonhomie that she only wishes she had. Their laughter rings throughout the bookshop like chiming (sales) bells as they knock back the wine that the bookshop provided. Unlike their colleagues, they’ve dressed for the season in Christmas jumpers, headbands and ties.

The reaction to Amy’s murder mystery game is, understandably, mixed. The readers look horrified, the authors apprehensive and the publishing professionals and agents simply look resigned. Only Amy, the two well-known authors and the sales guys are excited about donning different personas and playing the game.

“Hello, Eleanor.” A tall grey-haired man with a ruddy complexion, generous nose and an air of dishevelment touches her on the elbow, making her jump.

“Martin, hi!” There’s genuine delight in her voice, tinged with a hint of apprehension. Back in the day – the mid-eighties to mid-nineties to be precise – Martin Rothschild was a huge name in crime fiction, up there with Elmore Leonard, Tom Clancy and Jeffrey Archer. He’s fallen out of favour since then – his blend of cynical private investigators, femmes fatales and hard-boiled storylines are no longer fashionable. While the supermarkets and Waterstones no longer stock his book, Paper Palace and a handful of other independent bookshops still place small but regular orders to cater to his diminishing band of loyal but ageing fans. Three of them were supposed to attend the party but cancelled at the last minute, citing illness, family emergencies and, in Cecile Hampton’s case, “an unfortunate reaction to an overly ripe Camembert cheese”. Eleanor didn’t ask for details.

“Christmas present for you.” Martin thrusts a beautifully wrapped parcel into her hands. She can tell immediately by its shape and weight that it’s a book.

“My latest hardback,” he says. “My last one.”

Before Eleanor can express her dismay, he adds, “It’s my own creation, in every way. I had it printed myself, commissioned a small run. I ensured it’s made of the very best quality paper with vibrant endpapers, sprayed edges, a ribbon – the works. I think that, if you’re going to bow out of publishing, you should do it in style. It’s a Yuletide tale, by the way.”

She turns the parcel over in her hands, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Martin, this means a lot.”

Rather than respond, he gives a pursed-lipped nod then heads back into the fray, a weighty-looking plastic bag hanging from the crook of his arm.

“So those are the rules to the game!” Amy announces from across the room. Her elf hat has slipped so far back on her head that it looks like it’s trying to make its escape. “If everyone could please take a card from the table – don’t show them to each other please! – they’ll tell you all you need to know about your character, and whether you’re the murderer or not. To the victim, make sure you die in style!”

There’s a chorus of laughter, then the assembled guests drift towards the table, some more keen than others. Eleanor searches the crowd for Martin, but he appears to have disappeared, or else he’s hiding out of sight. She can’t help but feel sorry for him. After such a long career it feels wrong that he should have to self-publish his last book. Not that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing – she stocks several local self-published authors – but Martin Rothschild should have bowed out with aplomb during a celebration thrown by his publisher, given some kind of award, and maybe a re-jacketed anniversary edition of his most famous book. To end his career in such a quiet way makes her feel sad.

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes have passed since Amy invited the guests to select their characters, and the murder mystery game has descended into chaos. Almost everyone’s drunk, someone switched the festive tunes for Rage Against the Machine (which meant she had to run to turn it off before the lead singer reached the sweary chorus), and one of the literary agents, who was walking backwards to try and widen the gap between her and an aspiring author, tripped over the game’s ‘victim’, who had just that moment decided to lie on the floor and act dead. The glass of red wine the agent had been holding went flying and soaked an editorial assistant’s white dress. For the next fifteen minutes, everyone who hadn’t witnessed the incident approached the poor woman and questioned why she was walking around if she was a victim who’d been stabbed to death.

