Mondays are Murder (4 page)

“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 ropes 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.

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 no 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.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs I heard adult voices coming from the office. In bare feet, I made no sound, so they didn’t hear me approaching. When I caught what they were saying, it stopped me in my tracks.

“I just don’t understand it!” It was Mike. “How could it have happened? I guess it was sheer bad luck—”

“Bad luck?!” Isabella exclaimed, her voice tight and high as if she was fighting hysteria. “Don’t you see? First Steve dies, now Bruce. It’s not bad luck. We’re cursed!”

“No.” Mike’s tone was patient, as if they’d had this conversation several times before. “It was an accident!”

“Like what happened in South America was an accident?” Isabella’s tone was suddenly so venomous that it made me wince.

“That was different,” said Mike. “We’ve been over and over this, Isabella. Richard was dead. I had no choice!”

“Didn’t you? I don’t think I believe that any more. You did the wrong thing.
I
did the wrong thing. And we’re being punished for it. I should never have married you!”

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back hard as if Mike had leapt to his feet. I thought he was about to yell at her but then I heard him taking deep, ragged breaths to steady himself. When he spoke again it was slowly and with extreme care as if he was barely controlling his temper. “I’m sorry you feel like that, Isabella.” He gave a pained sigh. “But you can’t really believe we’re at the mercy of some sort of ghost?”

“Can’t I? I don’t see any other explanation.”

“But that’s insane!” he cried. “There’s no such thing as ghosts! It’s just not possible! And even if it was true – why kill Bruce? He wasn’t in South America. We’ve never even met him before.”