Mondays are Murder, Page 3

  “Weird!” said Alice. “What was all that about?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t like ghost stories,” suggested Meera. “Some people don’t. I’m not that keen on them myself.”

  Meera’s unfortunate confession set the spiteful Alice off into a story of her own – a long, rambling tale involving headless horsemen and psychotic axe-wielding skeletons with red eyes. Luckily it was so dull that it had the effect of sending Meera to sleep rather than scaring her witless.

  “Poppy, I didn’t hear the captain telling Bruce that story on the ferry,” Graham said quietly. “Did you?”

  “No,” I replied. “But I was pretty busy being sick most of the time. I didn’t pay much attention to anything else.”

  “Me neither,” Graham replied. “I suppose that would explain it.”

  We both took a quick look in Bruce’s direction. There was no trace of the embarrassment or confusion everyone else had experienced when Isabella had run out. He didn’t seem to have even noticed that he’d terrified her. He’d sunk back into his chair as relaxed as a well-fed cat. I decided that he must be as thick-skinned as Mike. Perhaps it was a common characteristic among outdoor types.

  When Alice had finished her story, Cathy took charge. “I think that’s enough for now. You all look terribly tired after your journey. How about an early night?” We leapt at the suggestion, yawning and complaining of total exhaustion as we left the lounge.

  When we’d arrived, we’d claimed a room each but as we climbed the stairs the wind picked up as if the tormented soul was now screaming for revenge. I guess everyone was thinking about Bruce’s story because, when we got to the top, Alice and Meera moved in with me. They didn’t ask, they just dropped their bags on my bunks as if I’d invited them for a sleepover. Across the corridor I could hear Jake carting his stuff into Graham’s room.

  But the long day and the sea air had made everyone tired. Despite the eerie noises it wasn’t long before they fell asleep.

  And I was left alone in the dark to think.

  climbing accident

  The wind had dropped a little by the morning. It was still gusting but at least it didn’t sound quite so scarily insane.

  Us kids went off for a spot of jolly rock climbing led by Mike and Bruce. Donald stayed in the centre to prepare the lunch and so did Isabella. She’d refused Mike’s invitation to come along “for a bit of exercise”, jerking away with visible irritation when he’d put a hand on her shoulder. But Cathy had leapt at the opportunity of going out, saying she could do with “a breath of fresh air”.

  I discovered straight away that Graham was right about the midges. The moment we stepped out of the door we were savaged by a grey cloud of teeny-tiny flies. They were practically microscopic but they must have had very big teeth. Within seconds everyone was scratching at angry red bites as we walked through the heather towards the cliffs.

  The coastline of Murrag was jagged, as if a very large dinosaur had once taken bites out of it. Mike led us to a place where a U-shaped chunk cut through the cliffs all the way down to the broiling sea. We stood on one side, looking across to the other. The land sloped upwards over there and a section of bare, black rock rose from a narrow ledge a hundred metres above the water. “That’s where we’ll be climbing,” Mike informed us. We all gulped nervously.

  The wind was stronger here.

  “At least it means no midges,” Graham told me.

  “No,” I replied. “Now all we have to worry about is frostbite.” Because, despite my super-duper-thick walking socks and specially-purchased-windproof-waterproof-all-terrain jacket, I was freezing.

  Mike and Bruce started with a safety check. It took so long that my fear evaporated. I was dying for them to finish so we could get on with the actual climbing – I was sure I wouldn’t feel quite so cold if only I could get moving.

  Meera was peering down anxiously at the raging sea. Jake was hopping from one foot to the other, whether from cold or excitement was hard to tell. Alice was paying extremely close attention while Mike explained about his climbing gear, but Graham was staring at the distant horizon as if he hoped a passing ship might come to his rescue. He’d informed us over breakfast that, “Climbing is number eight on the list of most dangerous sports according to the website I looked at.” It wasn’t exactly an encouraging statement.

