“A locked-room mystery,” said Liz slowly. “It’s a theme in detective fiction where there’s some clever outcome, but there have been a number of real-life cases that have never been solved.”
They sat in silence, pondering this.
“So how is it a locked-room mystery?” asked Marge.
“The front door was locked, Debbie told me there was no other door, and nobody else was there,” said Alfie.
Marge peered at him through her spectacles. “Debbie told you? You didn’t check?”
Did Marge seriously suspect Debbie? “I didn’t check it out myself, but Emma did,” Alfie said. “I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have overlooked a concealed exit or a hiding murderer.”
“Of course she wouldn’t,” said Liz. “My great-niece is thorough. Unlike that dreadful sergeant she has to work with.”
Alfie had gathered long ago that Sergeant Harold Wilson was one of the laziest officers in the country and that the policing in Bunburry and its surrounding area was almost entirely down to Constable Hollis. But Liz was much more indignant about the unequal division of labour than Emma was.
“Oh, and I meant to ask,” Liz continued with studied casualness. “Betty Thorndike. Is she your girlfriend or not?”
“What? Betty?” Alfie felt his colour rise. He was certain that Liz and Marge had hopes of him pairing up with Emma. And he was equally certain that Emma would be utterly appalled by the thought. When Edith started joking that Betty was his girlfriend, he had initially capitalised on it in the hope that Liz and Marge would back off. But he thought he had subsequently come clean and told them the truth.
“Yes, Betty,” said Marge in quite a firm tone.
“No,” said Alfie, flustered. “No, she’s not.”
“It’s just,” said Liz, “that when I spoke to Emma this morning, she said she had spotted you and Betty going to Betty’s cottage late last night. And you seemed quite friendly.”
Had Emma seen the kiss? Was there no privacy in this wretched village? He found himself yearning for the anonymity of London where he could kiss the entire chorus line of the latest West End musical and nobody would know or care.
“No, I was just – we’d had a goodbye meal at Rakesh’s and I walked her home – I didn’t go in or anything.”
Why had he said that? He sounded like a guilty teenager. He was a grown man, entitled to do anything if he wanted.
“So, where’s she off to this time?” said Marge. “She doesn’t seem to have told anyone.”
“No,” agreed Alfie, grateful that this gave him the opportunity to prove there was no special relationship between the Englishman and the American. “No, she didn’t tell me either. I’ve no idea where she’s gone or even how long she’ll be away.”
“Probably visiting her family in the States,” said Liz.
Alfie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she gets on very well with her mother. You know, Elisabeth Thorndike.”
Liz and Marge stared at him open-mouthed. Alfie felt like punching the air in triumph. For once, he knew something about someone in Bunburry that they didn’t.
“The supermodel?” asked Marge.
“Yes,” said Alfie. “She walked the runway for Yves Saint Laurent and Ralph Lauren.” He was simply parroting what Betty had told him – she had mentioned some other designer as well, but the name had meant nothing to him.
“Elisabeth Thorndike, I can see that now,” said Liz slowly. “Yes, Betty’s got her mother’s looks all right.”
“Difficult to tell.” Marge was defensive. “She’s always in those baggy clothes and big boots, with her hair plastered all over her face. Nobody could ever call her glamorous. Elisabeth Thorndike was the epitome of glamour. Remember that picture of her in the ballgown, Liz?”
“Oh yes, the one of her in profile. Iconic. She had real class. You never heard about her staggering drunk out of nightclubs.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t, it just means she had good publicity people,” said Marge. “So, what’s the problem with her and Betty, Alfie?”
“I couldn’t say – Betty hasn’t really spoken about it. I may have got the wrong impression.” Alfie hoped he sounded convincing. Betty might not have gone into detail, but he had gathered that her mother was now a much-married socialite, although Betty’s father hadn’t actually been one of her husbands. She had taken minimal interest in Betty’s upbringing, and neither parent was interested in seeing their daughter. But that was nobody else’s business. He really shouldn’t have opened his mouth at all.
The doorbell rang for the third time that evening, and Emma joined them at the kitchen table.
“There’s still loads left,” said Alfie, fetching her a plate, and she fell ravenously on the containers.
“Haven’t you had supper?” Liz asked.
Emma shrugged. “Couldn’t find anything in my cupboards. I was just about to run out to the supermarket when you rang.”
“For a bag of crisps, I suppose,” said Marge.
“And a bar of chocolate,” said Emma.
“Alfie’s a very good cook, almost as good as Rakesh. You should get him to teach you,” said Liz.
Emma spooned out some more rice. “I’m sure there’s lots I could learn from Alfie.”
There was no doubting the derision. Alfie flinched. Had Emma misconstrued the kiss as Philip had initially done, and assumed that Betty was an unwilling participant?
“There’s lots you can learn from all of us,” said Marge smugly. “We’ve solved your murder mystery. It’s Eve’s so-called personal assistant, Edward. Dot thinks Eve rewrote her will in his favour.”
“Well, that’s certainly conclusive,” said Emma through a mouthful of naan. “If only there were more cases where we knew what Dot thought.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” snapped Marge.
