CHAPTER TEN

MUSTIQUE

DECEMBER 1970

Since the early '50s Bertie had been helping Edward Hoskins, the son of the Skeldings housekeeping and gardening family, with his musical tuition. Edward had a natural talent where notes where concerned and in 1965 had been accepted for a Bachelor of Music course at the Royal College of Music. Bertie provided for him for the four years required there too. The RCM, never slow to recognise a benefactor, then invited Bertie to set up a scholarship fund for three financially disadvantaged undergraduate students a year. By 1968 Bertie was keen to expand this further and asked Gussie Fink-Nottle of Flannel, Fink-Nottle and Phudge to set up a formal Wooster Young Musicians Fund to pay for musical tuition for poor students of all ages.

Bertie's reasoning was mostly, but not entirely, altruistic. He knew that over the following few years he was about to come across a gigantic windfall; Bobbie and he had both inherited and he had subsequently made far more than they could ever need. Children were there none, neither nephews nor nieces. A satisfying urge to do something useful had come over him. The windfall? In 1966 he and Boko had written a one-act piano musical, officially for Boko's daughter's ballet and drama school, unofficially because they were between jobs and somewhat bored. The idea was the students would all dress as dogs and dance around the stage, a-howling and a-barking to the slightly manic score. It was so popular — and frankly so easy to compose, let alone write — that within two months Boko and Bertie had turned it into a three act Broadway show. King Dawg was then taken up by Disney to be a full-length animation film, as well as being repeated all over the world as a stage show. For Boko and Bertie the '70s promised to be rung in to the tune of cash registers chinging.

But, not for the first time, there was a snag. The Labour government had promised to tax the rich 'until the pips squeak' and Bertie's royalty earnings would be taxed at 83% and his other earnings at as much as 98%. The idea of funding musical scholarships from royalties didn't make much sense if the government was going to steal the royalties first.

In New York Bertie was bemoaning along these lines to his old friend, Atlantic Records' boss Ahmet Ertegun. Bertie had been with Atlantic for over thirty years and although jazz sales were slow by comparison with pop and rock sales, they were close to Ahmet's heart and Atlantic's heritage and the LPs were inexpensive enough to make. To Ahmet this tax grab was now a familiar refrain from his British artistes. He had just helped solve a similar case for the Rolling Stones. Did Bertie know their financial adviser Prince Rupert Loewenstein? Yes, but only on a weddings and funerals basis: Bobbie was Rupert's wife Josephine's second cousin.

Before waiting for another wedding or funeral, a meeting was soon arranged. Rupert could not take Bertie on as a client; he had his hands more than full untangling the Rolling Stones from their past affairs and ensuring the future ones were more or less tax free he later commented that the subsequent LP Exile on Main Street was the only record title with an element of tax planning in it. He did however offer various solutions all revolving around one theme: if Bertie wanted his Wooster Young Musicians Fund to go ahead he would have to join the Légion étrangère

of other top earning artistes, sports stars, financiers and landowners and become a tax exile.

Rupert proposed options: Ireland, but it was a bit too wet; France, but that was a bit too familiar; Holland was a bit too flat; Singapore a bit too strict; Bermuda a bit too triangular. Then Rupert mentioned a raft of Caribbean islands. Of these he preferred Mustique. Ten years earlier one of his friends and a slight Bertie acquaintance, Colin Tennant, had bought the island for £45,000 and over the ensuing years had developed it into a tax and privacy paradise for royalty real and faux, plus the rich and infamous.

Before fully committing to tax exile status in general and Mustique in particular, the Woosters thought it would be a good idea to rent a house on the island for a few months, for as Bertie feared, 'it could all be pretty ghastly'; he meant culturally and socially. Thus we rejoin Bertie and Bobbie in December 1970, in the rented villa Gentle Breezes overlooking Britannia Bay, Mustique. All was jolly enough, but it didn't take Bertie long to be back in the soup.

It was the custom of the island-governing Mustique Company to arrange for longer-term renters like the Woosters to host a small get-to-know-you welcoming party for their immediate neighbours. In 1970 there were 65 villas on the island, itself a mere three miles by five, and when newcomers arrived the Company would round up the occupants of the nearest half dozen or so villas. It was a popular arrangement all round, a chance for longer term residents to meet each other again as much as to meet the new arrivals. To the Wooster party came what they assumed was a fairly typical cross section of island residents.

First to arrive were Michel and Isobel Carosse of the La Carosse French-American cosmetics company. Fit and tanned and in their late sixties or early seventies, they had recently been in the news as their son had just settled a spectacularly expensive alimony claim. Isobel was a famous patron of the arts and Michel a famous collector of the same.

They were followed by another famous figure from American business, the Texan oil explorer David Sinclair and his new, and very much trophy, wife Candice. Sinclair was famous for being richer-than-thou: in Mustique every foreigner was a multi-millionaire, but to be a billionaire had an added cachet. Young Candice was, well, young and spectacularly blonde: perhaps in her late twenties, thirty years younger than her husband. She didn't say much and maybe had not much to say and she wore a fixed smile on her first iteration face. She looked as though she would be fun in the bed but a bed of nails out of it.

