Murder most mysterious
MURDER is a mistake, Oscar Wilde once said. 'One should never do anything one cannot talk about over dinner.' But it is precisely murder that is on our menu tonight and I get the feeling that, at the very least, everyone in attendance this evening is risking indigestion. Not only will we be talking about murder over dinner but we will watching its treacherous plot unfold from the moment we walk into the restaurant. Along with some 80 other people, I have been invited to Faces restaurant in the Citibank Tower which is hosting a Murder Mystery Evening similar to those which have been drawing full houses at venues like the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club and the Aberdeen Marina Club.
I have been warned about tonight: chew carefully, swallow slowly, most definitely sniff the red wine before drinking it - because someone at dinner will meet his maker by the time the cappuccino arrives.
Just why these Murder Mystery Evenings have become so popular in Hong Kong is in itself a mystery to me. But at $480 a head, the night better serve up something more memorable than a gourmet version of Clue over pizza, something more entertaining than watching Alfred Hitchcock Presents while poised in front of a Salisbury steak ...
Lord Mantell, a stuffy, watery-eyed nob, has just flown in from 'St Reatham', England. The owner of a chain of hotels in Britain, Prague, Bangkok and Nairobi, the lord claims to be in Hong Kong to have a look at the Hilton. Even while mingling with the guests, he's given to sudden bursts of anger, hissing inflammatory comments like this one: 'Ooooooh. All women get in the way!' (Which certainly didn't endear him to half the room.) The woman he introduces as his wife, Lady Sophie Mantell, is a former competitive shot-putter from Prague, whose considerable cleavage is distinguished by an heirloom brooch. 'Do you like my brooch? It is beautiful, no?' What isn't so beautiful is the Abuse Magnet, Sally, a poor, bespectacled, perpetually cowering creature who makes at least one fatal mistake (sartorially speaking anyway) by wearing a flowered dress without pantyhose - man, she has ankles to rival Dumbo's. 'I hate her,' Lady Mantell declares throughout the night. 'She is cheap!' Following the whole crew around, a black medical bag in hand, is Dr Reeks, a boyhood friend of Lord Mantell's from Eton. The doctor is a meek, short of breath, shadow of a man. He's also severely diabetic. If we're to believe in Darwin's theory of the survival of the fittest, it's likely that of all our less-than-gracious hosts, it is Dr Reeks who is not long for this world.
THE prospect of solving a murder is a daunting one to face alone. So the Sunday Morning Post assembled a dream team of the territory's super sleuths to figure out whodunit. The problem is that everyone at the table is so a capable a detective that each is relying on the other to figure things out.
'Thank goodness you're here,' says Jonathan Midgley, one of Hong Kong's most prominent criminal solicitors, to Superintendent Patricia Walsh of the Royal Hong Kong Police. 'You can launch an investigation into who the killer is.' 'Thank goodness you're here,' says Superintendent Walsh to Brenda and Kai-bong Chau, the Hong Kong socialites who cruise from event to event in their infamous pink Rolls-Royce. 'You can hear the whispers through the grapevine and figure out whodunit.' 'Thank goodness you're here,' Kai-bong says to Cecilia, a South American-born clairvoyant who has experienced psychic visions since she was a child. 'You can simply flash on to who the killer is.' Just as the salmon salad hits our table, Cecilia experiences two flashes: she sees Midgley, dedicated defender of the public, in a past life as a French medieval knight. 'Yes, I can see you in full armour, with your long hair blowing in the wind. You are riding a white horse.' Her other flash is about me in my past lives, though not that I was an Indian princess, Joan or Arc or a Ming Dynasty empress, but that 'you worked in a temple. I think you were a monk. Yes, I can see you bald, in a saffron robe.' I make a mental note not to trust the accuracy of her flashes for the evening.
'It's been 13 years since I've got to solve a murder,' Superintendent Walsh says gleefully, rubbing her hands together.