Moonflower Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘They can’t hear us.’

  ‘They might come out.’

  That did the trick, as she had known it would. He let her go and at once she stepped back, out of his reach.

  ‘Don’t wait for me,’ she said. ‘You might get stuck behind a tractor and you don’t want to miss the first act.’

  ‘I thought you said you were only going to be half an hour.’

  ‘I don’t know how long I’m going to be. I’ve got to talk to the Gardners about the accounts. Actually, I’ve got an idea that might just put them on the spot.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll tell you after I’ve seen them. We can talk tomorrow.’

  She really was about to leave. But then there came a huffing and a scratching of claws against the wooden floor and a little dog appeared, running across the hall towards its mistress. The dog was a chow, a solid block of reddish fur with a squat face, pointed, triangular ears and a dark purple tongue. Melissa couldn’t help herself. She squealed with pleasure and knelt down, running her fingers through the dog’s fur where it was thickest, around its neck.

  ‘Little Kimba!’ she crooned. ‘How’s my baby?’ She was holding her face close to the dog’s and didn’t pull back when he licked her nose and lips. ‘How’s my beautiful boy? Mummy’s just going into town. But I’ll be back soon. Are you going to be on the bed? Are you going to be waiting for me?’

  Francis pulled a face. He didn’t like having the dog on the bed, but he said nothing.

  ‘Go on then! Good boy! Mummy will see you soon.’

  Melissa straightened up. She glanced at Francis. ‘Enjoy the opera. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said. And then she really was gone, hurrying outside, closing the front door behind her, leaving Francis with the bleak awareness that she had been much more affectionate to the chow than she had been to him.

  Two

  Algernon Marsh

  Melissa loved her Bentley in much the same way as she loved her pet chow. It was a beautiful car. It was an indulgence. And it belonged, entirely, to her. It was the belonging that mattered most, the sense of empowerment. Sitting on the silvery leather upholstery, listening to the low growl of the engine, knowing that the car would be recognised a mile away, she felt the unease that had resulted from her meeting with Francis slipping away in the jet stream behind her. The car was pale blue, a Mark VI with a power-operated hood, which, unfortunately, would have to stay up as the rain had indeed returned, this time falling as a miserable, grey drizzle. Why did the weather have to be so cold and miserable at the end of April? According to her agent, Alfred Hitchcock was planning to shoot his new film at the Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank, California, and that couldn’t have suited her more. It would be nice to be back in the sun.

  Clarence Keep was less than half a mile outside Tawleigh-on-the-Water, a seaside village whose name hardly did it justice. Tawleigh was surrounded by no fewer than four different stretches of water: the Bristol Channel to the right, the Irish Sea to the left and the estuaries of two rivers, the Taw and the Torridge, swelling up behind. Sometimes it seemed as if the little harbour was battling for its very existence, particularly when the wind blew and the waves came crashing down in relentless grey spumes. Then the fishing boats would tear at their moorings and the lighthouse would blink helplessly, illuminating only the swirling clouds that engulfed it.

  The village population numbered about three hundred. Most of the houses were contained on Marine Parade, which stretched along the front, with a second, narrower road behind it called Rectory Lane. The other buildings that made up Tawleigh-on-the-Water consisted of a church – St Daniel’s – a butcher’s, a baker’s, a garage and a chandlery that also sold various household goods. For years there had been just one pub, the Red Lion, in the village. But then Melissa had bought the nineteenth-century customs house and converted it into a hotel that she had called the Moonflower after one of her films. It had twelve bedrooms, a restaurant and a comfortable bar.

  There was no police station in Tawleigh-on-the-Water but nor was there any need for one as, apart from a few teenagers getting drunk and causing mischief on the beach, there had been no trouble in the village for as long as anyone could remember. Nor was there a post office, a bank, a library or a cinema. For any of those you would have to make your way to Bideford, which was about twenty minutes away on the steam train that ploughed up and down the single line from Instow, or about a quarter of an hour by car, on the other side of Bideford Long Bridge. Visitors were sometimes surprised that there was no fish shop either. The fishermen sold their catch directly from their boats.

  The Moonflower had been built for the growing number of families from London and elsewhere who dreamed of escaping to the coast during the summer months and Melissa had made sure that it was attractive to children and adults alike. The more expensive rooms had bathrooms en suite. Although dinner was served strictly at seven o’clock, there was a high tea for younger guests at half past five. Every weekend there were concerts, tea parties and croquet or French cricket on the lawn. Nannies and personal valets were accommodated in a separate building at the bottom of the garden, discreetly out of sight.

  Melissa drew up in front of the main door. The rain was coming down harder now and although there were only a few steps across the gravel, her hair and the shoulders of her coat were still splattered with water by the time she arrived in the entrance hall. Lance Gardner, the manager, had seen her arrive, standing there unctuously as if it had never occurred to him to come out with an umbrella and help her into the building. Was this the way he greeted the guests?

  ‘Good evening, Miss James,’ he said, completely unaware that he had already put her in a bad mood.

  ‘Hello, Mr Gardner.’