The Woosters recognised their next guests, although curiously they had never met, the British Hollywood, Oscar-winning actor Ray Colquhoun and his long term partner Simon Stacey. Ray had been up for male lead in one of Boko and Bertie's musicals, but didn't get the role. Bertie didn't know why he didn't; casting always passed him by. Unusually perhaps in view of the actor's leading role status, if any trousers were worn, they were worn by Simon.

The next guests were less welcome; at least he was, she they had never met. She was Princess Sunny von Tripps, a one-woman gossip column in herself, fatale by reputation and bien roulée by constant dieting. Her fiancé was ten younger: Alexis de Méné, now in the gossip columns himself, accused of gold digging, wastrelling and gigoloing. He and Bertie had had an unpleasant altercation at Barbados airport en route to Mustique. Carib Air had overbooked the ten-seater island hopper and Bobbie having already checked in, they chose Bertie over de Méné for the last seat. As de Méné had flown down first class from Miami he demanded to have Bertie's seat. Bertie was too polite to point out he had just flown by private Learjet from New York, so could be said to outrank de Méné, aviationally. When Bertie demurred de Méné grabbed him by the lapels and suggested fisticuffs outside. Luckily a security guard intervened and de Méné had to wait for the next plane.

Next to arrive was the organiser, The Hon. Quentin Rowbotham from the Mustique Company. It was he who had arranged the Woosters' rental, this party and all else besides, including hiring the gardener Devon and maid Millie, both of whom he had already introduced.

The last guest had not only not been invited, but his arrival caused Bertie such a shock of surprise that he almost dropped his sangfroid. 'Well, blow me down if it isn't old Stilton1. Top hole! It must be, what, ten years? The Drones reunion at the Savile Club. What on earth brings you here?'

'Bertie, old bean, I heard you were staying and had to pop over. You know I retired five years ago, head of 'A' Division, the Royal Household's private police force really. Got a K2 out of it…'

'I read that. Sir Gerard D'Arcy Cheesewright, congrats, old chum.'

'Not just a K and decent enough pension but a nice little retirement earner. You soon pick up the criminal lingo in my line of work, Bertie. Anyway, I'm Princess Margaret's personal, well I wouldn't say bodyguard, don't get the wrong impression, let's say minder.'

'Is she still due tomorrow?' asked Bobbie, who had wandered over and welcomed Stilton equally warmly.

'She was, but she arrived today. Got bored at a party in Barbados en route. She sends me ahead to prepare the ground. I've been here a week. Mostly dealing with that little greaser Denbow. You met him on the way in.'

'Did we?' asked Bobbie.

'The one in uniform. He's the only one with a uniform, a kind of one-man police state. Customs, immigration, policeman – that's a joke. HRH's guest this time is David Niven, I expect you know him.'

'Yes, rather,' said Bertie.

'Oh, there's Quentin Rowbotham, young Mr. Fixit. I want to have a word with him. I've met most of the others over the years. See you chaps later.'

The party had started rather early at 5.00pm, as tropical evening parties do, owing to the sudden sunset at 6.00pm. Halfway to dusk Michel Carosse asked Bertie if he could look around the grounds; he was a keen gardener and promised not to take any cuttings. Bertie told him to help himself on both counts and thought no more of him. On his way out Michel asked Quentin Rowbotham to join him, and Bertie last saw them in conversation heading towards the croquet lawn.

Just before 6.00pm, Cheesewright later pinned it down to 5.50pm, the Sinclairs announced they were leaving. They were on the dawn flight to Barbados and needed to pack. Bertie, being the good host, offered to walk them to their Mule, one of several parked by the pool — a Mule being a mechanised buggy used in car-free Mustique. In what little time they had spent together he had rather liked the cut of Sinclair's Texan jib, surprisingly unpretentious. His Mule was surprisingly unpretentious too: an old John Deere 2 seater. Just as they were saying good-bye, Bertie was surprised to see Quentin Rowbotham leap round the corner to say goodbye too; Quentin was equally surprised to see Bertie. The Sinclairs drove away, Quentin headed back to find Michel in the garden, and Bertie went to his room to find a jacket for himself and a stole for Bobbie.

As the sun dipped, Bobbie was holding sway on the terrace. With her were Sunny von Tripps, Alexis de Méné, Ray Colquhoun, Simon Stacey and Isobel Carosse. Cheesewright was talking to the maid Millie. At this point, and later no one could remember why, Alexis de Méné announced he had left his camera in the Mule and must rush out to get it; he'd be back soon. The policeman, overhearing, thought that rather odd: one the few rules among the Mustique-goers was no photographs and no films. Moments later Simon Stacey said he was 'just going to pop out to the loo'. Moments after that Quentin Rowbotham re-joined them, having 'just tidied up a bit outside.' Michel too re-joined the party, fresh from his garden walk.

When the scream came it wasn't really a scream at all, more a prolonged bellowed shout from Simon Stacey: 'Help! Come quickly! I'm at the pool! Help! Anyone there! Come quickly! Come to the pool! He's dead!' From their different venues the cast reassembled around the pool. In it, face down and with a harpoon in his back, floated Alexis de Méné.

Cheesewright instinctively took charge. 'Right, nobody touch anything. This is a crime scene. Let's all go back upstairs. Devon, are you there?' He was. 'Take my Mule and go and fetch Maurice Denbow. We'll be upstairs waiting for him. Off you go now.'