  “Now pay attention guys,” said Mike. “As you can see, we’ve both checked and double-checked our equipment. You must always do that – your life depends on it. We’re going to climb up then fit a top rope so it will be extra safe when you lot have your turn. During our ascent, Bruce and I will be roped together. That way if the person climbing falls, the other one is always there to stop him.”

  “What happens if he pulls you off with him?” asked Alice.

  “Can’t happen. Not with this system.”

  “Not even if he’s heavier than you?” persisted Alice.

  “No. Believe me, Alice, it’s not possible. What we’re going to do now is a little piece of theatre just to prove to you how safe this is. Bruce and I will go around this chasm and begin our climb on the opposite side so you can see what we’re doing. We’ll start at that ledge there. I’ll climb a little way up, and then I’ll fall – are you all right with that, Bruce?”

  “I can do the drop if you like,” offered Bruce.

  “Really? Oh, OK.” Mike turned back to us. “Bruce will fall, then. I want to prove to you how safe the gear is. If you trip or stumble – even if you fall off the rock completely – you’ll always get caught. You can have absolute confidence in that so none of you needs to be the least bit scared or nervous, OK?”

  Leaving us with Cathy (whose eyes were still glued to Mike), the two guys set off up the hill, skirting the edge of the U-shaped chasm until they reached the ledge.

  The sea slurped below like some sort of hungry, drooling animal. It was licking into the crevices and making a horrible sucking sound with each receding wave. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bruce’s story. About how, if you fell in, you’d never be found. You’d stay in that icy water until your bones were picked clean by fish. It was enough to make me shudder.

  Bruce started to climb. When he’d gone a little way up, Mike yelled to check we were all watching. He nodded to Bruce.

  And then Bruce fell. Alice gasped, Meera let out something close to a scream and Jake whistled between his teeth. Even Graham looked interested.

  Bruce dropped two metres, no more. The rope pulled tight, jerking him to a sudden halt. He swung out over the water, spinning right round in a full circle with his arms and legs outstretched before making a grab for the rock face.

  But then – with no warning – he fell once more. And this time the rope didn’t stop him. He plummeted into the abyss. Hit the water. Thinking it was just another stunt, Jake called, “Cool!”

  But next to me Cathy gasped and I knew right away that something had gone badly wrong.

  She leapt forward, leaning over the edge and holding out her hand as if she could miraculously extend her arm a hundred metres and pull him back.

  We could all see Bruce floating in the clear water, face down, a cloud of blood blooming from his head. As we stood there watching in helpless horror, a wave surged in and smashed him hard against the rock. You could almost hear the crunch of bone on stone. The sea held him pressed up against the cliff for a fraction of a second before his head lolled sickeningly sideways. And then – with that awful slurping sound – it dragged Bruce out of the chasm and sucked him down beneath the waves.

  For a moment no one moved. I felt dizzy with shock. Graham was shaking. Jake sniffing. Alicetrembling. Meera let out a low, pitiful whimper.

  Then Cathy was shouting. Screaming. Running to where Mike was standing on the ledge.

  Not knowing what else to do, we ran after her.

  “I have to get to him!” Mike yelled. “I can abseil down!” His face had gone a ghastly yellow and beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He was adjusting ro
pes frantically, fiddling with knots and clasps, but panic made his fingers clumsy and he kept dropping things.

  “You can’t!” Cathy clutched his arm, but Mike didn’t seem to hear. He shrugged her off but she didn’t give in.

  “Mike!” Cathy took his face in both her hands, digging her nails into his cheeks to force him to look at her. “It’s too late. He’s already been pulled out to sea. We need to get a message to the coastguard – see if they can reach him. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  Mike’s shoulders dropped. “Right,” he said. “I’ll go and radio them. You look after the kids.”

  With that, he was ripping off his harness and sprinting down the cliff path towards the centre. Cathy swallowed hard once or twice, and with a lopsided smile that was her attempt at reassurance said, “I think we’d better gather up the gear and go back. Is everyone OK?”

  We nodded, one after the other, because there wasn’t anything any of us could say. We were stunned.

