Murder at the Manor Hotel

by Betty Rowlands

  His response was predictable. ‘We’ve got to get inside that garage. What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Having dinner with a member of the local CID,’ she said.

  His voice betrayed no reaction as he said, ‘Well, leave it till tomorrow. Saturday might be better; it’s the busiest night of the week so the Bellamys should be well tied up for the evening.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t suppose your policeman friend … ?’

  ‘No chance,’ Melissa interrupted firmly. ‘He’d only tell me what we already know – there’s nothing to justify an investigation.’

  ‘What about the damage to Stumpy’s van?’

  ‘Yes, and what about the damage to Stumpy’s face?’ she countered. ‘Forget it, Chris. Stumpy will stick to his story of a defective gas cylinder come hell or high water. He’s much more scared of Vic’s mob than of the police. By the way, what about asking Mitch to replace the van? After all …’

  ‘Don’t worry, he will. I’d already thought of that.’

  ‘That makes me feel a lot better.’

  ‘So, what time do we meet tomorrow? Ten o’clock?’

  Melissa hesitated. She thought of the ruthless treatment meted out to Stumpy and felt a fierce desire to help bring those responsible to justice. On the other hand, if they were caught, and could show no evidence of wrong-doing … She quailed at the thought of Ken Harris’s reaction.

  It was as if Chris could read her thoughts, even over the telephone. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got cold feet,’ he taunted her.

  ‘I’m just thinking of what DCI Harris would say. He’d go bananas if he knew what I’d been up to so far. Breaking and entering … accessory to actual bodily harm … he’d throw the book at me.’

  ‘Okay, okay. If you want to chicken out …’

  ‘I’m not chickening out,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’ll be there. Oh, guess who I saw in Stratford? Penelope de Lavier. She and her partner were getting their new branch ready for the big opening ceremony.’ Chris gave a contemptuous grunt as she added, ‘I got the distinct impression that Penelope intends to get Mitch to the altar.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ said Chris, with unusual feeling.

  ‘I gather she’s not your favourite person.’

  ‘Hard-nosed cow. She got the bread for her bloody shops, her bowteeks as she likes to call them, so why can’t she lay off? Dittany’s the girl for Mitch.’

  ‘I’d like to think so as well, but I wouldn’t write the Hon. Pen out of the script just yet.’

  ‘If Mitch marries that upper-class tart,’ said Chris, ‘it’ll be over my dead body.’ He sounded as if he meant it.

  At midday, Gloria left. Melissa watched the small red car bumping jerkily along the uneven track leading to the road, idly wondering if its cheerfully incompetent driver was ever going to learn clutch control … and whether it would be worth contacting her Stanley’s auntie with the object of finding out if she had any more specific reasons for doubting the integrity of Vic Bellamy. She decided that it probably would not, closed the front door and made a determined effort to dismiss the whole thing from her mind for at least twenty-four hours. She succeeded to such good effect that by the time she switched off her word processor at five o’clock and crawled wearily into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea, the plot of Dancing with Death had advanced by two red herrings and a dismembered corpse.

  At seven o’clock, Kenneth Harris arrived. Once again, she was struck by the subtle change in him. The air of world-weary cynicism that had always seemed to cling round him like a worn garment had fallen away with the superfluous weight; his smile of greeting held none of its former mockery.

  ‘You’ve got a new car,’ she commented as he opened the door of the dark blue Rover. ‘Are you pleased with it?’

  ‘I suppose so, but I quite miss the old Ford.’

  ‘Had you had it a long time?’

  ‘Ten years. Isobel used to nag me incessantly to change it. She’ll be livid when she finds out I did it the minute we parted.’

  The words were spoken with a chuckle, but something in his manner made Melissa ask, ‘Did it hurt much – losing Isobel?’

  He showed no sign of resenting the question, but he did not reply immediately. At last, he said, ‘I suppose no one likes being ditched for someone younger and better-looking, but if you mean, am I still in love with her, the answer’s no.’ He drew a breath and glanced sideways at her as if about to say something further, but changed his mind. They had reached the outskirts of Stowbridge before he spoke again.

