MURDER AT THE
MOUSETRAP
BUNBURRY
A Cosy Mystery Series
Anybody can be good in the country.
There are no temptations there.
Oscar Wilde
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing …
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises …
Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade …
The storm was worsening and the train gradually ground to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Alfie peered out into the blackness but could see nothing except the rain hammering against the window. Nothing could have been further from his memories of the Cotswolds. Over thirty years ago now, those idyllic summer holidays when he came to stay with his grandparents. Endless sun-filled days scampering over the hills, exploring the woods, cooling off in the streams. He had been happy because there was no reason to be sad. His boyhood self could never have imagined the sadness that was to come.
His memories were of July and August but his present reality was November. What was that poem? No warmth, no cheerfulness, no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November.
His thoughts were interrupted by the announcement system crackling into life. “We apologise for the delay to the service. This is due to trees on the line.”
Alfie reflected that at least it was a step up from the much-derided excuse for rail delays, “leaves on the line”.
The disembodied voice continued, its nervousness palpable even through the static. “The trees on the line are due to the storm. This is a circumstance beyond our control and we are waiting for the removal of the trees. We apologise to passengers for any inconvenience caused.”
The dark mumblings that indicated outrage on the part of the great British public broke out in the carriage.
“Oh, honestly!” muttered someone.
“They shouldn’t allow trees so close to the line,” muttered someone else.
Alfie opened his book again, a new biography of Oscar Wilde which had been getting rave reviews in all the papers. He realised he had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he was automatically turning the pages without taking in the words. As he flicked back to the beginning, the book fell open at the title page. He smiled as he wondered what anybody else would make of the ink inscription in bold copperplate handwriting:
To Alfie
Enjoy Bunburrying
Oscar
Sometimes he wondered whether Oscar thought he was some sort of reincarnation of his namesake. Oscar was obsessed by all things Wildean, quoted his hero non-stop, and was known on occasion to complete his dandyish outfit with a green carnation, the mark of a true aficionado. If Oscar said this was the best book ever written about Wilde, Alfie wasn’t going to argue.
But just as he settled down to read it properly, the carriage door swished open to reveal a young ticket collector, who looked distinctly apprehensive. Alfie guessed this was the owner of the disembodied voice. In an uncertain tone, the young man explained that there would be a delay of at least an hour before the track was cleared.
There was an outburst of protests, complaints about missed connections, anxious spouses, ruined dinners. The hapless ticket collector, who must already have run the gauntlet of the other carriages, looked as though he might now run away to join the circus.
Alfie took a gamble. “Not your fault, just one of these things,” he said, raising his voice slightly so that he could be heard by the other passengers. “Tell me, is the buffet trolley around?”
“It’s right behind me, sir,” said the ticket collector eagerly.
“Great,” said Alfie. “Things always look better after a cup of tea.”
“You obviously haven’t tasted it, mate — it’s rubbish!” came a voice from the other end of the carriage.
“Thanks for the warning,” Alfie called back. “In that case, I’ll add a G to the T, and things will look even better.”
There was an outbreak of chuckling, and ripples of conversations.
“I haven’t had the tea, but the coffee is really not bad.”
“Yes, I think they must use those Arabica beans. You know, the good ones?”
“I couldn’t drink coffee this late. I’d be awake all night.”
“I’m sure you’d be fine. Arabica has far less caffeine in it. It’s the instant stuff that’s lethal.”
“Have you tried the flapjacks? They’re lovely and chewy.”
“No, I don’t have a sweet tooth. I go for the salt and vinegar crisps.”
The ticket collector gazed at Alfie in gratitude for defusing the situation. “Can I help you with an onward connection, sir?” he asked.
Alfie shook his head. “I’m getting off at the next stop.”
“Oh, Bunburry? We can’t be more than five miles away. You could practically walk it.”
The rain continued to batter against the windows. Alfie imagined himself heading off into the blackness, hauling his suitcase behind him. He had a sudden image of being trampled to death by a herd of enraged cows, and shuddered. Not a helpful thought. Think of something else.