“Sorry, Aunt Marge. But we don’t even know the cause of death yet. It may take a few days. There may be more suspects to come.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Marge sighed. “Eve Mosby was the landlady from hell, raising rents, evicting people. If we factor disgruntled tenants into the equation, it’ll be quite a list.”
“The murderer has to be someone strong enough to overpower her,” said Alfie. “There was a terrible fight. I saw it.”
“You saw it? You didn’t mention that when you made your statement.” Emma turned her gaze on him. It wasn’t friendly.
I didn’t kiss Betty Thorndike, she kissed me, he wanted to say. Aloud, he said: “I didn’t see the fight as such, but I saw the aftermath. The place was completely trashed. She had really struggled.”
“So, she’d been stabbed? Strangled? Smothered?”
“I don’t know,” Alfie mumbled. Had there been any blood? He didn’t remember seeing any, but the room had been in such turmoil that he could easily not have noticed. He had no sooner looked at the scene than he had tried to stop looking at it. All he could remember clearly was the hideous green of Eve Mosby’s face. Had it been a face mask, or was it the result of asphyxiation?
With a look of triumph, Emma turned back to Liz and Marge. “Of course I’ll check out the boyfriend,” she said. “And thank you – that’s very useful information.”
“What still baffles me,” said Alfie, “is how someone got in and got out while the door was locked.”
“You may have made a statement to the police, but you still haven’t told us what happened,” said Liz.
“I met Debbie in the street,” said Alfie. “She invited me back to the salon because –” He hesitated, reluctant to mention pedicures. “- there was something I wanted to discuss with her. She unlocked the door.” He hesitated again.
“Go on,” said Emma sharply. “Is this something you didn’t mention in your statement?”
“I don’t know if she did unlock the door,” said Alfie slowly. “She said Mrs Mosby wasn’t to be disturbed. I saw her turn the key, but – I don’t remember hearing the sound of a lock. Maybe I did. I just don’t know.”
“So, the door could have been unlocked the whole time?” said Emma.
“I don’t know,” Alfie repeated helplessly. “I can’t be sure. And I thought that afterwards Debbie was a bit … odd.”
“Odd?” Emma was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
“It’s just a feeling I had.”
“I’m sure your feelings are just as valid as Dot’s thoughts.” Her smile was too tight-lipped to be encouraging.
Alfie decided to rise above it. “Once you’d taken our statements, I went home with her, and –”
“Gosh,” said Emma. “Going home with Betty one day, and then home with Debbie the next. Anyone would think you didn’t have a home of your own.” She had clearly decided that even if sarcasm was the lowest form of wit, that was no reason not to use it.
“Alfie didn’t go home with Betty,” said Liz, a little breathlessly. “And he’s as much in the dark as the rest of us about where she’s off to.”
“But you went home with Debbie.”
“Yes, she was upset. She invited me in for a drink – no, not for a drink.”
“So, what did she invite you in for?”
He was sitting at his own kitchen table, and he was being subjected to a police interrogation. He looked to Liz and Marge for support, but they were listening to the interchange as though it was a rather baffling avant-garde play.
“What I mean,” said Alfie with dignity, “is that it wasn’t alcohol. She invited me in for a glass of water and a remedy of some sort. I can’t remember the name, something to do with the Nativity.”
“Star of Bethlehem,” said Liz. “Just the thing for sudden shock. The Bach flower remedies are very good. I always take Olive if I haven’t slept well.”
“How was Debbie odd?” Emma persisted.
“She was obviously in shock when she found the body, and then she was terrified when she thought the murderer might still be there, so she ran across the road to Rakesh. But once we got to her place, she seemed quite … well, cheerful.” He turned to Liz. “Even before she’d had the Star of Bethlehem.”
He hesitated. “And Rakesh was a bit odd as well.”
Emma sucked in some air and blew it out noisily. “That statement you gave me, is it worth anything at all?”
“We seem to have finished all the food,” said Liz brightly. “Why don’t we go into the parlour and continue chatting there? I’ll put the kettle on for coffee.”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” said Marge. “Don’t worry, Alfie, I’ll get it myself.”
“Make that two, dear,” said Liz.
Emma looked as though she was squaring up to him in a boxing match and then, very slowly, the tension seemed to leave her. “I’ll help you clear up.”
With four of them at work, it was no time before they relocated to Windermere Cottage’s parlour, whose psychedelic wallpaper still threatened to induce a migraine in Alfie. He really must renovate.
Emma, seated in one of the vast black leather armchairs, took a sip of coffee. “Tell me about the oddness of Rakesh.”
“He didn’t seem upset either. More overexcited than anything. And I thought it was a bit odd that when Debbie ran over to him, convinced there was still a murderer in the salon, he didn’t come to see if I was okay.”
“Maybe he thought you were big enough and ugly enough to take care of yourself,” Emma muttered, but with a half-smile.
“If Debbie was in a state, he wouldn’t have been able to leave her,” said Marge.
“Or,” said Liz thoughtfully, “he might not have bothered to come over if he knew the murderer wasn’t there.”
They all looked at her, and she waved a self-deprecating hand. “Just thinking aloud.”
