The Body In The Study

Kate felt like she was playing Cluedo – but this game was much more deadly . . .

KATE WESTING was not going to hang about on the island for long. She’d had no idea when she took the job that it was such a long way from civilisation.

“But it’s a step up,” the recruitment agent had said in his Glasgow office. “If you want to climb the events ladder, this job of Event Manager is a boost.

“It’s a conference on . . .” He looked down at his paper. “On board games, of all things. Goodness me, people’s hobbies!”

Kate considered. She did want to get as far away as possible from Glasgow and from Iain, who had broken her heart.

“It’s on an island?” she asked the recruitment agent. “A ferry ride from the mainland?”

“A lovely island.” He looked up. “Population a few hundred, all thrilled – I’ll bet – to have a new business. The conference centre is small; one might call it bijou.

“It says here that it was converted from a whisky distillery in – oh, quite recently – 1969?”

“I suppose so,” Kate said.

****

And here she was, on the Isle of Achnaran, with a harbour the size of a double bed, a single shop with post office, and a whole lot of sea birds.

The conference centre was nice enough, a pretty ordinary example of Seventies concrete architecture with a single, old tall chimney at one corner.

Kate had a lot of responsibility as manager of the whole event, but it was a small centre and the accommodation was only half full. She’d be OK.

She was allowed a week after arriving on the island to get to know the small staff and set things up.

She had a meeting with the competent young women – twins called Mary and Morvern Gunn – whose parents ran the island’s shop and who would be coming every day for chambermaid duties.

Then she spent some time with the chef, Trisha Moore, who was quiet but friendly and clearly knew her job.

Kate vaguely recalled seeing Trisha’s name in some industry magazine – a piece about up-andcoming chefs in the conference trade.

Trisha was from Dorset. “Though I’ve moved around,” she told Kate.

“I can’t tell one English accent from another,” Kate admitted. “You could be a Cockney for all I know. How’s it going?”

“Fine. I’m knocking that lad into shape,” Trisha said.

“That lad”, who was about Kate’s own age, was Alan, a local boy who had got the job of sous chef.

Alan looked as though he’d be more comfortable in a fishing boat than a chef’s hat, and Kate gathered that this had in fact been his job before the arrival of the conference centre.

He was tall, with the slight stoop of a man who sometimes bangs his head on lintels. He also had a permanent apologetic smile which made him look a little goofy.

He needed, Kate thought, to get some customer experience. Under the mop of light brown hair and behind the shy grin, he was handsome enough to wow in a front-of-house role.

The conference delegates arrived one sunny afternoon, pouring out of two minibuses that had brought them up from the harbour.

“Will the welcome tea and cake be served through there?” A small, bustling man collared Kate as soon as he entered.

“Yes, sir,” Kate said. “Tea and cake’s at four.”

“Good,” he said. “I won’t be speaking until dinner, by the way, so don’t worry about a lectern for now.”

“You must be Mr Parsons,” Kate said.

“The guest lecturer, yes.” He smiled modestly. “A minor expert in my field.”

Kate had experience in dealing with people with high opinions of themselves, and she guessed that Mr Parsons was anything but modest.

“They call me the Prof, in board game circles,” he said. “You’re welcome to do the same.”

The Prof was watching his fellow guests as they gathered around the reception desk.

The first to check in began filtering away to the rooms, dragging tartan suitcases and holdalls.

“Oh, I suppose we have to unpack,” he said. “Personally, I’d much rather get cracking – there’s so much to discuss, so much new material to share, and only five nights!”

Kate showed Mr Parsons to his room. Here was a classic fusspot, she thought, a man obsessed with his subject and not interested in much else.

“Board Games – Whither?” was the title of the conference.

It was emblazoned on an easel in reception, and much admired when the guests all came back down for tea and cake.

Many of them knew each other, and began heated discussions about developments in games since they’d last met.

“Have you seen that ridiculous game, Down To Doom?” a thin woman in an electric blue cardigan asked. “It’s so obviously a tarted-up version of snakes and ladders! Nearly five pounds in the shops!”

Kate was hovering, handing out cups of tea, making herself known.

A solid man in brown corduroy flares nodded at her as he took a cup.

“I think you’ll find it has new features, Maureen,” he said to the lady in blue.

The guests for this conference numbered fewer than 35. There had been several cancellations due to a bug.

Kate introduced herself to a curvaceous woman in a red skinny-rib sweater and matching skirt that Kate felt (perhaps uncharitably) would look better on somebody half her age.

Her name was Miss Redhouse and she had come alone.

“Call me Blanche.”

The man in brown cords turned out to be a Mr Parker.

Mrs Parker was a large lady swathed in white cotton. She looked like something the Beatles might bring back from an ashram in India, all beads and untamed red hair.

Her husband talked loudly about editions of Monopoly and made a few very veiled references to “upcoming launches”, at which his wife giggled.

The Maureen that Mr Parker had contradicted on the topic of a new version of snakes and ladders was Maureen Pocock.

She talked endlessly about the country-house murder game, Cluedo.

She had found a set in the centre’s lounge and was trying to persuade other guests to play.

The teapots were almost cold when a late arrival entered the main lounge.

