Whodunnit!

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WEEK FOUR: MURDER BENEATH THE MISTLETOE The scene: a sitting room, after a Christmas party, December 1962.

Penelope Barber’s body lay slumped in a chair beside the presents underneath a Christmas tree. She was dressed in black with a witch’s hat askew on her head. By her side lay a broomstick. A Christmas film was playing on the television, and on top of the set sat a black cat, blinking at Inspector Alan Morris.

As he surveyed the scene, flicking through a black notebook he’d found in a drawer, Constable Tommy Briggs came in through the French windows from the garden, brandishing his torch. ‘I think I’ve found the murder weapon, sir,’ said the young PC. ‘There’s a revolver in the bushes. There’s also a gun cabinet in the garage. It’s unlocked.’ Taking stock of the body in the chair, he removed his hat. ‘Am I seeing things or is our victim dressed as a witch?’ The inspector nodded. ‘Yes, she was hosting a small fancy-dress party.’

PC Briggs’s gaze alighted on several curious-looking objects on the table. ‘Is that a crystal ball, sir? And a deck of tarot cards?’ ‘I believe so,’ said Inspector Morris. ‘Maybe they’ll help us find the killer,’ grinned Briggs. His boss frowned. ‘Murder is no laughing matter, Constable. Have we identified all the guests at the party?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said the PC, looking chastened. ‘Mrs Barber’s daughter is in the kitchen, along with her father, and the others have been told to expect a visit later tonight.’

‘Right-oh,’ said the inspector, taking a last lingering look around the room. ‘Turn the television off and tell the coro- ner’s chaps they can take poor Mrs Barber away. Then let’s see if we can find out who shot her and why.’

During the course of his police career, Inspector Morris had questioned many people but never before had he encountered suspects dressed as Marilyn Monroe and Father Christmas. ‘ I’m very sorry about your mother,’ he told 18-year- old Julia Barber. The nervylooking blonde was sitting at the kitchen table, next to her father, Robert. The mild-mannered businessman was still in his Father Christmas costume, looking somewhat pale and wan.

Julia lit a cigarette then primped her dyed blonde hair with a manicured hand. ‘Penelope wasn’t my mother,’ she said. ‘She married Daddy after Mummy died in a car accident.’ ‘Which makes her your stepmother,’ said PC Briggs, jotting in his notebook. The teenager rolled her eyes. ‘How utterly brilliant,’ she said. ‘At this rate you’ll have the killer locked up by breakfast.’

Inspector Morris did his best to maintain an even tone. ‘Could you give us your account of what happened?’ ‘I was upstairs, about to get ready for bed, when I heard a gunshot,’ said Julia. ‘I came down to find the French windows open and Penelope dead. That’s when I dialled 999.’ ‘When did you last see her alive?’ said Inspector Morris. Julia flicked her ash into an ashtray. ‘Ten o’clock, just before I went upstairs.’ ‘Was the party still in full swing?’ said PC Briggs. The question was met with a snort of derision. ‘Hardly. The house was empty, apart from Penelope and me. The party broke up early, after poor Daddy turned up unexpectedly and “Poison Penny” created the most frightful scene.’

Morris raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I to understand there was no love lost between you and your stepmother?’ ‘You can say that again,’ said Julia. ‘Marrying her was the worst decision Daddy ever made. She chucked him out, filed for divorce and is taking him for every penny in alimony. The poor lamb’s got nowhere to go so he’s sleeping at his office. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here until I go to university.’ She drew on her cigarette again. ‘I’m not saying I’m glad she’s dead, but the sooner we both get shot of that ghastly witch the better.’

Inspector Morris cleared his throat. ‘Given the circumstances, that’s an unfortunate turn of phrase, if you don’t mind my saying.’ Julia’s eyes flashed in anger. ‘If I call my wicked stepmother a witch, Inspector, it’s not a figure of speech. That’s what she was – a witch. Ask poor Daddy. Ask anyone.’

The hall clock struck midnight as the inspector turned to Robert. ‘Sir?’ The man in the Father Christmas costume cleared his throat. ‘It’s true that Penelope called herself a white witch. She liked to play around with the occult and

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what have you: tarot cards, séances, interpretation of dreams – you name it, she dabbled in it.’

The policeman jotted something in his notebook. ‘ May I ask why your arrival at the party was so unexpected, sir?’ ‘Because I wasn’t invited,’ said Robert. ‘ Penelope threw me out last month. But I’d had a whisky or two after work and decided it might be fun to gatecrash the party dressed as Father Christmas. Penelope and I argued and she threw me out again so I went back to my office. An hour later, Julia called to tell me Penelope was dead. I came straight back and we’ve been here ever since, waiting for you to come and find out who killed my wife.’

