by Helen Cox
‘It sounds a lot like playing with fire to me.’
‘I know, but I can’t sit back and do nothing. Every second the police are focusing on Beth, the real killer is getting further away.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Howay, Kitt. Hotels and a murder mystery. It’s just like an Agatha Christie story. Aren’t you a little bit intrigued?’
Kitt paused. Hotels were a murder mystery trademark and on more than one occasion in those books, just like in A Murder is Announced, the hotel staff were linked with the murder.
‘At Bertram’s Hotel.’
‘What’s that now?’ asked Evie.
‘A Miss Marple novel. The people at the hotel are all part of a criminal gang. Maybe something criminal is going on at the hotel. If Beth’s involved somehow, that might be why she lied to the police. Revealing her true whereabouts would reveal her criminality.’
‘Mmm,’ said Evie. ‘I mean, that’s one theory.’
Kitt tutted. ‘Well, anything is better than her having murdered Owen, isn’t it?’
‘So you’ll go?’ Evie said.
‘I’ll go,’ said Kitt. ‘But if this brings us no closer to finding out where Beth was on the night of the murder, you might have to start facing up to the fact that Beth may be somehow involved.’
Kitt heard a sigh at the end of the line. ‘I know. But please, just give me the peace of mind that the police aren’t sniffing down the wrong hedgerow.’
Kitt nodded, even though Evie couldn’t see her. ‘That much I can grant you.’
‘Thank you,’ Evie said in the small voice she used whenever she knew she was asking for more than Kitt was willing to give.
‘Talk soon.’
Kitt hung up the phone and caught Grace’s wide and expectant eyes.
‘Are we going on an adventure?’ she asked.
Ten
Kitt and Grace hopped out of the taxi and stared up at the White Horse Hotel. Named after a limestone figure that the Victorians had cut into the hillside near Kilburn some twenty miles away, the building was a prim cuboid built in greying stone that stood on the outskirts of town on the A19. Long slender windows ran all along the east-facing front wall, designed to beckon in the sun at dawn and perhaps convince visitors that there was some warmth and light to be had in the north of England after all.
Striding across the gravelled car park, Kitt noted the silver lettering hanging above the doorway alongside the outline of a horse wrought in some kind of light metal – most likely tin. It was early evening, dusk was looming, and a couple of other taxis had pulled up outside the entrance. They had come to collect people dressed in sharp office wear, probably on their way to business dinners in the city – or on their way back to London.
‘I looked up Seaton Carew. It’s a village near Middlesbrough,’ said Grace as the pair began walking towards the hotel entrance. When Kitt didn’t respond she added, ‘What happened there?’
‘Nothing of interest,’ Kitt replied, though she could see by the way her assistant was eyeing her that she wasn’t convinced by that answer.
‘All right, then how are we going to handle this?’ asked Grace.
‘We aren’t going to handle this at all,’ said Kitt, holding onto her trilby as a sudden gust of wind threatened to carry it off. ‘I’m going to be doing the talking.’
‘So glad I tagged along,’ said Grace, kicking at a stray piece of gravel.
‘I told you not to,’ said Kitt.
‘And I told you, nothing ever happens around here. I’m not missing this. At least I get to watch, I suppose,’ said Grace.
‘Isn’t that why Netflix was invented?’ asked Kitt.
‘I prefer my drama live-action,’ Grace said, throwing a couple of mock punches in the air as she walked.
Kitt stopped just before the threshold and turned square upon her assistant. ‘Are you quite all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Grace, lowering her arms from the defensive position, leaving herself wide open to her invisible opponent. ‘It’s just . . . it’s exciting.’
‘Let’s agree to disagree on that,’ said Kitt. ‘You’re going to have to compose yourself if you want to come inside. This is serious.’
The sparkle in Grace’s brown eyes dulled and she stood up straighter.