  The two of them had never been on first-name terms. It simply wasn’t appropriate. Lance and Maureen Gardner were Melissa’s employees, not her friends. When she had found them, they had been the landlord and chief barmaid at the Red Lion and she had been rather pleased that she had been able to poach them to run her new hotel. After all, they knew the area. They had friends on the council and in the police. If there were any problems with licences or local suppliers, they would find ways around them. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and it was only now, three and a half years after the Moonflower had opened, that she wondered if it had been right to trust the couple so completely. She knew almost nothing about them. The pub had been making a profit when they worked there – that much she had managed to find out – but they had been tied to a major brewery chain with only minimal control.

  They certainly hadn’t made any profit running the Moonflower. Something had to be wrong. The hotel was popular. All the newspapers had written positively about it, obviously attracted by the idea that it was owned by a bona fide Hollywood star. In the beginning, she had known that a number of her clients had only come in the hope of seeing her and would be disappointed if they didn’t go home with at least an autograph. But as the hotel had bedded in and she had turned up less often, it had been accepted for what it was: an elegant, comfortable retreat in an attractive seaside village with a great beach and lovely views. It was successful – full for most of the summer and busy even in the wetter months.

  But it was devouring money. Her money. Whose fault was it? Melissa had already taken steps to find out, but she had called this meeting to test a theory, one that had been forming in her mind for some time.

  ‘How are things?’ she asked quite casually as she followed Lance Gardner through the empty reception area and into his office.

  ‘We can’t complain, Miss James. Not really. Nine rooms occupied. I’m afraid this bad weather really isn’t on our side. But I’ve been looking at the reports from the Meteorological Office and they say that May is going to be lovely.’

  They had passed through the doorway into a large, square room with two desks, filing cabinets and an old-fashioned safe prominent in one corner. There was a complicated switchboard along one
wall, connecting all the rooms, and Melissa remembered authorising it even though it had cost a small fortune. Maureen Gardner was sitting at her desk, going through paperwork, but stood up as Melissa came in.

  ‘Good evening, Miss James.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Gardner asked. ‘Or perhaps something stronger?’ he added with a hint of conspiracy. The bar wouldn’t open until half past six.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘These came for you, Miss James . . .’ Maureen Gardner had produced a packet of three envelopes, already opened, and handed them across as Melissa sat down. The first of them was lilac-coloured. She had expected the scent of lavender and already smelled it. She knew who it came from.

  She received far fewer letters than she had at the height of her career but she still had fan clubs in America and Britain, and of course her address at the Moonflower had been well publicised. Every month there were two or three of them, imploring her to make another film, telling her how much she was missed. The woman who wrote on lilac paper and who signed herself only as ‘Your number-one fan’ had strong, neat handwriting with every comma and full stop in place. Melissa wondered if she was single or married, happy or sad. It was something she had never understood, the neediness of some of the people who had followed her career – and sometimes it worried her. Glancing at the page now, she read: ‘How can you do it to us, dear Miss James? The screen is diminished without you. A light has gone out of our lives.’ Wouldn’t you have to be a little disturbed to write something like that? And this must be the ninth or tenth message that Miss Lilac had sent her over the years.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, sliding the letter back into its envelope. She wouldn’t reply. She never did any more. ‘I’ve been looking at the accounts up until February,’ she went on, wanting to get back to the subject in hand.

  ‘We did very well over Christmas,’ Mrs Gardner said.

  ‘Well, we lost less in December than we had in the month before, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I think we need to raise our prices, Miss James,’ Lance Gardner exclaimed. ‘The room rates and the restaurant—’

  ‘But we’re already one of the most expensive hotels in Devonshire.’

  ‘We run a very tight ship. We’ve cut back on staff. Obviously, we have to keep an eye on the quality of our service . . .’

  There were times when Lance Gardner looked and sounded like nothing more than a spiv. It wasn’t just the double-breasted jacket, the slicked-back hair, the pencil moustache. It was in his entire manner, the way he never quite met your eyes. His wife was the same. She was larger than him, with a louder voice. She wore too much make-up. Melissa remembered the first time she had seen her behind the bar at the Red Lion and that was exactly where she belonged. The two of them were about fifty years old. They had been married for a long time but had no children. In a way, they were reflections of each other, but in fairground mirrors that twisted and distorted the images almost beyond recognition.

  She decided to spring her trap. ‘I’ve been thinking about calling in a team of accountants,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lance Gardner looked at her with undisguised dismay.

  ‘I want someone from London to go over the books for the last two years: the income, all the outlays, the redecoration . . .’ she waved a hand ‘. . . the new switchboard. What I want is a complete audit.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Maureen and myself—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Gardner. I’m sure the two of you have done a terrific job. I’m only doing what’s sensible. We’re losing money and we don’t see how. If we’re going to make a profit, we need to find out.’

