Page 3 of Murder Most Actual

Sir Richard, in the Drawing Room, with Drinks

Friday, late evening

In different circumstances, it would have been a dream holiday. A silly dream, admittedly. A dream about sitting in wingback chairs under subtle lighting while hail rattled on the highlands outside. Instead, it was almost stifling. Too much proximity as an overreaction to too much distance.

The drawing room was warm and cosy and smelled of fresh-brewed coffee. A real log fire crackled in a grate, and next to the real log fire sat an equally real, although substantially less loggish, gentleman dressed in a manner that might have been called natty at around the time people used the word natty, but which now read more as hipsterish; all three-piece suits and watch chains. He was in that unguessable age range that could have been anywhere from twenty-something to forty-something, and he somehow gave the impression of wearing a monocle despite not, in fact, wearing a monocle.

“I say,” he said, glancing up from his newspaper, “are you new? Where are you in from?”

“They have come from London.” This observation came from a second man, short and with a distinct, if non-specific, western European accent. Unlike his companion, he did not bother to look up from the journal in which he was furiously, but meticulously, writing.

“I didn’t ask you, Perseus.” His natty companion threw a sullen look across the room, then extended a hand to Liza and Hanna. “I’m Quirke, by the way. Sir Richard Quirke. But you can call me Dicky—all my chums do.”

“What makes you think they will be your”—Perseus cleared his throat—”chums?”

It was, Liza had to admit, a reasonable comment. Although honestly, she wasn’t sure whether Sir Richard’s aggressive friendliness was better or worse than the other man’s stand-offishness.

“Just a figure of speech, old boy. My friend here, if you can use the word, is Perseus Belloc. He’s a dashed rum sort, and between you and me, I think he’s a spy.”

“If I were a spy,” replied Perseus Belloc, “would I not be less, how you say, rum?”

Liza had never heard the words rum or, for that matter, how you say used in cold blood in her life, but this was a very exclusive hotel and probably attracted strange people. “I’m Liza,”—she took the offered handshake—”and this is …”

“Your lady wife, no doubt,” Sir Richard finished for her. Then he cast a coolly smug glance at Belloc. “You see, we can all play the remarkable deductions game.”

“Pathetic. You saw their wedding rings. A child’s trick.” Belloc made a precise, dismissive gesture. He had a neatness to him that bordered on the meticulous, his movements matching his suit in their crispness.

“And you guessed that they were from London,” retorted Sir Richard, “because you saw their car out the window and, like their clothes, it’s expensive but not ostentatious. Add in the fact that—sorry, rude of me, didn’t let you give me your name.”

“Hanna,” said Hanna. She didn’t look especially amused.

“That Ms Hanna,” Sir Richard went on, “has the formal air of a city financier about her, while dear Liza—sorry, couldn’t resist—carries herself in a more alternative fashion, implying a background in the creative industries. I fail to see what other conclusion you could possibly have come to.”

There was, at last, a pause in the barrage of verbiage, although neither Hanna nor Liza were quite sure what to say into the gap. Fearing that the opportunity, if missed, would pass them by forever, Liza tried: “So, is it nice?”

“Oh yes, capital place.” Sir Richard was still beaming. “Come here all the time with the old aunt. Mountain air, see, good for her lungs.”

“And the food is excellent,” added Belloc. “The chef, she is magnifique.”

Hanna had slipped away from Liza’s side and poured them both a cup of tea. Again, thoughtful. And in fairness, it was exactly what Liza would have wanted, but it would have been nice to be consulted. But that was Hanna all over, sweet and considerate and high-handed and arbitrary all at once. In a fruitless act of defiance, Liza sweetened her mug with two lumps of sugar she normally didn’t take.

“And what is it you both do?” Liza asked. There had been, she was sure, a time she was better at small talk, although maybe that was just the confidence of youth.

“Not a great deal, if I’m honest.” Sir Richard shot her a self-deprecating grin. “What you might call a gentleman of leisure. I say, your voice sounds oddly familiar, if you don’t mind my mentioning it. Which is peculiar because I’m sure I’d remember if you’d been at any of my clubs.”

This didn’t happen often, but it happened more than it used to. “Do you … do you by any chance listen to Murder Most Actual?”

Sir Richard gave a gasp of recognition. “My God, you’re that Liza? I mean, it’s not exactly an uncommon name, so you’ll forgive a fellow for not making the connection, but I should have known at once.”

“Oh, have you met a fan?” Hanna sidled over and put an arm around Liza’s waist that was probably meant to be supportive but felt possessive, almost condescending. “I swear we can’t go anywhere these days.”

Something seemed to be confusing Sir Richard. “Hang on, though, you’re not … I was under the impression that you and Rachael were … that is, I suppose you are, but possibly, she isn’t. Or I mean, if she is, then she is, but not with you. As it were.”

Hanna’s arm was getting tense, and Liza did her best—really did her best—to give off reassuring vibes she wasn’t quite feeling and wouldn’t have known how to give anyway. “No. I mean, if what you’re saying is what I think you’re saying, then yes, I’m gay. No, Rachael isn’t gay—not that it’s either of our business—and even if she was, it wouldn’t mean we’d automatically be sleeping together. Especially because, as you can see, I’m married to somebody else.” She slipped a reciprocal arm around Hanna and gave her a half-hearted squeeze. “Happily married,” she added, then immediately wished she hadn’t because when it came to ladies doth protest too much-ing, she might as well have just said “Also, my marriage definitely isn’t falling apart.”

“Am I to take it correctly”—Belloc’s tone was thick with contempt—”that you are one of those interfering true crime podcasters who go around opening up old cases, and casting doubt on old convictions, and turning the private tragedies of strangers into clicks and content?”

Liza winced. “Sort of?”

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