Inspector Morris nodded thoughtfully. ‘Did anyone see you after you left here?’ ‘I don’t believe so,’ said Robert. PC Briggs licked his pencil. ‘Who had keys to the gun cabinet, sir?’ ‘I’m afraid we never locked it. Anyone could have used the revolver. No doubt you’ll find my fingerprints on it – it is mine, after all – so I know this looks bad for me but I swear on my daughter’s life I had nothing to do with Penelope’s murder.’

Julia patted her father’s hand. ‘Of course you didn’t.’ She turned to the senior policeman, a defiant look on her face. ‘I know Daddy better than anyone, Inspector. I promise you – he couldn’t harm a fly.’

Stockbroker Max Bradley lived next door. He’d attended Penelope’s party dressed as Winston Churchill. Now, he was outside his house taking his bulldog for a late-night walk, while smoking a cigar. ‘I went home at 9pm,’ he said. ‘Robert’s arrival put a dampener on things so the party broke up early.’

‘Can anyone confirm your whereabouts at 10pm, sir?’ said Inspector Morris. The man shook his head. ‘I live alone,’ he said, stooping to pat his dog. ‘Apart from Boadicea, that is.’ The inspector did his best to smile, giving the bulldog a wary look. ‘I understand Mrs Barber had lent you £10,000,’ he said. ‘I also believe she’d asked you to repay the loan but you were unable to do so, so she was trying to force you to raise the money by selling your house.’

The man raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘ You seem remarkably wel linformed, Inspector.’ Morris drew the black notebook from his pocket. ‘Everything is carefully noted down in Mrs Barber’s “book of spells”,’ he said, ‘including your difficulties in repaying the loan. May I ask what the money was for?’

Max puffed on his cigar. ‘If you must know, I’d incurred large gambling debts, which is why my wife left me. But you can’t prove I wasn’t planning to pay Penelope back. And you certainly can’t prove I killed her, because I didn’t.’

Doctor Timothy Mackie sat in his kitchen, facing Inspector Morris and PC Briggs. On the table was a Polaroid photo of himself at the party, dressed as Elvis Presley. The bachelor had left at 9pm and spent the rest of the evening home alone – or so he said.

Morris pointed to a passage in Mrs Barber’s ‘book of spells’. The man read the entry then met the senior policeman’s gaze. ‘Are you accusing me of being a drug fiend, Inspector?’ ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, sir,’ said Morris. ‘However, it would seem that Mrs Barber had stumbled upon your addiction to cocaine and was using the information to blackmail you. If so, it rather begs the question as to why you agreed to attend her party.’

The doctor took a sip of water. His hands were trembling. ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said. ‘Once Penelope cast her spell on you it was impossible to say no, whether to a party invitation or a demand for money with menaces.’ ‘So the allegation is true, sir?’ said PC Briggs, raising an eyebrow. The doctor gave a shame-faced nod. ‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘But if you think I murdered Penelope in order to ensure her silence over my use of illegal drugs you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

The last person on the list of suspects was waiting patiently in his thatched cottage on the high street. Wounded during the war, one-eyed Lance Prescott sported an eye-patch as a matter of course, so it had made perfect sense for him to attend Mrs Barber’s shindig dressed as Admiral Nelson. Like the others at the party, the bank manager had no alibi for the time of the murder.

Once again, the dead woman’s ‘book of spells’ had provided the inspector with a revealing insight into

a guest’s secrets. ‘I have no wish to set the cat among the mar ital pigeons,’ said Morris, ‘but this is a murder inquiry so I must ask for a straight answer. Is it true that you recently began an adulterous affair with a woman in London and that Mrs Barber was blackmailing you?’

The man swallowed and looked away. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. ‘My wife is spending three months visiting relatives in Australia,’ he said. ‘I was lonely and took advantage of her absence to visit a young lady in London. I’m ashamed to admit to being a faithless swine, Inspector, but that doesn’t make me a murderer.’

Shortly after 2am, the police officers went their separate ways, still none the wiser as to the identity of Mrs Barber’s killer. That night, Inspector Morris had the strangest dream. He related it to PC Briggs over breakfast in the canteen the next day. ‘I dreamed about Mrs

Barber. She was travelling on a steam train that was billowing out smoke in the shape of a question mark.’

PC Briggs stirred his tea. ‘How odd, sir. If I didn’t know better I’d say your dream was a message from beyond the grave. Perhaps Mrs Barber was a witch after all. Maybe she’s trying to tip you off about the identity of her murderer.’ He was expecting his boss to laugh. Instead, the inspector took out his notebook and began to jot down details of his dream. ‘I’m not saying I believe all this witchcraft mumbo-jumbo, Briggs, nevertheless I have the strangest feeling that you might just be onto something…’

In the panel below you’ll find full instructions on how to play, while the first clue is in the panel above. 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 thrillers Without Trace and Kill Me Twice are available now.