[Brenda & Effie 03] - Conjugal Rites Page 5

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want to go,’ Effie said, as they hastened along the frosty sea front. ‘I know you’re not fond of the Christmas Hotel.’

  ‘I’m quite intrigued. Should be quite a spectacle, hordes of ancient heroes dancing about.’

  Effie, too, was intrigued, not least by how she had come by their invitation. ‘The tickets were in a blank envelope shoved through my door when I got back. Come to the dance. So I thought, why not?’

  ‘Any excuse to throw our glad rags on, eh?’ Brenda smiled. Effie still hadn’t complimented her on her frock, which was new, from a rather select shop in town. It was a black velvety number and Effie hadn’t said a word as yet.

  But Effie was still focused on her precious mystery. ‘Of course, it’s an obvious trap.’

  ‘Of course. Someone is inviting us here clandestinely . . . probably for a very nasty reason indeed.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  They both mused as they swerved into the back streets filled with dark and shrouded gift shops displaying starfish, sticks of rock, and Gothy bats in their windows. They began on the steep incline to the West Cliff and the Christmas Hotel.

  ‘Still, it’s all fun, isn’t it?’ Brenda smiled. ‘Whew. Let me get my breath back.’

  They paused and gazed across the picturesque jumble of slate-blue rooftops, shining in the drowsy evening. Effie stared further afield, shielding her eyes against the burnt orange of the sun. ‘Look at the abbey over there. Glaring and glooming down at us.’

  Brenda studied its fanged and jagged ruins. ‘I know. I keep thinking about what it conceals . . .’

  ‘Let’s not think about that,’ Effie said quietly.

  ‘But it’s the reason for all of it, isn’t it? Why everything in this town is so weird and deadly.’

  ‘And the reason you were drawn here in the first place.’ Effie nodded and gripped her bag tighter. ‘Yes, I know.’

  Brenda sighed, taking in the whole vista of the bay. ‘Still, I prefer it to what my life was before. Years and years of aimless wandering . . . never settling down . . . getting hounded from place to place like a monster.’

  Effie briskly patted her friend’s broad back. ‘I’m glad you’re happy here.’

  ‘Come on, then. Don’t let me wallow.’ Brenda turned away from the splendid view and set her dancing shoes in the direction of the top of the West Cliff. They had a function to attend. She beamed at her friend. ‘Let’s go and see what’s going on at the Christmas Hotel . . .’

  The First Masked Hero Ball

  Brenda gazed around at the interior of the grand entrance of the Christmas Hotel. It was even more ludicrously festive than ever. Every light fitting, banister, picture rail and item of furniture was bedecked, strewn and festooned with glittery trim. Holly, ivy and mistletoe nestled in every vantage point, and the most hopelessly tasteless Yuletide muzak was blasting out from the hidden but ubiquitous speakers.

  Brenda had never had a nice night out at the Christmas Hotel. Something had always gone disastrously wrong, every time she came here. Tonight would obviously be the same, but for the moment, she was relishing her splendidly outrageous surroundings, and even tapping her foot to ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, which was being played to a reggae-type beat. The ancient cloakroom attendant took their outer things and they were ushered into the adjoining rooms, where the members of a huge crowd jostled and appeared to be knocking back a viscous scarlet punch.

  Brenda smiled. ‘Seems lively enough.’

  The two of them paused in the doorway of the largest downstairs room at the Christmas Hotel - the Grand Ballroom. It was white and gold, rather like a very pale, delicious Belgian chocolate. Brenda and Effie surveyed the rumbustious, colourfully attired crowd that was swaying and chattering within.

  ‘Quite a bit of talent about,’ Effie purred thoughtfully. She was eyeing the older gentlemen, most of whom were wearing clingy Lycra superhero outfits. Some of them filled them better than others. The whole room was a profusion of helmets, horns, breastplates, boots and swishing capes.

  Brenda snagged them a couple of glasses of punch from the table and laughed. ‘Effie! That’s not like you.’

  Effie swigged at the lethally strong drink and screwed up her eyes. ‘Well, it’s been yonks since a man’s even been near.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Brenda. ‘Ever since . . .’

  Effie looked momentarily cross. ‘Since I had my terrible let-down. Yes, Brenda, no need to bring him up again.’

