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WEEK ONE: MURDER IN THE LIBRARY

The scene: The library of a country house in (when else?) 1957. Now read on...

Inspector Alan Morris cast an experienced eye over the body slumped on the floor. In life, intrepid explorer Sir Arthur Dingwall-Main had cut a dashing figure. Now he lay pale and lifeless with a bluish tinge to his lips. Beside him lay an almanac of the flags of the world; curiously, he was clutching several pages ripped from it.

The library was festooned with trophies from his foreign travels. Morris glanced at the books on his desk, and then rummaged through the contents of the drawers, taking out a letter written on pale-blue notepaper. He scanned it, slipped it into his notebook and turned to Constable Tommy Briggs. ‘What’s that smell?’ The young PC sniffed the air. ‘Almonds, sir?’ Morris bent his head and sniffed the remnants of a slice of cake on a plate on Sir Arthur’s desk. ‘I think we may have found our murder weapon.’ Briggs’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Death by cake?’ Morris shook his head. ‘Cyanide,’ he said. ‘The smell of almonds is a dead giveaway. Probably in the icing.’

He turned to look at the body on the floor. ‘What are those bits of paper in his hand?’ Constable Briggs crouched down to peer closer: ‘They’re pictures of six different flags, sir.’

‘Make a note of them,’ said the inspector, ‘and take another good look around the room. Then let’s meet the family.’

As it happened, only one member of Sir Arthur’s family was present on the Dingwall-Main estate when he died – his second wife, Lady Olivia, the daughter of an earl. In her mid- 30s, she was decades younger than her late husband. She seemed ill at ease, even in her own home. Standing in front of the drawing room fireplace, Inspector Morris and Constable Briggs both raised an eyebrow as the lady of the house entered, clutching a glass of Champagne and accompanied by a tall, handsome man in a cravat. ‘ To steady my nerves,’ she explained. ‘I know it looks odd, but I need a stiffener and it’s the only alcohol that doesn’t make me ill.’ Sitting on the sofa, she introduced Claude Devlin, her tennis partner and weekend house guest. ‘You don’t mind if he stays, do you?’ asked Lady Olivia. ‘He’s a brick and my husband’s death has come as the most fearful shock.’

Inspector Morris gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Not at all, Lady Olivia. A capital idea.’ She blinked and paused.

‘How queer,’ she said. ‘That’s exactly the word Arthur always used. Nothing was ever “good” or “excellent”, everything was always “capital!”’

Over the next half-hour, Morris and Briggs established that the Dingwall-Mains had entertained Claude to lunch that day: shepherd’s pie and a ‘capital’ rhubarb crumble prepared by the housekeeper, Sandra Smith. Sir Arthur had retired to the library, leav- ing his wife and guest to head for the tennis court. On their return to the library, just after five o’clock, Lady Olivia and Claude had discovered the explorer’s body and raised the alarm.

‘Was your husband fond of Champagne?’ Inspector Morris asked. She shook her head. ‘He never touched alcohol or tobacco. Why do you ask?’ ‘I’m keen to get an idea of the sort of man he was,’ said the detective. ‘Sir Arthur was one of a kind,’ said Claude, taking a cigarette from a silver case and lighting it with a flourish. ‘He was brave and fearless. A boyhood hero of mine.’

‘Was he fond of cake?’ asked PC Briggs. Lady Olivia turned and gave the constable a withering glare. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just a routine question, madam,’

OVERLEAF: HOW TO ENTER – AND YOUR FIRST CLUE

said the young policeman, his face reddening. ‘Who baked the cake we found on your husband’s desk?’

‘I assume it was Sandra,’ said Lady Olivia. ‘It certainly wasn’t me. I’m not sure I could even find the kitchen.’

Claude patted her knee: ‘Olivia has other talents.’ Morris saw Briggs swallow a smile. ‘Forgive the indelicacy, Mr Devlin,’ he said, ‘but were you aware that Sir Arthur knew of your affair with his wife?’ Lady Olivia bristled with indignation. ‘There is no “affair”, Inspector. Claude is a friend of the family. We play tennis together, that’s all.’

‘Not according to this,’ said Morris, producing the sheet of notepaper he’d taken from the dead man’s desk. ‘ It’s a love letter to you from Mr Devlin. I can only assume Sir Arthur discovered it and was biding his time before confronting you.’ Silence descended. Lady Olivia exchanged a nervous glance with the man in the cravat. Her hand was trembling. ‘I can see how this looks, Inspector, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with my husband’s death – and neither did Claude.’

Below stairs, in the cavernous kitchen, Constable Briggs stood by the dresser while Inspector Morris nosed around, peering into cupboards. Housekeeper Sandra Smith, a stout woman in her 40s, sat at the table. Opposite her, hand-rolling a cigarette, was a thin man of pensionable age. He introduced himself as Harold Miller, the family’s long-serving chauffeur.