Upstairs the talk was of disbelief. Who saw what? Who heard whom? Who came in and when? Who left and when? When had the Sinclairs left? Sunny von Tripps was crying; Bobbie and Isobel were comforting her. Quentin Rowbotham was pleading for secrecy. Bertie was fixing those who wanted a loosener a tight one. The detective was making notes.

Ten minutes passed before Devon and Denbow returned. The one-man police state insisted on interviewing each one present individually in the kitchen. Did he want ex-Chief Superintendent Cheesewright to help him? Of course he didn't, Quentin rushed in, Cheesewright was as much a suspect as any of the others. The interviews did not last long. As the host Bertie was first around the kitchen table.

'I hear you had a row with Monsieur de Méné at Barbados.'

'Yes, but it was nothing really and he later apologised.'

'Where were you when he was murdered?'

'I'm not sure, as I don't know when he was murdered. But most likely in my room fetching some clothes, or on my way back from it.'

'Witnesses?'

'None.'

'The spear gun. Do you know where it is it kept?'

'Yes, just inside the pool house, along with all the other swimming kit.'

'Thank you Sir Wooster, that is all.'

As the hostess, Bobbie was next to be interviewed, then Michel Carosse, then Isobel and so on until all those present, including Stilton Cheesewright, had told all to the impromptu policeman. From the kitchen Denbow emerged.

'This seems a simple enough case,' he announced expansively.

'Oh good,' said Bertie. 'Do tell.'

'Sir Wooster, I am arresting you for the murder of Alexis de Méné. I must warn you that anything you say may go against you in court.'

'Me?' said Bertie, 'but why?'

'Because he was your enemy. Because you have no alibi. And because you know where the murder weapon was kept.' From his back pocket he produced a set of handcuffs. 'Come with me. The rest of you, no-one leaves the island until I say so.'

'How's the jailbird this morning?' asked Stilton. Before Bertie could answer 'How do you think? Lousy. Hardly slept at all. There's not even a bed. Bit worried too, truth be told. I've been in the soup before, but this one looks murkier than most. I mean, any chance of a fair trial? Or are we talking kangaroos. This fellow Denbow would string me up tomorrow given half a chance. It's not as though I can swim for it. I might as well be on Alcatraz. You better put your helmet back on Stilton and get me out of this,' before Bertie could say any of this, Stilton said, 'You're in the soup this time Bertie. Murky it is too. At least I've got you out on bail. Well, it's hardly as if you can make a run for it, is it? But you've got to stay with me at Les Jolies Eaux, HRH's pad. Has he not, Mr. Denbow?' Denbow grunted in agreement.

'What, you mean I'm under house arrest?' asked Bertie.

'More or less. Bobbie can join us there. I have to keep an eye on you. Round the clock. Or our Mr. Denbow will have you back in here quick time, isn't that right?' Denbow grunted again.

'But what about HRH?' asked Bertie. 'Won't she be there?'

'She will, but in the main house. I'm in the guest cottage and that's where you'll be too. Anyway it's no problem, I've already told all about the murder and she's keen to meet the prime suspect, you. She loves a good scandal.'

'And if there isn't one she'll soon invent one, from what I've heard,' said Bertie. 'Last thing I need is her stirring it up.'

'Not unknown. You've heard of Holmes and Watson?'

'Er, yes thank you Stilton, yes I have actually heard of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,' Bertie replied.

'Good start. I'm Holmes. You're Watson. Denbow can be Inspector Lastrade. We have not got long. I'd like this done and dusted by the time David Niven arrives.'

'Niven's a good egg, he'll vouch for me.'

'We are not looking for vouchers, Bertie. We are looking for a murderer. Now come along.'

'Where to?'

'We'll start at the Mustique Company, the centre of any spider web being woven around here. A certain Honourable Quentin Rowbotham might just be able to help us with our enquiries, as we say in the trade.'

On the short walk along to the Mustique Company's offices, Stilton explained how Mustique worked. Colin Tennant bought the island twelve years ago. He was a dreamer, but a dreamer with a difference. He actually did something about his dreams. He was also clever, in a big picture kind of way; clever enough to give Princess Margaret a plot of land as a wedding present. She loved it and had her husband's uncle, Oliver Messel, build Les Jolies Eaux on it.

That attracted more royalty, both real and self-fulfilling. But in a way, as Stilton explained it, Tennant rather shot himself in the foot. These kinds of people want electricity without power cuts, phones in their homes, drinking water and proper roads for their Mules. Not Tennant's forte, infrastructure. Pretty soon the residents got together, behind his back really, and formed the Mustique Company. Each plot owner is a shareholder. Pretty soon the island was functioning the way they liked it, not just because everything worked but because prying eyes were kept at bay. There is one bylaw against telephoto lenses, another against tape recorders. In theory the most paparazzi'd people in the world could swing stark naked from the chandeliers and get away with it; and in practice they did, up to a point.

'This Quentin Rowbotham is one of Tennant's nephews. He runs the place day-to-day, although he answers to a board, all residents of course. But he's not a resident so not a shareholder, he's employed, a renter.'

'How come?' asked Bertie.

