The golf club murder, p.1
The Golf Club Murder, page 1
The Golf Club Murder
Banbury Cross Murder Mystery Series Book Five
Ben Westerham
Also by Ben Westerham
BANBURY CROSS MURDER MYSTERY SERIES
The Hide and Seek Murders
The Club of Death
The Hobby Horse Murder
A Legacy of Death
DAVID GOOD PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR SERIES
The Strawberry Girl
Good Investigations
Good Girl Gone Bad
Too Good to Die
Smart Way to Die
The Good Con
Good and the Vanishing Act
As Good As Dead
ALEXANDER TEMPLEMAN SERIES
The House of Spies
SHORTS IN THE DARK SERIES
Collector of Crimes
Shattered Dreams
50FOR30 SERIES OF MICRO SHORT STORIES
50for30 Series One
50for30 Series Two
Published by Close9 Publishing
Copyright © 2023 Ben Westerham
All Rights Reserved
ISBN 978-1-911085-36-2
This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance
to people and places is purely coincidental.
In memory of Gordon Robert Wood
My father
Our father
A part of me
A part of us
Always
Forever
It’s all English to me
A word on the language that’s used in this book, so you know what to expect. The version of English that is used here is British. This ought not to present much in the way of a problem for non-British readers. If you do find the occasional word or phrase a little odd, then I hope you still understand the essence of what is being said.
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady upon a white horse;
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.
This is a typical modern version of the popular nursery rhyme. There are numerous earlier recorded versions that start with the same opening line.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter One
The Banbury and North Oxfordshire Golf Club had sat contentedly on a hillside overlooking a wide, shallow valley north of the small market town of Banbury since its opening in 1924. The architect who designed the original building had possessed the good sense to realise that a single-storey building would settle into its landscape in the way a taller construction would never do and, fortunately, no one had yet succumbed to ambitions for upward expansion.
There were bigger, better equipped and more select golf clubs within a reasonable driving distance of the town, but none were, by general agreement, as attractively situated and pleasant on the eye as The BANO, as club members referred to it. Indeed, every year for as long as anyone cared to remember, applications for membership exceeded places available. It was rather uncommon for any of the existing members to leave and often only the death of a club member gave anyone new the chance of joining.
Out on the fairway to the eighteenth hole, three immaculately dressed men were entirely focused on the challenge of playing their approach shots with sufficient accuracy so as not to send their golf ball into one of the two large lakes that flanked the fairway.
The evening was drifting towards a close, sunset less than an hour away, and a gentle, steady breeze was coming across their right shoulders. It was barely sufficient to ruffle the surface waters of either lake. The greatest distraction they faced was a flotilla of noisy ducks that splashed around with abandon in the shallows to their right and the occasional call of a bird from amongst the trees, grouped in clusters on either side. It was, all three players had agreed, a fine evening for a round of golf.
Standing on the wide veranda of the clubhouse bar, with a clear view of the approaching golfers, was a group of club members along with three of their guests, every one of them keen as mustard to comment on the standard of golf on show. The mood was a little boisterous, if also respectful of golfing etiquette, and it was clear that any mistakes by those on the course would not go unnoticed when they returned to the clubhouse.
One of the players was a large, heavily-built man. As he set himself for his second shot to the eighteenth, he looked to critical observers rather awkward and uncertain. Expectations were somewhat low. He moved his feet once, then twice and practised his swing several times before finally committing. Those on the veranda could just make out the sound of the club head hitting the ball and watched closely as the small white sphere sailed up into the air and on down the fairway. It landed neatly on the front edge of the green, then bounced three times before rolling on to a halt five feet short of the hole.
“Oh, what a shot. Just look at that, he’s rolled it up, what, five or six feet short of the hole,” declared one of the observers in genuine admiration.
“Bet he couldn’t do that again if he tried a dozen times,” replied another, in a rather uncharitable manner.
“You’re jealous, old man,” teased a third, a short, round man with red cheeks and matching nose.
“I believe I am. That’s true enough.”
“He ought to sink that one from there,” continued the first man, so tall and thin it looked like a stiff breeze would blow him off the veranda. “That will be two under for the hole. Wonder where that will leave him for the round?”
“And Roger’s never going to get out of that rough and on to the green in anything less than two, so David should gain even more of an advantage on this hole. Wonder if Trevor can hit the green from there?” The second man was a little short-sighted and, as was often the case, too vain to have put on his glasses. As a result, he naturally leaned forward a little, towards the golfers. It made no real difference.
