Last Call

Hello, and welcome to my 2025 Blogging From A To Z April Challenge! This year, I’ve written you a complete murder mystery novelette. The setting is rural England, a few years after WWI. The extra challenge that I set myself for this story is that the first murder will not take place until the letter “M”–halfway through! And the second murder will happen at “S.” There may be murders after “S,” of course, but they are less structural or foundational or something.

And now, without further ado…

Last Call

It was after dinner. The Grimsbys and their guests were having cocktails in the drawing room. Dr. Camphor, looking round, saw the same crowd as on the first night of Jack and Penny’s visit, only instead of the priest and his sister, there was the Vicar and his wife. This was standard at the Grimsbys’; they tended to alternate.

Over by the big bay window, Lottie sat in her usual throne-like seat. She was talking to Jack and Gertrude. They all had drinks in their hands, but Lottie looked a little uncertain about hers. They’d probably given her lemonade; perhaps she was wondering why. As her doctor, Dr. Camphor agreed with this course of action; she was taking several prescriptions that did not combine well with alcohol. As a man, however, he felt that, if anyone tried that on him when he was old, he’d probably either throw a fit or change his will. Anyway, all three of them seemed subdued, and Jack, who’d looked brooding and withdrawn at dinner, looked brooding and withdrawn now. Not a lively-looking conversation. Dr. Camphor’s eyes travelled on.

Next to the gloomy trio, Frank and Nigel were having a heated discussion about something. Nigel had just given that laugh of his. Medically speaking, that laugh interested Dr. Camphor; he did not, however, feel any great desire to encounter it any more intimately at the moment. Dr. Camphor’s gaze moved on.

He did not admit to himself that he might be looking for anyone in particular. That would, at his age, be quite absurd. Ah, there she was, talking to Reggie and Geraldine.

Dr. Camphor’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t approve of his daughter’s engagement. Not that he believed in interfering. Geraldine was old enough to know her own mind, and she wasn’t half so silly as people sometimes thought. It was the rhotacism that threw people off—that and the fact that she was decidedly pretty to look at. The combination was so very—sweet—that people assumed she was sweet all through. But she wasn’t. She was fairly calculating, and she generally got what she wanted out of life. And if she wanted Reggie, she’d better have him. Who was he to say that Reggie was too old for the girl? Especially when he had of late—but that was just an idle fancy.

Penny—Miss Grimsby—looked up from her conversation for a moment and caught Dr. Camphor’s eye—and hastily looked away. Oh dear. Dr. Camphor had thought himself too old for this sort of thing—and yet here he was. “Truly,” thought Dr. Camphor, “we don’t really mature, we just become detached and sleepy—until someone comes along and jars us awake.” And what was the good of being awake? The doctor sighed. His eye travelled on.

The Vicar and his wife, having spent dinner being agreeable to Jack (Dr. Camphor, a staunch Churchman, yet had a sneaking suspicion that this agreeableness had a lot to do with the Church Roof Fund), were now in a corner, being agreeable to each other. They had the look of persons on the point of departure.

Wilhelmina and Stephen were talking by the drinks tray. Dr. Camphor blinked. He could not, at the moment, imagine what those two could possibly find to talk about. That vivid personality Wilhelmina—hell-cat, some people would call her—and that pleasant potato Stephen? And it didn’t look like small-talk; they were both passionately interested. Yes, Dr. Camphor decided. He’d join that conversation. Easy enough.

Dr. Camphor sidled up to the drinks trolley.

“The trick with roses is to deal with pests at the first evidence of their presence. Otherwise, they get a foothold and suddenly your flowers are mostly holes,” Wilhelmina was saying.

Stephen nodded. “I’m sure you’re right about that,” he said. “I’ve always found—”

Dr. Camphor helped himself to a hasty whiskey and soda and escaped. Gardening was not one of his topics.

By the time he’d completed this maneuver, the conversational landscape had shifted. Nigel was refilling his drink, and Frank and Jack had drifted into talk, leaving Penny a bit at loose ends. Dr. Camphor wandered over. They were, if nothing else, friends.

“Oh hi,” said Penny. And then, “oh Hell!” Her eyes seemed for a moment to flood with tears. Then she recovered herself and smiled feebly. “Sorry Doc. This country air must be going to my head. I’m all goofy tonight.”

He looked at her closely. “Too much to drink?” he asked.

“Too much or not enough. I’m not sure which,” she replied.

“As a doctor, I’d say that ‘too much’ is more likely, simply because that is a recognized condition in medicine, whereas ‘not enough’ is only a factor for hardened alcoholics. Which you are not old enough to have yet achieved. Speaking as a mere man, however—may I get you another?”

“Gee, doc,” she said, as her eyes became suspiciously bright once more, “you’re so darned…civilized.” She choked a little on the word. “Yeah, I’ll take another drink. Let’s go.”

Dr. Camphor stayed her with a gesture. “If you don’t have any particular views on the cultivation of roses—do you, by the way?” he asked.

“Roses? No, no theories at all.”

