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Karma had come round to bite Crowley in the arse. He’d dragged Aziraphale into many a scheme over the years, and he was paying for it with a Murder Mystery Night.
One of Rita’s old AmDram pals was hosting ‘an evening of Christie-esque delight, deceit, and delicious entrees,’ and any one of those words would’ve had Zira screaming like a Persian cat to be let in.
Cue the email invitation.
‘Isn’t this a treat?’ Said Aziraphale, leaning so far forward he almost blocked the IPad.
‘A true delicacy, angel- Right, here’s your guy.’
‘I’m playing Sir Lansbury- Engaged to the Widow Erstwhile, and-’ He literally squealed, ‘the detective!’
Crowley groaned internally and externally. He’d been female when they’d first booked, so he’d be playing the maid, Clara. His one job was to have a clandestine conversation with the gardener, (read: paid actor,) and be found dead after the starter with a blackmail note. Easy peasy.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, had pages worth of character notes. Crowley wrote down the IPad password, left his partner to study, and started searching his wardrobe for something ‘maid-y’.
-
After a brisk drive, they arrived outside the venue. He had to admit, the old timey hotel had the right energy to it. Kinda reminded him of the Tadfield hospital, minus the nuns and businessmen.
His oh-so-committed-to-the-role partner bounced out of the Bentley in his old detective outfit. The one with the adorable too-long sleeves that nevertheless gave Crowley a tension headache when he saw it.
Crowley, for his part, had found something simple with a dropped waist in the back of a drawer that he felt fit the bill. Where the blasted Somewhere was this gardener?
‘Sir Lansbury!’
Standing in the grand doorway was Rita, waving excitedly, and Mel, adjusting her bowtie.
‘My dear Mrs Erstwhile!’
Crowley and Mel looked at eachother, conveying ‘they’re gonna stay in character the whole evening, aren’t they?’
Resigned to their fates, they headed inside. At least there were snacks, and a half-decent prosecco. They met the host, a nice Welsh bloke called Lou, and his husband, Lin. Lin, judging by the wellie boots, was the gardener. Good start.
Despite his moaning, he had actually paid attention to the invitation. He’d once terrorised Arthurian England as The Black Knight, the dramatique was built-in. The ‘plot’ was the engagement between public lord, private detective, and full-time fruitcake Sir Lansbury and the mysterious Widow Erstwhile. Plus or minus a couple murders.
While he and Mel sipped and snarked, the pretend couple squeed over eachothers outfits. Rita had gone for a rose-pink ensemble with a matching hat and long beads. Mel had settled on a button-up shirt with suspenders and a panama hat to play the unruly heir, Rufus.
Lin The Gardener headed out to the grounds, so Crowley drained his glass and followed suit. However, the grounds weren’t especially well-lit and the period-accurate sunglasses didn’t help. He cursed his heels as he tripped and landed in a hedge.
‘Need some help there?’ Said a familiar voice.
‘No bleedin’ way- Mrs Sandwich!’
She pulled him out of the shrubbery. He gratefully shook her hand and asked what she was doing here.
‘Paying gig, luvvy. Although, when they said ‘maid roleplay’ this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. I’m playing the ‘ousekeeper.’
‘Brilliant! Love the costume, by the way. Simply dashing. Though I have to ask, are the sequins period-appropriate?’
She laughed, and gestured at the house.
‘I’m heading in, these fishnets weren’t made for the evening air. Care to join me?’
‘I would love to, but I’m meant to be meeting the gardener. When you get in, let them know you saw me. Aziraphale’s made himself a little Cluedo chart for everyone’s alibi.’
Mrs Sandwich headed inside, and Crowley headed for the toolshed.
-
Aziraphale was having the time of his life. Crowley wasn’t back for the starters yet, but Widow Erstwhile had just asked him about his collection of canaries and how his grounds had coped since his gardener had been killed during The Great War. It was all jolly good fun.
Crowley arrived at the tail end of the soup, then snuck out before the dishes were even cleared.
The grandfather clock struck eight. The light’s turned out. When they turned back on, the housekeeper- hang on a tick, was that Mrs Sandwich?- came shrieking into the room.
‘COR BLIMEY, THE MAID’S CROAKED!’
Rita and him dashed into the drawing room, and saw Clara the maid sprawled out beside the fireplace. He had to give credit to him, the demon had picked a place with nice, dramatic lighting to get murdered.
Of course, his character didn’t know that. He dutifully exclaimed, then picked up a discarded teacup that had rolled under the plush sofa. He sniffed it and said;
‘Goodness me! This was no mere sudden death, this was poison!’
Rita raised her hands to her face, ‘but Sir Lansbury, no one else had access to the tea!’
‘You’re right, my dear! There is only one solution-’ He dug his magnifying glass out of his pocket and waved it for emphasis- ‘One of us is a MURDERER!’
