Page 33 of Murder Most Actual

“How incredibly helpful,” Hanna replied with a tone of withering vindication.

“Yeah, she was a bit vague. But he knew far too much about gunshots.”

Hanna’s left eyebrow rose a half-inch. “Perhaps he works in a very violent parish?”

For a while they just sat there, trying to get used to being close to each other again, trying to comfort each other, but eventually the demands of the hotel timetable caught up with them and they had to leave for dinner. As she stood by the window, waiting for Hanna to dress, Liza saw two members of the hotel staff carrying Belloc’s body out of the woods. One of them, she assumed, was the charming gentleman whose comparative youth Ruby had been so unconcerned about. Technically, Liza supposed, they were disturbing the crime scene, but what else could they do? They might be snowed in for a day or so yet, and they could hardly leave a man’s corpse lying around indefinitely.

If she’d been the sort to make a big deal about irony, Liza might have reflected on how ironic it was that Belloc, so confident and so determined to be the centre of everything, was now being carted off to some makeshift morgue by two random members of hotel staff. But she wasn’t that sort, and while she was carefully not reflecting on it, Hanna finished dressing, and they headed down for dinner.

The dining hall was full when they arrived, with everybody eyeing each other in a way that looked like it wasn’t a normal dinner service. Which, of course, it wasn’t, for reasons of murder.

As Liza and Hanna settled at their end of the table, Ms White came forward and addressed the room. “So, a few food-related things. Firstly, we’re doing slightly fewer courses this evening because we’re trying to conserve our supplies. Secondly, that means the rabbit ravioli is being saved for tomorrow, and if you did want to try the langoustine then tonight is your only chance because we get them in fresh, and they’ll have gone bad by the morning. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I think we can all agree that this is a weird situation.”

“On which subject,”—Mr Burgh took over room-addressing duties—”I’m sure we are all aware of the sad death of Mr Belloc and, while obviously the coroner is not on hand to pass an official verdict, it does rather seem there was foul play.”

“Rather seem?” Aunt Tabitha’s voice was incredulous. “The man was shot.”

The manager did his best to project an aura of calm assurance but failed abjectly. “Well, we can’t totally rule out suicide.”

“You think he shot himself in the chest?” asked Sir Richard.

“With a stolen Enfield No. 2 Mark 1 revolver?” added Colonel Coleman.

“And he decided to do it behind a boathouse, while he was investigating a murder?” continued Reverend Lincoln.

“And he somehow made the gun disappear?” finished Professor Worth. Next to the professor, Mrs Ackroyd visibly tensed, and he patted her hand reassuringly.

“I didn’t say it was likely” admitted Mr Burgh. “Just that we should probably remember that we are none of us professionals.”

Sir Richard raised a hand. “Excuse me, I have solved no fewer than six murders in my day and recovered Lady Billingham’s missing emeralds.”

“That hardly counts, dear,” said Aunt Tabitha. “The cat had eaten them.”

Mr Burgh was looking increasingly flustered. “Even so, you aren’t actually an official detective, so I just think it’s important that we remember not to overreach ourselves or jump to any conclusions.”

Colonel Coleman slathered butter onto a slice of bread from the basket on his table. “If I’m being honest, old boy, you’re talking rather a lot like you killed the bugger.”

Was he? Wasn’t he just suggesting, quite sensibly, that they not jump to conclusions? Then again, he would have had access to the gun. And to the Ackroyds’ room. And his name did begin with a B.

“I most certainly didn’t,” protested Mr Burgh. If he was a steely-eyed killer just pretending to be a flustered hotel manager, he was doing a very good job of it. “I was in my office. I just mean that we should be careful. The killer can’t escape until the snow clears—”

“You realise that also means we can’t escape the killer?” Hanna’s tone was sharp, but now that Liza was paying attention, she could hear real disquiet in it. “How is that a good thing?”

“If we’re lucky,” said Sir Richard, “the killer is done. Most folk don’t kill over and over again, you know. Seldom any mileage in it for ‘em.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” Ruby’s voice floated across the room like smoke from the cigarette she wasn’t holding.

Sir Richard gave an apologetic shrug. “Ah. In that case, things might get rather bloody.”

“Well, I say,” Colonel Coleman continued, “that we all rally together and run this blighter to ground.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Hanna clapped her hands. “Mob justice.”

Liza squeezed her wife’s arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t be running people to ground exactly. But we are in this together, aren’t we?”

Across the room, Ruby smirked. “Well, all except one of us.”

“Rather than—um—rather than hounding anybody,”—Professor Worth sounded even more hesitant than usual—”perhaps we could at least try to locate the gun? I know I for one would feel far more comfortable if I knew that all of the firearms in the hotel were locked up safely where they should be.”

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