He wore a suit and was well groomed, with silver hair and shiny black shoes. Kate greeted him.

“I think I’ll be on your list,” he told her. “Chet Schwartz.”

“I didn’t see you coming off the bus,” Kate said.

“I got VIP treatment,” he said with a smile. He had a soft American accent.

“The Board Games Association got me on a private boat. I feel tremendously privileged.” “Welcome,” Kate said.

She signalled to Alan, hovering by the catering tables, and made a T shape with her hands.

Alan ducked back into the kitchen to arrange tea supplies.

Mr Schwartz looked around the room, and Kate saw Mr Parsons turn from the group, stand as still as a statue, and look straight at Mr Schwartz.

“Ah, the Prof,” Mr Schwartz said softly.

There was no unpleasantness in his tone as Parsons approached. “Chet. You’re here.”

“As you see,” Mr

Schwartz said mildly. “I learned from the Association that you guys were meeting up on this beautiful island, and when I

made noises about coming along, they asked me to take a session.

“I’m surprised they didn’t let you know.”

“They didn’t. You’re a long way from Denver.” Mr Schwartz smiled.

“It was a lucky coincidence that I found myself in London at a psychology seminar. You know how interested I am in the psychology of games.”

“I have it covered, you know,” Mr Parsons said. “There was no need –”

“Chet!” They were interrupted by Mrs Pocock. “How divine to see you!”

“Maureen.” He kissed her on both cheeks.

“Well, Mr Schwartz, I’ll leave you to it,” Kate said.

But Mrs Pocock took her arm.

“You know, Chet here is the real professor! He will insist on using Mr – like a surgeon, you know!”

The Prof scowled.

“Chet is the genuine expert among us,” Mrs Pocock added. “Chet, you will join me and Blanche Redhouse for Cluedo? You know Blanche?”

For the first time, confident Mr Schwartz looked uneasy.

“I think I’ll just settle myself in,” he said. “I’ve never been a devotee of that game. I find it rather limited.”

“Each to his own,” Maureen Pocock said. “I regard it as the most elegant, intuitive board game since chess.”

Kate had worked at conferences covering industrial unrest and oil shortages. She’d seen delegates shout at each other on the subject of the Troubles in Ireland.

But she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt quite such a chill in the air.

She looked around to see if fresh tea was arriving.

Trisha emerged from the kitchen with a tray, but vanished again.

Kate followed.

“I don’t think this lot’s hot enough,” Trisha said. “High standards! Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Kate said.

Trisha handed Alan a fresh tray with steaming pots, and he made his way into the fray.

****

There was an introductory talk by the Prof at six, and then a three-course dinner at which Trisha and Alan showed their worth.

Everybody went to bed, and Kate breathed a sigh of relief.

The following morning she put her head round the door of the dining-room. Almost all the guests seemed to be present, and happy with their kippers and toast.

She made a visit to the kitchens.

“The worst part of this job, I’ve discovered,” Alan said, “is cleaning porridge pans.”

“I’m going to make a confession,” Kate said. “I’m Scottish and I can take porridge or leave it.” He beamed. “Me, too. Unless it’s soaked in –”

“Golden syrup!”

They said it in unison, and laughed.

“I came in to congratulate you on last night’s dinner,” she said.

“Thanks!” Alan said, surprised.

“Now, you and Trisha are going to pack up sandwiches, apples, that sort of thing?

“I’ve got most of the conference going on the walk in a wee while.”

“Oh, the walk Gregor’s organising? Yes, we’re halfway through those packed lunches.”

Gregor was the postmaster, and he’d been keen to offer a guided walk and show off the island.

“Only half a dozen guests are staying at the centre while the walk’s on,” Kate said. “I suppose we could give them the same sandwich lunch.”

The walk set off.

The conference centre was quiet, so Kate had half an hour in her tiny office behind reception, catching up with invoices.

The Prof wasn’t walking; he didn’t look like the kind of man who owned sensible shoes.

He’d told her that he needed time to check over his lectures.

Maureen Pocock had a headache and was in her room.

Kate bumped into Miss Redhouse on her way to her office.

“Not walking?” Kate asked. “It’s glorious out there.”

“Not today,” Blanche Redhouse said. “Er, have you seen Chet?”

“Mr Schwartz? No, I haven’t. Shall I call up to his room?”

She looked flustered.

“No, it really doesn’t matter. I mean, I barely know the man!”

She laughed a tight, high laugh and moved away. Kate wondered if Miss Redhouse had a thing for Professor Schwartz. He was rather distinguishedlooking. But

Kate hadn’t noticed him giving her any attention. Mr and Mrs Parker had also turned down the walk. “We’ve letters to write,” Mrs Parker said, “Jimmy and I – a little business thing. Well, a big business thing, if all goes to plan.”

Kate was writing a cheque when the reception phone rang, and she hurried out to answer it.

There was no official receptionist because the size of the event didn’t warrant it.

The call was for Mr

James Parker, and the voice on the end sounded formal.

Kate patched it through to the Parkers’ room and continued with her work, shutting herself in so she could concentrate.

After lunch, Mary and Morvern Gunn arrived.

Their orders were to give the downstairs a quick going-over before heading for the bedrooms and bathrooms.