  Brenda could have kicked herself. She didn’t want to bring Effie down by mentioning heartbreak from the past. Certainly not when the two of them seemed on the brink of actually having some fun. ‘We don’t have much luck with fellas, do we?’ The music was getting louder, and she had to just about bellow this down Effie’s delicate ear.

  Effie nodded. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  Brenda’s attention was caught then by a gap opening up in the festive crowd. The masked and costumed guests were drawing back to let a cumbersome figure make its way across the carpet. Brenda felt herself bristle with trepidation when she saw who it was. She nudged Effie to warn her. ‘Oh, watch out,’ she said. ‘Here she comes on her motorised scooter. Mrs Claus herself . . .’

  Even the scooter was decked with holly, mistletoe, purple spangly tinsel and fairy lights. In the middle of it all, Mrs Claus was incandescent with pleasure: a gargantuan woman in red stretch Lycra and silver pompoms. Her candyfloss hair was teased up to a huge lilac cone and her ruddy face seemed more crazed and dissolute than ever before. She absolutely reeked of brandy, Brenda thought, as the old woman brought her noisy carriage to a standstill.

  ‘Darlings!’ Mrs Claus cried, eyeing the pair of them eagerly. ‘What a wonderful surprise, seeing you here at my humble do.’

  Effie replied in her usual mildly acerbic, dignified manner. ‘It’s a marvellous assemblage, I must say. I’ve never seen such a . . . colourful and surprising bunch.’

  Mrs Claus swept one crimson talon through the air, taking in the whole roomful of guests. ‘These are the unsung heroes of Britain, this lot. The secret heroes who saw us through the darkness of all those postwar years.’

  Brenda put in, ‘I recognise a few faces. That’s Captain Lightning, isn’t it? And Sparko, his boy companion?’ She had noticed them earlier, under the potted palms, by the tall windows.

  ‘Not so much of a boy any more,’ added Effie.

  ‘Yes, and the chap next to them,’ Mrs Claus said, pointing in a very indiscreet manner, ‘the one dressed as Marlene Dietrich. That’s Marlene Dietrich Man. One of our more exotic costumed heroes.’

  Effie couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice. But she knew Mrs Claus of old. She knew the old bag didn’t do anything unless it was going to be of real benefit to herself. She stared down at the resplendent proprietress. ‘So you’ve got them all here out of the goodness of your heart, have you, Mrs Claus? Just to give the old dears a treat?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Claus, with a beatific leer. ‘Why, Effie, you make it sound as if I’m always scheming and plotting.’

  ‘Hmpf.’

  Now Mrs Claus’s tone became sly and suggestive. ‘Mind, I’m surprised to see you two showing your faces in public this evening.’

  Brenda gripped her punch glass tighter. ‘What?’

  Mrs Claus raised her lilac-dyed eyebrows. ‘Public enemies, aren’t you? According to that daft Mr Danby on the radio. It’s a wonder he’s not got the lynch mob after you. What were you doing, breaking into the studio?’

  ‘We’d rather not talk about it,’ Effie said stiffly, cradling her drink.

  ‘But we’re convinced that something is afoot,’ Brenda added.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Mrs Claus said, and lowered her usual hectoring tones. Brenda and Effie had to crouch somewhat to listen. ‘Did I tell you, I’ve even been phoning in myself. I can’t stop myself ! It’s a compulsive need in the wee small hours. I pick up that receiver, and next thing I know, I’m chatting
live on air, slagging people off ! Saying the most awful things! Sheila Manchu and I had a dreadful go at each other the other night.’

  ‘I heard,’ Brenda told her.

  ‘I’m the same as you!’ Effie exclaimed. ‘It feels like I’m mesmerised.’

  ‘It’s like when he ran that Deadly Boutique.’ Mrs Claus shook her coiffed and frosted head. ‘He exerts a strange kind of power over us females, that dapper little man.’

  Brenda frowned. ‘What can he be getting out of it? Stirring up all this bad feeling?’

  ‘I don’t know! But I’m sure you two will work it out.’ Then Mrs Claus returned to her usual jocular manner. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m calling out the bingo numbers in the main lounge . . . Oh, by the way, have you met Harry here? He was saying that he knew you, Brenda.’

