Murder at the Manor Hotel

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Melissa, what a surprise! Charlie, this is Mel Craig, who wrote the show for Mitch’s birthday party – Charlotte Heighton.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you.’ Lady Charlotte brushed Melissa’s hand with her fingertips. ‘I wonder if you would care to join us for cocktails at our preview tomorrow evening?’ Her pronunciation had an almost mechanical perfection, as if each word had been individually cut and polished before being spoken.

  ‘Oh, yes, do come!’ urged Penelope. Melissa was conscious of two pairs of eyes appraising her plain tweed skirt and four-year-old car coat. ‘We’ll be showing some simply lovely clothes and I’m sure we can tempt you with something. By the way,’ she turned to her partner, ‘I spoke to Mitch this morning and he’s promised to be with us if his business commitments will allow.’

  ‘Of course, he will be with us.’ Lady Charlotte’s smooth delivery had acquired a jagged edge, faint but unmistakable. ‘It will be our first joint promotion since the start of our association, and a very significant occasion in more ways than one.’ Eyes like bluish-green marbles fixed Penelope with a gaze that was almost hypnotic. ‘He knows how important this is to you.’

  The two women exchanged confident, almost conspiratorial smiles which they then turned on Melissa, moving closer together as if to impress her with their combined strength. Like a pair of tigresses, she thought, taking control of their trainer in a bizarre reversal of rôles. It crossed her mind to wonder just what chance Dittany stood against these two. Penelope on her own was a rival to be reckoned with; backed up by Charlotte, who had all the makings of a scheming duenna, her advantage might prove overwhelming.

  ‘You will come, won’t you?’ they urged, almost in unison.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I have another engagement,’ said Melissa untruthfully and they responded with formal expressions of regret.

  ‘And what brings you to Stratford, Mrs Craig?’ asked Lady Charlotte. ‘Are you going to a Shakespeare matinée? That reminds me’ – she turned back to Penelope – ‘I have reserved a block of seats for the evening performance on Saturday. Twelfth Night – I believe dear Mitch will find it most enjoyable.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll love it,’ purred Penelope.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t delay you any longer,’ said Melissa, seizing the opportunity to escape without answering the question. ‘I hope the new branch is successful.’ Amid a flurry of polite exchanges, she went on her way.

  Over a lunch of quiche and salad in a cafeteria, she returned to her speculations over the possible significance of the quarry garage and the blue Renault. It was still not definitely established that it was the same car that Stumpy had noticed. If he had happened to spot the registration number, or if he could describe the shade of blue more accurately … people who worked with cars often got into the habit of noting such details … his workshop lay on her route home … it was worth a try. She finished her meal and hurried back to the car park.

  The first thing she noticed as she drew up outside the workshop was the silence. The raucous clamour of the transistor was missing. It might mean that Stumpy was out, but more probably he was in his caravan, eating a belated lunch. She walked behind the workshop to investigate, gave a horrified gasp and stopped dead in her tracks. The van was a burnt-out wreck.

  Her first reaction was one of terror – terror that Stumpy might not have been able to escape the flames, that what remained of his body might be lying inside the blackened ruin. Her heart thumped in her chest as she moved closer, shaking her head in shock and bewilderment on realising the extent of the destruction. Hardly anything was left of the van itself but the chassis and the twisted metal frame. With the exception of the little stainless-steel sink unit and the jagged fragments of a metal gas container, almost the entire contents had been reduced to a charred, unrecognisable mass – insufficient, she realised with relief, to conceal a corpse.

  She swung round on hearing a sound behind her. Stumpy had emerged from the workshop carrying a heavy spanner in one hand. His face, still discoloured and swollen from its encounter with the floor, wore an expression at first wary and apprehensive, swiftly changing to one of mingled anger and disbelief.

  ‘You!’ he exclaimed, his voice thick with fury. ‘You’ve got a nerve, showing yer face here!’ He took a step towards her, brandishing the spanner. ‘Get out, if you know what’s good for you.’

