The Round Robin Statements, chapter 1

By Caroline Coleman

Inspector Kendrew looked peevishly around the room, his tired face oozing dissatisfaction. That his day off should have been interrupted by a call from the station was annoying enough. Now to find himself stuck at this house, feeling as if he had been landed in the middle of an Agatha Christie set-up, he found it difficult to contain his irritation. He was a fraud man usually, much happier poring over spreadsheets and bank statements than dealing with people. Murders were definitely not his thing. But times were hard; not enough manpower these days. They needed someone to come out immediately and this was his unlucky day.

He looked around the rag-tag bunch of witnesses, assuming that amongst them there must surely be a murderer, and sighed heavily. “You will all be required to give details to my Sergeant. Your names, addresses, and statements. Nobody must leave the premises until we say you may”. As usual, there was a shimmer of something through the room. Annoyance, impatience, guilty consciences? Nobody spoke up. Nobody collapsed on the floor, wailing that it had been them, that it had all been a terrible accident. Just a good British tense silence. He nodded to Sergeant Breacher and strode out of the room.

He'd been briefed already, so knew this had been a house party to celebrate a sixtieth birthday. The birthday girl was downstairs whilst the deceased had been found on the floor in his bedroom, fully dressed, evidence consistent with poisoning. He put on white surgical gloves and a mask, then took a deep breath before entering the room. He didn’t want to be there, but he must. He must see the body of Mr Simon Ian Springer, aged 47, married with two children. The jaundiced, anguished face, the mess that is made when an apparently healthy man becomes fatally sick. He inspected the details as quickly as he could, knowing that he could much more easily face the photos and evidence reports of the Forensics team.

Next, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. He noted a neutral sort of carpet, frayed at the edges, tired bed linen, and a wardrobe that he knew would contain a sad collection of skeletal wire clothes hangers even before he looked. In a corner was a small suitcase, well worn, the handle tied at one end with twine. It was open, displaying a jumble of clothes: a green sweatshirt with a logo that turned out to be for the Sunnyhead Allotment Society, underpants, a black sock with purple heels and toes, and a half-eaten Penguin biscuit lying on blue packaging. A gardening book lay next to it, clearly well used, with a broken spine and pages softened at the top from repeated thumbing. It was open on page 47, which was crumpled and torn, but seemed to be about pruning apple trees and was extensively marked with a red pen.

Downstairs, the atmosphere remained nervy although one of the Constables had made hot drinks for everybody. Sergeant Breacher had organised a table and chairs to start questioning the witnesses – Inspector Kendrew nodded approvingly. At least he had the best person to help on the case.

He sat down and there was a long pause. Expectation hung in the air and he realised that everybody was looking at him. Standing again, he explained the circumstances of the murder – not very much, and not much they didn’t already know. Then he pointed sharply to the nearest person. “Let’s make a start with you”.

Chapter 2. Joan Cumberley Briskett. By Marion Colledge

He looked at me.
Me: I came down from the North, being invited to the party three months before. I only know two people here: the hostess Jean and her husband, Philip.

Sgt: your name first if you don’t mind.

Me: Sorry, Joan Cumberley Briskett

Sgt: How do you spell that mouthful?

Me: Cumberley? C-U-M-B-E-R-L-E-Y Briskett B-R-I-S-K-E-T-T (Like the otugh meat but with double T ).

Sgt: How did you travel and where did you come ‘down’ from and what time did you arrive?

             Pink-face over there is restraining a rude giggle.

Me: By train to Brandish, then Jean picked me up. She seemed in a funny mood. Not sure if she was happy to be sixty or not. Kept biting her lip and frowning, in the car.

Sgt: Ok that’ll do. Don’t try to incriminate others. Get on with answering my questions.

Me: I live in Morecambe near the pearl fishing grounds. It was quarter to seven when we got in. There were eight or nine people here already.

Sgt: How did you know the hostess?

ME: We met at the University of Reading doing a horticultural degree.

Sgt: In that room who did you know? Did you know the deceased?

Me: I did actually: he was on the same degree. But-but I hadn’t seen him for about thirty years.

Sgt: Any interests?

Me:  in common? Er: Fruit trees. I grow wall-trained fruit trees, oh ,and the pearls. He once came to Morecambe to see the pearl-fishers.

Sgt. What did you drink at the party and did you talk to the deceased?

ME: I had a shot of alcohol in lime juice. Otherwise I’m teetotol. And Of course I did, Sergeant. We talked about pruning espalier fruit trees. It’s terribly difficult, sir. I grow quinces and he grows apples.

Sgt: Interesting, what chemicals do you use to fertilise them?

ME: only a NKP mix, sir, from any garden centre.

Sgt: Is that known to be poisonous?

ME: You’d have to have a lot of it!

Sgt: Did you have any chemicals on your person when you came?

ME: No, Sir. What would be the use?

Sgt: Where did you leave your bag?

ME: In the room I was allocated upstairs.

Sgt: Number?

ME; They don’t have numbers they have names, Polyanthus, sir.

Sgt: That’s next to the deceased. He was in Cedar. We’ll be searching your bag.

What was on the table to eat?

Me: Home-made Yorkshire tomato and lentil soup in a big VAT on a heat retaining tray. Er - Champagne.

Sgt: The food first please.

Me: Er, I can’t remember. I quickly drank three glasses of champagne and…

Sgt: Yes?

Me: I had to go upstairs to the toilet.

       The ugly woman with blue under-eye liner raises her eyebrows.

Sgt: I see. I’ll ask someone else then. How long were you out and roughly what time was it?

Me: 9 o’clock, I think. 10 minutes.

Sgt: What did you do there? Did you take your bag there?

Me: Yes, I did take it, and what do you think I did there? Vomited ,of course. Come to think of it, the champagne tasted weird.

Sgt: Hmmm. Sorry to hear that. I suggest you might have mixed some garden product in a little bottle and put it in the victim’s champagne? Were you at any time standing or sitting next to the victim?

Me: Yes, much of the evening. You see, I’m rather shy when it comes to large gatherings and since I only knew Jean, the victim and Sally over there…

Sgt: You don’t remember what he, the victim, ate?

Me: salmon from the silver platter and mixed veg, and now I remember there was delicious cream and ice-cream turnover.

Sgt: that he ate: and you?

ME: sir, when you’ve been sick, do you feel like eating?

Sgt: Was the deceased upstairs at the same time as you?

Me: No, Sir, I want to tell you something. I think the deceased was in a relationship with Jean.

              Gasps from around the room.

Sgt: Why, what makes you think that. She said in the car he’d written her some letters and she’d show them to me later.But she didn’t say love letters?

SGT: Her husband over there can perhaps tell you more?

Sgt: So you came down stairs, didn’t eat anything and what time did you go up to bed?

Me: 10 o’clock, sir. I’d had enough.

And when you went to your room, did you go back out again.

Me: No sir, there’s hand washbasins in the room you see.

Sgt: Where was the deceased when you went upstairs?

ME: They were beginning to dance. He was dancing with Jean.

Sgt: OK that’s enough. Thank you.