“He’ll gain three shots,” predicted the third man, confidently. “Roger never can get out of the rough cleanly. It’ll take him two more simply to get on the green.”
The group of men standing on the clubhouse balcony had been there for some little while, watching their fellow members take on the latter stages of the course, including the notoriously tricky fourteenth, which had provided much entertainment.
The rest of the course was rather quiet, it now being almost six-thirty, and, to the best of their knowledge, there were only two other pairs still playing. Before long, every last one of them would be in the clubhouse bar offering up their excuses for missed shots or claiming glory for lucky breaks. So far as anyone knew, only two of the tables in the restaurant were booked for the evening. All in all, things were rather on the quiet side.
As the rest of the watching group continued their critical observation, one of them, David Stoneman, returned to the bar to top up those in need of a fresh drink. Failing to get your round in when the time came was almost as unacceptable as showing up to play a round of golf without wearing the correct clothes. Being a relatively new club member, Stoneman was especially keen not to commit such a crime. As the barmaid busied herself with his order, he looked around the bar, which still felt alien to him.
The room had a distinctly masculine air, more functional than decorative, with low-backed, firm chairs, a plain blue carpet and a small group of photographs of various size, clustered on one of the white-painted walls. There was the aroma of cigarette smoke and free-flowing conversations among the dozen or so members and guests occupying several tables. The room was, as his wife had noted on her first visit, unattractive and lacking in common comforts. He found it hard to disagree, but it seemed the other members liked it that way. Who was he to complain?
The barmaid placed two whiskies on the bar in front of him, then moved along to the beer pumps. As she did so, another figure arrived at the bar.
“Evening, David. You with that noisy lot outside?”
Whilst the other man was rather nondescript in appearance, his warm smile and friendly demeanour were things Stoneman was familiar with. They had met on numerous occasions over the last four months.
“Hello, Matthew. Yes, they are rather boisterous. Some members I’m not very familiar with are playing the eighteenth and their every move is being minutely analysed; not always in a complimentary manner.”
“Ah, it’s always an easy game when you’re watching, eh?”
“That’s very true. Still, I can’t risk upsetting them by pointing out the error of their ways. My car’s in the garage, you see, and I’m dependent on Anthony Clouch to get me home this evening. Best not tell the man he doesn’
“Anthony? You’re rather out of his way, aren’t you? You should let us take you home. We’re much closer. Will save poor old Anthony the extra miles.”
“That’s very good of you, Matthew. If you’re sure that’s alright I’ll let Anthony know I’ve got a better offer. He’ll think I’m trying to butter up next year’s club captain. Speaking of which, can I get you a drink?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks. I’m here with Emma. We’re eating in the restaurant. Indeed, as things stand, we’re the only ones eating in the restaurant this evening. It’s rather quiet. We’re having a meal to celebrate Emma’s birthday the week before last. Were supposed to have gone for dinner with the Swinnertons at the Churchill Hotel in Leamington, but Emma came down with a cold, so we had to cancel. Then Tom and Nancy Smith, who were supposed to join us this evening, had to call off. Emma decided, in the end, she preferred the idea of a quiet little meal for two.”
As the barmaid placed two pints of bitter on the counter, a boisterous and warm welcome to the room as a whole sounded in the doorway. Both men, as well as the barmaid, looked across to see a tall, well-built man strolling into the room. He had the kind of effortless air of confidence and sociability that comes naturally to few people. As he moved, he greeted people with a firm handshake or a slap on the shoulder and a warm word or two.
To the impressionable young woman serving the drinks, he had something of the movie star about him; a thought that had crossed her mind more than once before. She fiddled with the collar on her blouse and brushed a hand over a non-existent crease in her skirt. When Paul Fry arrived at the bar she wanted to look her best, or at least as good as could be expected in her work outfit.
“Matthew. Took my advice on the new shoes, I see.” Paul Fry slapped a palm into Matthew Rose’s outstretched hand. “Got that delicious wife of yours here with you this evening?”
“She’s in the restaurant.”
“Left her alone again, have you?”
“She insists on it, from time to time. Says she needs the breathing space.”
“I really must persuade her some time that life would be so much more fun with me.”
“I suspect she knows that already, Paul. Fortunately for me, Emma seems to prefer the dull and reliable type. Or at least she does these days. Can’t comment on the younger Emma, as I never got to see that version.”