  She backed away in alarm, fearing he was going to attack her; then she saw that he was trembling. He was not so much angry as scared. It was hardly surprising in the circumstances.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t know things were going to get so rough,’ she said. Stumpy’s lip curled but he made no comment. ‘I didn’t expect you to be pleased to see me,’ she went on, ‘but there’s something else I need to know. It seems I couldn’t have come at a worse time.’ She gestured at the wrecked caravan. ‘How did it happen?’

  Stumpy fingered the spanner, avoiding her eye. ‘Gas cylinder blew up,’ he muttered.

  ‘How awful. Were you hurt?’ He shook his head, but she saw his knuckles whiten as he increased his grip. ‘What will you do? Are you insured?’

  ‘Insured?’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘Who’d insure that heap of junk? Besides,’ he added, almost to himself, ‘there’d be questions.’

  ‘What do you mean? What sort of questions?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it. And for pity’s sake, get out of here before …’

  ‘Before what?’ she asked, as the sentence remained unfinished.

  ‘Just leave me alone. Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?’ His glance slid past her to what had once been his home; then he turned on his heel and walked back towards the workshop, dragging his feet, a man cowed and defeated. ‘Go away, and don’t come back,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘But I only wanted to ask you a simple question,’ pleaded Melissa, hurrying after him. He quickened his step, reached the door first and slammed it in her face.

  ‘I don’t know nothing,’ he shouted from inside.

  ‘But I only want to …’

  ‘I’m not saying another word.’ His voice was breathless, vibrating with fear. ‘I don’t care if you and that sod come back with half a dozen Rottweilers, you’ll get nothing out of me.’

  There was no point in pressing him. Frustrated yet again, Melissa marched off without troubling to pick her way through the mud left by last night’s rain. She glanced down at her shoes as she opened the car door and muttered an angry exclamation at seeing the state they were in. ‘That’s the second pair I’ve mucked up in two days,’ she grumbled aloud as she wiped away the yellowish deposit with a rag.

  The second pair! Her mind switched to the previous evening. Vic Bellamy had been at the reception desk when she got back; he had glanced at her feet and made some wisecrack about ghost-hunting. He would know that she could not have picked up that particular shade of mud anywhere near the hotel; he must have guessed where she had been. It was odds on he had been to see Stumpy and frightened him into admitting that he had disobeyed orders. Stumpy had given a defective gas bottle as the cause of the fire, but she had had her doubts at the time; now she was certain. The burnt-out caravan was to serve as both punishment and warning.

  Melissa drove back to Hawthorn Cottage feeling cold, miserable and sick. The whole enterprise was a shambles; as a result of her meddling, a man who was trying to make an honest living and had acted in good faith, had been roughly handled and had his home destroyed. Even though she felt certain in her own mind that Vic Bellamy was behind Stumpy’s misfortunes and – as Mitch had been maintaining all along – that he was involved in some very shady activities, she had nothing, not one shred of hard evidence, to show for her efforts.

  Her mood of pessimism took a further knock when she got indoors and found a note on the hall table. It read, ‘Gone to a private viewing in London, staying till Sunday,’ and was signed with the initials I.A. entwined in an elegant monogram. Underneath was scribbled,
‘PS Gloria swapped days, coming to you Friday.’

  ‘Damn!’ said Melissa. She had been looking forward to a comfortable chat with Iris. On second thoughts, it might not have been so comfortable. Iris had very firmly warned her against becoming involved with Mitch’s scheme.

  She cheered up on re-reading the postscript. Apart from her amazing capacity to get through housework in record time, Gloria Parkin’s bouncy good humour, combined with an insatiable appetite for gossip, were guaranteed to lift the lowest of spirits. Already, as she went upstairs to unpack, Melissa felt more optimistic.

  She brewed some tea while considering whether to call Chris, and if so, how much to tell him. She had no doubt that, if he knew the full story, he would be only too willing to try to break into the quarry garage. Excitement at the thought made her nerve-ends tingle; once more, common sense and the resolve to opt for a quiet life were in retreat, beaten back by relentless curiosity. She rinsed out her cup and picked up the phone.