  Brenda turned to see who Mrs Claus was talking about, and as she did, the proprietress revved her motor and the scooter trundled past them.

  Brenda drew in a breath. There before her was her guest from the room directly below her sitting room. Mr Timperley was standing there in all his heroic glory. ‘Brenda?’ he said, gazing in admiration at her black velvet gown.

  ‘Oh, Mr Timperley. How are you?’ She was quite startled, seeing his shiny Lycra and buffed-up helmet this close to. ‘I hardly recognised you . . . in your costume.’ She turned to her friend, praying that Effie wouldn’t start her off laughing. ‘Effie,’ she said, ‘this is Mr Timperley. One of my guests this week.’

  Mr Timperley fetched off his cat-eared helmet and grinned at them. His silver hair was awry and Brenda was alarmed to note that he was wearing false fangs. He was saying, ‘And I am so very glad to be staying in your establishment, Brenda, rather than here in this tacky dump.’

  ‘Sssh!’ gasped Brenda, even though Mrs Claus was well past hearing range now. One of her servile elves might be close. It didn’t do to speak too openly at the Christmas Hotel, as Brenda well knew.

  ‘Well, it’s true,’ said Mr Timperley scathingly. ‘It’s all very festive and glitzy on the surface, this place. But there’s something rank and nasty beneath the skin of the Christmas Hotel.’

  Brenda was transfixed by his outfit and his glinting cat fangs, but Effie was nodding in steady agreement with him. ‘You’re quite right, Mr Timperley. I’ve always said just the same. It’s like finding a dead mouse in the Christmas pudding. I’m Effie Jacobs, by the way, Brenda’s neighbour.’ She thrust her hand at him and he shook it warmly.

  ‘Charmed, Ms Jacobs. But while I’m in costume, you must both call me Harry the Cat.’

  Brenda smiled. ‘Scourge of the Salford gangland killers. Yes, I remember your reputation, back in the sixties. How amazing it is to meet you like this.’

  Mr Timperley shrugged with fake modesty. ‘I was quite a terror. Hopping across the back-to-back rooftops. I miss all of that.’

  ‘I suppose everyone here misses their days of crime-fighting, ’ said Effie, glancing around the heaving ballroom.

  ‘Time moves on,’ the old man sighed, and rubbed a smear off his green visor.

  ‘For most of us, yes,’ said Effie. ‘Not for Brenda here, though. She’s been the same age for nigh on two hundred years.’

  Brenda was alarmed by this. That lethal punch must have gone straight to Effie’s head. She nudged her friend sharply. ‘Oh, piffle. Stop it, Effie.’

  Now the rather un-catlike old man was giving Brenda a good survey, making Brenda very uncomfortable. He said, ‘She’s a very handsome woman. You both are. I hope you’ll both do me the honour of a dance later this evening, once the band gets going.’

  ‘We like a nice bop,’ Brenda said, deciding that there was no way she’d take to the floor with this little scrap of a man on her arm. They’d look a right pair!

  Effie was pushing herself closer to Mr Timperley. Brenda couldn’t tell if she was serious or not, but she was fluttering her lashes a little and saying to him, ‘Tell me, Harry, what did your special superpowers consist of ?’ The old thing looked mightily flattered by her attentions, and, while they were making superhero small talk, Brenda gently excused herself and wandered off into the crowd, on the pretext of looking for the lavvy.

  She wanted to slip away because she was having a presentiment. Every now and then she got one, and they always led to trouble, she found. As she wove through the party-goers she was having the most curious feeling that things were about to take a sudden nasty turn.

  It was because she was very psychic and sensitive, she was thinking. At least sometimes she was. Being built of body parts from many different sources, as she was, and having been brought to life by lightning and necromancy, as she indeed had been, she was quiveringly alert to nuances. To all sorts of funny things coming through the ether.

  Brenda went to the lavvy and found it empty. Her new shoes echoed sharply on the sparkling tiles underfoot. The dripping ambience of the place filled her ears with foreboding. Something wasn’t right. Something filled her with tingling horror as she advanced into the ancient loos.

