Murder at the Manor Hotel

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘I think we must have gone past it,’ she whispered.

  ‘Maybe this guy’ll show us.’ In the distance, two pinpricks of light had appeared, rapidly growing in size and intensity. Melissa felt herself grabbed and pulled behind a tree. She cowered against the trunk as the car approached, headlamps blazing, heading straight towards them. Half blinded, for one terror-stricken moment she thought some drunken driver was about to run them down. She had forgotten the bend in the road; reaching it, the car swung away, receded and vanished.

  ‘You’re right, we had gone past.’ Chris set off, back the way they had come. He had remained calm, taking advantage of the car’s lights to determine their position; all she had done was cover her eyes and pray. She was going to pieces, she shouldn’t have agreed to this, it wasn’t too late to back out and tell Chris to go ahead on his own. Then she reminded herself of the treatment meted out to Stumpy. Even though she had played no active part in the violence, she could not entirely escape responsibility for what he had suffered. She owed it to him to do something to bring the perpetrators to justice. Gritting her teeth, she stumbled along behind Chris.

  They found the entrance; within a few strides they came to a bank that shielded them from the road. There was barely enough light to distinguish the track itself from the tangle of undergrowth on either side. Chris switched on his torch, masked as before. The yellowish gleam picked out the heavy metal gate. It was open.

  ‘Looks as if something’s going on,’ he muttered, switching off the torch. ‘Keep to the edge of the track and be ready to duck behind the bushes.’

  He crept forward, stealthily, pausing every two or three strides. Melissa could just make out his shape against the grey background of the quarry wall. Khan was keeping close; now and again she felt his body brush against her legs. They must be nearly there.

  A few more steps and Chris came to an abrupt halt. A hairline of light betrayed the position of the garage door, only a few metres away. He reached out, drew Melissa towards him and put his lips close to her ear.

  ‘Where’s the best place to hide?’ he whispered.

  ‘There are some bushes … but you’ll have to shine the torch or we’ll never find them.’

  ‘Too risky.’

  ‘Then, close up against the wall, to the right of the door. I remember a clump of elder – we can get behind that.’

  ‘You lead the way. Get a move on, I think they’re coming out.’ While they were speaking, the thin streak of light had disappeared and from inside the garage came the sound of a car door slamming. Trusting blindly to Providence, Melissa dashed forward; by a miracle, her outstretched hands encountered the ivy-covered wall. She inched sideways, groping, until they closed over rough branches. Blindly feeling her way, arms raised to protect her face from the invisible curtain of foliage, she caught her foot in a trail of bramble and stumbled, striking her shoulder against solid rock. She leaned against the wall with her eyes closed, waiting for the pain to subside, while her heart hammered in her chest like a demented woodpecker trying to get out.

  ‘You okay?’ whispered Chris as he eased himself into position beside her.

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Don’t move a muscle. Khan, stay.’

  A succession of sounds indicated the garage door opening, a car starting up, moving forward and stopping, followed by the garage door being quietly closed. Then a slight figure came into view, carrying a torch.

  ‘Looks like a woman,’ breathed Chris. ‘Is it Kim?’

  ‘Could be. Too dark to tell.’

  Without lights, the car crept forward at a snail’s pace, the woman walking ahead with the torch to guide it. In a few seconds, they had both vanished; soon after came a faint, metallic clang as the gate was closed and the noise of the engine faded as the car was driven away.

  ‘We’ll wait a bit, in case she comes back,’ said Chris.

  The minutes dragged by. Finally he said, ‘She’s been gone five minutes. Let’s chance it,’ and left their hiding-place, leaving Melissa to make her own way. She joined him in front of the garage door and found him examining it by the dim light of his masked torch.

  ‘Piece of cake,’ he said. ‘Hold this.’ He took from his pocket a bunch of small metal keys and, while Melissa shone the light on the lock, tried several before finding one that fitted. ‘Okay, stand clear.’

  The bottom of the door swung upwards. Holding it at shoulder level, Chris signalled to Melissa to duck underneath. Stationing Khan in the shadows with the command, ‘Guard,’ he followed her inside and eased the door downwards until the latch clicked shut.

  He unmasked the torch and began a systematic, clockwise examination of the interior: first the floor, then the walls and finally the ceiling. He repeated the operation in reverse order, then a third time; with each successive sweep the beam moved faster and more erratically, reflecting the growing frustration of the searcher. Finally his hand fell to his side; in the ring of light thrown upwards from the bare concrete floor, the two sleuths exchanged glances of utter dejection.

  Against the wall facing the door stood a set of shelves containing a small assortment of items a mechanic might use: spanners, an oil-can, an inspection lamp, a pair of heavy gloves and a heap of clean rag. On the floor beside it was a flat wooden pallet, mounted on castors. A set of overalls hung from a nail driven into the brick wall and beneath it was a scuffed pair of men’s shoes. Otherwise, the place was empty.