“Take a look at the key rack,” Kate told them. “That’ll tell you which rooms are occupied. Let’s hope you get a chance to do them at some point.”

Three minutes later, Kate heard a piercing shriek, and then another.

She hurried out into reception, to see one of the twins slamming the study door shut.

Her sister was leaning against the reception desk, gulping and sobbing.

“Don’t go in there!” the one at the door shouted.

“What is it?” she said. “A rat? Spiders?”

The twins were shaking. “What is it?” Kate repeated, worried that the few guests left in the centre would hear the furore.

“A . . . person!” the twin at the desk wailed.

Kate strode to the door and turned the handle.

As it swung open her eye was caught by the soles of a large pair of shoes on the rug. They were arranged in a perfect V.

It was Mr Schwarz, lying with his head just off the edge of the rug. He was most definitely dead.

She ran out again, shut the door and bundled the twins into her office. Then she rang the police.

Fortunately, there was a single police officer on the island. He also acted (Kate learned later) as coastguard and telephone engineer.

His name was Alec McGill and he was surprisingly efficient for a man who’d only handled one crime – an incident of bike vandalism that turned out later to be the work of a sheep.

He was in the hotel ten minutes after Kate’s call, wearing a police jacket.

“I’d like all guests and employees to assemble in the main conference room immediately,” Alec said, sounding a little nervous but obviously eager to be thorough.

“I’ve called the mainland for assistance, but for now I’m taking charge.”

Kate ran about the centre asking guests and staff to stop what they were doing and assemble.

“This is everyone that I know to be here,” she told Alec. “At least fifteen people are due back from a ramble, though.”

She looked at her watch. “About now.”

Sure enough, the first walkers were seen a moment later, coming up the slope from the sea, and a minute later they were in reception.

Quietly Kate explained that there had been an incident, and all guests were to assemble in the conference room.

“This group left here at what time?” Alec asked.

“Straight after breakfast. In fact, Gregor came early to fetch them, and they left from the breakfast room.”

Alec explained the situation to the guests, and to Alan, Trisha and the Gunn twins.

He told them that, from his initial assessment, there was no doubt that Professor Schwartz had been killed.

There were horrified gasps, and some guests struggled to hold back tears.

Most of them seemed to have known Schwartz. Mrs Pocock sobbed openly.

Kate asked Alan and

Trish to provide coffee.

“Is that all right with you, Alec?” she asked. He nodded.

“I think it’s a priority to keep everyone calm,” he said, and asked Kate to accompany him to her office.

“It’s a blessed advantage,” he said, “that nobody can get off this island until the ferry comes.

“Now, I’m going to make a start on a report for the CID. When was Mr

Schwartz last seen alive?” Kate thought.

“Well, I saw him at breakfast. He was there when I left the room.”

“And he was still there when the walkers left?”

“Definitely. I saw them pile out, and he watched them go.”

Alec stood in thought for a minute.

“Right, I’m going to take initial statements from the walkers, and then I’m going to send them away.”

“On the next ferry?”

Kate realised that there would be no conference now. It was effectively over.

“Yes, but nobody else will leave. This is murder, and all I can say for certain at this point is that none of the walkers killed our victim.

“Not unless Gregor made an elaborate plan, in cahoots with twenty-eight rambling board-game players.

“I’m going to assume it’s not Gregor, and therefore it’s not one of the twentyeight.”

The ferry was due in three hours’ time.

Alec set up an interview room in the smallest of the sitting-rooms, and men and women went in and out, bewildered and silent.

Kate had the unhappy job of informing conference Head Office that the event was no more.

Alan put his head round the door three times with hot coffee and a smile, and Kate began to rely on his sheepish face to keep her spirits up.

She reminded herself, with a stab of dread, that somebody in the conference centre had committed murder and it might have been him, though she hoped it wasn’t.

What reason could he have to kill a psychology professor from the US? It had to be one of the guests, someone who knew Chet Schwartz.

Trisha popped into the office, too.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said. “But I feel we need to stick together.”

“You’re so right,” Kate said. It felt good to have a female ally, as well as handsome Alan.

****

Gregor made a statement to the effect that nobody on the excursion had left his sight, at least not when they were near enough to the centre for them to have committed the crime.

The innocent walkers were packed off on the ferry.

“I’ll be dealing with the islanders shortly,” Alec said, “unless the police boat gets here before that.

“But for now, I want to get a list of who we have left in the centre.”

There were only six guests who had stayed in after breakfast – counting poor Mr Schwartz himself.

“Miss Blanche Redhouse, Mr and Mrs Parker, Mr Clive Parsons –”

“Did I hear somebody call him the Prof?” Alec asked.

“Yes. He was booked to do the speaking. Most of it, anyway.”

“Most?”

“Mr Schwartz appears to have arrived intending to speak as well.”

Alec looked sharply at Kate.

“Any issues between Schwartz and Mr Parsons?”

“I’m not sure. Mr Parsons presented himself as some kind of games guru, but Schwartz is – was – an actual professor.” Alec wrote in his notebook. “Rivals?”

Kate blinked.

“Maybe. Then we’ve got Mrs Pocock, the thin lady who was so upset.”