  One stall was occupied. The room was devoid of any human activity, but one wooden door was closed tight shut. Brenda called out, ‘Hello? Hello?’ And no answer came. Whoever was in there ignored her. She pressed her ear against the varnished teak of the door and couldn’t even discern a single breath.

  She braced herself. The door was heavy, but she could break it down, if need be. She was strong. She girded her loins. She prepared herself for what she’d see. She gave the door an experimental push.

  It was occupied, but it wasn’t locked.

  The heavy door swung open with an embarrassed creak. Brenda jolted backwards at the sight within.

  Mrs Midnight was slumped on the lav. She was in full aquamarine superheroine cossie, bursting at the seams, frizzy hair all over the place and her tiara dislodged. She was dead as a doornail.

  Brenda let out a squawk of dismay.

  She had been strangled oh-so-festively by festoons of - what else? - Christmas tinsel.

  Conflab

  As soon as they were allowed to leave the Christmas Hotel, the two ladies did so. The corpse in the ladies’ lavs had put the kibosh on the evening’s fun.

  Brenda and Effie linked arms and clipped quickly home on the cobbles, down the West Cliff, through the mostly deserted streets of shops, towards home. They were gabbling like mad all the way about this vile new development.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, Brenda. You’ve been bridling all the way down the hill and along the prom.’

  ‘What am I going to say?’

  ‘That it’s every time. Every single time we go to the Christmas Hotel, something horrible happens.’

  ‘That’s quite true.’ Brenda thought back over several past adventures. She shivered at the thought, as the mournful hooting of the gulls and the boats entering the harbour reached their ears.

  ‘And,’ Effie went on, ‘every single time, the evidence gets brushed under the carpet. Mrs Claus has her servile elves come dashing in and clearing up the mess. The police are summoned and sent brusquely away again.’

  Brenda’s expression darkened. ‘Mrs Claus likes to clear up her own messes.’

  ‘Quite. So the most outrageous things can go on, but somehow Mrs Claus is never herself implicated.’

  Brenda looked at her friend with interest. ‘Do you think she’s responsible for the strangling of Mrs Midnight?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s strong enough, even if she’s not particularly mobile. But she was standing there talking to us for much of the time.’

  ‘Hmmm. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a wicked old woman.’ Brenda reflected sadly that she hadn’t had a proper chance to show off her new dress. She hadn’t had a full night’s wear out of it. And she certainly hadn’t had a turn on the dance floor. Even the excitement of a murder didn’t make up for that.

  ‘She certainly is wicked.’ Effie exhaled a boozily sympathetic sigh. ‘Poor Harry the Cat. Poor Mr Timperley.’

 
‘He’s distraught, isn’t he? He would be. They’ve known each other since their heyday. They have survived so much. All of those costumed superheroes have. Crazed power-mad supervillains. Incursions from beyond the earth, under the earth and even other dimensions. They’ve seen it all.’

  Effie tutted. ‘For it all to end in a common, grubby little murder like this. Murdered by tinsel trimmings, of all things. Isn’t it just bally awful?’

  Now they were passing a street of pubs, rowdy with folk music. Not even this raucous noise could deter the ladies’ deliberations. Brenda said, ‘Would Mrs Claus really go to the trouble of organising a whole weekend like this? Just to assemble all of these guests . . . and then top one of them under everyone’s noses?’

  ‘She might do. If she hated Mrs Midnight enough.’

  ‘We just don’t know. Mrs Claus is so careless. So secure in her power base, here in Whitby. She wouldn’t care about covering her tracks.’

  ‘But she’s got a hotel of crime-fighters and masked detectives to contend with,’ Effie pointed out.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps not the best context for committing willy-nilly homicide. Well.’ She came to an abrupt halt and Effie realised they were outside Raf and Leena’s grocery store and Brenda’s guest house. ‘This is me. Home again.’

  ‘Off to listen to The Night Owls?’ Effie teased.

  Brenda glanced at her friend. ‘I thought I might as well check it out . . .’

  Phoning in

  ‘. . . And I suspect that we will be hearing much more about this evil upheaval before the evening is out. Hello? Line two. You are . . .?’

  ‘My name is . . . was . . . Harry the Cat.’

  ‘Oh yes. And are you, in fact, a cat, or just a person pretending . . .?’