  ‘This place I’m taking you to has only been open since July. A French restaurateur came to the Cotswolds for a holiday, fell in love with the area and decided to stay. He bought an old manor house and called it, would you believe, Le Vieux Manoir. They say the food is out of this world.’

  ‘“They” are absolutely right,’ said Melissa a couple of hours later. She swallowed the last mouthful of strawberry mousse with redcurrant sauce and laid down her spoon with regret. ‘That meal was so good, I wish we could go through it all over again.’

  ‘No reason why we shouldn’t,’ said Harris, his eyes twinkling in a way she had never seen before. ‘How about next Friday?’

  ‘I meant now.’

  ‘If that’s a challenge …’

  She laughed. ‘And do irreparable damage to the new, boyish figure?’

  ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  He gave the order, then leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. ‘Tell me,’ he said, in a casual tone that put her on immediate alert. ‘What did you mean by that crack about Heyshill Manor? Last night, when I asked where you’d like to eat,’ he went on as she hesitated.

  ‘Oh, that.’ She did her best to sound equally casual. ‘Well, it does have rather unpleasant associations.’

  ‘And yet you’ve been staying there.’

  She kept her eyes on the chocolate mint she was unwrapping and asked, ‘Who says I have?’

  ‘One of my officers was driving past yesterday morning and saw you waiting to come out. He mentioned it to me.’

  ‘I wonder why.’ She felt vaguely indignant, as if she had been kept under surveillance.

  ‘I’m not sure I ought to tell you this in a public place.’ The old mockery had crept back into his smile. ‘What he actually said, leaving out the adjectives, was, “It looks as if that crime writer friend of yours is looking into the Foley case for us.”’

  ‘Well, of all the cheek!’ She was on the point of pretending that she had merely called in at the hotel for mid-morning coffee on her way to Stratford, but decided against it. In certain circumstances, she could lie like a trooper with the best of them, but not to DCI Kenneth Harris, even when he was off duty. It was not so much a matter of scruple, as the impossibility of speaking anything but the truth in the face of his mind-reading gaze.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been doing anything foolish,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a “Foley case”,’ she countered truthfully. ‘Last time we spoke, you were careful to avoid suggesting there might be something suspicious about Will’s death.’

  ‘I’m still not suggesting that. We haven’t had the results of the tests yet.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘If you remember, I warned you the other day that the Richard Mitchells of this world aren’t always what they seem.’

  Melissa thought of Mitch’s insistence on running a clean ship, mentally contrasted it with Vic’s suspicious behaviour, and came to a decision. ‘Maybe not, and they aren’t the only ones,’ she said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Try this one for size. You remember my question about fitting a car with a dummy silencer?’ He nodded. ‘Know where I got the idea?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Vic Bellamy.’ She told him the story as far as Stumpy’s change of heart, followed by the discovery that the second exhaust pipe had suddenly vanished from Vic’s ca
r. When she had finished, he thought for a moment and then said, ‘Do you want any more coffee, or shall we go?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I didn’t really mean to talk shop this evening,’ he said when they were back in the car and heading for Upper Benbury. ‘But as it’s come up …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Do I have your word that what I’m going to tell you won’t go any further, Mel?’

  It was the first time he had used the contracted form of her name; immediately, it forged a bond between them.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘The officer I sent to Heyshill Manor to make a routine report on the accident to William Foley is what you might call an eager beaver. He noted that the cellar steps are steep and worn in places, that there was no guard rail across the top and the door had been left unlocked. He also spotted one or two other examples where safety measures seemed a bit slipshod, and added a recommendation that the matter be referred to the Health and Safety Inspectorate.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I passed the report – with a number of others – to my superintendent. It came back with an instruction to delete all references to a lack of proper safety precautions.’

