The Package Included Murder (18 page)

Miss Jones, careful not to move a muscle in case she disturbed the equilibrium of the boat, smiled tentatively across at Mrs Frossell. ‘Isn't it lovely?'

Mrs Frossell happily agreed that it was. ‘It reminds me of the Lake District,' she claimed dreamily. ‘The way the snow-capped mountains brood over the glassy waters of the lake.' She brought her eyes back into focus. ‘Are you familiar with the Lake District, Miss Jones?'

Miss Jones dithered. In the end she decided that, although as a girl she had once spent a short holiday in Grasmere, she couldn't really call herself familiar with that part of the country.

Mrs Frossell thought that this was a pity, and no doubt would have pursued the matter further if Tony Lewcock hadn't butted in and said, very rudely, that he didn't reckon that the scene before their eyes bore the slightest resemblance to the Lake District. ‘Switzerland, now,' he suggested, ‘that'd be more like it. Yes,' – he looked round with an air of infuriating, smug masculinity ‘Switzerland! That's what it looks like.'

‘Rubbish!' All heads, except Miss Jones's, turned as Mr Beamish, sitting up in the bows next to his wife, put his two pennyworth in. ‘It's not a bit like Switzerland. If you must make these silly comparisons, then it's Norway.'

‘
Norway
!' The Hon. Con's bellow polluted the environment for at least a mile in most directions. ‘My aunt Fanny!'

‘It's exactly like the fjords!' snarled Mr Beamish. ‘I happen to know Norway extremely well and I could take you to a dozen places where the rock formation and the light values, even, are …'

‘Oh, phooey!' The Hon. Con saw no point in letting people finish their sentences when they were talking such poppycock. ‘If you'd said the highlands of Scotland, I might have been with you. But – Norwegian fjords? No, I think not.'

Mrs Beamish was girding up her loins for entry into the battle when Miss Jones produced her olive branch. ‘How about North Wales?' she asked before she was howled down.

It was about three-quarters of an hour later that the boats came put-putting gently back towards the jetty in front of the hotel. In the Hon. Con's boat the controversy was still raging, though the beauties of nature had long since been left behind. The disputants had now descended unashamedly to personal abuse. Over in the other boat an awed silence reigned as everybody sat and listened.

It was Miss Jones who first became aware of this audience. She spoke like a ventriloquist through a forced smile. ‘Everybody's watching us, dear!'

‘Let 'em!' The Hon. Con steadied herself as the boat bumped softly against the little pier. ‘Blooming Nosey Parkers!' She grabbed hold of a small upright post and, always the perfect gentleman, concentrated her efforts on maintaining an even keel as everybody else scrambled out. In the end only Mr Beamish was left.

‘After you, Miss Morrison-Burke!' He stood back gallantly.

The Hon. Con hadn't forgiven him for Norway. ‘On the contrary, after you, Mr Beamish!'

Mr Beamish had had enough argument for one day. He risked an appealing glance to the heavens and then began gingerly to edge forwards.

In the meantime, the rest of the Albatrossers were milling about on the narrow jetty like shepherdless sheep, checking their handbags and cardigans and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Suddenly there was a shrill scream followed by a loud splash.

Some sixth sense warned the Hon. Con what had happened. ‘Holy cats!' she roared, leaping somewhat injudiciously to her feet. ‘It's Penny Clough-Cooper!'

There were several people who would have dearly loved to see the Hon. Con proved wrong, but they were disappointed. In any case, there was no time for idle dreams. The Hon. Con plunged out of the boat and thudded onto the jetty. Some coward soul begged her to have a care.

But the Hon. Con was blind and deaf to the outside world. ‘Hang on, old fruit!' she bawled and, without a thought for her personal comfort and safety, launched herself out into space.

The ensuing tidal wave proved the last straw for Mr Beamish. He was caught with one foot in the boat, one on the jetty, and his centre of gravity hovering somewhere in between.

There was a second scream and a third splash.

Miss Jones gazed helplessly at the boiling waters. ‘Oh, dear,' she said.

Some spark of dignity might have been salvaged from the situation if only Miss Clough-Cooper had not proved to be a far better swimmer than the Hon. Con. Still, what does it matter – as Miss Jones would keep on saying – who rescues whom as long as nobody gets drowned?