“Good! Then I’d recommend you wait here. Otherwise, they may catch you. I, an old man, can merely pretend not to hear.” And the doctor dove in between Stephen and Wilhelmina and recharged Penny’s glass.

“Oh I say, here’s the doctor again. Sir, the roses at your place are—” began Stephen.

“—entirely Geraldine’s affair,” said Dr. Camphor, and ruthlessly dashed away. “My dear young lady,” he said, presenting Penny her glass, “I have braved the perils of the world’s most boring conversation to bring you this trifle.” And he bowed.

“Well, now, that’s real nice of you,” she said, smiling in a way that did things to Dr. Camphor’s circulatory system. “But I wouldn’t have thought Wilhelmina Crabbe could be boring if she tried.”

“Ah, so you’ve met the lady. Of course; you and Reggie went to tea at her cottage the other day, before you came to our house and upset Geraldine.”

“Sorry about that, doc—I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t you? I did. It’s none of my business—Geraldine can make up her own mind about who she wants to marry—but I am anti-Reggie. This is, of course, a secret.”

“Oh, I won’t blab. But why are you anti-Reggie?”

“For one thing, he doesn’t love her. If they do marry, it will be, I estimate, only two or three years at the outside before he and Wilhelmina begin their inevitable affair. And I don’t think Geraldine will like that, even though she is also not in love with him.”

“Inevitable affair is right! The woman is dead set on him. She even asked me if I had any intentions that way myself.”

“And what did you say?” Dr. Camphor noticed with displeasure that, though his tone was casual, his voice was thick.

“I told her I didn’t want to marry him. She half believed me. But she sure is possessive when it comes to Reggie. Not that I blame her.”

“No. I don’t either. They were sweethearts as children, and when they met again recently the sparks were obvious. But you see why I view him as an unsuitable husband for—”

“That’s right,” said a slurred voice from behind him. Dr. Camphor turned. Jack stood there, swaying on his heels and smiling benevolently. “Unsuitable. Nothing personal, doc.” And Jack clapped him on the shoulder. The hand stayed there for a moment, obviously to assist Jack in maintaining his balance. “Glad you’re talking about it like adults.” And he beamed at Penny. “Good girl.”

“You’re drunk, Pa,” said Penny, sounding utterly disgusted and not a little angry. “Drunk as a skunk. And we’re not talking about—I mean, we were just gossiping about Reggie.”

“Reggie’s no good either,” growled Jack. “Not that I have anything against him—but he won’t do for you. No sir! Not that I believe—but better not. Anyway—same problem. You gotta come to America and learn jam. Can’t get tied down over here. Sorry doc. Glad you see it.” And Jack thumped Dr. Camphor on the back again and stumbled off.

Dr. Camphor turned to Penny, his heart thumping hard in his chest—and saw that her cheeks were bright red. “Have I—are you—” he swallowed. “Have I been the subject of some family disagreement between you and your father?”

Penny looked miserable. “There’s no point in talking about it,” she said, looking anywhere but at the doctor. And then her eyes fixed on something behind him. “Hey, it looks like Dad’s got Reggie and Geraldine cornered. We’d better go to the rescue.” And she was off at speed.

Dr. Camphor followed in her wake, his head fizzing and spinning with clashing waves of exhilaration and despair. He didn’t know the details, but it looked like Jack had been playing the heavy father over Penny’s relationship to himself. Which suggested that Penny rather thought they should be having one. Which was the most incredible news Dr. Camphor had received in quite a long time. But she wasn’t sufficiently interested to tell her father to go to the Devil—it rather looked as if she were buckling to pressure. And that settled on the doctor’s heart like lead.

“Nothing against you, m’boy,” Jack was saying to Reggie. “Hope you realize that.”

Reggie was staring at Jack in what looked like genuine bafflement. He opened his mouth to speak. Jack stopped him with a gesture.

“Is no good,” Jack slurred. “Had my say. Made my decision. Sorry for you—but no way round it.” And Jack suddenly collapsed into a nearby chair. “Bedtime!” he said, sounding surprised. “Beastly tired. Soon as I get up.” And his eyelids flickered shut.

Penny shook him fiercely. “Why you decided to get drunk tonight, I don’t know—but bed’s the right idea for you, Pa! Get up!”

By this time, Frank had wandered over. “One over the eight, old man?” he asked, pulling his brother to his feet with a great tug. “Like old times, what? Let’s get you to bed.” And he assisted Jack towards the door. Reggie, looking concerned, came up to the struggling couple.

“I’ll do that, father. Your back, you know,” he said, and took the weight of Jack onto his own shoulders. He turned Jack to face the room. “Say goodnight, and then let’s get you to bed!”

Jack smiled with sozzled sheepishness. “Goo’night, everyone! Sorry—don’t know what’s come over me—sleepy now. Tight!” He turned to Lottie, who was still sitting in her throne-like chair. “Goo’night, old girl. Haven’t been tight in this house since—since your wedding day! Goodnight, Lottie my dear. Goodnight. Tomorrow—new day. All right tomorrow.” And, mumbling and stumbling, he let Reggie lead him from the room.