‘Elbows off the table please, my dear,’ he chided for the benefit of an expensively dressed middle-aged couple watching them as they passed.
‘In other circumstances, this would be great fun, you know,’ she whispered. ‘I shall sit properly and you can tell me everything while I make notes.’
He nodded. ‘Firstly, we have it confirmed that no one visited or left a message for Mr Eden. Thomas also asked the girl on the hotel exchange. Mr Eden did not use the telephone in his room to call beyond the hotel.’
‘Excellent. Is there more?’
He nodded. ‘Perhaps the part you might be most interested in. The other desk clerk mentioned to Thomas that Mr Eden asked for a letter to be posted for him.’
‘The photograph he sent me, do you suppose?’
‘I imagine so because’ – he scanned her face – ‘apparently he seemed very secretive about it. He repeatedly looked over his shoulder and stressed the importance of the letter reaching the intended recipient as quickly as possible.’
‘But that could still have been another letter?’
‘How many people do you suppose Mr Eden knew in Little Buckford, Buckinghamshire?’
‘The clerk noticed the address?’
‘He did, my lady. In our stay here, I have been consistently reminded that hotel staff are invariably fascinated by the private lives of the guests. Especially in such a luxurious establishment where the class divide is so pronounced.’
‘Gracious, so Hilary really wanted me to receive the photograph.’
Clifford nodded. ‘Also, in answering the clerk’s polite conversational question of whether the letter would be a surprise, Mr Eden answered that’ – he softened his voice – ‘yes, he supposed it would be.’
As she took a large gulp of her tea, he moved swiftly on.
‘Perhaps most in our favour, however, is the good news about the guests.’
‘Aside from the fact that one of them may very well be a murderer?’
‘Indeed. However, if Mr Eden made no reservation and his death occurred after the night porter locked the hotel door—’
‘—we need to talk to the night porter of course.’
‘As we said before, my lady, yes. But assuming the night porter was not bribed to admit the murderer, then it seems the murderer must have followed Mr Eden here, or been tipped off that he had booked in. Either way—’
‘—it means the murderer booked in at the same time as Hilary, or no later than…’ She examined her notebook. ‘Than?’
Clifford coughed. ‘The man on the pier said Mr Eden was dead at eleven thirty and though we doubt the man’s character, we have agreed in the absence of other information to go with his version of events for now. Therefore the murderer must already have checked in to the Grand by Sunday night.’
‘Exactly what I was going to say, sort of. I mean, it’s much more likely that the killer followed Hilary here and then posed as a normal guest, rather than the killer being a long-standing member of staff who randomly decided to murder a guest after an unblemished work record. So all we need to do is find out—’ She looked up at him from her notebook. ‘Go on, you’ve already asked, haven’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Thomas confirmed that between eight on Saturday evening, the evening Mr Eden checked in, and eleven on Sunday evening, the time the night porter locked the door, only five guests checked in, all of whom are still in residence.’
Eleanor smiled grimly. ‘Let me guess? The man we talked to on the pier who saved Hilary’s life from the firing squad?’ She wrinkled her nose and doodled two fists in her notebook. ‘That man has all the hallmarks of being a street fighter turned soldier. Since we spoke to him I’ve only seen him in the hotel once, and he studiously ignored me.’
Clifford nodded. ‘His name is Mr Rex Franklin, assuming that he is not using a false name like Mr Eden. And can you guess any of the other four?’
She nodded back. ‘The unlikely couple? You know, the tall chap and his exceptionally short sidekick who have also studiously avoided us… since they – I’m assuming it was them – tried to kidnap us. I’ve a good mind to have it out with them, but I’m sure they’ll only deny it.’
He nodded. ‘Mr Noel Longley and Mr Bert Blunt, assuming – again – anyone is using their real names. And I agree, I think little will be gained by confronting them at this juncture, although is it rather discomforting to be under the same roof. Any more?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The woman with the curvaceous figure. A Miss Summers I believe.’
He nodded. ‘A Miss Grace Summers.’