  ‘We do things our own way down here in Tawleigh, Miss James.’ Lance Gardner had fallen silent, so his wife took over. ‘For example, we always pay the fishermen in cash. That’s what they want and there are no receipts. And the last time Mr Hocking came in, we gave him dinner and a bottle of Scotch. He didn’t take a penny.’ Melissa vaguely remembered. Mr Hocking was a local electrician. ‘All I’m saying is,’ she went on, ‘I’m not sure a London firm would be able to help.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’ Melissa had known they would argue. She had been watching them carefully, waiting for it. ‘My mind is made up. I want you to start preparing for when they arrive.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ Lance asked. ‘Have you written to them yet?’

  ‘I’m going to write to them tomorrow. I imagine they’ll be here in a week or two. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve heard.’

  She got to her feet. She had said everything she wanted to say.

  Lance and Maureen Gardner stayed where they were.

  ‘Thank you very much.’ She had almost forgotten the letters. She snatched them up and took them with her as she left the room.

  There was a long silence. It was as if the Gardners were waiting to be sure that they were on their own.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Maureen asked. She looked nervous.

  ‘We don’t have anything to worry about. You heard what she said.’ Lance took a packet of cigarettes out of the desk drawer and lit one. ‘We’re doing a great job.’

  ‘These accountants of hers may not agree.’

  ‘These accountants may never appear. She hasn’t sent the letter yet and maybe she never will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maureen looked at her husband with horror in her eyes. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her. I’ll persuade her that hiring a bunch of city slickers is just throwing good money after bad. I’ll recommend someone local. Someone cheaper. I’m sure I can make her see sense.’

  ‘And what if she doesn’t listen to you?’

  Lance Gardner blew out smoke. It hung in the air around him. ‘Then I’ll think of something else . . .’

  * * *

  While Melissa had been driving towards the Moonflower, another car had been heading down the Braunton Road that skirted around Barnstaple, but going considerably faster. The car was French, a cream-coloured Peugeot, not a model that one would see very often on British roads, but it had been chosen carefully by its owner. It was more than a means of transport. It was a calling card.

  The man behind the wheel was relaxed, smoking a cigarette, even as the needle of his speedometer crept towards fifty. There were trees on either side of the road and they swept past, forming a green tunnel that he found strangely hypnotic. It was still raining and the windscreen wipers added to the sense of hypnotism, swinging left and right, left and right, like a pocket watch.

  He hadn’t realised how late it was. A long lunch at the golf club had turned into a marathon drinking session, the alcohol sneaked in through the back door of the private members’ room. He would have to stop and buy some peppermints before he got back to the house. His sister wouldn’t approve if she smelled whisky on his breath. And even though he was only staying there until the weekend, her husband, the jumped-up little doctor, was only waiting for an opportunity to ask him to leave.

  Algernon Marsh sighed. Things had been going so well until they had started going badly and then everything had turned upside down at once. He was in trouble and he knew it.

  But was any of it really his own fault?

  His parents had died in the first week of the Blitz. He had been just sixteen years old and although he had been nowhere near London at the time, he often felt that he had been a victim of the same bomb. After all, it had wiped out his home, the room where he slept, all his possessions, all his childhood memories. He and Samantha had moved in with their spinster aunt Joyce, and although she and Samantha had got on – well, it really had been like a house on fire, hadn’t it? – she and Algernon had never seen eye to eye.

  And so it had continued into adult life. Samantha had gone on to marry the doctor and had built a new life for herself with the house in Tawleigh, two children, nice neighbours, a seat on the local council. But after an undistinguished war, Algernon had bee
n lost in a great vacuum, on his own, with nothing to define him. Briefly he had flirted with some of the south London gangs – the Elephant Boys, the Brixton mob – but if he suspected he wasn’t cut out for serious crime, a three-month sentence for affray following a fight at the well-known Nut House in Piccadilly had confirmed it. After his release, he had become a shop assistant, a bookmaker, a door-to-door salesman and finally an estate agent, and it was in this last occupation that he had found his calling.

  For all his faults, Algernon was well spoken. He had been educated at a small private school in West Kensington and he could be charming and witty when he wanted to be. With his fair hair cut short and his matinée-idol good looks, he was naturally attractive, particularly to older women who took him at face value and didn’t make too many enquiries about his past. He still remembered buying his first suit on Savile Row. It had cost him much more than he could afford, but, like the car, it made a statement. When he walked into a room, people noticed him. When he talked, they listened.

  He had moved into property development. More than a hundred thousand buildings in London had been destroyed during the war and that translated into a major opportunity for construction and reconstruction. The trouble was, it was a crowded market and Algernon was only a small player.

  He had managed to buy himself a flat in Mayfair. He had one or two nice projects on the go. And then he had discovered the South of France and a place he had never heard of called St-Tropez. That was where the serious money was going. The whole coast was being turned into a pleasure ground for the rich, with five-star hotels, new apartment blocks, restaurants, marinas and casinos, and it would be perfect for the idea he had in mind; near enough for his clients to feel comfortable, but not too near for them to know what was actually going on. It had taken Algernon less than a minute to come up with the name of his new company: Sun Trap Holdings. He had travelled to France and come back with a smattering of French and a car that, fortunately, had the steering wheel on the right side. He was ready to begin.