Another voice broke in. “Do you want anything from the trolley, sir?”
Relieved, Alfie turned his attention to the trolley. He could have a gin and tonic if he wanted, but the atrocious weather outside made him feel in need of a hot drink. He went for coffee, along with a cheese and ham roll and a flapjack. The coffee was palatable, but very definitely instant. He reflected on human beings’ infinite capacity to convince themselves of something that obviously wasn’t true, one of the many things that had fascinated him during his psychology studies. He had no doubt that his fellow passenger would have no problem getting to sleep despite drinking coffee made from caffeine-packed beans.
The roll was substantial but uninspiring. But when he bit into the flapjack, he had an extraordinary sensation of being transported back through the years to when he was eight years old. It wasn’t the same, but there was definitely something, something about the chewiness, the sweetness — he saw himself in his grandmother’s kitchen, taking a tentative bite, and then cramming the rest of the square into his mouth to get every last bit of deliciousness. His mother smiling. “Good, isn’t it? That’s Bunburry fudge, the best fudge in the Cotswolds.”
He had forgotten all about Bunburry fudge until this very moment. Probably so too had everyone else. Another part of his childhood that wouldn’t be coming back. He ate the rest of the flapjack and returned to Oscar’s book.
He had scarcely finished the first chapter when the train lurched into life. There was a collective sigh of relief and some scattered applause. Less than ten minutes later, the ticket collector’s voice, more relaxed now, came over the announcement system. “The next stop is Bunburry. If you are leaving the train, please make sure you take all your personal belongings.”
As Alfie put on his overcoat, he vaguely wondered what impersonal belongings were. He retrieved his suitcase, carefully stowing Oscar’s book in the front pocket, and took out his foldaway umbrella.
He was the only person to leave at Bunburry. As he stepped on to the platform, a violent squall hit him full in the face. He struggled to open the umbrella while the train chugged away towards Cheltenham. His coat wasn’t waterproof, and rain was already trickling down the back of his neck.
There was absolutely no sign of life. Bunburry’s station was unstaffed. The station’s lights were blurred by the heavy rain, and Alfie could see nothing beyond them. He realised he could hardly remember the layout of the village, but he was pretty sure he had to cross the railway bridge. He had hung over this bridge many times when he played with the local kids, watching the trains thunder under it while the sun blazed overhead. But now, as he clambered up the iron steps, the wind tore at his umbrella and wrenched it from his grasp. He watched it whirl away, probably to become a new cause of delayed trains: umbrellas on the line.
When he crossed the bridge, he found an ill-lit notice headed “Onward Travel Information”. He used the light on his phone to read it. “There is no taxi rank in the vicinity of the station,” it went on. “The nearest bus stop is situated outside the Post Office, approximately 750 metres. Village centre — 1.2km — 15-minute walk.”
Underneath was a map consisting of a jumble of streets, with no sign of a post office, bus stop or any other navigation point. He pushed open the wooden gate under the “Way Out” sign and gingerly made his way along a dark and narrow alley. His coat was already drenched. His expensive Italian leather shoes were made for continental promenades and art galleries, not icy puddles and treacherous cobblestones. His socks were sodden now, and he wished he was back on the train, particularly if it was returning to London.
He squelched to the end of the alley, and started negotiating the maze of rain-splattered buildings. It felt a lot longer than fifteen minutes before he found himself in what seemed familiar territory. He was pretty sure that if he turned right at the end of the street, he would reach his destination, the Drunken Horse Inn. He had never been inside it before, but the local pub was a key village institution.
As he headed in what he hoped was the right direction, Alfie noticed an advertising banner flapping forlornly in the rain. It was only secured at one side, and had wound round itself, so it was impossible to read. Pretty ineffective advertising, he thought. There was laid-back, and there was incompetent. Was this what village life was like? And more to the point, was this what the village’s finest hostelry was like?
He rounded the corner, and there was the Drunken Horse at the far end of the street, looking more drunken than he remembered. It was positively lopsided, an amalgam of three, or maybe four buildings, some one-storey, some two-storeys, which appeared loosely attached to one another. He hoped they would survive the storm better than the banner.