Eventually, when all the splashing, shouting and recriminations had died down, the Albatrossers found themselves back in the hotel dining room again. This time, though, they deliberately sat with their backs to that blasted lake. And they sat for a long time.

‘I simply can't see,' complained Zoë Withenshaw, ‘how anybody can take so long to dry out perfectly ordinary clothing. I mean, they're not being asked to cope with woollen overcoats, are they?'

‘We do want the things completely dry, though, don't we?' asked Miss Jones and adjusted the grey blanket round the Hon Con's hunched shoulders. ‘There's nothing worse than wearing damp clothing. I think it's really better to sit around here for a few minutes extra rather than run the risk of having three cases of double pneumonia on our hands.'

The Hon. Con sneezed loudly and without benefit of handkerchief.

Miss Jones regarded her anxiously. ‘You're not sitting in a draught, are you, dear?'

Tony Lewcock got to his feet and stumped stiffly over to the window. ‘Bloody hell!' he said. ‘What a bloody holiday! If it isn't one bloody thing, it's another.'

Jim Lewcock nodded his head in solemn agreement. ‘You can say that again, Tone! By Christ, you can! And it's all this bloody tart's fault.' He stared morosely at Penny Clough-Cooper. Not even the knowledge that she was stark naked beneath her ex-army blanket would rouse any emotion, other than that of acute exasperation, in him. Jim Lewcock had had it. Up to here!

The other Albatrossers were in much the same frame of mind and Jim Lewcock's outburst was supported by angry mutterings about the lack of consideration some people showed for other people's comfort. In fact, to hear some of the complaints, one might be forgiven for thinking that being the target of countless murderous attacks was a social solecism in the worst possible taste.

Miss Clough-Cooper sensed that her companions were trying to tell her something. She pulled her blanket even closer and raised her chin defiantly. ‘I'm sorry I'm being such a trouble to you all,' she said, her voice sharp but with the tears welling up in her eyes.

Guess who came galloping to the rescue!

Miss Jones sat and listened to the Hon. Con's passionate defence of her new chum and tried to console herself by recalling that loyalty is a virtue. Of course, dear Constance was over-doing things, as usual, but then judgement had rarely been her strong point.

‘Just a minute, Miss Morrison-Burke?'

The Hon. Con's voice died though her mouth remained open. She glared at Miss Clough-Cooper. ‘Eh?'

Miss Clough-Cooper managed a sour little smile. ‘It's just that I have never actually said that this was another attempt on my life.'

The Hon. Con closed her mouth and blinked uncertainly. ‘Ah, but it was, wasn't it?' she asked persuasively. ‘I mean, there you were, balancing precariously on that stupid little old jetty, and somebody took advantage and shoved you in the drink.'

‘Hardly,' said Mrs Beamish in a very superior tone, ‘the most effective method of murdering anybody, I should have thought.'

‘Especially as Miss Clough-Cooper would appear to be an exceptionally strong and capable swimmer.' Desmond Withenshaw's resentment was all but tangible. He had spent more money than he could afford on this trip to the Soviet Union and was furious at the way time was continually being wasted. For all he knew, of course, the gloomy dining room on Lake Rista might be infinitely preferable to what was awaiting them down on the coast at Sochi, but that was hardly the point.

The Hon. Con's face broke into a beam of triumph. ‘Ah,' she trumpeted, ‘but did the murderer know that, eh? See what I'm driving at, Withenshaw? This might be a clue. Now, Miss Clough-Cooper didn't go bathing at Sukhumi – did she? – so none of us had any idea what a smashing little swimmer she is. This beastly old murderer chappie probably thought she was one of these namby-pamby duffers who can't swim a stroke and who …'

Zoë Withenshaw snapped her powder compact shut and stuffed it back in her handbag. ‘I think we've all got the picture, Miss Morrison-Burke, though frankly I don't quite see what you're getting at. If none of us knew that Miss Clough-Cooper was a strong swimmer, then any of us could be the supposed murderer. Except, possibly, you and Mr Beamish? Right? Well,' – Zoë Withenshaw pretended to hide a yawn behind her hand – ‘that, surely, is more or less where we were when this whole ridiculous business began. Frankly, I am getting the teeniest bit bored with the never-ending saga of Miss Clough-Cooper.'