  ‘I see.’ The implication of what he had just told her was enough to confirm what she already suspected: Vic Bellamy had powerful friends. ‘It might interest you to know,’ she added, ‘that there is now a shiny new guard rail at the top of the cellar steps, and an instruction that it must be in place at all times when the door is unlocked.’

  ‘That says it all, doesn’t it? A friendly warning instead of a formal summons. No bad publicity, which would be unfortunate though not a disaster, but more important, less chance of the deceased’s relatives bringing a successful claim for compensation.’

  ‘I think,’ said Melissa in a small voice, ‘you’re trying to tell me something.’

  They had reached Hawthorn Cottage. The brass carriage lantern in the porch spread a pool of yellow light on the gravelled drive. Harris cut the engine and turned to face Melissa.

  ‘Put it this way,’ he said. ‘It has been hinted that Victor Bellamy may have links with the criminal fraternity, but’ – he tapped a forefinger on the steering-wheel by way of emphasis – ‘it would take some pretty strong evidence to justify starting an enquiry. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘Do I understand,’ she asked, deliberately misunderstanding him, ‘that you’d like someone to provide you with such evidence?’

  ‘You understand no such thing.’ His eyes glittered angrily in the lamplight. ‘Don’t spoil a pleasant evening, Mel. Please, give me your word …’

  ‘Oh, Ken.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Can’t you tell when you’re having your leg pulled?’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s been lovely – thank you so much.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Very gently, he cupped her face in one hand and kissed her on the mouth. ‘Shall we do this again soon?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  She waited while he turned the car round and waved as he drove away. She smiled as she let herself into the cottage, thinking how neatly she had avoided giving any inconvenient promises. And it had been a lovely evening.

  Sixteen

  Melissa awoke the following morning with the sense of well-being that arises from a pleasant evening, spent in congenial company and followed by a night of restful sleep. She lay for several minutes drowsing in the warmth of the bedclothes, recalling odd snatches of her dinner-table conversation with Ken Harris. For the first time, they had discussed matters far removed from crime and police work, ranging from sport to politics and taking in travel, the environment, organic farming and the funding of the arts on the way.

  They had laughed, been serious, exchanged confidences. He had revealed how his youthful ambition to go to university had been frustrated by his father’s death and the need to find a job; she had told him how a course in creative writing had revealed a latent talent for crime fiction.

  She smiled to herself, snuggling under her duvet, at the memory of how Ken’s lumpy features had softened in sympathy on hearing of the tragedy that had left her with a fatherless son, and of the interest he had shown in Simon’s work with an American oil company. Her smile faded a little as she remembered the regret in his voice when he spoke of Isobel’s refusal to have children. ‘Although it mightn’t have been such a good idea,’ he had said philosophically. ‘Policemen don’t always make the best of fathers.’ She had swiftly responded, ‘I’m sure you would have done,’ and he had shrugged and changed the subject.

  Altogether, Melissa reflected, a very enjoyable evening. It could mark the start of a rewarding relationship. Provided, she warned herself, things didn’t get out of hand too quickly, as they had tended to do in the past. She should have learned that lesson by now.

  Her mind moved on to the journey home, and thence to tonight’s enterprise. Instantly, she was wide awake; her nerves tautened and her brain raced into top gear. What she and Chris were planning was, on the face of it, straightforward enough: a simple case of taking a look inside some rather suspicious premises – well, breaking and entering, if one were to be completely honest, but they did have reasonable cause to believe those premises were being used for something unlawful. Despite Ken Harris’s protests, she was pretty certain that firm evidence against Vic Bellamy would not be unwelcome; if the matter was sufficiently serious, his influential connections could hardly protect him against a thorough investigation. On the other hand, if it was something that he could wriggle out of with the help of a clever lawyer, they would have taken the risk for nothing. And there was a considerable risk, she reminded herself … perhaps, after all, there was another way of tackling it …

  ‘This,’ said Melissa aloud as she threw back the duvet and set her feet groping for her slippers, ‘is defeatist talk. Wasn’t there some old card player who used to say, “When in doubt, win the trick”? That’s what we’ll do, win the trick. With a bit of luck, we’ll win the rubber as well.’