“I’m no homicide officer,” Alec said, “but I do know not to be swayed by tears at the scene of a crime.

“I have to keep everyone in the frame – you and the staff, too.”

“Of course,” Kate said. “I’ve no alibi, not really. I was shut in my office for most of the time between my last sighting of

Schwartz and when Mary and Morvern found the body.”

“Most?”

“Um, I took and transferred one call.”

“To which room?” “Fourteen. Mr and Mrs Parker.”

“About what?”

“I don’t listen in. But it wasn’t a friend. He used their full names and sounded business-like.”

Alec wrote that in his notebook, too.

****

The mainland police arrived, and everything became more chaotic and more upsetting.

Mostly, there was a lot of sitting around while people in uniform examined every blade of grass and every wine glass.

Rumour and information leaked slowly and spread imperceptibly among those present.

It was established that the weapon was a poker that sat beside the study fire, a purely ornamental feature (the heating was all electric) but apparently made of solid iron.

Things became boring for Kate, and when they weren’t boring, they were trying.

Mr Parsons, the Prof, bothered her about details: the window in his room rattled; the police were slow; the cornflakes weren’t crisp.

He was fussy and conceited, and unable to accept that Kate had no control over the situation.

“I’m an expert in my field,” he told her, “and respected.

“I’ve explained to these lumbering police officers, also, that Schwartz and I had virtually been colleagues for decades.”

He was watching a burly officer heft boxes of evidence out to a van, distaste on his face.

“And you took a professional interest in his career?” Kate suggested.

“Exactly. In that nasty little interview they implied that I didn’t like Chet Schwartz.

“Yes, he made it big – relatively big – in games design in the Fifties.”

The Prof looked down his nose at a policeman crossing the hall, and lowered his voice.

“The police had my career in front of them on sheets of paper!

“They were determined to get me to say that I was, I don’t know, envious.”

He was pink in the face. “You see, Miss Westing, I never wanted the sort of

fame Chet enjoyed – awards and dinners.

“I like the coalface of board games, teaching and writing articles that really mean something. Not for me the money and the accolades.”

“I think that’s admirable,” Kate said.

He smiled at her and headed back to his room, having apparently forgotten his latest complaint.

As she watched him go, though, Kate wondered how much he really celebrated the success of his colleague, and how furious he was when the spotlight was whisked off him by the arrival of handsome, successful Schwartz?

The day wore on, and there were no more guest statements to take.

The Gunn twins were questioned, and told Kate they were disappointed at the brief nature of their interviews.

“I mean, we found him!” Morvern insisted. “We saw it all!”

Alan and Trisha’s interviews were similarly short.

“Alan and I were within sight of each other for the whole period in which the death could have occurred,” Trisha said. “Some of us had work to do.”

Alan emerged from the interview room distracted and frowning.

“I wasn’t great in there,” he told Kate.

“It’s not an audition,”

Kate said with a laugh.

“You just had to say where you were.”

“It was busy,” Alan said. “We were cooking, clearing, washing up. Neither of us had time to kill anybody.”

He put his hand on his forehead.

“I can’t believe I’m even having to justify myself.”

“He’s got the muscle for wielding a great big poker,” Trisha said. “Eh, Kate? Give those triceps of his a squeeze; you know you’d like to.”

Alan was red with embarrassment, and Kate was aware that she was going the same way.

They were saved by Mrs Pocock, who came stamping down the stairs with a determined look on her face.

Kate saw grey bags under her eyes, made worse by the electric blue of her habitual cardi.

“A board game!” Mrs Pocock said firmly. “That will divert all of us!”

Kate couldn’t think of a reason why not, and the whole conference centre was starting to feel tense and gloomy.

“Cluedo!” Mrs Pocock continued. “The best of all.”

“I’m on for a game,” Kate said, “but it is, well, a game about murder.”

“Don’t be silly!” Mrs Pocock said. “It’s makebelieve.”

They laid out the set in the lounge, and Mrs Pocock persuaded Blanche Redhouse and the Parkers to join in.

It wasn’t exactly cheerful, Kate thought, but it passed the time.

“Have you noticed how we resemble the characters?” Mrs Pocock said when they were half way through.

She picked up the little purple figurine and placed it in the Study.

“It’s Doctor Black, of course, who dies,” she said.

Miss Redhouse gave her a warning look.

“Maureen,” she said, “I’m not sure you should be pursuing this.”

“Black, see? Schwartz is German for black!” Mrs Pocock said. “It’s quite a coincidence, you have to admit.

“Here I am, called Pocock – very close to Mrs Peacock.

“And you, Blanche, dear, with your tendency to wear red and your surname.”

“Don’t force connections where there really aren’t any,” Blanche said. “You make us all into killers.”

She tapped the little pack of black cards on the table irritably.

Mrs Pocock pressed on. “Brenda, you love white, of course,” she said. “Mrs White.”

She shrugged.

“And if we hadn’t all come on that ferry then Jimmy’s natty mustard-coloured Cortina would be here, driven by Colonel Mustard himself!”

“It’s just a yellow car,”

Jim Parker said sharply. “Maureen, shall we just finish the game?”