A cheerful hubbub emerged from the pub as he approached the front door. He knew it would cease as soon as he walked in, pints left undrunk, as all the locals stared at the new arrival. That was what he loved about London, its anonymity. Nobody knew who you were and, even better, nobody cared. Here in Bunburry, he would be public property.
He wrapped his dripping coat round him, gripped his suitcase more firmly, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
Nobody took any notice of him. He might as well have been invisible. He made his way across to the old-fashioned wooden bar which was being propped up by several men desultorily complaining about the council. They ignored him as he leaned past them to see if anybody was serving.
“Excuse me,” he called to the barmaid chatting to a customer at the other end. She turned to him and smiled warmly. This happened to Alfie a lot and it added greatly to his charm that he just assumed it happened to everybody. He genuinely had no idea of how attractive he was, or the effect he had on many of the opposite sex and some of his own sex.
“Hello,” he said as the barmaid approached. “My name’s Alfie McAlister. I’m booked in for two nights.”
She rootled around under the bar and produced a sort of ledger. She opened it and ran her finger down the page. “Ah yes,” she said. “Mr McAlister.” Apparently the Drunken Horse didn’t hold with online bookings. She reached up for a key attached to a chunk of wood which had “Room 3, The Drunken Horse Inn, Bunburry” carved on it. Apparently the Drunken Horse didn’t hold with keycards either. This didn’t bode well.
“I’ll show you to your room.”
Alfie followed her through a door at the back of the bar.
“Is this your first visit to Bunburry?” she asked as she led the way up a narrow wooden staircase.
“I used to come here a lot when I was a boy, to visit my grandparents.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Are you visiting them now?”
“No,” said Alfie. “They passed away some years ago.” Thirty to be precise, when he had been twelve.
“What a shame,” said the barmaid. “But that’s often the way with grandparents, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed,” agreed Alfie politely.
They were walking along a corridor now, which sloped alarmingly.
“So, just here for the weekend to wander down memory lane?”
“Maybe longer,” said Alfie. “I’ve got a cottage in Love Lane, although I haven’t seen it yet. I’ve just inherited it from my Aunt Augusta.”
The barmaid whirled round, concern on her face. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise you were the nephew from London,” she gasped. “We all miss her terribly, but it must be so much worse for you, being family. On behalf of everyone at the Drunken Horse, may I offer you our sincere sympathy.”
“Thank you, that’s most kind of you,” Alfie murmured.
They had reached the end of the corridor and were now in one of the adjoining buildings. The barmaid put the key in the lock of Room 3 and turned it. Alfie braced himself for whatever horrors lay within. All he needed was somewhere to sleep tonight — however bad Room 3 was, it must at least have a bed, and he could always cancel the second night.
“You’re still in time for a bar supper,” the barmaid was saying as she opened the door.
Alfie didn’t fancy some mass-produced meal which had been heated up in the bar microwave. “Thanks, I ate on the train,” he said.
“There’s tea and coffee making facilities in the room,” she said, ushering him in.
Alfie stood in disbelief. A timber-beamed ceiling and whitewashed walls. Polished wooden floorboards covered in antique rugs. A four-poster bed. Velvet curtains. Discreet and effective central heating. A flat screen television. A state of the art coffee machine.
“All our rooms are en-suite,” the barmaid went on, pushing open another door. The bathroom was dazzlingly modern with both a bath and shower, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A large towelling dressing gown hung on the wall, with a pair of disposable slippers peeking out of the pocket.
“I hope this is all right for you?” said the barmaid anxiously.
“Fine,” said Alfie. “Fine.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, so breakfast doesn’t start until 7.30am and goes on till 10.30,” she added, laying the key down on the mahogany dressing table. “If you need anything, just dial zero. And I’m sorry about your aunt. Still, she had a good life, and it must be a comfort to you that she died in her sleep.”
“Yes, a great comfort,” said Alfie, who was hearing this for the first time. “Thank you.”
