Page 5 of Murder Most Actual

Belloc, apparently, was not gracing the dining hall with his presence, but several other guests were. A tall man in his sixties was seated at one end of the table, talking to a younger man in a non-threatening green jumper. The older gentleman, who was sporting a somewhat ill-chosen yellow tie, seemed to be holding forth on some issue or other, while his companion bore up with practiced grace. When the newcomers entered, the older man looked up at them with a grin. Or possibly, not at them exactly, just at Mrs Ackroyd.

“Evening.” He gave a sharp, decisive nod that was probably intended as a welcome.

“Good evening, Colonel,” replied Vivien Ackroyd, taking her seat. Malcom Ackroyd sat opposite her in pointed silence.

Nearer to the door, an older woman made entirely out of corners and decorum was engaged in a far less one-sided conversation with a man of unguessable years in a plum-coloured smoking jacket.

“Ah, Dicky.” The old woman looked up at Sir Richard with what probably passed for a smile amongst the upper classes. “The professor was just telling me a fascinating story about Leibniz. Did you know that as well as being a mathematician he was also passionately committed to unravelling the Problem of Evil?”

“He was a staunch believer,” explained the man in purple, “that—as the saying goes—’everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.’”

Taking a leaf from Belloc and Sir Richard’s book, Liza tried to deduce what kind of professor he actually was and came up blank.

Hanna, meanwhile, settled down at the table opposite him. “Probably an easy thing to believe if you’re an old, rich white man.”

“Can we not talk about politics?” pleaded Vivien Ackroyd.

Sir Richard took the chair next to the woman who, from context, must have been the aunt he’d mentioned earlier. Sitting as she was, severe and aristocratic with a peacock-feather shawl draped across the back of her chair, she did not look like a woman who was having trouble with her lungs.

“This isn’t politics,” offered Sir Richard cheerfully. “It’s religion.”

Malcom Ackroyd smirked. “That other famously non-divisive subject.”

The man in green leaned in from his end of the table. There was, Liza thought, something incongruous about him. He dressed like a primary school teacher, but the line of his jaw and the look in his eye said you wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night. “Actually, they’re not as different as you’d think. Jesus was a political figure after all.”

The man in the yellow tie gave a walrus-y huff. “Oh, spare me your namby-pamby Rowan Williams why-can’t-we-just-all-get-along pulpit socialism.”

“Rowan Williams hasn’t been Archbishop of Canterbury since 2012,” said the man in green calmly. “And if it’s namby-pamby to believe the church should be in favour of justice and against injustice, then I suppose I’m just a namby-pamby person.”

The walrus bristled. “Wouldn’t have stood for it in the army.”

“Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with the army,” suggested the man in green.

That observation provoked an uncomfortable pause of the exact right length to let Sir Richard take over the conversation once more. “Oh, but where are my manners? Liza and Hanna, these are, in no particular order, my Aunt Tabitha,”—he indicated the woman next to him—”Professor James Worth of the University of … somewhere or other.”

“Don’t worry,” said the professor, “it scarcely matters.”

“Then we have Reverend Lincoln, and Colonel Coleman.” He indicated the last two men: the vicar in green and the colonel the other, both of whom made polite, if perfunctory, hellos. “Everybody, these are Liza and Hanna Blaine.” He paused for a second and then added: “They’re married.”

Lady Tabitha scrutinised the Blaines with instinctive disapproval. “Well,” she said. “How decidedly modern.”

Hanna seemed like she was about to say something, and normally, Liza would have been happy for her to; her passionate commitment to her beliefs was one of the things she loved most about her. But it was late, and she was tired, and they were in a hotel in a snowstorm surrounded by some very posh people who weren’t about to change their opinions about either lesbians or interracial relationships. “How about”—Liza leaned over and semi-whispered to her wife—”we don’t make a scene?”

“This isn’t a scene,” Hanna whispered back, “unless you turn it into a scene.”

Either in rescue or boredom, Malcom Ackroyd turned to Liza. “So, what is it you do?” he asked.

“She’s a podcaster,” answered Hanna, and Liza wanted to take it as pride, but in the moment it felt a lot like just not letting her answer.

“True crime,” added Sir Richard. “She’s fearfully good. Their miniseries on the Canonical Ripper Victims was excellent.”

Mrs Ackroyd wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I’ve always found that sort of thing a bit morbid.”

“Don’t be a killjoy, Vivien,” said her husband. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of murder every now and then.”

Vivien didn’t seem convinced. “That’s what novels are for. You’re talking about real things that happened to real people.”

“And she—” Hanna began.

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