'Don't know. Probably not rich enough. But listen. The problem we are going to face is the lack of any scientific evidence, so no autopsy, no forensics, no laboratories, no database, we're going to have to rely on good old-fashioned detective work. Have you heard of MMO?' Bertie said he hadn't. 'MMO stands for Means, Motive and Opportunity. The guilty party must have all three. Two out of three and they're innocent. So someone like Bobbie, who was up top all the time, would not have had the opportunity. So she couldn't be our murderer. With me so far?' Bertie said he was. 'Who else was on the terrace with her all the time?' Before Bertie could answer, Stilton said: 'Isobel Carosse, Princess Sunny and Ray Colquhoun. The Sinclairs had left, so no opportunity. Everyone else is a suspect. That's you, yes Bertie you, Michel Carosse, Simon Stacey, Quentin Rowbotham.'

'And you. You left them to find the maid to get more ice.'

'Well spotted Bertie. You're learning fast. Yes, and me. Much to Denbow's delight if that proves to be the case. Which it won't. Here we are.'

If Bertie had ever met a Fulham estate agent, Quentin Rowbotham would have reminded him of one. The Woosters had not seen him until last night at the party, all their prior dealings having been done by telex and telephone. Last night he had seemed full of insincere bonhomie; now in the office, in long trousers and wearing a tie, sitting behind a tidy desk, with a telex machine chattering away in the background and the aircon humming away to itself, with notices pinned up behind him, he had added an air of efficiency to the insincerity.

Cheesewright asked him what he knew about the victim.

'Alexis de Méné? I liked Alexis. Breath of fresh air. The air can get a bit stuffy around here. He is, well he was, the son of a wealthy Belgian industrialist. Spent a large chunk of it as we know. Down to his last few million they say. Of course nobody knows. I don't know that much more about him. He was in love with Sunny. Aren't we all?'

'So he had no direct connection to the island? Only through her?' asked Cheesewright.

'Look,' Quentin paused. 'You'll found this out soon enough, so I'll tell you. Sunny has the best plot on the island, it's called La Dama de Noche. Given to her by her prince, Klaus von Tripps. He'd bought it for a song from Colin in the early days. He died in a plane crash in Barbados on his way here. But the fact is she's spent a lot and doesn't have a much left, or at least not Mustique type of money. If they married it meant she could stay at La Dama de Noche.'

'But if they are both on the uppers, what's the point?' asked Bertie.

'Uppers is a relative term, Bertie. I wouldn't mind being on their uppers. Now I expect she'll have to sell it.'

'Through you?'

'Probably. She doesn't have to sell through us, but it makes sense, as everything has to come through us eventually. Of course this whole affair will knock back the value of all houses.'

'Murder in Mustique, I can just see the headlines,' said Bertie, thinking to himself it would make a good name for a tune too.

'It's just a matter of time before it gets out, isn't it?', said Quentin. 'It's just the type of scandal everyone here comes to avoid. The sooner it's wrapped up the better. Lucky you are here, Chief Superintendent. Denbow's does his best but he's all heart and no head. The sooner you can sort this out the better for us all.'

'Except the murderer,' said the detective. 'Who else knew she'd have to sell it if Alexis was no more?'

'Everyone. Well not literally everyone, but all the residents. We're a small island with few secrets. La Dama de Noche is prime property, maybe the prime property, lots of people would like to knock it down and build something grander. Before you ask me, that includes Michel Carosse and Ray Colquhoun.'

'I might want to buy it,' said Bertie. 'If it's ever for sale that is.'

'Thank you, Bertie,' said Stilton, 'and David Sinclair?'

'Maybe. Why not? He's the richest of them all. But his place, Yellow Bird, is pretty swanky as it is.'

'And Michel Carosse, you spent a long time with him in the garden. May I ask what you were talking about?'

'Gardens. Plants. What grows, what doesn't. He's mad keen on them. Gardens and plants.'

'And after that did you come back indoors?'

'No, I left him to say goodbye to the Sinclairs. I saw them leaving and rushed over. Bertie was there too, weren't you Bertie?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Then I had a walk around while it was still light. Force of habit, being nosey about property.'

'And Simon Stacey, did you see him?'

'I hardly saw him all night.'

'One last thing. The murder weapon, the spear gun. Where was it?'

'I'm not sure, but 99 times out of 100 it would be in the pool house. Everyone keeps their swimming stuff in their pool houses. Yours has a sauna too, if I remember. Most of the others do too.'

Stilton and Bertie stood up to leave. 'That's all for now. Many thanks, more soon no doubt.'

As they walked back to the only car on the island, HRH's white Land Rover Series IIA 4-door parked at the police station, Stilton asked Bertie what he thought.

'Well he's got the first M, no obvious second M and a clear O.'

'Precisely, my dear Watson. You are catching on. He had the means, the spear gun. The motive was a juicy house for sale I suppose, but it might be more than outweighed by no new rich and famous customers for a while. The opportunity, yes he was out and about, at large we might say. Now let's pay a visit to Greenfingers.'

'Michel Carosse?'

'The very same. Hop in.'

Michel Carosse certainly put his money where his heart was, horticulturally. The two-acre spread was a frenzy of tropical colour surrounding a grass field mowed to look like a lawn. Looking down on it all from the terrace, drinking one of Isobel's lovely mint coolers, Bertie felt almost overwhelmed by the abundance and the view over to Bequia.

'Everyone is talking about last night,' she said. 'It's just so terrible, to happen here of all places.'

'That's why we are here,' said Cheesewright. 'That and to admire the Carosse garden we've heard so much about.'