  With shaking hands, Cathy started stuffing clips and hooks into a rucksack. Desperate to do something – anything – to help, I picked up Mike’s harness and unclipped the rope. I was coiling it in the way we’d been shown when my throat tightened with shock.

  The end wasn’t frayed or worn like I’d expected. The rope that Bruce had been attached to hadn’t snapped by accident.

  It had been deliberately cut through with something sharp. A pair of scissors. Or a knife.

  cut off

  The coastguard couldn’t search for Bruce. A severe weather warning had been issued – a big storm was on its way. No helicopter was safe to fly; no boat was safe to sail. So the police couldn’t make their way across from the mainland to investigate. We were cut off from outside help: stuck miles from anywhere in a gothic mansion with a murderer on the loose.

  I didn’t say a word about the rope. Not there on the cliffs. I just coiled it and stuffed it in the rucksack with the rest of the gear. Because I thought that whoever had cut it would probably do something nasty to me if they thought I knew. So I kept my head down and my mouth shut, and pretended I hadn’t noticed. But when I got a chance to talk to Graham alone, I grabbed it.

  The grown-ups were busy. Mike and Cathy were in the office dealing with the emergency. Isabella had apparently gone to lie down. Donald was cooking lunch. The kids were confined to the sitting room and everyone seemed too upset to talk. I announced I needed the toilet and disappeared out through the door with the smallest of glances in Graham’s direction. He took the hint.

  Two minutes later, I met him on the first floor landing.

  “It looks like my information was correct,” he said. “I did warn everyone that climbing is a dangerous sport.”

  “Especially when your rope gets cut,” I replied.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “Poppy, are you sure? Couldn’t it have worn through?”

  “No,” I said. It was the only thing I was sure about. “There was no sign of fraying. The knot didn’t work loose. Nothing gave way. It was a clean cut.”

  Graham gawped silently for a few seconds, taking in the implications of what I’d said. “Are you suggesting Bruce was murdered?” he asked slowly.

  I nodded.

  “But who could have done that?” There was a slight tremble in his voice.

  My mind had been whirring frantically since it happened but the trouble was that the more I thought the more confused I got. “I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s go through the possibilities. I suppose Isabella might have. She was very upset.”

  “But when?” asked Graham. “She was in the house.”

  “She could have done it last night.”

  “Possibly,” he conceded.

  “Or maybe Donald cut it this morning before we left? Or Cathy, while we were on the cliffs?”

  “Sounds plausible,” agreed Graham.

  “Hang on, though,” I said, contradicting myself. “Bruce and Mike checked and double-checked all their gear on the cliffs. We watched them do it, didn’t we?”

  “We did,” said Graham. “And it was fine at that point.”

  “So Bruce’s rope must have been cut after that. Do you reckon it could have been done when they walked round to the start of the climb?”

  “That would mean Mike did it,” said Graham. “But why?”

  “No idea. Bruce scared Isabella with that story last night though, didn’t he? Mike’s her husband. Could it be something to do with that?”

  “Maybe… But would that really be a good enough reason to kill someone?” puzzled Graham.

  “I don’t know. There’s something weird going on with Mike and Isabella. They don’t exactly look happy together, do they?”

  “There does appear to be a certain degree of coolness between them, yes,” Graham replied.

  “OK… Well, I suppose it must have been Mike.” I thought for a while and then sighed. “No, that wouldn’t work. The rope held Bruce when he dropped the first time. When he did the demonstration fall he was OK.”

  Graham recapped. “It couldn’t have been done last night or this morning before we left because it was fine in the safety checks. It couldn’t have been done during the demonstration because the rope held for the first fall. It leaves only one option: Mike must have cut the rope when Bruce was dangling.”

  “No.” I shook my head, sighing. “That’s not right either. I was watching Mike. His hands were full. He was hanging on to the rope when Bruce fell. Mike couldn’t possibly have whipped out a knife and sliced through it, I’d have seen him!”

