Chapter Eight
CHAPTER EIGHT
The parish hall is only a few blocks from the village green. When we arrive, Wyatt and I talk Amity out of taking seats in the first row and settle in the third. Two women in front of us twist around and introduce themselves as sisters from Pittsburgh, retirees who love traveling together.
“We’ve been cramming for months, watching reruns of Grantchester and Father Brown and deconstructing the cozy mysteries of M. C. Beaton,” one of them says. “We love Agatha Raisin. Wasn’t The Quiche of Death delicious?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“A delightful book!” Amity says.
“I don’t do quiche,” Wyatt says with a wave of his hand. “Lactose intolerant.”
The people gathered look middle-aged and older. I count about thirty participants, most of whom are seated in pairs or small groups, which makes me glad I’m also part of a team.
On the stage, a woman wearing a corsage taps on the microphone.
Her blouse is untucked and hangs over a denim skirt that nearly reaches her bright green Crocs.
The ensemble strikes me as more hippie school principal than English countrywoman, but the parish hall is not particularly quaint either.
With rows of folding chairs and the small stage edged by a faded maroon curtain, it’s the kind of place you’d expect to watch a spelling bee.
“Maybe we have it all wrong,” I whisper to Wyatt. “Maybe what looks bogus is bona fide and vice versa.”
I’m still confused by my encounter this afternoon with the mother-son duo and hoping that it will become clearer who’s part of the mystery and who’s not.
The microphone squeaks. The schoolmarm leans in.
“Welcome to Willowthrop’s first ever Murder Week!
We are delighted to have you here in our humble village.
We trust that you all are well and truly afflicted with what the great nineteenth-century novelist Wilkie Collins called ‘detective fever.’ You see, our local constable is a lovely chap but unfortunately is a few egg whites short of a soufflé, if you catch my meaning.
So, in the case of a murder in our midst, we will rely on you. ”
Ripples of applause. The speaker introduces herself, and I’m disoriented all over again.
This is Germaine Postlethwaite? Of the imperious email and the extensive correspondence with my mother?
I’m not sure what I expected—more tweed, less shlumpiness?
At the least, more intimidating. I should have pushed harder on the refund.
“Before we begin,” Germaine continues, “I’d like to state, at the request of the head of the parish council, that Willowthrop is utterly and completely safe. There has not been a suspicious death here since 2012, when the village orthodontist unexpectedly expired.”
“That explains the teeth,” Wyatt whispers.
Amity shushes him.
“There was an inquest—” Germaine continues.
“Ooh, an inquest! Like in Rebecca ,” says one of the Pittsburgh sisters, eliciting a wink from Germaine.
“—and it was determined that the orthodontist had died of natural causes. An undetected heart condition. Not murder.”
Murmurs of disappointment throughout the hall.
Germaine goes over the ground rules.
“You are to gather at the village green tomorrow morning at nine, at which time you will be informed that a murder has occurred. You will be briefed on the case and then taken, by groups, to the scene of the crime.”
Excited chatter. Germaine raises a hand and waits with the practiced patience of a kindergarten teacher. The room falls silent.
“Each team will have an opportunity to examine the crime scene and interview witnesses and suspects, some of whom may be in character and some playing themselves, but with minor adjustments to adhere to the storyline.
In other words, it is up to you to decide who is real and who is not and which information is relevant to solving the crime.
If you identify a suspect whom you would like to interview and their location is not easily discernible, you may ask us how to locate them.
If they are not part of the game, that information will not be forthcoming.
We want you to be challenged, but we have no desire to send you on a wild-goose chase.
“You will have five days to investigate the crime. Your written solution must be turned in by seven o’clock on Thursday evening.
You must provide not only the whodunit but also the howdunit and the whydunit .
Obviously, your conclusion will contain some theories that can’t be proven.
Fingerprinting and DNA testing have no role in this challenge.
You may not use the internet, which would be of no use anyway, as all background facts pertinent to the crime are fictional.
The team that comes closest to the truth will have the honor of presenting the details at our evening finale.
If you believe you have figured out the crime before then, please keep it to yourself so that we may all enjoy the denouement together. ”
Germaine glances to the wings of the stage.
“I’d now like to introduce our special guest, who has been quite instrumental in the development of our mystery.
” She clears her throat, looking like she’s tasting something unsavory.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Willowthrop’s very own Mr. Roland Wingford, author of Murder Afoot , the first in his series of eleven murder mysteries featuring Cuddy Claptrop, the crime-solving farrier. ”
Silence but for the sound of Germaine’s clapping.
“A furrier? How fabulous,” Wyatt whispers.
“ Farrier ,” Amity says. “Who shoes horses. A blacksmith.”
“So much for Anthony Horowitz,” grumbles the man sitting behind me. “Hey, Siri, tell me something about Roland Wingford.”
From the man’s phone, a robotic voice: “Winsford Devine was a Trinidad and Tobago songwriter who composed over five hundred calypsos.”
“I said,” the man repeats, sounding irritated, “who is Roland Wingford?”
Siri doesn’t answer.