‘Bored?' The Hon. Con went very red in the face. ‘Bored? And how do you think poor old Penny feels, eh? This is the fifth blooming time in less than a fortnight that somebody's tried to kill her and it's for the sake of the rest of you, you know, that she hasn't gone to the police. She just doesn't want to mess up your holiday for you and, if you ask me, it's dashed decent of her. I'd like to see how you'd behave if …'

Miss Clough-Cooper squirmed unhappily under her blanket. ‘Please!' she said, pitching her voice loud enough to penetrate the Hon. Con's habitual deafness to interruption. ‘
Please
! I simply slipped on the jetty and lost my balance and tumbled into the water. Nobody pushed me. I can only apologise for my clumsiness and the inconvenience that I am causing you all.'

This flat statement caused some embarrassment and there were mutters to the effect that it didn't really matter. The Hon. Con, was not embarrassed and neither was she the type to let sleeping dogs lie. ‘Slipped on the jetty, my foot! You? Why, you're as sure-footed as a couple of mountain goats
and
you're wearing rope-soled sandals to boot!' She chuckled delightedly and slapped her thigh. ‘Now pull the other one!' she invited jovially.

To everybody's relief, it was at this moment that the dining room door opened and the manageress of the hotel stalked in. She was followed by a pair of underlings, staggering under loads of clothing which they deposited rather carelessly on one of the tables. ‘ Is arid,' said the manageress.

This was a black lie but nobody, not even the unfortunate owners of the clothing, was inclined to argue. Decently chaperoned and sheltered by members of their own sex, the three blanketeers (Tony Lewcock's humorous soubriquet for the Hon. Con, Mr Beamish and Miss Clough-Cooper) pulled on their damp and crumpled garments.

The drive to Sochi was hot and sticky and, thanks to the countless bends and twists in the road, everybody arrived feeling very badtempered and slightly sick. The Intourist guide, called Maria, was waiting for them and as usual made no concessions to human frailty. ‘In one hour,' she announced, grinning wolfishly, ‘I take you on your free tour of town!'

The Albatrossers were seasoned travellers by now and they no longer wasted their breath on trying to argue with Intourist guides. Meekly gathering up their hand luggage, they queued up at the reception desk to fill in their arrival cards and hand over their passports.

The Hon. Con kept her pecker up remarkably well. Of course, she was luckier than most as she was able to leave all the tedious chores like unpacking to Miss Jones. However, even the Hon. Con wasn't allowed to sit idly twiddling her thumbs.

‘Bones,' she said as she came out of the bathroom and got her tool kit out of the drawer into which Miss Jones had only that very second put it, ‘do you ever get the impression that you've been here before?'

‘Frequently, dear,' said Miss Jones with a martyred smile as she sank on her knees beside yet another suitcase. ‘Why?'

The Hon. Con selected a screwdriver and found a handy length of wire. ‘I wish,' she remarked, heading wearily back to the bathroom, ‘I had a rouble for every blooming toilet I've mended on this trip. Oh, and there's no plug for the bath, either.'

Miss Jones finished locking the suitcases. They were all perfectly empty but one couldn't be too careful when travelling in foreign parts – not that Miss Jones wouldn't have locked them equally carefully back home in dear old England, and did. She just wished she had a rouble for every time she had packed and unpacked but, naturally, she didn't say so. Instead she pulled herself to her feet and tried to take an intelligent interest in the Hon. Con's problems. ‘What's gone wrong this time, dear?'

‘Cistern thing doesn't fill,' said the Hon. Con shortly.

Miss Jones ventured into the bathroom. Most of the plumbing appeared to be spread out in bits on the floor.

‘What,' asked the Hon. Con casually, ‘did you think about this morning's hoo-ha up at the lake?'

Miss Jones didn't pretend not to understand. ‘ I think it was designed as another in the series of attempts on Miss Clough-Cooper's life, dear,' she said, picking her words carefully.

The Hon. Con brightened up. ‘You do?'

‘If everybody hadn't been so cross and nasty about the whole thing,' Miss Jones went on, ‘I'm perfectly certain that Miss Clough-Cooper would have insisted that it was indeed another attempt. In the face of all that obvious hostility, though, I don't think even she had quite the nerve.'

The Hon. Con flaked some rust off the ball arm with an idle thumb nail. ‘ You think Penny Clough-Cooper's making it all up, don't you, Bones?'