She wrote down the four suspects on a new page:
Suspects/Guests
Rex Franklin – man on West Pier
Noel Longley – tall man who tried to kidnap us?
Bert Blunt – short man with limp – driver in car that tried to kidnap us?
Grace Summers – seems very interested in me?
‘And the last of the five?’ she asked.
‘I believe you have already mentioned him to me once?’
‘Ah! Mr Willem de Meyer? Tailored Savile Row worthy suit, impeccable taste and a jaw that could take a hundred punches without so much as a flinch?’
‘That sounds like the gentleman.’
She added his name to the list and sat back.
‘So now all we have to do is find out which one is the murderer. I think this calls for more tea.’
Fifteen
Back at the Grand, Eleanor let out a quiet whistle as they drew near the tall glass doors that led through to the bar. The tall man, Noel Longley, who she was sure had tried to kidnap her with his short companion, Bert Blunt, was perched on a stool reading a newspaper.
‘Look who’s whiling away the afternoon, drinking alone.’
‘Most fortuitous. Perhaps it is time we tackled him, my lady?’
The thick red-and-gold fleur-de-lis-patterned carpet muffled their footsteps as they approached the man reading a newspaper at the bar.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Longley, if that is your name.’ She took in the long scar that ran along his cheek and the blueish-purple bruise that covered the bottom half of his hawkish nose.
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Almost gave me a heart attack, the pair of you sneaking up like that.’
‘Much as you and your partner did to us, so I guess that makes us even.’ She gestured to Clifford, who spoke to the burgundy-waistcoated barman. She turned back to Longley. ‘Allow me to show you a more effective way you might ask a lady to talk to you.’
The barman placed a cut-crystal glass of gin and tonic in front of her and a whisky-filled tumbler next to Longley’s fingers, which were drumming the bar testily.
‘There,’ Eleanor said, raising her glass. ‘You could simply have asked me to join you for a drink. So much easier than waving a gun and bundling us into your car, don’t you think?’
Longley ran his tongue down the inside of his cheek and then took a swig of his whisky. ‘No idea what you’re talking about, dear lady. You seem to have me muddled with some other chap.’
There was something about the man that shouted ‘fake’ to Eleanor. His suit was expensive, but it didn’t sit on him well, as if it had been tailor-made for someone else. And his accent was too plummy, too rounded. Behind it, she detected a hint of the wrong side of London.
‘Except that I haven’t. You and your partner are quite distinctive, you realise.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Even in masks.’
He turned around and leaned against the bar while taking another sip of his drink. ‘Now, if you’re going to stand about wasting my afternoon, you’ll need a different topic of conversation, my dear, because this one is going nowhere, if you know what I mean? Whoever you think I am, you’re sadly mistaken.’
‘As you wish.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Where’s your partner today then?’
He stared at her over his glass. ‘You mean Bert?’ He chuckled. ‘He isn’t my partner, he’s my cousin. And I must say’ – he glanced at
Clifford and then back at Eleanor – ‘you two are mighty nosey, whoever you are.’
‘I prefer curious,’ Eleanor said. ‘So much more ladylike. Which is why I’m curious to know where you both were the night the man in room 204 died.’
It was Longley’s turn to look at her scathingly. ‘Now why would a lady like your good self be interested in such a scandalous occurrence as a man being murdered?’
Eleanor shuddered involuntarily at the malevolent glee with which he said the last word. She could sense Clifford’s anger at the man’s callous attitude and waved a calming hand as she blinked back the hot tears that pricked her eyelids.
‘He was my husband, but somehow I think you already knew that. Now, you haven’t said where you both were when he died.’
Longley swigged back the last of his drink. ‘No, I haven’t, and I’m not going to. If you want to find out, ask that inspector chap. My cousin and I both gave him our statements.’ He waved the glass at the barman and gave her a wink. ‘Good game this, huh?’
Eleanor gritted her teeth. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m not playing.’
The man rubbed his chin, staring at her as if she was an amusing child. ‘I tell you what, I’ve changed my mind. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll tell you where we were. Not that it’s any of your business, but I always like to help widows when I can.’