The crowd gasped. While none of them were quite as invested as Rita and Aziraphale, they were still a group of queer drama nerds, and had a reputation to uphold.
‘I declare this a crime scene! Everyone must go and sit in the dining room, and I’ll interview you in pairs!’
The rest of them tootled off, giving appropriately old-timey reactions all the while.
‘Excellent job, my dear. The teacup under the settee was a nice touch.’ He said to Crowley, who didn’t react
‘You can stop being dead now.’ Rita said, nudging him with her heel.
He answered by rolling closer to the fire and snoring.
Aziraphale pursed his lips and decided to leave him to it. He was impossible to wake up at the best of times, and the carpet in front of the fire looked comfy enough.
True to his word, he interviewed all the guests. He’d already eliminated most of them, and was reviewing the evidence with Rita.’
‘Can’t be the Marquis, can’t be the stablehand, can’t be the butler-’ She crossed off the list.
‘When did we eliminate the butler?’
‘We didn’t, but it’s too predictable.’
They were just about to head back to the dining room when they heard a creak. The detective and the widow listened at the door-
‘Of course I didn’t give you up! It’s my inheritance on the line!’ Said a distinctive Scottish accent.
Whoever Mel/Rufus-The-Heir was talking to spoke too quietly for them to hear, and a second later the heir and the mysterious figure dashed off.
Aziraphale and Rita exchanged a meaningful glance, and added a note to the suspects.
-
Dessert. It was dessert and they still hadn’t cracked the case. Crowley finally showed up, and refused to help them solve the mystery.
‘No no no no no, Angel, you’ve got your notebook and your detectiving jacket, you can figure it out.’
‘Incorrigible serpent.’ He said with no heat.
Their hosts stood, wine glasses raised, to give a speech. ‘Lin and I are just so delighted you all came, and special thanks to the owners of this hotel-’
The lights turned out. A gunshot rang. When the lights came back on, ‘Rufus’ was lying on the ground. Mel gave a dramatic final gasp, and ‘died.’ Appropriately theatrical reactions came from the crowd.
‘Ah. That does rather narrow down the suspects.’ Said Aziraphale.
‘Drat. There goes my guess.’ Rita said, and crossed Rufus off the list.
Crowley peeked at the notebook. ‘Congratulations on your impending nuptials, Mrs Erstwhile. Let’s just hope your husband-to-be doesn’t have a stroke from overthinking before then.’ Crowley gestured to his partner, and sauntered off to talk to Rufus’ corpse.
-
Lou and Lin had planned for a nice, dramatic end to the evening if the case couldn’t be solved. In fact, they were setting it up just as the united forces of AziRita narrowed it down to two suspects. They dramatically stood up from their plush sofa, and everyone turned to look at them.
‘It’s taken deliberation, but I believe we have found our foul offender!’ Said Aziraphale, waving his list.
‘The murderer is… Actually, Mr Fell, do you want to announce it?’
‘Very kind of you, my dear, but I dare say you did the mental heavy lifting in this endeavour.’
‘Why thank you. Anyways, the murderer is… CLARA!’
All eyes swivelled to Crowley, who raised his eyebrows in a clear gesture of, ‘who, me?’
‘Or should I say… CLARA’S TWIN BROTHER!’
Frankly, the daring detective duo took far too long to explain it, but there were worst ways to spend an evening. The gist was Rufus, Clara, and her brother Nicolas were all involved in bootlegging over in the states, and with the business crumbling Rufus had murdered Clara and Nicolas had murdered Rufus. Wonderful convoluted fun.
After the explanation, both couples and Mrs Sandwich nipped out to the veranda to say their goodbyes.
‘Delightful evening, and it was a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Sandwich.’
‘No bother, love. Fancy you figuring all that out, it woulda given Agatha Christie ‘erself a migraine. Still wish I’d been involved in the arrest, I had me own handcuffs and everything.’ She brandished a fluffy pink pair of handcuffs.
‘Do you have a policewoman costume stashed somewhere?’ Crowley asked.
‘I’ve more than that, lad.’
Mel and Rita glanced at eachother, already collecting more evidence for their latest theory about the Fells.
They waved goodbye to Mrs Sandwich, and everyone hopped in the Bentley. Rita was grateful for the lift, since the Bentley fit the time period far more than their own car.
Aziraphale nudged his partner with his elbow. ‘You could’ve told me you were playing more than one character, you fiend.’
‘Don’t you think that would’ve made it too easy? Very unsportsmanlike, your lordship.’
‘I suppose. I’m just glad Rita found that letter.’
‘That evidence would’ve been nothing without you realising it was an American stamp!’
Aziraphale and Rita gushed, Mel and Crowley rolled their eyes affectionately, and the Bentley rolled off into the night with Queen’s Killer Queen playing softly.