‘Better,’ said Kitt, before pushing through the heavy doorway trimmed in silver. The second she stepped inside she was hit by an immediate waft of Eau de Hotel: that strange mixture of bread toasting and ultra-strong air freshener that filters through the reception area of every boarding house and lodging in the Western hemisphere. In the case of the White Horse Hotel, lemon seemed to be their preferred synthesized fragrance, causing Kitt to mark, with some regret, that she hadn’t had time for a cup of Lady Grey since lunchtime.
Kitt’s eyes focused on a man standing behind a large desk built in mahogany. Two small brass uplighter lamps positioned at either side of him cast a sickly yellow light across his face.
‘May I help you, madam?’ asked the man. He had few wrinkles around his eyes, but his hairline betrayed his age. He had a large, pale forehead, smooth except for a small, brown hair island set further forward from the rest of the crop, a feature that betrayed his vanity. He would look much better if he just shaved that off, Kitt thought, rather than attempting to deceive the casual onlooker into believing he was younger than his years.
‘Yes, hello. Is Eli on shift at all?’ asked Kitt, stepping closer to the desk.
The man’s smile disappeared at once. ‘Eli is busy. He doesn’t have time for visits from friends while he’s at work.’
‘Oh no, you misunderstand,’ said Kitt, deciding, given his manner, that this must be the disgruntled manager Evie had mentioned. ‘We’re trying to be of help with the . . . sensitive situation you’re dealing with at the moment.’
‘Sensitive situation? I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ The manager’s tone sounded convincing enough, but his gaze shifted upward to the glass chandelier hanging above.
‘I see,’ said Kitt, raising her voice half a decibel. ‘So you haven’t heard that your receptionist has been arrested for murder?’
‘Ssssshhhhh! Shhhhh!’ said the manager, slamming his hands down on the desk. His eyes darted to the guests passing in and out of the building.
‘So you do know,’ said Kitt.
‘How could I fail to?’ said the manager. ‘If I hadn’t received a phone call from Beth’s mother notifying me of her arrest, I’d have heard about it on the news.’
‘Well, we’re here to try to help, you know,’ said Kitt.
‘And why would you bother to do that?’ asked the manager, swiping a stray piece of cotton from the left sleeve of his black suit. He was wearing a black tie too, and to Kitt’s mind looked a lot more like a funeral director than the manager of a small hotel on the outskirts of York.
‘Well,’ Kitt looked at the manager’s name tag, ‘Mr Buckhurst, the second we heard about Beth being taken in by the police we knew straight away there’d been some mistake.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence,’ said Buckhurst, curling his lip at Kitt.
Kitt’s inner bonfire ignited in an instant. More than anything, she wanted to glare at this less-than-compassionate individual, but she had to keep him onside.
Time for a different tack.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Kitt. ‘Grace, I suppose we’d best go straight to the papers and warn them.’
Grace’s face looked utterly vacant, but the intensity of Kitt’s eyes was enough to signal that she should play along. ‘Oh . . . yes . . . we should warn them.’
‘Warn them? About what?’ asked Buckhurst.
Kitt resisted the urge to flash a smug smile at him. ‘That the recruitment procedure is so lax at the White Horse Hotel that they employ murderers. Nothing personal. I just can’t
stand by in good conscience and let people stay at a place where they might not make it out alive.’
‘Now, now, now, madam. I think you misunderstood,’ Buckhurst blustered. ‘The White Horse Hotel would of course never employ somebody of that background, even accidentally; we’re very thorough.’
‘In which case,’ said Kitt, ‘you won’t mind helping us trying to find out where Beth really was on the night of the murder. If you only employ the best people, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see one of them wrongly accused of such a terrible crime.’
‘I don’t see how I can be of any help,’ said Buckhurst, crossing his arms.
‘You could start by finding out who last used the key cards with these serial numbers.’ Kitt pushed a piece of paper across the reception desk while at the same time feeling pretty smart for taking close-up photographs of the key cards whilst she’d had the opportunity at Beth’s house. Numbers weren’t really her strong point, and the odds of her remembering whole strings of them, even when investigating something as serious as a murder, were slim.