  In this positive frame of mind, she went downstairs. It was a pleasant morning, overcast but mild with only a light breeze. After breakfast, feeling the need for fresh air and exercise, she spent an hour in the garden, raking up fallen leaves and transferring them to the compost heap that Iris insisted she maintain. She was interrupted by the warble of the telephone.

  Dittany was calling from Stowbridge library. ‘That book you wanted about medieval witchcraft has come in,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, great. I’ll call in and pick it up. What time do you close today?’

  ‘Twelve o’clock.’

  There was a flatness in the girl’s voice that made Melissa ask, ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You sound a bit low.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘I’ll see you presently, then.’ Melissa put down the phone and went upstairs to change.

  When she reached the library, she found Dittany seated in front of the microfiche viewer. Eric Pollard was bending over her, one hand on the table, speaking in a low voice. Dittany, her lips pressed together and her eyes fixed on the screen, shook her head. He put a hand on her arm and appeared to be pleading, but she flung it off and mouthed ‘No’ at him. Simultaneously, they saw Melissa approaching. Dittany switched off the machine and stood up to greet her; Eric, looking flushed and angry, brushed past with a curt nod.

  ‘Have I come at an awkward moment?’ asked Melissa.

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll get your book.’ Her face was pale, there were sooty smudges round her eyes and her smile, as she stamped the book and handed it over, was forced and lacking in animation.

  ‘You don’t look well,’ said Melissa. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?’

  Dittany drooped like a flower deprived of water. ‘In a way there is,’ she admitted.

  ‘Would it help to talk about it?’

  The girl fiddled with the electronic scanner. ‘I don’t wan
t to bore you with my problems.’

  ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Melissa had the feeling that tears were not far away. ‘Come and have lunch with me,’ she suggested. ‘It won’t be anything fancy, just some soup and cheese …’

  Dittany’s manner brightened a shade. ‘I’d like that, thank you so much!’

  They arranged to meet at the entrance to the car park. When Melissa reached it after a visit to the supermarket and a prolonged browse in a bookshop, Dittany was already there. Apart from offering to help with the laden carrier-bags, she hardly said a word. They agreed that she would follow Melissa and she returned to her own car.

  It was peak time for the morning shoppers to go home and Melissa had to wait for two or three minutes with her engine running while a stream of cars passed, most on their way to the exit, but a few looking for somewhere to park. Last in the line was the blue Renault.

  It swung into an empty space close to where Dittany was parked and a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit got out, locked the door and headed for the footpath leading to the town centre. Without hesitation, her heart thumping with excitement, Melissa switched off the ignition, leapt out of the Golf and rushed across to speak to Dittany.

  ‘You see that metallic blue car over there?’ she said urgently. ‘I have to find out who it belongs to. I can’t explain now – just wait here.’ Ignoring the girl’s look of bewilderment, she hurried off in pursuit of the driver of the Renault.

  The path led to a stone staircase and thence to a tunnel under the railway. By the time Melissa reached the top step, the woman was at the bottom and all but lost among crowds coming in the opposite direction. Almost deliberately, it seemed to Melissa, they fanned out across the width of the tunnel so that she had to thread her way between them, muttering excuses as she dodged push-chairs and bumped against bags of shopping.

  At the far end, a second stairway emerged into a modern shopping mall, air-conditioned and temperature-controlled under a domed glass roof. In the centre was a circular atrium with a fountain surrounded by potted shrubs. A wrought-iron spiral staircase led to a balcony café, from which subdued chatter and a rattle of cutlery floated down. Young people in sweatshirts and jeans stood around in groups smoking cigarettes, scampering children were being pursued by harassed, scolding mothers, families hurried along or drifted in and out of shops clutching parcels – but nowhere could Melissa see the woman she was following. She stood staring round, gnawing her lower lip in frustration, when someone greeted her by name. She turned and found herself face to face with Lady Charlotte Heighton.