“You have to say, ‘Hey, Siri,’ again,” whispers the woman next to him. “But quietly.”
“Hey, Siri,” the man rasps, “tell me who is Roland Wingford.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite get that.”
“No phones,” someone hisses.
A white-haired man dressed all in tweed—jacket, vest, and slacks—has joined Germaine at the microphone.
“Good evening.” Roland Wingford is barely audible. He leans a bit closer to the microphone, which squeaks, catapulting the author a step back as if he’s been bitten. He tries again. “Uh, good evening.”
Germaine, standing beside him, says, “Go on, then.”
“I am Roland Wingford.” He waits, presumably for applause; none comes.
He clears his throat. “I am a most devoted acolyte of the works of the golden age of detective fiction, classic murder mysteries written between the wars. I am, I believe, soon to be selected for membership in England’s famed Detection Club. ”
The Detection Club sounds like a spin-off of the Baby-Sitters Club, but Roland Wingford says that it’s a prestigious “secret” society established in 1930 by a group of legendary British crime writers (no thriller writers, only “detective novelists”) that included Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and G. K. Chesterton.
“Membership in the Detection Club, which exists to this day, is by invitation only,” Roland says. “Initiation involves a candlelit procession in the dark. New members place a hand upon a skull, known as Eric the Skull, whose eye sockets are illuminated from within by red light bulbs.”
“How can that be real?” I whisper to Amity.
“Oh, no, I’ve read about it. Though apparently a doctor’s analysis strongly suggested that Eric the Skull is female.”
“ Sacre coeur! ” whispers Wyatt.
Amity giggles.
As Roland Wingford speaks, Germaine appears to be scanning the audience in search of someone or something, until her lips twitch and her gaze stops on me.
Or at least I think it does. I look over my shoulder.
Perhaps she’s looking at someone else, maybe the guy behind me who was talking to Siri and has offended her by having his phone out again.
When I turn back, she’s still focused on me.
Am I supposed to wave? I shift in my seat so I’m no longer in her line of sight.
“Here we are,” the man behind me says to his companion. “According to this article, Roland Wingford published his first book in 1995… it was reviewed by the Times of London, well, that’s something. Oh. They called the book ‘not unaccomplished.’ The other ten books were self-published.”
“Upon induction into the Detection Club,” Roland continues, “members take an oath, which I abide by myself, promising that their detectives shall detect the crimes presented without reliance on nor making use of divine revelation, feminine intuition, jiggery-pokery, coincidence, or act of God.”
I peek out at Germaine, who is looking at her watch.
“What’s wrong with feminine intuition?” Amity whispers. “And how will they know if we use it?”
“Thank you, Roland,” Germaine says, moving to take over the microphone. “That was quite elucidating.”
Roland doesn’t budge. He is now close enough to the microphone to kiss it.
“To solve the crime I have devised, you must use ingenuity and employ the arts of observation and deduction. In accordance with the rules of detective fiction set out by the American crime writer S. S. Van Dine in 1928, I have not employed any of the clichés of the amateurs. To wit, the perpetrator will not be identified by comparing the butt of a cigarette left at the scene of the crime with the brand smoked by a suspect. The culprit will not be the newly discovered identical twin of a suspect. Servants, such as butlers, footmen, valets, gamekeepers, cooks, and the like, will not be chosen as the culprit. And a dog that does not bark will not be your indication that an intruder was familiar. In addition, the motive for the crime will be personal, not political. A golden age detective story, or an English-village murder mystery, for that matter, must be kept gemütlich.”
Germaine frowns.
“Which, of course, is the German word for ‘pleasant and cheerful.’?” Roland steps back.
“A cheerful murder is really the best kind,” says one of the Pittsburgh sisters.
“Well, that clarifies things,” Wyatt says. “We’re going to solve a gemütlich crime that doesn’t involve cigarettes, a twin, a servant, or a dog.”
“Easy peasy,” I say, though I’m pretty sure it’s going to be nothing of the kind.
Germaine asks if there are any questions. One of the Pittsburgh sisters raises her hand.
“I have a dodgy hip. Will all suspects be located in the village center, or will we have to walk far?”
“Walking is encouraged but not required. Most of the action occurs in the village, with a few suspects farther afield and reachable by foot, bus, or taxi,” Germaine says.
“What happens if more than one group solves the crime?” asks the man who’d been conversing with Siri.
“Such confidence,” Amity whispers to me.
“There are many details to the crime scenario,” Germaine says. “The team that identifies the most details will be the winner. If all details are identified exactly the same way, we will have to investigate the crime of cheating.”
Roland Wingford leans in.
“All participants are requested to adhere to the motto of the Detection Club, which is ‘Play Fair.’?”
Germaine invites us to proceed to dinner, which is not, as I’d thought, at the swanky King George Inn but at another establishment, The Lonely Spider, down the block.
As we rise from our seats, Germaine catches my eye again.
Her interest makes me nervous, like I might need to pay more money or something, so instead of walking toward her, I beckon Wyatt and Amity and suggest we hightail it to The Lonely Spider so we can be first in line at the bar.