“It’s just my little joke,” Maureen Pocock said. “We haven’t even got anybody who’s green.”

“I’m going to have a bath,” Clive Parsons said, and he rose quickly from his chair.

As he strode away, Mrs Pocock spoke in a voice loud enough for him to hear.

“Oh, I forgot our own Professor Plum.”

Kate was finding all this talk of killers unsettling.

For a moment she wondered if this odd woman had killed Schwartz just to recreate a game!

They went on, more to avoid further confrontations than for enjoyment, and when Trisha passed by a few minutes later, she was dragged in.

“Oh, I know this game from way back,” Trisha said. “Who am I? Mr Green?”

“Have this chair,” Alan said, shifting sideways. “I can’t really believe we’re playing it.”

He handed her the die with a grin, and she spun it across the board.

The game finally over, and Brenda Parker successfully convicted of the murder of Dr Black, the guests filtered away.

Alan went to do some work while Kate and Trisha sat on for a while over the Cluedo board, staring glumly at the sea through the lounge windows.

“Go for it,” Trisha said. “What do you mean?” Kate replied.

“You know. You and

Alan.”

“We’ve only just met.” “But the attraction’s there – I can see. You’d make beautiful babies together.”

Kate laughed.

“Me and babies – I can’t quite imagine it. But do I see in your eyes a hankering for little ones?”

Trisha stood up quickly and knocked the Cluedo board off the table.

“Oh, darn it,” she said. “It was hanging over the edge.”

She scrabbled around, picking up the pieces.

“No, I can’t stand anklebiters,” she said. “I ought to go and turn the ovens on.”

“Life goes on,” Kate said with a sympathetic grin.

****

Police occupied every available corner of the conference centre, and its inhabitants grew antsy.

Blanche Redhouse seemed particularly prone to upset. Kate saw her bump into Brenda Parker in a corridor and tut loudly.

Brenda barely noticed; she was preoccupied and was mostly to be seen in huddles with her husband.

“It’s so stressful,” Brenda told Kate.

She’d come downstairs to ask for clean towels.

“And to be honest, I don’t feel safe. I mean, we’ve no idea why anyone would want to kill Chet, so the logical conclusion is: why would that person not want to hit you or me with a poker, too?”

Kate was sure she had heard a sob coming from the top of the stairs, and suspected it was Blanche.

She followed her to her room, and knocked gently.

“May I come in?” she called, searching her brain for a reason to enter.

“Um, Mary and Morvern think they left a couple of dusters in here yesterday.”

The door opened a crack and Blanche appeared, face red and blotchy.

“I’ll get them,” she said, and she sniffed noisily. “Where do you think they are?”

“Look, we need to support each other,” Kate said. “If you let me come in, at least it’s company.”

The door opened.

Blanche Redhouse walked into the room and collapsed into a chair, kicking off her heels.

Today she wore a scarlet silk blouse. Kate wished she’d avoid red.

“I suppose I oughtn’t to be alone with any one,” Blanche said in a mockcasual tone. “You might be the killer.”

So might you, Kate thought, but said nothing.

“Mary and Morvern,” Blanche said. “Those pretty twins with the plaits? I don’t think they’re more than eighteen!”

She burst suddenly into tears.

“Can I help?” Kate asked. Blanche looked up and tossed her blonde perm.

“You’re the last sort of person to understand the troubles of an ugly old woman like me,” she said.

“You are not old, and you’re certainly not ugly.” Blanche sniffed again. “I’m just going to put some lipstick on,” she said. “I’ll go, then,” Kate said. Blanche raised a hand. “Look, thanks for knocking – I’m sorry I snapped. Get your dusters before you go.”

Kate had forgotten the dusters. She watched Blanche enter the bathroom and close the door.

Kate looked around the room quickly, wondering if the source of Blanche’s distress might reveal itself.

She was aware she had no right to be doing any amateur detection, and yet she couldn’t stop herself.

These people were so odd – a cast of board-game characters who all, to Kate, in her darker moments, looked like suspects.

On the veneer hotel desk, beside the headed notepaper, stood a portable jewellery box.

Items from it were scattered about the desk, mostly too large and too brightly coloured.

Kate glanced at the closed bathroom door, and then leaned over the box to look inside.

All that was left among the velvet-lined sections was a ring. It was a thin band of silver, with a scrap of some semi-precious stone set rather badly.

The kind of present a man might give a woman whom he wanted to keep “on board” and yet at arm’s length.

Tucked under it was a scrap of paper, yellowed and crumpled.

All that Kate could read on it was Yours and June 1941, and then the name of a city. Chester.

Kate calculated that this was some love note from Blanche’s youth. She must now be in her mid-fifties.

She wondered if she was from Chester, but was sure she had mentioned being a Londoner born and bred.

Maybe Blanche had had an affair in Chester, the ending of which still made her unhappy.

Kate slipped out through the door and downstairs.

It wasn’t until she found herself gazing at the door of the study that she remembered. Mr Schwartz’s name was Chet, and Chet was short for Chester!

Had Blanche been in a relationship with Schwartz, way back?

Kate shut herself in her office and pondered. If Blanche had a grudge against the man who jilted her, might she not have killed him?