A handful of readers are still playing the game, tentatively approaching people with a notebook and pen in their hands. In contrast, the sales team are charging around the room demanding that a certain character ‘fess up’, promising books and freebies if they tell them the truth. Of the other publishing professionals, the senior editors are surreptitiously checking their watches, the agents are mingling, and the marketing and publicity girls are chatting about how much their contemporaries earn and how long they have to sit it out in their current roles before they can move on. Meanwhile, the authors are either wandering around aimlessly, talking to their agents or gossiping in small groups. The two high-profile authors, who’ve resolutely ignored each other all evening, have somehow been drawn together and are arguing loudly about the latest divisive scandal that’s hit the publishing world. As for the readers and book club members, all but a handful have slipped out of the front door and disappeared into the night. Eleanor’s been scurrying around all evening, mopping up wine spillages, rescuing book tables from being knocked over, and trying to stop random passers-by from wandering inside whenever one of her guests leaves or goes outside for a smoke.

“If everyone could gather round please!” Amy’s back on her stool, her hat abandoned, her cheeks flushed with stress. “That’s the end of the interrogation part of the game. If you could all please take a slip of paper from the table and write down who you think the murderer was, and what their motive might have been. When you’ve written it down, please fold the piece of paper in half and drop it into the Santa hat. There’s a bottle of champagne for the winner!” She waves it desperately above her head. “You’ve got five minutes to submit your answers. Just five minutes please!” From her raised vantage point she searches the crowd until her gaze falls on Eleanor. Her expression is pure Please God, let this end!

Eleanor shoots her a sympathetic glance then continues ringing in the last few alcohol-fuelled purchases through the till. When she looks up again, five minutes later, she spots guests pulling on their coats as Amy sorts through the guesses in the hat. She exhales softly. It’s nearly over, the party’s winding down. Movement in the corner of her eye makes her turn her head. Bill, one of only a handful of remaining book club members, is weaving his way through the shop carrying a tin of something in his hands. It’s mince pies, she realises, as he offers one to an author, then an agent, then a sales guy. Unusual, she’s never had him down as a Great British Bake Off type of man. Whatever his baking skills, he definitely seems to be avoiding his fellow readers. Each time they reach for the tin he swerves away. That’s not very Christian of the Reverend Bill Brown.

“Okay, everyone! It’s results time!” With the party now half-empty Amy doesn’t even bother to clamber up on her stool. The readers draw closer but authors, sales guys, editors and agents all continue on with their chats. Eleanor’s heart goes out to Amy. She’s been trying her best to make sure everyone has a good time and this is how she’s repaid? Irritated, Eleanor turns off the Christmas music, cups her hands to her mouth and bellows:

“Amy has the winner!”

The reaction is immediate. Conversations cease, apologetic faces are pulled and suddenly everyone’s feigning interest in the exhausted elf with a piece of paper in her hand. There’s a good reason why so many authors, agents and publishing staff have turned up to the Paper Palace Christmas party. With a subscription box boasting five thousand subscribers it’s enough to ensure that a hardback shoots straight into the Sunday Times Top Five on release. None of these people want a black mark against their book, client or publishing house – not when it’s Eleanor who chooses the novel for the box.

Amy flashes her a grateful smile then continues, “I’m pleased to say that a lot of you correctly guessed the murderer.” There’s a ripple of excitement (possibly faked) from the small crowd. “But only one of you guessed the motive correctly. The gardener, Ned Chambers, was indeed the murderer of Lady Elizabeth Arnold!” Several people cheer, one person claps, and one of the readers – a man called Arthur – takes a bow. “But,” Amy shouts, “it wasn’t anything to do with his prize-winning turnips.” She pauses as one of the sales guys boos. “It was because…” she leaves them hanging for a couple of seconds “…Lady Elizabeth walked in on him while he was making love to the cook, and she’d threatened to tell his wife.

“That’s right!” she adds as an excited squeak erupts from Rosie Bradford who, at eighteen, is the youngest member of the book club. “You’re the winner and this bottle of champagne is yours.” She hands it over to the blushing young girl. “Happy Christmas. Don’t drink it all at once!”

Eleanor slips from behind the counter and opens her arms wide. “On behalf of Paper Palace, I’d like to thank you all for coming along to our Christmas party. It certainly has been quite the night! I’d like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and I hope Father Christmas brings you lots of books.”

Her speech generates nods, smiles, thank yous and a lot of Christmas greetings as the guests do up their coats and slowly file out of the shop until only Eleanor, Amy and Reverend Brown remain. Suddenly famished, she reaches inside his tin for the last remaining mince pie. Before her fingers so much as graze the soft, crumbly pastry, he whisks the tin out of reach.