'Michel will be back soon, he can tell you all about it. I can tell you all about the kitchen and recipes, but the garden is his and his alone. But you can see why he wants more space. We only have two acres. He spends half the time looking over there,' she nodded to their neighbour's plot, 'with a far off look in his eyes.'

'Who's over there?' asked Bertie.

'That's La Dama de Noche. Sunny's place. Ah, I can see a Mule, he'll be here now. I'll leave you boys to it.'

Michel arrived shortly from the bar with a cold beer. Could he fix them up with one? Bertie said he'd love one, Stilton declined: 'On duty and all that.'

'Have you any clues about last night?' asked Michel. 'I presume that's why you are here. I see they have let you out, Bertie. Can't have been much fun in the cell.'

'It wasn't,' said Bertie. 'Beastly, in fact.'

'What do you think?' Michel asked looking down on his tropical paradise.

'It's wonderful,' said Bertie. 'But is it big enough for you?'

'Oh, good God yes. It's more than enough work already. The problem is not the garden but the gardeners. There just aren't enough of them. It's all very well the Mustique Company keeping the island as a rich white man's playground, and God knows I'm one of them, but the rich white men need poor black men to keep it all up to snuff, as you British say. To be blunt about it, I hope you don't mind?'

'Blunt is good,' said Cheesewright, 'it has the ring of truth about it. We coppers like truth. You spent some time with Quentin Rowbotham last night. Can I ask what you were talking about?'

'Yes, I wanted to stop de Méné's airport plan. I suppose it died with him, come to think of it. I'm sure I'm not alone in wanting it stopped. Quentin knows everybody and everything. I wanted him to help me round up resistance to it.'

'But there's already an airport,' said Bertie.

'Yes, the tiny strip and bamboo terminal we all come and go from. Alexis is fronting some PR for an executive jet charter business in Florida. They want to expand the runway so they can operate into here as well. And add a heliport. At the moment there's just the air ambulance allowed and that has to land on the runway.'

'Are the plans advanced and public knowledge?' asked Cheesewright.

'No, not really. I only heard about them from David Sinclair. God knows he can afford a Boeing, but like me he wants to keep the place off-piste, as it were.'

'And you were with Quentin all the time?'

'No, he left me to say goodbye to the Sinclairs.'

'And then what did you do?'

'I walked around the garden some more, then came back to the terrace when I heard the shouts.'

'So you were on the terrace when the body was found?'

'Yes, along with everyone else, I think. Except Simon Stacey of course. I'd be inclined to start with him.'

'How come?' asked Bertie.

'I could say because he's a nasty piece of work. Then you'd say that's not a good enough reason. So I will say because he was desperate to get his greedy little hands on La Dama de Noche.'

'Let me ask you, do you keep a spear gun here?' asked Cheesewright.

'Yes, in the pool house. Why?'

'Just curious. Bertie and I are staying at Les Jolies Eaux if anything else comes to mind. Give me a call, 101 is the number.'

Back in the Land Rover, Bertie said: 'Well, he's got MMO written all over him. And someone is not telling the truth.'

'Almost no one is telling the truth,' said Stilton. 'Let's have lunch back at base, then let's try our new widow-that-wasn't-quite-meant-to-be, Princess Sunny von Tripps.'

In the guest cottage Stilton and Bertie both had their mouths full of baguette when Princess Margaret wandered in with a handful of something clinking in a glass. They stood and mumbled 'Your Royal Highness' as best they could.

'So you're our Mustique murderer are you, Mr. Wooster?'

'No, ma'am, I'm…'

'Never mind that, we've met before. I called Reggie3 in London. I can never remember. I meet so many people they merge into one nightmare. But I bet you can remember meeting me. People seem to. Don't know why. Maybe because I'm unique, the daughter of a king and sister of a queen.'

'I do indeed ma'am, ' said Bertie. 'First time at the Royal Command Performance in 1949.'

'That's right, you did that extraordinary Wodehouse song. Very brave. Then?'

'At Royal Ascot, I can't remember exactly, late 'fifties, early 'sixties?'

'It was 1957 according to Reggie. You don't have a very good memory. Better remember what you did last night though, eh Cheesy? Otherwise it's clink, clink for you.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said her minder, lighting the next in her chain of cigarettes.

'And?' she asked Bertie.

'My wife Roberta and you are both on the committee of the Royal Opera House Benevolent Fund. We met at a reception there about five years ago.'

'Funny,' she replied, 'Reggie didn't say. I'll call him now. Tell him off. Nice to know something he doesn't. Mrs. Wooster you say.'

'Lady Wooster, to be precise, ma'am.'

'Really?' And with a raised eyebrow, empty glass in one hand and full cigarette in the other, she strode off to harass old Reggie.

'Gosh,' said Bertie, 'I can see what all the fuss is about.' They were waiting for the other Princess on her wooden terrace, surrounded by carefully crafted, colour faded driftwood, looking out over her garden and orchard, sloping down onto her private beach, overlooking Bequia five miles away. It was a kind of paradise.

Moments later Sunny wafted in, followed by her billowing tropical kaftan and her pet Scottie. 'This is one of the original houses,' she explained, 'designed by Margaret's uncle-in-law, Oliver Messel, at the same time as he did Les Jolies Eaux. He was really a stage designer, as you can see.'

'It's quite a set,' said Bertie.

