Playing Dead by Martin Edwards

Author:Martin Edwards [Edwards, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2024-11-06T17:00:00+00:00

DAVID STUART DAVIES – AN OLD-FASHIONED MURDER MYSTERY

Captain Brian Eastbourne called upon his friend Pierre Leroux, the famous French detective, at his Chelsea apartment one morning in the autumn of 1935. The captain found him in a state of excitement; the detective’s little cherubic face alight with pleasure. ‘You come at a most crucial time, mon ami. I am just about to depart for Dreadnought Manor in the county you call Buckinghamshire.’

‘Off to some sort of house party, eh?’ responded the captain, slapping his fine leather gloves against his thigh.

‘In a manner of speaking, Eastbourne. The kind of house party that greatly appeals to me.’

‘Ah, one in which a murder will take place.’

Leroux beamed. ‘Has taken place.’

‘Already?’

‘Oui.’

‘Not in the library?’

‘Exactement. The victim was clubbed to death with a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Volume 3: E to F.’

‘Great Scott. Who was the unfortunate fellow?’

‘That is yet to be established. He was a guest of the owner of the house, Sir Percival Parker.’

‘The industrialist.’

‘The same.’

‘I presume there are other assorted house guests who make up a pleasing array of suspects.’

‘Of course. As well as Sir Percival and his wife Prunella, there is Sylvia Stratton, the film star, Daniel Dangerfield, the notorious man about town, Wilhelmina Waters, Sir Percival’s impoverished cousin, the crime novelist A. A. Ayers and a strange fictional character called Roger Ackroyd.’

‘Ah, my money’s on him.’

‘Why so, mon ami?’

‘Well, because he’s the only one whose name is not alliterative.’

‘Oh, Eastbourne, you squat to conclusions so easily.’

‘Jump.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I jump to conclusions, not squat.’

‘Oh, you and your English idioms.’

‘Have you discovered a motive?’

‘Just a very simple one.’

‘Good man, Leroux. What is it?’

‘The murderer wanted his victim dead.’

‘Bravo. You are halfway to having solved the case.’

‘Would you care to accompany me down to Dreadnought Manor and witness how brilliantly I bring the murderer to justice?’

‘Will there be lots of lengthy interviews with the house guests, a spot of clue-giving, revelatory eavesdropping, another murder, a deliberate red herring and a final rally of survivors in the drawing room for your overdramatic unmasking of the culprit?’

‘Inevitably.’

‘Then I’ll come,’ said Eastbourne with a facile grin.

They travelled to Buckinghamshire in Leroux’s ancient roadster. ‘You will be happy to be sleuthing again,’ cried Eastbourne from the passenger seat, above the roar of the engine.

‘Oh, yes,’ responded Leroux. ‘I have been unemployed for too long. It seems that no one wants the great Leroux to investigate their murders for them anymore. Even Inspector Sap from Scotland Yard has stopped calling for advice. Times have been very hard. But when times are hard, one has to be inventive.’

‘I understand,’ said Eastbourne, although Leroux knew very well that he didn’t.

After passing through Little Piddling in the Bowl, Leroux observed, ‘Not long now, mon ami. I shall be glad to take off these goggles.’

‘Why on earth are you wearing them?’ enquired Eastbourne.

‘To protect my mascara, of course,’ came the reply.

Very shortly Leroux pulled up outside a dilapidated looking cottage set amid a wild overgrown garden. Attached to the rickety gate of the property was a piece of white card on which someone had scrawled the words ‘DREADNOUGHT MANOR’.

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