“Not for you I’m afraid. I was given strict instructions.”

“By whom?” Eleanor stares at him. “I don’t think Mrs Brown would be that cruel, would she? I’m assuming it’s your wife who made them, rather than you?”

“Oh no, no, no.” The Reverend shakes his bald head briskly. “They were handed to me earlier, by a departing guest. I was told that, under no circumstances, should I give them to book club members, readers or booksellers. I did ask why but no answer was forthcoming. They were very clear – under no circumstance was I to give them to anyone who doesn’t work in—”

“Which guest?” Eleanor asks.

“Absolutely, yes. You’ll want to thank them of course. It was… um…” The Reverend frowns and touches his thumb to his chin. “It’ll come to me in a second.”

“Could you describe them? It’s important.”

“Eleanor.” Before he can answer, Amy approaches in a thin Christmas jumper and leggings, her elf costume discarded. “I’m confused.”

“About what?” Her gaze still fixed on the Reverend, Eleanor doesn’t immediately notice the card her colleague is holding out to her.

“Why did you change the rules to the game?” Amy asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“On the card. The printed instructions said one of you will die tonight but you added at least so it read at least one of you will die tonight. That’s why the game went on for as long as it did. I was waiting for someone else to drop dead.”

Eleanor peers at the card. Sure enough, someone’s added a handwritten at least to the top of the card. “That wasn’t me.” She glances at the Reverend, who shrugs.

“Nothing to do with me.”

“I thought the game was new,” Amy continues, “when it arrived in the post, but it’s obviously second-hand. If I’d known you hadn’t altered the instructions, I wouldn’t have read out the amendment. Whoever sent it to me obviously plays it differently. Maybe the second victim adds a bit of a twist?”

Eleanor’s brain is whirring, and she’s got a sick feeling in her stomach, and not because she’s hungry. “I thought the game was your idea, that you’d bought it specifically.”

Amy shakes her head. “God no, I haven’t even got my tree up yet, I’m not that organised. There was a card that came with it. It said, The Paper Palace Christmas party is nearly upon us, and I thought this might help set the mood. I thought that was a bit odd. I mean… how does a murder mystery game set the mood for a Christmas party? But then I—”

“Thought it might get our guests to mingle and interact.” Eleanor turns sharply towards the Reverend. “Have you remembered who gave them to you?”

“Yes!” The older man’s expression brightens, he’s very keen to help. “I’ve got it. It was that wonderful author. Big hit in the eighties and nineties. What’s his name? Martin… Martin something. Oh gosh. It was on the tip of my tongue a second ago, and now it’s… wait, I’ve got it! Martin Rothschild!”

My own creation, in every way…

Heart pounding, Eleanor rushes back to the counter. You’re overreacting, says the logical part of her brain as she searches for the present Martin gave her earlier. It’s the murder mystery, it’s got you thinking about crime. But there’s no reasoning with the rush of fear that just passed through her body.

“What’s going on?” Amy joins her as Eleanor plucks at the tape on the parcel with trembling fingers.

She doesn’t reply, she can’t. She’s too focused on getting the paper off the book and—

A strangled gasp catches in her throat as she reveals the title.

“How to Commit Murder in a Bookshop,” says the Reverend, leaning over the counter, his head tilted to get a better look. “That’s prescient, given the game we just played.”

Trembling, Eleanor flips through the pages until she reaches the dedication:

To all the agents and editors who gave the thumbs down to my ideas, the sales teams who failed to get my novels into supermarkets, the marketing and publicity teams who paid my books lip service, and the authors who refused to give me a quote. This book is for you.

Too scared to read on, it takes all of Eleanor’s courage to turn the page. Voice trembling, she reads aloud:

“Chapter One.

“The perfect place to commit murder is at a party. A bookshop Christmas party, filled with all the people who have wronged you, is even better than that. All you need is a motive, an escape plan (ideally a flight abroad, the same day), a warning delivered via a game, an unsuspecting but helpful reader, a slow-acting and untraceable poison, and some home-cooked mince pies in a tin…”