  Mr Bright, she learned from the secretary, was not there; he had driven to London to meet Mr Mitchell and they would not return until late. When Melissa enquired if that meant they would miss tonight’s rehearsal, she was informed that it had been cancelled.

  While she was trying to decide how to spend her evening, the telephone rang; Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris was on the line.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get you for a couple of days,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been away since Tuesday. Is it something important?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ There was a momentary pause; then he said, ‘About that date we spoke about …’ and left the words hanging in the air in a way quite unlike his normal businesslike approach.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘I was wondering … are you free for dinner tomorrow?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’ She did not have to simulate the pleasure she could hear in her own voice, and she was aware of the tension leaving his as he said, ‘There’s a new French restaurant opened recently in Stowbridge. I’m told it’s very good.’

  ‘I don’t mind where we go as long as it’s not Heyshill Manor.’

  Fifteen

  The following morning, Melissa got up at her usual time. She ate her breakfast of cereal and toast standing by her kitchen window, admiring the view and thinking how good it was to be home. The sun was shining from a clear sky; a touch of overnight frost was rapidly disappearing, except for a few patches of rime lying like spilt sugar in the shade of the hedgerows. The valley bottom was a shallow sea of mist, out of which trees and bushes rose like the turrets and domes of a miniature city, tinted bronze and gold.

  There was a yowl and a thump as Binkie landed on the window-sill and demanded admission. Melissa opened the back door and he rushed in, at first coiling himself round her legs in ecstatic loops and purring hysterically, then padding over to the refrigerator and back, fixing her with pleading yellow eyes.

  ‘Don’t try and kid me you’re starving,’ she admonished him. ‘I know jolly well Iris has organised your food. Oh, all right, I’ll give you some milk.’ She put a saucer on the floor and the cat settled down to drink while she poured a second cup of coffee and began planning her day.

  She really should get back to her novel. She was behind schedule; any time now, Joe would be on the line demanding a progress report. Resisting the temptation to go out for a walk, she went up to her study and began re-reading the early chapters, with Binkie snoozing on her lap.

  An hour later, Gloria arrived, her moon face pink with the cold, her plump body encased in a quilted anorak patterned with flowers. ‘My Stanley got it for me off a friend what runs a stall in Gloucester market,’ she explained, in response to Melissa’s admiring comment. She took it off and handed it over for inspection, accompanied by a wave of unfamiliar fragrance.

  ‘New perfume?’ asked Melissa, sniffing.

  Gloria nodded her blonde head, currently a mass of crimped curls. ‘It’s from the Green Shop,’ she said. ‘En-viron-mentally friendly.’ She pronounced the unfamiliar word with care. ‘The kids have been doing this project at school about saving the rain forests, see, and I thought I’d better show willing.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Melissa. She had a feeling that Gloria was getting her causes muddled but to point out the distinction might lead to a time-consuming discussion. ‘Well, I suppose we’d both better get down to work. I’ll be in the study if you need anything.’

  Gloria rolled up her sleeves. ‘See you at coffee-time.’

  On the stroke of eleven, she re-entered the kitchen, peeling off her rubber gloves. She washed her hands at the sink and perched on a stool to drink the coffee Melissa had just made.

  ‘Miss Ash says you’ve bin staying at a fancy hotel,’ she remarked. ‘In London, were it?’

  ‘No, Heyshill Manor, the other side of Cheltenham. It’s a very historic house, like the one I’m writing about in my new book. I was doing some research.’

  ‘Oooh, my! That were a nasty accident, when that gentleman fell down the cellar steps. Was you there?’

  Melissa evaded the question, unwilling to supply the gory details Gloria would surely expect. ‘How did you hear about that?’

  ‘My Stanley’s auntie works there.’

  ‘Really?’

  Gloria nodded, setting the curls bouncing. ‘Auntie Muriel. Bit of a come-down for her, doing domestic work after being a lady’s maid, but she don’t complain. She does for Mrs Bellamy, the manager’s wife, twice a week in her private flat.’ A husky giggle erupted unexpectedly from Gloria’s corsage and the twinkle in her toffee-brown eyes was like a nudge in the ribs. ‘Mrs B.’ll do for her, if she finds out about the picture she broke yesterday.’