Had his appearance on the island been a big enough shock to make her fury, bottled up for decades, emerge?

Kate asked to speak to the lead police officer. She told him what she’d seen in Blanche Redhouse’s room.

Later that day Blanche came out of the interview room looking shaken and angry.

There seemed to Kate to be a growing number of people with some reason to finish off Chester Schwartz.

If only she’d known what a dangerous bunch boardgame enthusiasts were going to be!

****

Meanwhile Alan, by tiny increments, was losing his shyness around Kate. They were drawn together.

Kate told herself that it was all about the murder, but knew that it was more.

That same day she found him in a corner of the lounge, rolling six little coloured figurines around in his hand, and with a frown on his face.

He didn’t show any surprise when she sat beside him; they had begun to share their spare time and their thoughts.

“What if someone’s so keen on this game that they decide to recreate it in real life?” Alan murmured before dropping the pieces back into the box.

“I know,” Kate said.

“It’s a crazy idea. We’re all going barmy,” he said.

“At least we’re all going barmy together. Except that one of us is a lot barmier that the rest.”

Alan shivered, and then he looked at Kate.

“It wasn’t me,” he said. She smiled.

“And it wasn’t me.”

“Mrs Pocock,” Kate said softly. “Miss Redhouse, the Prof, Jimmy and Brenda Parker.”

“In the study with the lead piping.”

A smile spread across Alan’s face, and Kate felt a little safer with him beside her. He was large, and lovely, and (she hoped) he liked her a little bit.

She decided there and then to stop sleuthing and stick to doing her job.

She would wait until this thing was over and then – then she’d see what was to be done about Alan.

But it was not so easy for Kate to stop speculating.

Early that evening she walked into the lounge to perform a check and, thinking it was empty, picked up a full ashtray from a side table near the door she’d come through.

Kate was wearing soft shoes, and so when two voices started up, at the other end of the room behind two high-backed chairs, it was clear that Mr and Mrs Parker hadn’t heard her come in.

“The car goes, for a start,” Brenda said through gritted teeth.

“It was second hand,” Jimmy replied with forced calm. “I seem to remember that you bought a fur on the strength of this thing.”

“And you gave me to understand that we’d make a fortune.”

“We?” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I designed it.”

“Not very well, as it turned out.”

Kate heard Jimmy turn in the chair, presumably to face Brenda.

“Schwartz was a big player in this business. He must have hired a dozen lawyers.

“It’s normal practice and I was simply naïve.”

Kate took a tiny step forward and caught her foot on the edge of a rug.

The ashtray fell from her hand, thudded on to the floor and rolled between the chairs where the Parkers sat. They stood up and stared at Kate.

“Sorry. I was tidying.” Brenda and Jimmy looked shocked, but then, their shoulders slumped and they exhaled.

“The police are going to find out about this,” Jimmy said to his wife. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“Ignore me,” Kate said, longing to ask what “this” was, but determined to stay professional. “I’ll just get a fresh ashtray.”

“We had a launch planned – it was going to be so exciting,” Brenda said.

It was almost as though she really needed to share.

“OK,” Kate said, the second syllable of the word long and doubtful.

If the Parkers had killed Chet Schwartz, then what she was looking at was a pair of psychopaths, and she took a step back.

They walked round from behind the chairs.

“We didn’t kill him,” Jimmy said.

“I see,” she said.

“Jimmy made a new game, a brilliant game – the perfect combination of player skill, luck and visual design.” Brenda looked at Jimmy. “He’s clever.”

Jimmy looked back at Brenda.

“I couldn’t have done it without a wife who loved board games as much as me,” he said.

Bonnie and Clyde, Kate thought.

“We spent a lot on the launch,” Brenda said. “It’s to be held . . . was to be held . . . in a place like this, but larger, in the middle of Leeds.

“Then a lawyer called to tell us that we’d infringed copyright. We couldn’t publish.

“Chet Schwartz’s team

had seen the game and noticed in it features close to one of his.”

She stopped, and Jimmy laid a hand on her arm.

“That call was dreadful,” Jimmy said.

Kate remembered.

“This was the call I put through –”

“Yes. Just before Chet Schwartz’s death.” Jimmy nodded. “It’s going to look about as bad as possible.”

He took his hand from Brenda’s arm and pressed it to his forehead.

“I really did think my idea was new. But that’s life.”

“The police are already digging up full biographies of all of us,” Brenda added.

“I suppose Miss Westing might as well tell the police,” Jimmy said. “We can’t go anywhere, and frankly I long to be put out of my misery.”

“But we didn’t kill that man,” Brenda said. “I don’t know if you believe us.”

Kate didn’t know, either, but it was obvious that they wanted to make her their messenger.

So she just nodded, went away and knocked on the door of the interview room, in which two sergeants appeared to be doing nothing except eating some of Trisha’s home-made biscuits.

They perked up when Kate told her story, and leaped to their feet.

“The Parkers didn’t seem angry about Schwartz spotting the copyright infringement,” Kate said.

The officers stopped in front of the door.

“They wouldn’t show that in front of you,” one of them said a little smugly. “Murderers can be good actors, especially the crazy ones.

“But I heard them talking before they knew I was in the room,” Kate said.