'He called himself a decorator,' said Sunny. 'Now they want to pull it down and build something in concrete. Something more practical they say. I say, who cares if it leaks. I'm not here in the wet.'

'Who wants to pull it down?' asked Cheesewright.

'The Barbarians. Literally at my gates. I could sell this place for a fortune but it would break my heart. Maybe I'll take in guests now Alexis has gone.'

'So Alexis was going to…?' asked Bertie.

'Keep it exactly as it is. Exactly as I want it.'

'And did Alexis have any other plans for the island. Any developments?' asked the detective.

'Not as far as I know. What do you mean?'

'Nothing in particular. I have to ask you this, I'm sorry. Did he have any enemies here? Anyone who is enough of an enemy to want him dead?'

'I can't think of anybody. He had a bit of a row with David Sinclair. And a row with my neighbours,' she nodded towards Ray and Simon's house next door. 'A bit short tempered at times, as you know Bertie. I know he was so sorry about that.'

'Entirely forgiven and forgotten,' said Bertie.

'Sinclair,' asked Cheesewright, 'what was that about?'

'I don't know, he wouldn't say. He knew Candice from before, maybe David was jealous. Not an affair, I asked him that.' Sunny replied.

'I noticed they were a bit frosty at the party,' said Bertie.

'Me too. Something is puzzling me,' said Cheesewright. 'Alexis left the party to fetch his camera from the Mule. Yet there was no camera at the crime scene. Which means he was murdered on his way to the Mule. Did you find his camera in the Mule?'

'Yes, along with other things from the day. Do you want to see it?'

'Not for now, but thanks. And his will? Have you seen his will?' asked Cheesewright.

'Ha, yes and no. We were drawing up a nuptial agreement, which included looking after me in his will. That was three weeks ago in New York. We were planning to finish all that back in New York next month. You can't do anything from here. But I do know that I am not in his will at the moment.'

'Can I ask you about Quentin Rowbotham? Has he been talking to you about selling La Dama de Noche?' asked Cheesewright.

'Yes, several times. But that is what he does, he's a realtor. He says my neighbours would buy it tomorrow.'

'The Carosses?'

'Yes, them for sure and the other neighbours, Ray and Simon. Actually, Alexis had a bit of fight with Simon,' said Sunny.

'Yes, you said and I was about to ask. About buying this house?' asked Cheesewright.

'No, not all. Simon wanted him and Ray and their guests to use my private beach. Frankly, I never use it. At my age you stay out of the sun, never mind the sea and the sun together. I didn't mind, but Alexis absolutely refused. Simon said it was nothing to do with him and they had an argument. Then one day Alexis saw Simon down on the beach, bathing and swimming naked. Alexis went nuts, really. He ran down to the beach and I could see them having a fight, not for long, but an actual fight. Simon gathered his clothes and ran back to their house. I suppose after that I was surprised that Quentin invited us and those two to your party.'

'Maybe Quentin didn't know about the fight?' suggested Bertie.

'On Mustique? Impossible, everyone knows everything about everybody,' replied Sunny.

'Then we should pay them a visit too,' said Cheesewright.

'It's all so terrible,' Sunny said. 'On here, Mustique, of all places.'

As they drove up to Ray Colquhoun's villa Bertie noticed how plain it looked. 'I can see why they wanted to buy La Dama de Noche. It's the first house we've seen here I wouldn't rent at any price.'

At the porch they were greeted by Simon Stacey. 'Ray won't be long,' he said, 'just taking his third shower of the day.'

'Actually, it's you we want to talk to,' said Cheesewright, 'Have you got a moment?'

'Yes of course. Come up topsides and we'll have some tea. Proper Fortnum's tea. Or something stronger.'

Armed with three cups of proper tea they sat on stone stools around a stone table under an umbrella. The view was down to Sunny's beach.

'Lovely beach down there,' said Bertie.

'Yes, it belongs to La Dama de Noche,' said Simon.

'Can you use it?' asked Bertie.

'No, no, it's private. Belongs to Sunny. We've no interest in it. We're not really sea people.'

'And the house, La Dama de Noche. If it was for sale, would you buy it?' Bertie asked.

'No. We're very happy here, Ray and I. Our friends love it too. I'm sure others would want Sunny's though. It's quite a spot.'

'Tell me about Alexis,' said Cheesewright.

'I hardly knew him. In fact I think the Woosters' party was the first time we met properly.'

'Yet you followed him down to his Mule. Why was that?'

'Did I? Yes, I suppose I did, but I didn't follow him on purpose, he just happened to leave before me. He said he was going to his Mule, didn't he?'

'And you?'

'I needed a pee, that's all.'

'Tell me, do you have a spear gun here?' asked Cheesewright.

'Yes, in the pool house. Snorkels and flippers too. Never use it though. Wouldn't know which end to point.'

Bertie drained the last drop of tea. 'Thanks for that. Clever of you to find Fortnum's.'

'Yes, thanks,' said Cheesewright. 'We must seek information on pastures new. Say hello to Ray from us.'

'More lies,' said Bertie as they drove away.

'Unless they are truths, and the others are lies.'

'Confusing.'

'Let's go back to Les Jolies Eaux and sum up where we are,' said Stilton.

'Can we collect Bobbie on the way?'

'Good idea. She'll be worried.'