It took all of Eleanor’s self-control not to kick him in his plummy accent. Instead, she waited for him to continue.
‘As it happens, my cousin Bert and I were enjoying a game of cards in my room. Gin rummy, actually. What can I say, I’m a chancer, cards have always been my thing.’
Eleanor leaned forward. ‘I hope you lost. A lot.’
She swigged down the last of her gin as Clifford did the same with his drink. As she turned to go, she paused. ‘One last question, Mr Longley. Why are you here? Really?’
Longley shrugged. ‘My cousin and I are down here on our holidays, like everyone else.’
She folded her arms. ‘Do you and your cousin normally try to kidnap ladies on your holiday?’
He shook his head and gestured round the bar. ‘There really aren’t many ladies here to kidnap, are there?’ He gave his forehead an exaggerated slap. ‘Of course there is that one I saw slipping into your husband’s room around half-past nine the night before they found him dead.’ He held his hands out in mock apology. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger!’
It took every fibre of Eleanor’s self-control again not to lay her hands on him. Instead, she casually shook out her red curls and then wiggled her ringless wedding-ring finger at him. ‘Sorry to disappoint, if you’re trying to shock me. My husband was free to do as he wished. Besides, I’m sure there was a perfectly plausible reason for her being there.’
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. ‘A woman like that is like a black widow spider, if you know what I mean.’
Eleanor shook her head. ‘See now, you’ve added besmirching a lady’s reputation to your dubious list of holiday activities. I’m pleased for her that she isn’t here to hear you.’
He laughed and raised his voice as the woman Eleanor now knew was called Grace Summers sashayed by the bar. ‘Oh, but she is.’ He followed her with his eyes until she rounded the corner and then picked up his newspaper. ‘See what I mean? Deadly. No one’s husband is safe from the likes of her.’
Sixteen
Much later that evening, Eleanor still hadn’t shifted the possessive feeling that had overtaken her at the news that Grace Summers had been in Hilary’s room. The distinct path in the luxurious cream carpet of her suite, from the door over to the windows and back, was testament to how deeply it had unsettled her. A long-emptied box of chocolates sat forlornly on the coffee table, next to a pile of room-service plates, as she hadn’t been able to face dining downstairs.
She flopped down onto the velvet settee facing the tempestuous sea view, an unopened book beside her. The wind had got up and in the moonlight she could see it whipping the waves into a frenzy of foam. Even the sight of Gladstone curled in his basket, his wrinkled jowls flapping as he snored, failed to improve her mood. She threw her head back over the top of the settee and let out a groan.
In her upside-down position, she saw a folded piece of paper slide between the legs of the chair jammed under her door handle. She checked the time: ten past midnight.
What the?
She stayed still, listening for footsteps, but the thick hotel carpet muffled any sound. She jumped up, grabbed the note and flipped it open.
Dear Hollywood Star, your number one fan and the other staff have gone off duty. Fancy grilling the night porter?
She smiled at Clifford’s humorous invitation. Do we ever, Ellie! She quickly checked her clothes and make-up and hurried out. He was waiting at the end of the corridor.
‘Good evening, my lady.’
‘And the same to you, Clifford. Why the cloak and dagger with the note? You could just have knocked.’
‘True, but I feared after such a long, and eventful, day, you might be asleep.’
‘Very thoughtful but I wasn’t, so what’s the plan? I’m sure the night porter isn’t allowed to hobnob with guests.’
He shook his head. ‘Most definitely not. I fear he would worry about being reported to the manager for “hobnobbing” as you delicately put it.’
‘And that wouldn’t make him at his ease.’
‘Exactly. Whereas, I am not a guest per se, merely the servant of a guest.’
‘Okay, you have a cosy chat with him while I secrete myself in the near vicinity so you don’t have to repeat everything he tells you to me afterwards.’