“It sounded like it was just business – they’d made a mistake and he’d identified it, fair and square.”

“Don’t you worry,” the sergeant said. “We’ll get on to it.”

“Killing Schwartz wouldn’t get them anywhere financially,” Kate insisted as the men opened the door.

“They’ve no motive, if it’s not anger. They still can’t publish their board game.”

“Leave this to us,” the other policeman said. “Any chance of a coffee?”

****

That evening was fine, and Kate followed Alan out to sit on the wall.

He seemed oddly shy again, as though their friendship had cooled, and he sat with his hands braced on his thighs, smoothing his canvas apron repeatedly. “OK?” she asked. “It’s nothing,” he said. “You gave a statement, right?”

“About where I was at the time of the murder?”

“Yes. I hated giving mine. It makes a person feel guilty, you know?”

“I know. I can hardly remember what I said.”

“I got it wrong,” Alan said. “Wrong?” “The detail.” Kate smiled. “Phew. I thought you were going to say you forgot to mention that while you said you were wiping up toast crumbs, you were actually smashing in Mr Schwartz’s head.”

“I was alone for a bit,” Alan said quietly.

Trisha came towards them with a tray of mugs and what looked like a plate of her ginger biscuits. They had become a bit of a lifesaver for staff.

“I could have slipped out,” Alan said as Trisha set the tray down on the wall. “I didn’t, but I could have.”

“Dig in,” Trisha said. “Alan, don’t stress about those interviews. We were all in a bad way.

“If you got a detail wrong, nobody is going to send you to prison.”

Alan nodded, but he said nothing. He drank his coffee, and then he asked Trisha if she was OK to finish the lunch prep, so he could take a walk.

“Of course,” Trisha said.

“We all need a break.”

Kate felt uneasy. She went indoors to help Trisha clear.

“So, which of them did it?” Trisha asked as she stacked cups and saucers.

“Not for me to say,” Kate replied.

Trisha laughed.

“I’ve seen you poking about.” She closed a cupboard door with a bang.

“It’s best not to, you know. The police need to get on. We need to get off this blasted island.”

“They don’t seem to be getting very far,” Kate said.

****

Mrs Pocock was in the lounge when Kate entered later. She was tidying the Cluedo set. Kate hated that game now.

She watched Mrs Pocock, wondering if this was like one of those Agatha Christie stories in which the least likely person turned out to be the killer. Maureen, apart from her bizarre obsession with Dr Black, the rope and the conservatory, didn’t appear to have a strong motive.

In fact, she’d not only wept openly at Schwartz’s death, but had also expressed respect for him as an expert.

But did she harbour some ancient grudge?

Her fascination for that particular board game would then suggest that she had planned some kind of morbid tribute.

“You’ve got an old set here, you know,” Mrs Pocock said.

“Sorry? Old?”

“I don’t mind. Obviously one can play any version. I suppose I bore people with my encyclopaedic knowledge.”

“Not at all,” Kate said. “The game has changed quite a bit over the years.”

Kate sighed inwardly and tried to stand in an attitude that indicated she had to hurry off.

“Has it?”

“Originally there were far more weapons – a bomb, for instance. Isn’t that funny? And a syringe. But there was always a poker.”

Kate felt cold. It was as though Mrs Pocock was drawing her into some horrible narrative.

Luckily they were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Parsons, the Prof.

“Maureen, you’re incorrigible,” he said, strolling into the room and lighting a cigarette.

Kate had rather forgotten the Prof in the past couple of days; he’d been keeping himself to himself. Did that mean he was guilty?

“Your brain is just as riddled with board game nonsense as mine, Clive,” Maureen said.

He smiled.

“Did you know, Miss Westing, that in the USA this game was called ‘Clue’ when it was first sold?

“And in the US they don’t have a Reverend Green, they have a Mr Green.”

“Why is that?” Kate was merely being polite.

Still, her mind was starting to turn, slowly; a memory of a conversation was coming back to her, but with whom?

“It’s funny, actually,” Clive Parsons said. “They couldn’t stomach that a minister of the church would commit murder! In a game!”

He perched himself on the arm of a chair.

“Is dinner at seven as usual? I want to write some letters. Life goes on, even with poor old Chet on the slab.”

“Clive!” Maureen protested. “Please!”

“Yes, dinner’s at seven,” Kate said.

“She’s good, your cook,” Clive said. “I asked her if she can do a chowder. There’s plenty of fish on the island, I guess.”

“Chowder?” Kate asked. “A wonderful American soup, with cream. Your Patricia’s bound to have a family recipe.”

“She’s from Dorset.” “Dorset with a dose of Wyoming! She sounds just like Bebe Daniels from

‘Life With The Lyons’ when

her British accent slips.”

Maureen snorted. “That ages you, Clive, dear – Fifties radio shows!

“By the way, can you get those chambermaids to plump the pillows? Kate?”

“Sorry? Oh, yes, I’ll ask them.”

Kate left the lounge and crossed paths with the lead police officer.

“Is there anybody without an alibi?”

He looked impatient. “I can’t tell you that.” “Please. I won’t do anything with the information. It’s just so boring here.”