“Keep going,” said Emma.
“What if Alfie was the, what do you call it, the fall guy?”
“I don’t think anybody’s suggesting that Alfie’s the murderer, Aunt Liz,” said Emma gently. “At least, not until Sergeant Wilson’s on the case. The hope of seeing Alfie behind bars is what gets him up in the morning.”
“That sergeant of yours!”
Alfie was always amazed by the vituperation that Liz, normally the mildest of women, reserved for Emma’s boss.
“Where is he anyway? Why wasn’t he taking the witness statements?” she snapped.
“Alfie can breathe easy today at least,” said Emma. “The sarge didn’t actually get up this morning. A duvet day.”
“I had no idea the police force was such an enlightened employer,” said Alfie.
“Duvet day!” snorted Liz. “You mean he drank too much last night. You should report him.”
Alfie knew Emma would never do that. The police force operated through hierarchy and Wilson was her superior officer. She just accepted that with only two of them in the station, the bulk of the work would fall to her. She probably welcomed any “duvet days” when she could get on with things undisturbed.
“I don’t quite understand about being the fall guy,” said Alfie.
“I’ve probably got the wrong word,” apologised Liz. “Marge is always telling me off for trying to get along with the kids.”
“Get down with the kids,” groaned Marge. “Just tell us in your own words, Clarissa.”
Liz swirled the ice round in her gin glass. “It’s rather handy that Alfie bumped into Debbie and was able to be a witness.”
“But Debbie had no idea that we would bump into one another,” Alfie objected.
“It didn’t necessarily need to be you,” said Liz. “It could have been anyone, any excuse to get them to the salon. Just so that someone was there when she supposedly discovered the body.”
“You’re not serious,” said Alfie.
“Very,” said Liz. “It could explain everything. I don’t think there was any sort of fight in the salon. I think Eve Mosby was poisoned. By Debbie.”
Emma was nodding slowly.
“Impossible,” said Alfie. “Debbie isn’t a murderer.”
Liz gave him an understanding smile. “I’m not saying she did it deliberately.”
“Of course,” cried Marge. “Well done, Clarissa, you’ve cracked it.”
Alfie looked from one to the other in incomprehension.
“This ridiculous new Royal Blowtox thing she’s been banging on about,” explained Marge.
Alfie suddenly remembered what Betty had said the previous night: Botox is a poison.
“But surely you can’t just – I mean, these things must be regulated,” he said.
“There was a woman in The Horse who tackled her about it,” said Marge. “The woman said she’d been reading an article about it, and that it was really dangerous, and should only be done in a proper clinic, not in ordinary shops. Debbie got very stroppy, said her salon wasn’t an ordinary shop, and she’d been trained. But who knows? Injecting poison into someone – that could easily go wrong.”
“Or perhaps you can get a bad batch of Botox,” said Liz, although Alfie thought she was saying it more out of charity than conviction.
Emma kicked off her shoes and rearranged herself in the large armchair, hugging her knees to her chest. “So, Debbie kills Eve Mosby by accident with a Botox injection. She panics. She runs across the road to ask her good friend Rakesh for help. Between them, they hatch a plan to cover the accident up. Debbie goes for a walk so that she can be seen by other people, hoping there’s sufficient confusion about the time of death to pretend she wasn’t in the salon at the time. Rakesh, wearing a pair of food handling gloves, goes into the salon and wrecks it. Debbie bumps into Alfie who, for reasons unspecified, wants to go to the salon.”
She paused and shot him a questioning look.
“Sounds plausible so far,” he said. “Go on.”
She pursed her lips but didn’t press him further. “Debbie pretends to unlock the door before pretending to find the body. Then perhaps she’s afraid that Rakesh hasn’t managed to escape, so she runs out, but finds he’s already back in his restaurant. They give their statements to me and are so relieved that it’s all gone so well that they appear positively cheerful.”
She stretched out her arms wide, like a magician completing an impressive trick.
“But it’s full of holes,” Alfie objected. “They haven’t thought it through. Surely the pathologist will discover that Eve died from Botox poisoning.”
“Two things,” said Emma. “First, people who have inadvertently killed other people and want to cover it up right away very often haven’t thought things through. And second, don’t believe everything you see on Aunt Liz’s crime dramas. The pathologists are understaffed and overstretched. Things get missed. When I was in police college, we heard about one case where the pathologist said the victim had been eaten by wild animals. In fact, he’d been dismembered with a hacksaw. At least now we’ll make sure that checking for Botox is on the to-do list.”
“What about our to-do list?” asked Marge. “I’m more than happy to talk to young Edward.”
“Careful, dear,” said Liz. “You don’t want people to think you’re a …” She paused, apparently searching for a word. “A Mrs Mosby,” she concluded.
“Thanks, Aunt Marge, but no, this is a police matter now,” said Emma. “I don’t want you to do anything. Just sit tight and I’ll let you know when we’ve made an arrest. All right?”
Marge nodded reluctantly, Liz with better grace.
“Alfie?”
Emma was looking straight at him, but at least she wasn’t glaring. He gave her his most innocent smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your investigation.”