“Good night, then,” said the barmaid and headed back downstairs.
Left alone, Alfie stripped off his sodden clothes and wallowed in a hot bath. He hadn’t liked to tell the sympathetic barmaid that he could scarcely remember his Aunt Augusta. He vaguely envisaged a tall woman wearing odd, brightly coloured clothes who came round to his grandparents’ from time to time. But he couldn’t recall her face. He had an even vaguer memory, so vague it might not actually be true, of some sort of argument between her and his mother. His mother had never talked to him about his aunt, but she had never really talked about any of the family. There was so much he wished he could have asked her.
And so much he wished he could have asked Aunt Augusta. He had certainly never expected to inherit a brass farthing from her, let alone an entire cottage. A cottage he hoped would be a ready-made sanctuary as he worked out what to do next. At least now he felt slightly more positive about the venture, despite Oscar’s scepticism.
He dried himself, put on the dressing gown and slippers, picked up his phone and took a photograph of the opulent bedroom. Then he sent the picture to Oscar with the message: “Begun Bunburrying. All good.”
Within a minute, Oscar’s reply pinged back: “Anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
With a shake of his head, Alfie turned his attention to the coffee machine, which produced an exquisite cappuccino. A tray beside the machine held a display of upmarket tea bags, white and brown sugar, sweeteners, and a small cellophane bag tied with a red ribbon. Alfie picked it up. Surely it couldn’t be? But it was. He ripped off the ribbon, pulled open the bag, and grabbed one of the beige squares. He bit into it. It was exactly as he remembered. Sheer ecstasy. The best fudge in the Cotswolds.
With the characteristic unpredictability of the English climate, the next day dawned clear and crisp. From his first-floor bedroom, Alfie gazed out over lush rolling hills and meadows dusted with frost. He had never really appreciated the view as a child — he had simply seen the countryside as a gigantic playground. Oscar might dismiss Bunburry as a place where nothing ever happened, but even he would have to admit that the nothing happened beautifully.
Once downstairs, Alfie was ushered into a small bright dining room, where he decided to celebrate the change in the weather with a full English breakfast. It would have been impossible for the plate to contain any more food: a perfectly poached egg, bacon, sausage, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, potato scone and a mysterious mound of what he took at first sight to be Puy lentils. After prodding at it suspiciously, he realised it must be haggis. Even a London-born McAlister should surely be able to cope with Scotland’s national dish, he thought, taking a tentative mouthful which proved to be very tasty. He scarcely had room for the wholemeal toast with farm butter and thick-cut marmalade, but he persevered, washing it down with freshly squeezed orange juice and English breakfast tea.
Then he put on his coat, which had dried out overnight in the warm bathroom, and got directions to Jasmine Cottage. This was the home of Miss Margaret Redwood and Miss Clarissa Hopkins, Aunt Augusta’s best friends and the executors of her will.
In the bright sunshine, the Drunken Horse looked quaint rather than dilapidated. The golden limestone of the village buildings positively glowed. Alfie strolled along grass verges, passing well-kept cottage gardens and unkempt cottage gardens, an enticing tearoom, and an Indian restaurant called From Bombay to Bunburry.
Eventually, he reached Jasmine Cottage, a neat two-storey building with a low stone wall round its sloping front garden. He climbed up the three stone steps to a white wooden gate and paused.
Oscar had been dismissive of the Misses Redwood and Hopkins.
“They’ll be stone deaf,” he said, “half blind and completely round the twist. They won’t have the faintest idea who you are and they’ll probably have you arrested for soliciting.”
But there was no help for it. They had the keys to Aunt Augusta’s cottage. Taking a deep breath, he rang the bell, which made a pleasant old-fashioned ding-dong sound.
There was the sound of brisk footsteps approaching, certainly not the footsteps of a frail old lady. The door opened to reveal a small, birdlike, white-haired woman wearing oversized glasses.
She peered at him for a second, then shrieked “Alfie!” in delight, flinging her arms round him. “He’s here! Alfie’s here!” she called back into the house.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked.
