The Blue Room Murders

‘This,’ the guide gestured with his hands, ‘was once the parlour, where the Gunther family were known to entertain their distinguished guests. And it is speculated that here, the eldest Gunther, young Bertha was struck from behind and crawling to safety, died…’ They followed him into an adjacent room, ‘here.’ Rachel craned her neck with the others. The wide expanse at the bottom of the stairs gleamed; whatever horrors had come to pass here had left no discernible trace. There was a murmur of disappointment, and the guide continued undeterred: ‘it was then that Lady Gunther, alerted by Bertha’s screams came rushing to help, only to be pursued by the hell hound himself.’ They climbed the winding steps onto the landing and the guide paused in a dramatic display as if fending off an invisible attacker. The man beside Rachel snickered.

The next room was small, painted blue, a cradle sat in one corner and a few discarded items collected dust on broken shelves; it was different to the rest of the manor, which had been restored, painstakingly, with the most modern and convenient amenities. The guide ushered them in and closed the door behind them. They stood there shuffling uncomfortably in silence and darkness.

‘This is by far the most gruesome chapter in a horrifying saga. Here the youngsters, Andrew, Connor and Debbie, hid. Andrew being the eldest of three tried to calm his younger brother and sister, but young and uncomprehending…They were found here all three of them huddled together…Hence, The Blue Room Murders.’ A sudden cry made them all jump. It was followed by a quick apology and a haughty laugh. There was some nervous laughter and Rachel relaxed, feeling slightly foolish. Chuckling to himself the guide said: ‘I’m sure you have had enough excitement for the day. Time for lunch.’ The door opened and they were released, squinting in the light.

Rachel found herself having lunch with an Arnold Fletcher. He was an entrepreneur from London and had come down, he assured her, purely on business. He was in his mid-thirties, she guessed, well-groomed, wearing slacks and a polo shirt, and had very white, perfect teeth, which he flashed at her from time to time.

‘The problem with these establishments is that they cash in on people’s credulity. Take the Gunther’s for example,’ he paused, taking a sip of his water. ‘They were not, in any way shape or form aristocrats. In fact, far from it, they may have been at some point, but that was a long time ago, before the eldest Gunther became lord of the manor, so to speak. The tragedy was fueled, purely and entirely by desperation.’

Rachel listened patiently and nodded and smiled in a non-committal way. A man from the next table though, leaned in: ‘How do you explain the letters?’ The woman beside him rolled her eyes and observed them without so much as a flicker of interest. Rachel didn’t like the serpentine smile which lingered on the man’s lips but had to admit that she had wondered about that too. It had sunk countless conspiracy theories. If the Gunther’s were struggling and desperate, why had lord Gunther carefully cultivated and maintained an affair? The bundle of letters, carefully preserved, spoke of love, affection, endurance and not, as the events that unfolded seemed to indicate, of a man slowly unravelling.

Arnold considered this with a studied air of someone who had provided for all possible contingencies. ‘They’re fake.’

The man found this desperate logic amusing but was more than happy to indulge Arnold, who had taken the challenge with more equanimity than Rachel thought was necessary. She was no longer following the exchange but had accepted it as one accepts the weather. This was after all the bread and butter of the true crime buff, and a small price to pay for the luxury of a seaside resort. She watched the sea, calm and flawless, and speared a tomato with her fork, somewhat disturbed by the peaceful quality which seemed to attach itself to a place that had seen so much death.