‘Key cards from this hotel?’ asked Buckhurst.
‘Yes, we found them at Beth’s house,’ Kitt explained. ‘It seemed odd that she took them home and we thought they might be a clue to her true whereabouts on the night of the murder.’
‘No wonder we’re always losing key cards,’ Buckhurst muttered. He tilted his head back so his nose stuck further into the air than necessary. ‘I can’t tell you who last checked into these rooms. It’s a breach of customer confidentiality.’
‘Have it your way,’ said Kitt, turning to Grace. ‘I can see the headlines now: Killer Hotel.’
Grace giggled. ‘Oh, that’s definitely one the Sun would run. What about White Horse Head in Your Bed?’
‘York’s Own Bates Motel,’ said Kitt.
‘Motel? Motel? I. Think. Not. This, madam, is a boutique hotel. A boutique hotel,’ said Buckhurst.
Kitt stared hard at the man, not quite believing it was the word ‘motel’ that had most offended him about the game she and Grace had just been playing, but one had to take whatever advantage was afforded.
‘Not once the press understands what kind of place you’re running here,’ she said.
Buckhurst sighed and picked up the slip of paper lying on the reception desk. ‘Fine.’
The manager looked over both of his shoulders, before tapping the keyboard in front of him.
‘Julian Rampling,’ Buckhurst said. ‘That’s the first one.’
‘Check the others too, please,’ said Kitt.
More tapping on the keyboard.
‘Julian Rampling,’ Buckhurst said, and then, ‘Julian Rampling again. This key card was given out on Saturday night.’
‘The night of the murder,’ said Kitt. ‘But Beth wasn’t at work on Saturday night?’
‘No, it wasn’t her shift. It was Eli’s shift,’ said Buckhurst, picking up the telephone and dialling a four-digit extension.
‘Eli?’ said Buckhurst. ‘Get down to reception at once.’
Buckhurst’s tone was more kindling to Kitt’s inner bonfire. She hated managers who disrespected their employees. Perhaps she let her own assistant have a little bit too much rope, but at least Grace looked forward to coming in to work in the mornings.
A moment of quiet passed. Kitt looked at Grace and then back at Buckhurst.
‘Do you know who Julian Rampling is?’ asked Kitt.
‘So difficult when one is a busy manager to get to know all guests by name,’ said Buckhurst and then added, ‘but he’s stayed here a few times so I might know him by sight. Ah, Eli . . .’
Kitt turned to see a young man walking down a staircase just off to her left. His pace was slow and his head hung low, but then it was unlikely that any of Buckhurst’s employees were ever in a hurry to have a conversation with him.
Eli stood in front of the desk looking first at Grace, then at Kitt, and at last at Buckhurst. ‘Can I help?’
‘Does the name Julian Rampling mean anything to you?’ asked Buckhurst.
‘He’s a regular guest,’ said Eli. ‘Insurance broker from Leicester.’
Leicester. The letters Kitt had seen at Beth’s house, they were postmarked Leicester.
‘Anything else you want to tell me about him?’ said Buckhurst, staring down his nose at Eli. ‘Anything relating to Beth?’
Eli’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing and shook his head. He again looked around the group of people, the smooth olive skin of his forehead now creasing. Kitt was beginning to suspect the truth that was weighing on him, but couldn’t reveal her suspicion in front of Buckhurst. If she was wrong, it could cost Beth her job.
‘In any event, I’m going to pass his name to the police,’ said Buckhurst.
Eli’s brown eyes widened.
‘If you think that’s wise,’ said Grace, raising both her eyebrows. Kitt looked at her assistant. Was Grace thinking the same things she was?
‘Wise? Let me see,’ said Buckhurst, sneering at Grace. ‘These key cards were all in the possession of a murder suspect, and were all last used by the same person – most likely her accomplice.’