  Graham didn’t say anything so I continued. “It can’t have been Mike in any case. He was so shocked by Bruce’s fall. He was at least as bad as the rest of us: he looked awful. He couldn’t fake a reaction like that, could he?”

  “Not unless he’s an exceptionally good actor,” said Graham.

  We went round and round in circles and finally decided that it was impossible. Nobody could have done it. The rope just couldn’t have been deliberately cut without us seeing.

  And yet Bruce was dead.

  Donald had cooked a thick comforting soup with crusty homemade bread still warm from the oven and spread with melting butter. He laid it out on the table, and then slipped away to wake up Isabella. Cathy and Mike were still in the office, so us kids were alone again and the food made everyone more talkative.

  In between mouthfuls of soup, Meera fretted. “I know it’s selfish but I keep thinking it could have been me. Well, I suppose it could have been any of us, couldn’t it, dying like that? You’d think they’d have checked the gear a bit more thoroughly.”

  Jake said, “You can’t stop every accident from happening. You do stuff like climbing, you take a risk. That’s part of the excitement.”

  “I don’t call being killed exciting,” sniffed Alice. “It was horrible! They should be more careful. I don’t see how they’ll be able to open up this place now. No one will send their kids here if they can’t keep them safe. My mum will be furious when she finds out.”

  “I always said fresh air was dangerous,” chipped in Graham. “People are forever dropping dead when they’re exercising. More people die out jogging than in plane crashes.”

  “I suppose you prefer cuddly toys?” said Alice sarcastically. “I can just see you playing with a bunch of teddy bears.” That girl really did have a nasty streak.

  “At least teddy bears can’t kill you,” Graham replied calmly.

  Just then the grown-ups came in.

  Mike was hideously pale beneath his healthy tan. Cathy was looking pretty shaky too but Donald was being kind of loud and cheery in an effort to convince us that everything was going to be fine.

  Isabella, on the other hand, seemed strangely calm. If I’d had to choose the most likely murderer, it would have been her, no question. I watched her carefully. Her thick black hair hung down like a pair of curtains while she sat dismembering a piece of bread with her long, thin fingers, picking it into smaller and smaller fragments until it was n
o more than a pile of crumbs. Her soup cooled in the bowl without her taking a single mouthful. And when lunch was over, and the instructors began talking over plans for the afternoon, she left the table, stalking from the room without a word.

  Definitely suspicious, I thought.

  By early afternoon the weather had closed in, and the house was being lashed with squalls of wind and heavy rain. Outdoor pursuits – even for the most rugged – didn’t look at all appealing. But the grown-ups wanted to keep us Busy and Occupied and Fruitfully Employed in Healthy Activity.

  “This afternoon I’ll be giving you all a riding lesson,” announced Cathy. “The indoor school will be dry, at least, and if you learn a few basics today, maybe tomorrow we can go out for a hack.”

  “Do you need a hand getting the horses ready?” asked Mike.

  “Thanks – that would be great.” She smiled at him in a way that made me think, Yes, she definitely fancies him. I wonder if Isabella has noticed?

  “There are hard hats in the cupboard over there, kids,” said Cathy, pointing. “Find yourself one that fits, and then come out. We’ll be just across the yard.”

  Muttering about the dangers posed by large hairy animals, Graham reluctantly found a hat. When we were all ready we went over to the stables. But despite Graham’s warning that riding was absolutely the number one most lethal sport in Britain (“more people get killed riding horses than driving racing cars”), the afternoon was fun. We rode round the indoor school – a sand-floored barn about the size of a tennis court – on a set of shaggy ponies, who followed each other nose to tail. Cathy kept calling, “Heels down, shoulders back, elbows in!” We learned to walk and then to trot, which was surprisinglydifficult until I got the hang of it. Finally, with sore bottoms and aching thighs, we went back to the house for tea, board games and another early night.

  Meera and Alice were just settling themselves into bed when I realized I’d left my book in the sitting room. Pulling on my dressing gown, I went back down to retrieve it.