‘When did you last see Sir Arthur alive?’ said PC Briggs, turning to a new page in his notebook. ‘At four o’clock,’ replied the housekeeper. ‘When I took his tea to the library.’

‘I assume you baked the cake?’ said Morris. The woman furrowed her brow. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What cake?’ The inspector studied her face. Thirty years in the police force had given him a talent for spotting untruths but the woman seemed genuinely surprised. Or was she merely an accomplished liar?

Constable Briggs was ready with another question. ‘If you didn’t bake it, who did?’ ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sandra. ‘I left the house at ten past four and walked into town to return my library book.’

‘Well, I can’t cook for toffee,’ said the chauffeur.

Inspector Morris narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you both happy working here?’

‘Yes,’ said Sandra. ‘Except for the fact they let the daily woman go. Now

I’m cleaner, housekeeper and cook rolled into one.’

‘And you, Mr Miller?’ said Morris. The chauffeur shrugged and lit his rollup. ‘I’m happy enough. It’s not everyone who gets to drive a Rolls-Royce for a living.’ The policeman plucked a newspaper from the dresser. ‘Well, if you’re both so content, why is one of you looking for new employment?’ Half a dozen job advertisements in the classified section had been circled in ink. Harold and the housekeeper exchanged a sheepish glance. ‘You may as well tell him,’ said the chauffeur. ‘He’ll find out soon enough.’ When Sandra spoke, her voice was a whisper. ‘I made a mistake with the household accounts. Just a few pounds but it was enough for Sir Arthur to give me my notice.’ Harold gave a snort of derision. ‘“Mistake”? You’ve been fiddling the accounts for donkey’s years.’ The woman’s nostrils flared. ‘Don’t you dare cast aspersions! If anyone had a motive for murder it’s you!’

Inspector Morris and PC Briggs

established that the chauffeur lived in a rent-free cottage on the estate. The first Lady Dingwall-Main had told him he would be able to see out his days in the home he loved, but Sir Arthur had since launched an economy drive and reneged on the promise. Harold was now 65 and nearing retirement. ‘I can’t deny that I’ll be jobless and homeless,’ he said. ‘But if you think that makes me a murderer, you’re wrong.’ As Morris drew breath to ask another question, the doorbell chimed upstairs.

In the drawing room, the visitor was introduced as the victim’s fellow explorer, Roland Franklin, a dapper man in his 40s. The son of wealthy parents, he claimed to have arranged an appointment with him ‘to discuss a rather awkward matter’.

‘Which is?’ asked Inspector Morris. Lighting a pipe, the new arrival reached into his briefcase and produced a sheaf of papers. ‘This is the manuscript of Sir Arthur’s memoirs,’

he said. ‘He had asked me to read it before it goes to his publishers. And I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead but frankly I was outraged.’

‘May I ask why?’ said PC Briggs. The explorer perched on the sofa, puffing on his pipe. ‘In his account of our expedition to the Peruvian Amazon he writes about the bearers who carried our supplies and all the tribesmen we met along the way – everyone is mentioned, with one exception.’

‘May I hazard a guess?’ said Inspector Morris. ‘Sir Arthur has paid tribute to everyone involved except you. And as he was in financial difficulties, would I be right in assuming it was you who helped finance the expedition?’

Roland was struggling to keep a lid on his temper. ‘I didn’t just help to finance it,’ he spluttered. ‘I funded the whole ruddy thing! And this is how he repays me!’

Before Sir Arthur’s body was taken away, Inspector Morris and Constable Briggs took a last look around the library, at the books on the desk and at the position of the body. The inspector fell silent, staring at the six scraps of paper that had been in Sir Arthur’s hand. Then his face brightened. ‘I believe I know the murderer’s identity.’

He paced the room, thinking aloud. ‘Cyanide is a fast-acting poison. Judging by the way we found Sir Arthur, it’s reasonable to assume he ate the cake and took an almanac of flags of the world from the desk before collapsing and finding himself unable to get back up to write down the killer’s name. So let us consider the murder scene and our five suspects: one Champagne-quaffing merry widow; her tennis-playing secret lover; one hard-done-by explorer; one newly-dismissed housekeeper-cum-cleaner; and one embittered chauffeur.’

PC Briggs was none the wiser – as far as he could see, each suspect had a motive, and objects left in the library (the pipe, the Champagne glass, the tennis racquet, the chauffeur’s peaked cap and the feather duster) placed them all at the crime scene.

Morris smiled indulgently and said, ‘Remember: when it comes to murder, the devil is in the detail. Do I have to spell it out for you?’

In the panels above you’ll find your first clue, as well as full instructions on how to play. Look for further clues each day next week in the Daily Mail – and see if you can solve the mystery with the final clue on Friday.

Simon Booker’s new thriller Kill Me Twice is available now.

NEXT SATURDAY: MURDER OF A MOVIE STAR

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