From the top of the stairs, Eleanor spied the canopied red leather porter’s chair. A balding crown fringed with grey hair and a pair of round wire spectacles poked out. She could also make out the navy-and-gold epaulettes on the shoulders of the night porter’s oversized uniform. She imagined, given his diminutive frame, that even the lightest of March sea breezes would surely carry him up into the sky like a child’s lost balloon.
Clifford descended and stood in front of the chair, blocking the night porter’s view. Eleanor, taking her cue, snuck down and circled round the entrance lobby until she reached a chair hidden from the night porter’s sight by one of the giant Grecian urns.
In the event, it proved unnecessary as the porter was fast asleep. Clifford coughed gently. And then more loudly. The porter jerked awake and automatically went to stand.
Clifford waved him back down. ‘It’s only me, Mr Johnson.’
In the chair behind the Grecian urn, Eleanor shook her head marvelling again at how her butler seemed to know everyone’s name and gain their confidence within moments of arriving, well, just about anywhere. She craned her neck to hear as Clifford continued talking to the now awake porter.
‘It seems I am the only one who can’t sleep. And they say sea air is supposed to help send you off to the world of nod!’
The porter’s reedy voice answered. ‘Good evening, Mr Clifford. I’m sorry to hear you can’t sleep. Is there something I can do for you?’
‘Indeed there is, Mr Johnson. I’m looking for someone to share ten minutes and’ – Clifford pulled out a bottle of tawny port from inside his jacket – ‘a glass or two of this with me.’ He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Young Thomas mentioned that Mr Hargreaves is away this evening.’
So that’s why he chose this time to interview him, Ellie. The manager’s away. She risked peeping around the urn, a large potted plant still hiding her from the porter’s view. She could now clearly see and hear the two men.
The porter’s eyes lit up at the sight of the port. ‘Lawks, that’s mighty kind of you, Mr Clifford. Let me get us a couple of glasses.’ Pausing only to heave one of the wingback chairs over for his unexpected guest, he shuffled off through the door to the bar.
Clifford stepped over to the newspaper racks and perused them until the porter returned balancing a tray. He set it down on the inlaid side table in t
he centre of the two chairs. ‘Thought we might have some nuts to go with the port.’
‘Perfect.’ Clifford waited for him to take a seat and then settled into his chair before pouring them both a generous measure and then raising his glass. ‘To the sea!’
The porter repeated the toast and then stared quizzically at Clifford. ‘The sea, Mr Clifford? Are you a sailing man?’
Clifford shook his head. ‘Not at all, although I’ve spent a fair amount of time on ships with my former employer, Lord Henley. I heard from young Thomas, however, that you are an old navy man?’
The porter nodded. ‘All me life from a nipper. Well, from fourteen, like.’
Clifford nodded. ‘You must miss it. The excitement. Maybe even the danger?’
‘Can’t say as I do. There was more time spent polishing brass, scrubbing decks and mending ropes than much excitement or danger, though I’ve weathered a fair few storms aboard.’ He patted the arm of his plush, red seat. ‘No. I prefer me chair here. It never threatens to tip me out over the arm never to be seen or heard of again. ’Cos when a fellow goes overboard it takes a fair while to turn around one of them ships even if it is noticed. And in a rough or icy sea, well…’ He shrugged but then chuckled. ‘I prefer hotels to ships. The Grand has never threatened to sink with all hands on board!’
From her hidden position, Eleanor smiled.
Clifford cleared his throat. ‘And yet there was a man lost overboard only the other day, if you know what I mean? That poor fellow, Painshill, wasn’t it? Brought through here on a stretcher. Did you have much to do with him?’
The porter stroked his chin. ‘I barely saw the poor gentleman, actually. If I remember rightly he booked in Saturday night? Came in just as I was preparing for me shift. Didn’t say much, I only noticed him because he seemed a tad worked up. He never even replied when I bid him goodnight, that distracted he was.’
Eleanor stole a sideways peep at Clifford and wasn’t surprised to see he’d kept his expression neutral. ‘Perhaps the gentleman was simply tired?’
Mystery by the Sea: An utterly addictive English cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 5) Page 9