He glanced about him. “Well, to be honest, that’s the problem – nobody is unaccounted for during the crucial time.”

“Thanks,” Kate said, and set off again.

“Hey!” the police officer called after her. “You’re not going to start interfer–?”

But his words were lost as Kate pushed open the kitchen area doors.

A large blender was going full tilt with something green whizzing around inside. Alan was absent.

Kate took a deep breath and leaned against a work surface near where Trisha was chopping onions.

The same fact kept going through her head: if Alan had no firm alibi the whole time that the killing took place, then Trisha didn’t have one, either.

“You never mentioned your American heritage,” Kate said loudly over the noise of the blender.

Trisha kept chopping. “Are you actually from Dorset?” Kate leaned across and turned off the blender.

“Is that important?” Trisha said with a smile. “Pass me that wooden spoon, will you?”

“I wondered, you see: when you mentioned that you could play Mr Green in Cluedo. Over here it’s the Reverend Green. Why would you fake being British?”

Trisha laid her knife down. Kate kept her eye on it.

“I might say it’s none of your business.”

She picked up the chopping board and slid the onions into hot butter.

“I keep recalling things you did and said, Trisha. When you first saw Schwartz, for instance, you were bringing in tea.

“You vanished like a rabbit down a hole, back in here. It was almost as though you were shocked at seeing him.”

“I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

Trisha’s voice was firm but her lower lip shook, and she bit it.

“What was there between you and him?”

“Me and who?”

Kate waited. Her patience paid off. A tear rolled down Trisha’s face.

“It’s the onions,” Trisha said.

“Onions stop making you cry when they cook,” Kate said. “I thought you were the chef.”

“I am a chef, a good one. I trained in Britain.”

“But no family here? I know you jumped out of your skin when I mentioned kids . . .” Kate stopped. “You had his child!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Trisha snapped.

She burst into tears.

Kate eyed the knife until Trisha looked up.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m not going to kill you, Kate.”

“But you’re going to have to talk. I know that your story has holes in it.”

Trisha looked out at the heather hillside rising behind the building.

“I had to stop him talking,” she said. “I followed him into that room. There was something there that could silence him.”

“Why silence him?”

Trisha slumped over the sideboard.

“I had a child,” she said. “She’s in the US. I hate people going on about having kids.

“He’s been looking for me – Schwartz, I mean.”

She looked at Kate. “D’you think he came here just for me? Was he going to talk about those dumb board games, too?”

“Trisha, I don’t understand.”

“I’m from Denver. I had a boyfriend there, and Schwartz is his father.”

She looked at Kate. “There was no way I could stay. I wasn’t ready for children, not in a million years.

“I didn’t love Eddy and I was eighteen going on twelve.”

A pleading look appeared in her eyes.

“I was so young, and I wanted a life, a career, everything a kid would take away.

“They were a small, close, strong family and I was getting sucked in already.

“So I ran, Kate, and he’s been looking for me ever since, chasing me.

“My . . . she’d be twelve now. Schwartz wanted to destroy what I’ve built, and I could not allow that.

“You see that, right?” Kate could not see it.

She knew that what

Trisha had done was unforgiveable. To leave a child was one thing; to kill a man quite another.

“You have to understand,” Trish insisted. “Mr Schwartz was furious. He went on about morals.

“He told me he’d chase me down. I changed my name, came over here, started afresh.

“I don’t know how he’d tracked me down at last, but it was like a monster coming to get me. You see, don’t you?”

Kate knew she had to keep herself together, and so she simply nodded, and left the kitchen to find a policeman.

****

The tragedy was that Mr Schwartz had not come to hunt down Trisha and drag her back to duty and her child.

When he saw the details of the conference in the industry press, the beautiful Scottish island and the new bijou conference centre with “hand-picked” staff, he also noticed the name of the chef.

The Schwartz family had recently hired a private investigator.

The PI had taken every detail known about Trisha (real name Lisa Beerstein) and had found evidence that appeared to show that the British chef was mother to their granddaughter.

Schwartz made sure he was invited to speak at the Achnaran conference.

Kate learned later that when his beloved only son had died two years before, and he and his wife had taken on the care of the child, an urge had grown inside him to find Lisa.

He wanted to say sorry, and to ask if she would like contact.

Mrs Schwartz visited Achnaran a few months later.

Kate was back, this time organising a wedding. The company had been impressed by her work and her intelligence.

“Anger had turned to compassion,” Mrs Schwartz explained. “Compassion to a need for family to come together.”

Her granddaughter had not come; she was at home in Denver. Mrs Schwartz’s main concern was to keep her safe and happy.

She was not told that her mother had begun a long incarceration in a Manchester prison.

****

Alan did not hide his pleasure when Kate came back for another conference, and then another, and then the winter wedding.

At the end of that one he asked her to stay on the island.

“I think we both know that life’s short. I don’t want to waste it. Could you marry a sous chef?”

She kissed him.

“I think that could be arranged.”

“Ah, well, arranging – that’s your job,” Alan said. “Will we hire the conference centre?”

“No way. The Achnaran church hall, and lots of lively friends, and dancing.”

She tucked her arm in his.

“No board games, though,” she said.

“No board games,” Alan agreed.

The End.