‘Or,’ said Kitt, ‘there is a more innocent explanation and you could save your hotel a lot of negative publicity by giving this man a call and settling the whole matter quietly.’
‘It can be settled quietly without me doing that,’ said Buckhurst.
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Kitt. ‘The media were at Beth’s home address this morning.’
‘Yes, we have received one or two calls about the matter, but have refused to comment.’
‘That’s enough for the press today, writing a smug “the owner declined to comment” line in their articles,’ said Kitt. ‘But if the police hold onto Beth another day, the reporters will be baying for answers. I’m guessing her place of work will be their first stop.’
Buckhurst glared at Kitt, but she glared back just as hard until the hotel manager at last rubbed his hand up and down his face a couple of times and picked up the telephone. He looked at his computer screen as he dialled, and then rapped his fingertips on the desk.
There was a slight click to be heard from the receiver as the call was picked up.
Buckhurst’s frown got deeper. ‘No, this is not Beth,’ he almost shouted.
Tutting, Kitt snatched the phone off Buckhurst. They weren’t going to get any information out of Julian Rampling if Buckhurst was in charge of the questioning.
‘Hello,’ Kitt said into the phone, ‘sorry about that.’
‘I— is this the White Horse Hotel?’ asked the man on the other end.
‘It is,’ said Kitt. ‘Are you Julian Rampling?’
‘Thought I recognized the number. Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I’m confused as to why I’m receiving this call, however.’
‘You’re receiving this call, Mr Rampling, because Beth, who it seems you know, is currently sitting in police custody. She’s been arrested on suspicion of murder,’ said Kitt.
‘M— murder?’ Julian stuttered. ‘Is that a joke?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Kitt.
‘But that’s ridiculous, Beth’s not a murderer. Who is this? Is this the police?’
‘My name is Kitt Hartley, I’m . . . an acquaintance of Beth’s. I agree with you that from all I know about her, Beth doesn’t seem the murdering type.’
‘So why is she in police custody?’
‘She knew the deceased, who was murdered on Saturday night.’
‘Saturday night,’ Julian repeated.
‘Beth gave a false alibi, which is why she is at this moment facing the prospect of a murder trial. Amongst her possessions were some hotel key cards.’ As Kitt said these words she realized her suspicions must be correct. It was the only logical explanation. ‘All of the keys were last
used by you, the most recent on Saturday night, so we thought it was worth giving you a call.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘She . . . was with me,’ Julian said in the smallest of voices.
‘I see,’ said Kitt, and, even though she had guessed the answer, she still had to ask, ‘but why would Beth lie about that?’
Another pause at the end of the line. ‘Because I’m married.’
Kitt nodded, and then remembered she wasn’t face-to-face with Julian. ‘I thought that might be the case,’ she said.
‘What should I do?’ Julian asked.
Kitt wasn’t sure if he was really asking her or thinking out loud, but answered anyway.
‘Call York Police Station and ask for DI Halloran. You tell him that you can vouch for Beth’s whereabouts on Saturday night.’
‘Yeah . . .’ said Julian. ‘I guess that’s the right thing to do.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Kitt, sensing some hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘If you’re concerned about your wife finding out, you should know the police have done all they can to keep this incident under wraps from the press so far. I can’t see them releasing your name or anything of that sort.’
‘Good . . . that’s good,’ Julian said with a vague note in his voice that suggested shock. ‘This really isn’t a joke?’
‘No,’ said Kitt.
‘How do I know you’re telling the truth about Beth?’
‘I would suggest you ring her mother, but explaining how you know Beth might prove a bit tricky,’ said Kitt. ‘Look, check the online news channels. You’ll see there’s been a murder in York. A man called Owen Hall. Did Beth ever mention him to you?’
‘Her ex,’ said Julian. ‘Oh God . . .’
‘You understand now why the police might be looking at her, especially without an alibi?’