'I doubt that,' said Bertie, 'but she's awfully good at crosswords and puzzles and things. That's funny.'

'What's funny?'

'That Mule that just drove the other way. It was a Willys. Blue with silver sides. I recognised it because we rented one exactly like that in Barbados last year.'

'And?'

'No, it's just that it was at our housewarming. Reg number 66. And we haven't seen it since. I wonder whose it is? I can ask Denbow I suppose.'

'About time he did something useful,' said Stilton.

Back at his cottage at Les Jolies Eaux, with Bertie and Bobbie before him in the open sitting room, Stilton held court: 'So what do we know so far? At about 5.00pm we three and all the others were at Gentle Breezes, your housewarming party. Organised by Quentin Rowbotham. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. On the other hand he knew exactly where the murder weapon was and he was outside at the time of the murder. But then again, any murder on his patch would be bad, to say the least, for his business. Hard to see what he has to gain.'

'And he doesn't seem to have it in him,' said Bobbie.

'Maybe, maybe not. With you all the time on the terrace were Sunny von Tripps, Ray Colquhoun, and Isobel Carosse. Right?'

'Right,' said Bobbie.

'So you're all clear. First to leave were Michel Carosse and Quentin, ostensibly to look round the gardens. Agreed?'

Bertie and Bobbie nodded.

'Fine, so hold that picture of where everyone was. Then at 5.50 the Sinclairs leave, home to pack as they're on the dawn flight to Barbados.'

'Bit of a feeble excuse,' said Bertie.

'And there's no dawn flight to Barbados,' said Bobbie. 'The dawn flight is to St. Vincent.'

'Maybe it was a private flight,' said Stilton. 'But then they fly when you want them to fly. And it may not be the whole truth, maybe they had somewhere else to go first, another party perhaps. Anyway, one way or another they're off the crime scene.'

'And I leave the terrace with them,' said Bertie, 'to take them to the Mule and wave goodbye.'

'Typically polite,' said Bobbie. 'I'd expect nothing less.'

'But then,' said Bertie, 'Quentin arrives to see them off too. He was hurrying as if to make sure to catch them. He was surprised to see me, I must say. And I him, for that matter. Then the Sinclairs drove off in their old John Deere Mule.'

'Then what?' asked Stilton.

'Then I started off back to the terrace. I felt a chill on the way and nipped into our room to fetch a light jacket. Then I went back upstairs and on the way thought I better fetch Bobbie a stole. I had to rummage around in her bags to find something.'

'So how long were you away from the others?' asked Stilton.

'Five minutes, maybe less.'

'During which time Alexis de Méné left the group,' said Stilton.

'To fetch something from his Mule,' Bobbie remembered.

'His camera,' Stilton reminded her. 'Now we know he was murdered on his way to the Mule. The camera was still in it. Next fact we know is Simon Stacey slipped out after Alexis, to have a pee.'

'I think he's the prime suspect,' said Bertie. 'So does Michel. Sunny doesn't rate him either. Back then we'd have said he was a rotter.'

'He's got all the makings,' said Bobbie. 'We know it wasn't Bertie. We know it wasn't you. Quentin's too wet. Michel's too aesthetic. David Sinclair was long gone. It's got to be him.'

Stilton paced up and down for a while. 'MMO. Means, motive, opportunity. He scores on all three and no one else does. And yet; and yet. Why do I keep coming back to the camera? Why did Alexis leave like that? And who gains? Who dares and wins? Always remember, follow the money.'

Just then the phone rang. Stilton said: '101 guest cottage. Yes Officer Denbow. You do? Well thank you. That is most interesting. Most interesting indeed. Yes, he's still with me, still under arrest, in my care. Wait a second please, Mr. Denbow. Wait just a second.' Stilton put the phone on the table and paced up and down some more, mumbling to himself: 'Candice came back of course, Stacey of course, why didn't I see it? Staring at me! The camera hoax, it was blackmail. The money. Quentin's alibi. Candice and the Mule, the heliport, red herrings, right in front of me.' Then he picked up the phone again. 'Mr. Denbow, are you still there? Good. Get up to Gentle Breezes please. I want everyone there in half an hour. Ring round, tell the others. Quick as you can please.'

From the terrace came the sound of servants scurrying and through the open shutter doors in walked Princess Margaret.

'Got it all sorted out, have you, Cheesy?'

'Very nearly, ma'am, I think we are making good progress.'

Then to the Woosters she said: 'Top copper, Cheesy. My copper-bottomed copper is what he is. Who are you?'

'Lady Wooster at your service, ma'am,' said Bobbie.

'That's right, we're on some ghastly committee or other. Guilty is he, your husband here?'

'Abso…'

'Don't worry, Cheesy here will get him off, won't you Cheesy? What's next?'

'We are all assembling at Gentle Breezes for the dénouement, ma'am,' said her minder.

'Then I'm coming too. I love a good whodunit — and I can usually get there before Monsieur Poirot. I want to meet the dramatis personae,' said HRH.

'I don't think that's a very good idea, ma'am,' said Cheesewright. 'We haven't had a chance to clear the guests or sweep the house.'

'Thank you for your cautious advise, Inspector Plod, but I'm absolutely not going to miss this one.'

'As you please, ma'am,' said Cheesewright.

As she left, so did they; next stop Gentle Breezes.