“Oh, we Googled you,” she explained. “And I must say, you’re even more handsome than your photographs.”
Alfie was spared the embarrassment of trying to respond to this by the arrival of a taller, plumper woman with permed sandy coloured hair.
“Oh, Alfie,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “It’s lovely to meet you, but I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
Alfie had the oddest impression of the sugary smell of Bunburry fudge. He must be having the nasal equivalent of a hallucination.
“Come in, come in,” urged the birdlike woman. “Something to drink? Perhaps a small — “
“A small tea,” said the taller woman firmly and Alfie thought her companion looked a trifle downcast.
“Thanks, but I’ve just finished a very substantial breakfast,” he said. “I couldn’t manage anything else just yet.”
“You’ll want to see the cottage,” said the taller woman. “I’ll just go and get the keys.”
“Thank you,” said Alfie as she disappeared into the interior. “Miss Redwood? Miss Hopkins?”
“Oh, heavens, Alfie, you can’t be formal with us,” said the smaller woman. “And just for the record, we’ve decided to call ourselves Ms. More modern, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Alfie. “Very.”
The taller woman re-emerged with two sets of keys, which she handed to him. “These are yours now,” she said.
“Thank you, Ms Hopkins? Ms Redwood?”
The taller woman gave the smaller one a reproachful look. “I rather thought you might have made the introductions, dear,” she said, then turned to Alfie. “This is Marge, and I’m Liz. Would you prefer to go to the cottage by yourself?”
Alfie realised he definitely didn’t. It felt somehow intrusive, just walking into Aunt Augusta’s former home. Her closest friends, who would have visited her there constantly, were exactly the right people to show him round.
“Would you mind coming with me?” he asked. “Unless you’re busy, of course.”
Marge waved away the suggestion that they might have other things to do. “Anything we can do to help, Alfie, you only have to ask.”
Alfie felt a twinge of guilt. Like the barmaid the previous evening, they were being sympathetic because they thought he had lost someone close. Aunt Augusta might be on a neighbouring branch of the family tree, but he felt no closer to her than he had to the other passengers on last night’s train.
Liz brought out their jackets and they escorted Alfie through the village, Marge giving a running commentary on the occupants of every property. “And that’s Rakesh Choudhury’s cottage — he has the Indian restaurant.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it,” said Alfie. “Is it any good?”
“Lovely,” said Liz. “He does all sorts of cooking. Goan, Bengali, Kashmiri. He just called it Bombay for the alliteration.”
“I keep telling him it should be Mumbai,” said Marge.
“That’s cultural imperialism, dear. He’s entitled to call it what he likes.”
Marge ignored this and pointed out a small house across the road. “That’s the Fairchilds’ place — Amelia and Henry. You’ll meet them in next to no time because they run the supermarket. They took it over from Amelia’s parents about eighteen months ago.”
“Maybe not run quite as efficiently as it was in the past,” murmured Liz.
They rounded a corner and Alfie saw the tattered banner he had seen the previous day, still only suspended at one end.
“Oh, goodness,” said Marge. “Still, I suppose they have to leave it. It could be evidence.”
“Evidence?” asked Alfie with interest. “Evidence of what?”
“Well, on Tuesday night — “ began Marge.
But Liz broke in: “Alfie, I hope you find everything satisfactory in the cottage. We’ve left virtually everything as it was, but your aunt told us she wanted her clothes given to the charity shop. And there were a few small items she wanted to go to particular people.”
“Sorry?” said Alfie, confused. “I thought she died in her sleep.” How could she have told Marge and Liz anything?
“Yes, it was very peaceful. Definitely the way to go,” said Marge. Then she gave a gurgling laugh. “Ah, I see what you mean! Don’t worry, Alfie, we didn’t get a message from the Great Beyond.”
“Marge, dear,” said Liz reprovingly. “This isn’t really a subject for levity.”
“But can you imagine Gussie turning up at a séance? No, Alfie, you wouldn’t catch Gussie sitting around just in case a medium asked if there was anybody there. She’ll be in the nearest celestial cocktail bar, chatting up the waiters, and smoking hand-rolled Cuban cigars.”