Paul Fry laughed then turned to face David Stoneman. “David, did you pick that tie all by yourself? You did. Best leave it to Daphne next time, old man.”
“By your command, Paul.”
“Susie, darling,” quipped Fry as he aimed a wink at the barmaid. “Looking wonderful as ever. If only I was a few years younger. Now then, a bourbon for me, if you please. How about you chaps, what can I get you?”
The other two men declined the offer, promising, at Fry’s insistence, to take it up later. With that agreed, he moved on to shake hands with another club member who had arrived at the bar. Before long, he would have made his way round the whole room, ensuring that everyone, friend or foe, known or unknown, would have received a warm greeting.
As David Stoneman made his way slowly back to the terrace, a tray full of drinks gripped firmly in his hands, Matthew Rose lingered a little longer in the agreeable atmosphere of the bar before picking up his own drinks and setting off for the restaurant.
*
Matthew Rose pushed his way through a pair of double doors on the far side of the room and, in so doing, left behind the hubbub of the club bar and entered the calm, almost silent world of the restaurant. All but one of the formally laid tables were empty and most of them, Matthew knew, would remain that way for the entirety of the evening. Aside from special events, the restaurant was usually only busy at weekends and, to a lesser extent, on Friday evenings.
At a table for two by one of the windows sat a woman. She was, he thought, as beautiful as the day he had first seen her. That slim face with its high cheekbones and the small, flawless nose had always reminded him of the Danish women he had met in London during the war. But it was and always had been those sparkling hazel eyes that captivated him, especially when she paired them with a typically warm and wholehearted smile. Well, that and the fantastic figure she had retained.
Emma Rose was inspecting the make-up on her eyelashes using the small, round compact she seemed to never be without. She didn’t notice her husband’s return until he placed their drinks on the table and pulled back his chair to sit down.
“Sorry about that, darling. It’s pretty busy in there this evening and Paul Fry has just arrived. You know what it’s like when he’s here.”
She snapped shut her compact and slipped it back into her black leather handbag.
“You’re forgiven. Are they in good spirits in there? It sounds like they’re having fun.”
“I think you can safely say they are having a good time.” He turned to one side as he added, “Shame it’s so very quiet in here this evening. Makes it feel as if we’re something of a nuisance, putting the staff to the trouble of keeping the restaurant open just for us.”
“I’m sure they would rather have us here than have nothing to do,” replied Emma. “Although I do wish the Smiths had been able to join us. I was looking forward to hearing all about their weekend in Eastbourne. If it sounds worth the effort travelling all that way I thought we might get the train down there before the weather takes a turn for the worse.”
“That’s fine with me. Always up for a couple of days on the coast, even if it is a bit breezy.”
Emma picked up her drink and downed about half of it in one go.
“Are we the only ones in this evening?” she asked.
“Not quite. There’s another table booked for eight. Non-members.” Matthew glanced at the empty tables. “I suppose it’s just one of those evenings when no one feels like eating out.”
Emma reached across the table and took hold of her husband’s hand.
“Well, at least it means I get you all to myself this evening,” she said, with the hint of a tease in her voice.
“That’s true enough. There’s no escape for you,” Matthew replied, smiling.
There was a short burst of raucous laughter from the bar. Matthew looked up, trying to pick out individual voices.
“I would guess one of those poor sods playing the eighteenth has just messed up, right in front of the little audience on the veranda.”
Emma let go of her husband’s hand and picked up the cigarette she had left resting on an ashtray.
“I don’t understand why you all take such delight in seeing someone else play a bad shot. It’s not exactly friendly and I thought you were all supposed to be good sportsmen.”
“It’s because we all make the same mistakes ourselves. It’s easy to laugh when you know it could be you that people are laughing at next time. Mind you, it’s fair to say some people are on the receiving end more often than others.”
“Does that include you, darling?”
Emma knew her husband was one of the better players at the club, but she couldn’t miss the opportunity for a little teasing. That had always been one of the most endearing things about him, his almost complete lack of self importance. It was more than could be said for some of the other club members. All the same, it would be nice if he occasionally made more of his status at the club; there was nothing wrong with doing that once in a while.
The sole waitress on duty arrived to take their order. Emma had noticed her as soon as they’d arrived. She was new and the older woman thought she looked so young that she must surely still be attending school. Fortunately, the club were usually very good at training new staff.