Almost exactly 24 hours after the guests had first assembled at Gentle Breezes, they reassembled again. The Sinclairs were gone, but now Denbow was added.

In the collective air of apprehension ex-Chief Superintendent set out his stall: 'This has been a hard case to solve as we've had no autopsy and no forensics. We've had to rely on the old chestnut, means, motive and opportunity. And one old golden rule: follow the money, only in this case the lack of money.

'You see, two things haven't made much sense, one of these has been puzzling me and the other puzzling Sir Bertie.

'To me it was why did Alexis say he was going to fetch his camera from his Mule. Everyone knows you cannot take guest photos in Mustique. If he wasn't going to fetch his camera, then what? It had to be that he was meeting someone there secretly. Yet whom? The Sinclairs had already left, couldn't have been them. Simon followed him out of the room. But why meet there then? We know they disliked each other, rather intensely. It didn't make sense.

'Then there is Sir Bertie's unsolved mystery. The Sinclairs left together in an old 2-seater John Deere Mule. But Bertie noticed another Mule there, a new Willys one. We checked it out with Mr. Denbow. It is registered to the Sinclairs. So the Sinclairs arrived in two cars and left in one. Why was that?

'Put these two mysteries together and what do we have? Alexis was going to meet one of the Sinclairs, the one who would have stayed behind. The one with the alibi provided by Quentin. Only they had not reckoned on Bertie's perfect British manners. Instead of one of them leaving in the John Deere and the other waiting for Alexis to come to his Mule, they both had to drive away together.

'But I saw them drive away together,' said Quentin.

'You did and most conveniently too,' said Cheesewright. 'In fact you hurried across the garden to make sure you saw them off. After all, you were their alibi. The alibi being you saw them drive off together, when you had planned only one of them would do so. Do you want to take up the story from there?'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Quentin.

'Oh, I think you do' said Cheesewright. There are only two people in this room who don't have as much money as they'd like to have. One of them is you. The other is, was, Alexis de Méné. I think you were in cahoots with the Sinclairs to murder Alexis de Méné. Something Sunny said tipped me off. Alexis was blackmailing them about something in Candice's past. Only it all went slightly wrong. Do you want to fill in the dots, Bertie?'

Bertie walked around from behind the bar. 'Knowing that neither of the Sinclairs could now kill Alexis, probably by shooting him in his Mule, you decided to do it yourself. The deal with the Sinclairs for La Dama de Noche would remain as long as Alexis was dead. I'm guessing that was the motive? Unless you have another.'

'You're completely mad,' said Quentin.

The detective took up the story, 'With Alexis gone, you thought Sunny would sell La Dama de Noche. Now she probably will. You wanted to buy it and develop it yourself. But you didn't have the money. And the Sinclairs did. You hatched a plot with them. You'd be their alibi and they'd be your backer. You'd have some finance and they'd have got rid of a blackmailer.

'You were outside. You knew Alex would soon be on his way to his Mule. You knew where the spear gun was kept. All you had to do was wait a few moments in the pool house, and as he walked past harpoon him in the back and tip him into the pool. You then went to the back of the house and up to the terrace with the others. It was just a matter of time before someone found him, by which time you'd be safely up with the others. Unluckily for you, Simon really did need the loo and found Alexis.'

'You can't prove any of this,' said Quentin in a mild form of outrage.

Cheesewright said, 'I will now inform the FBI to issue a warrant for the Sinclairs' arrest. We don't know which one planned to commit the murder, but they are both guilty of conspiracy. No doubt the truth will come out in court. But for now, Mr. Denbow, I suggest you arrest Quentin Rowbotham for the murder of Alexis de Méné.'

At first in shock, and then in relief, the other guests mingled and then melted away into the night. Only one stayed behind, Princess Sunny von Tripps. She ushered Bobbie away to a corner and said, 'You know for me the Mustique mystique has been broken. I will sell La Dama de Noche but I want to sell it to you. If you want it, and on my one condition.'

'And I'd like to buy from you,' said Bobbie, 'whatever the condition.'

'The condition is, you keep it like it is.'

'The condition it's in,' said Bobbie, 'the condition is the condition it's in. I promise.'

'Then it is done. Quentin gave me a valuation and I will take it. Tomorrow come for lunch and we will arrange everything. For now, I want to be alone in my beautiful home.'

A few minutes after Sunny had left and after Bobbie told Bertie about their new Mustique hideaway, Bertie popped a bottle of Champagne and poured Bobbie and Stilton a glass each. They toasted their old friendship and the Woosters' new home, away from cameras and taxes. From the drive three sets of headlights appeared, heading their way.

'Oh, just when we thought our troubles were over,' said Stilton.

'What's up?' asked Bertie.

'HRH has rounded up some friends and it looks like the party's up here tonight. How are stocks?'

'Low,' said Bobbie, 'we've only just arrived. What do we need?'

'Booze, fags and a piano, basically. I can see you are all right for the piano. I'll make a call. Could be a long one. Cheer-ho!'

Three glasses clinked and three old friends said 'Cheer-ho!' and Bertie said, 'Well, she'd better get used to us,' and settled in for their next adventure.

1 'Stilton' being Bertie's old school chum and mucker G. D'Arcy Cheesewright.

2 Civil Service slang for knighthood.

3 Sir Reginald Duffy, HRH Princess Margaret's Private Secretary.

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