“Really?” said Alfie faintly.
“Really,” said Marge. “No playing a harp on a cloud for Gussie. She doesn’t do boring.”
Liz caught Alfie by the sleeve to stop him walking on. “Here we are,” she said. “Windermere Cottage.”
The cottage was long and low, flanked by bushes, with a bright purple door and bright purple window frames. Three carriage lights hung on the solid stone walls.
Alfie unlocked the front door, politely let Liz and Marge enter first, and then followed them inside. He failed to stifle his exclamation of horror. The parlour walls were covered in a psychedelic nightmare of pink, purple, black and white swirls. If he looked at them much longer, they would induce a migraine. He was suddenly reminded of reading Oscar Wilde’s supposed last words (although the biographer was at pains to stress he had actually said them several weeks earlier): “My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go.”
“Gussie loved the Seventies,” said Marge. “Would you like to see the bedroom?”
“Not just yet,” said Alfie, sinking on to a black leather sofa.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Liz. “That’s always good for shock. We got you a few basics, just to start you off.”
“Or perhaps you’d prefer a gin?” suggested Marge, heading for a glass-fronted drinks cabinet in the corner of the room.
Resistance was futile. They were determined to ply him with some sort of liquid, whether he wanted it or not. “Tea will be perfect,” said Alfie, and with an approving nod, Liz headed for the kitchen.
“Anyway,” said Marge, sitting on one of two vast black leather armchairs, “Gussie always liked to give the impression that she was completely ditzy, but she had a mind like a steel trap. When we got her will, she had added a codicil saying we had to take away her clothes and various other bits of personal paraphernalia so that you could move straight in. Then there were a few small bequests, mainly little bits of jewellery. There’s still plenty of it left, though.” She gave him a keen look through her oversized glasses. “According to Google, there isn’t a Mrs McAlister, but maybe there’s a girlfriend who might like some Georg Jensen silver?”
Alfie shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.”
There. That had been easy enough to say. Perhaps they thought he was looking round for the next one, after leaving a swathe of broken hearts in his wake. While instead it was his heart that was broken.
Liz returned with the tea tray. “You won’t notice the wallpaper after a while,” she said. “It grows on you.”
This conjured up a terrifying image of being engulfed by multicoloured circles.
“Milk?” she asked and poured him a mug of tea. Then she offered him a plate which held half a dozen beige squares.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“I suppose that depends on what you think it is,” said Marge.
Alfie took a piece, bit into it. “The best fudge in the Cotswolds,” he murmured, his eyes closed. “You know, my mother introduced me to it. I thought it was the most wonderful thing I had ever tasted.” His tongue slid along his teeth. “And I still do.”
“That’s nice to hear,” said Liz. “Of course, I’ve never altered the recipe.”
Alfie’s eyes snapped open. “You made this?” She nodded. “And back when I was eight?” She nodded again.
“How old are you now, Alfie?” asked Marge.
“Forty-two” he said.
“Liz, you would just have started out,” she said. “Remember how you went round getting everybody’s recipes? You never thought they were completely successful, did you? And you just kept experimenting and experimenting until you got it the way you wanted.”
“There,” said Liz. “My life’s achievement, making fudge. Not like you and your start-up company, Alfie. I’m afraid you’ll find Bunburry very quiet compared to London. Not much happens here.”
Too much had happened lately. A quiet backwater was exactly what he needed.
“Although,” said Marge, coming over and pouring out her own tea, “something happened just a few days ago. Which I was about to tell you earlier when Liz so rudely interrupted.”
“You know exactly why I did that, dear,” said Liz mildly.
“Yes, and you were quite right,” said Marge. “I forgot all about poor Anthony. Anyway, it was all very dramatic.”
Liz gave a faint tut.
“Which was quite apt, since he was the director of our amateur dramatics production. We’re doing The Mousetrap, you know, the Agatha Christie murder mystery play. Well, of course you must know it — since it’s been playing in London for years and years.”