  ‘Oh dear, how did that happen?’

  ‘Fell on the floor while she were dusting it. Glass everywhere. If Mrs B. had been there, she’d have had a fit. You like to know what Auntie did?’ Gloria wriggled on her stool, dying to tell. Melissa nodded, resigned to the fact that, like it or not, she was going to hear.

  ‘She took another picture about the same size from the spare room and hung it in its place. Then she sneaked the one that got broke out in her shopping bag. She reckons she’ll get away with it while it’s being mended ’cos Mr and Mrs B. got no one staying just now and they only uses the dining-room when there’s posh visitors – they mostly eats in the kitchen like us. Clever, weren’t it?’

  ‘Very clever,’ agreed Melissa. Nine people out of ten would be found out in such an obvious piece of substitution but, knowing how close Gloria’s husband sailed to the wind in running his second-hand car business and how rarely his peccadilloes came to light, she suspected that Auntie Muriel would get away with it. That sort of luck tended to run in families.

  ‘Fancy you staying at Heyshill,’ said Gloria. ‘I’ll bet you got all they stories about Battling Bess and her mates.’

  ‘I did indeed. Has Auntie Muriel ever heard the ghosts talking?’

  ‘Course not.’ The curls quivered in scorn. ‘Loada rubbish, innit?’

  ‘A lot of people seem to believe in it. Janice says none of the staff’ll go down in the cellar at night if they can help it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Auntie Muriel says’ – here Gloria paused to take a noisy swallow from her mug – ‘she thinks Mr Bellamy maybe puts they stories around ’cos he keeps something hidden there. She reckons he might be a crook.’

  ‘Whatever makes her think that?’ Melissa found herself beginning to take an interest in Auntie Muriel.

  Gloria selected a chocolate wafer and crunched it between her small white teeth. ‘Dunno really, ’cept he’s in with the local big-wigs and they’re all on the fiddle, ain’t they?’

  ‘I don’t think you should say things like that,’ said Melissa primly, remembering that, should she be rash enough to agree with any of Gloria’s wilder assertions, she was liable to be quoted. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Bellamy showed me round the cellar yesterday morning and there’s n
owhere he could hide anything.’

  ‘Oh!’ Gloria’s moon face fell, then brightened as she remembered something else. ‘Tell you what, though. He once came to my Stanley’s showroom, looking for a big American car. Offered cash on the nail.’

  ‘Really?’ Melissa’s flagging interest was once more aroused, but she kept her voice casual as she asked, ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Gloria brushed biscuit crumbs from her blouse. ‘Couple of months maybe.’

  ‘Did your Stanley sell him a car?’

  ‘’Fraid not, he didn’t have nothing suitable.’

  They finished their coffee. Gloria rinsed the mugs and returned to her cleaning duties. Melissa went back to her study and tried to continue work on Dancing with Death, but found her concentration had been disrupted by what she had just heard. It was significant that Mitch was not the only one to have doubts about Vic Bellamy. However, the fact that he was ‘in with the local big-wigs’ who, Gloria claimed – probably with some justification – were ‘all on the fiddle’, would hardly support an application for a warrant to search the premises. On the contrary, when dealing with individuals who had friends in high places, any police officer with an eye to promotion would need to watch his step with more than usual care.

  A succession of telephone calls distracted her still further: first the anticipated lecture from Joe, once more reminding her of her deadline; then a request to give a talk to a local branch of the Women’s Institute and an invitation to a charity coffee morning in the village. When the phone rang yet again, she swore aloud as she reached for the receiver.

  ‘Hello!’ she snapped.

  ‘What’s up with you, then?’ asked Chris.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bark, but you’re the fourth person to ring in half an hour, and I do have this novel I’m trying to write.’

  ‘I was just returning your call. We can make it some other time if you like.’

  ‘No, I wanted to talk to you.’ She gave him an account of the previous day’s adventures.