Alfie kept his expression studiously polite. “Yes,” he said neutrally, “I’ve seen it.”
He had taken Vivian, one day when they had decided to play at being tourists, doing all the things Londoners never did, marvelling at the Crown Jewels in the Tower, getting a bird’s-eye view of the city from the London Eye, visiting Madame Tussaud’s. He had taken a photograph of Vivian striking a pose among the A-list celebrities, more gorgeous than all of them put together. It was still on his phone, and he couldn’t bear to look at it.
Marge was chattering on. “ — although I can’t see how we can do it after all, now we’ve lost our director.”
“I don’t think Alfie’s quite following,” murmured Liz. “You’re telling it in quite a convoluted way.”
“Of course he’s following,” said Marge. “Aren’t you, Alfie?”
“I think so,” Alfie lied. “So Anthony’s directing your play?”
“Let me tell it, dear,” said Liz to Marge. “No, Alfie, James Fry was the director of our play. Poor Anthony is his cousin — he works in Bunburry Blooms, the flower shop we were passing when Marge was about to tell you, in quite a loud voice, about James getting killed. Not tactful, dear.”
“Killed?” Alfie put down his mug of tea and leaned forward on the sofa. This wasn’t a word he had expected to hear in Bunburry.
“He was putting up the banner for our play,” sighed Liz. “He must have fallen off the ladder, and unfortunately his scarf got caught on a hook as he fell. A terrible accident.”
Marge pushed her glasses back up her nose. “If it was an accident.”
Alfie’s mug of tea lay forgotten. “You don’t mean — murder?” he said eagerly.
“You can tell he’s a city boy, can’t you?” said Marge. “You may get murders in London, Alfie, but you certainly don’t get them in Bunburry.”
People were people wherever they were, thought Alfie. And some people were murderers. There were several psychology research papers he could cite to this effect.
“There may have been some money worries,” said Liz. “He was an insurance broker whose business may not have been going as well as he hoped. There’s speculation that he took his own life.”
“Well, whatever happened, it still leaves us without a director,” said Marge.
“I’m sure it will all get sorted out this evening,” said Liz. She turned to Alfie. “I don’t want to drag you away from your new home, but we’re all meeting in the Drunken Horse at eight o’clock tonight to discuss where we go from here. You’d be very welcome to join us, and we can introduce you to a few people. “
“It’s a date,” said Alfie. “That’s where I’ll be anyway — I’m booked in there tonight as well.” And depending on what Aunt Augusta’s bedroom looked like, he might stay in the Drunken Horse indefinitely.
“We’ll leave you to explore,” said Liz. “Come along, Marge.”
They worked well as a team, thought Alfie. It was almost a pity there wasn’t a murder. He could imagine the ladies as a pair of Miss Marples, nice cop and nicer cop, Marge chattering on to lull the suspect into a false sense of security while Liz sat quietly, instantly picking up the smallest clue.
He walked them to the door, then bent down and kissed each of them on the cheek. “It’s been wonderful to meet you both,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”
He watched them disappear down the narrow street, chatting earnestly to one another, and found himself looking forward to meeting up with them again in the evening. He might have been less keen if he had been able to hear their conversation.
*
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend, you know,” said Marge. “I swear, if I was twenty years younger and he wasn’t practically family … He’d better watch out, or some cougar will gobble him up.”
“Not many cougars in the Cotswolds, I don’t think,” said Liz. “Gloucestershire Old Spot Pigs, maybe. And the occasional llama.”
Marge patted her arm. “Not a real cougar. A cougar is an older lady who goes after a younger man.”
“Oh dear,” said Liz. “That doesn’t sound very suitable.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” said Marge. “What we need is someone younger. Someone single. Preferably someone good looking. Now, who do we know who fits the bill?”
“We mustn’t meddle, dear,” said Liz. But she was smiling.
“A small dinner party, do you think? Just the four of us? Will I ring, or will you?”
“I suppose I should,” said Liz. “She’s my great-niece, after all.”
End of the reading sample
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