  ‘Shit!’ said Chris. ‘All that for nothing.’

  Melissa shook her head in disbelief. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she said.

  ‘Huh!’ Whether it made sense or not, Chris was clearly ready to admit failure. ‘Might as well pack it in,’ he said morosely.

  ‘No, wait a minute.’ From the moment she realised that nothing was stored in the garage, Melissa had begun to consider other possibilities. ‘Chris, if you wanted to hide something worth thousands, maybe tens of thousands of pounds, would you keep it in here?’

  ‘Why not? It’s safe enough … out of the way …’

  ‘And a doddle to break into,’ she pointed out. ‘All it took was a bunch of skeleton keys and a little know-how.’

  ‘Yeah, well … there isn’t anything, is there?’

  ‘No, but we’re pretty sure there has been at some time, aren’t we? Where did it come from?’

  ‘Must be kept somewhere else.’

  ‘Then why isn’t it collected from somewhere else?’

  Chris shrugged. ‘Search me.’ He made a move towards the door but Melissa stayed where she was. Her mind had flown back to her walk with Mrs Clifford when, from their vantage point on the opposite side of the quarry, the two of them had deduced that the cloisters of the old priory originally extended beneath what was now the Bellamys’ garden. The fact that all but the part now used as a cellar had been bricked up long ago, probably because it was unsafe, did not rule out the possibility of a passage between the quarry garage and the existing building. It might have been unearthed during the renovations carried out by the previous owner, but never pointed out to Mitch when he bought the place.

  The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. If someone had been using the passage when Dandie strayed on to the Bellamys’ lawn, he might have sensed their movements. The closing of the garage door would be likely to set up vibrations in a confined space, easily detectable by a dog’s keen ears. It was certainly a more likely explanation than the presence of ghosts. But if there was a passage, there had to be an entrance.

  Chris was becoming restive. ‘What’re we hanging around for?’ he demanded.

  ‘Be quiet a moment, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Oh, pardon me.’

  ‘That pallet,’ she said, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice. ‘What do you suppose it’s for?’

  ‘To work under the car,’ said Chris, in the manner a teacher might adopt before a class of five-year-olds. ‘You lift it up on the jack, lie on the pallet …’

  ‘I had figured
that out.’ Melissa kept her tone even. ‘What I’m getting at is, how much car maintenance could you do with a couple of spanners and an oil-can?’

  Chris scratched his chin. ‘Not a lot,’ he admitted.

  ‘Exactly. No one’s done any major car repairs in this garage; if they had, there’d be oil stains on the floor and loads more equipment. Doesn’t that suggest anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘Search me,’ he repeated.

  ‘How do you suppose Vic – or whoever does it – inserts whatever it is into that gadget Stumpy fitted?’

  Comprehension dawned. ‘Of course, he’d have to get underneath the car.’

  ‘Right. That’s one question answered. Now why, I wonder, do they need so much shelving for half a dozen items? That thing must be at least six feet high.’

  ‘Just happened to have it, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Shine the light over here, will you? I want to take a closer look.’

  The unit was constructed of painted metal, reinforced at the back and sides with solid panels, the whole mounted on heavy-duty castors. Marks on the floor suggested that it had at some time been rolled or dragged to one side.

  Melissa tugged at the front uprights, but the structure had a solid feel, as if it was screwed to the wall. She began groping among the things on the shelves; behind the pile of rags, she found a knurled nut and at the other end of the same shelf, concealed by a can of oil, was another. With a hand that trembled, she grasped one and gave it an anticlockwise twist. It turned easily.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ demanded Chris.

  ‘You’ll see in a minute. Undo that other nut.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  He stood the torch on the floor and did as she asked, but she could tell from his manner that he considered the exercise a complete waste of time.

  The nuts came away, leaving two bolts protruding through holes in the rear panel. Melissa tugged again at the framework; this time it wobbled slightly, but still did not budge. She glanced at Chris; the light, shining upwards on his pug-like features, gave an almost satanic quality to his expression.

  ‘Stop smirking and give me a hand,’ she said crossly.

  With a shrug, he obeyed. After an initial resistance, the heavy structure rolled forward. When it was clear of the bolts they dragged it sideways, uncovering a heavy metal door.

  ‘Well, bugger me,’ said Chris. ‘How did you work that one out?’

  Melissa tapped her forehead. ‘By using ze little grey cells,’ she said sweetly.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Oh, never mind.’

  The door had a metal bar for a handle; Melissa grasped it and pressed it downwards, but it would not move. She tried pushing it upwards, with the same result. Chris, looking smug, silently jabbed a finger towards something that in her triumph she had missed – a small panel sunk into the brickwork at right angles to the door and bearing the digits zero to nine.

  ‘And for your next trick …’ he taunted her. ‘You’ll need a crystal ball to figure this one out.’ His tone had a hint of mockery but she sensed that his disappointment was as keen as her own.

  ‘The last time I saw one of these was in a hotel in France,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It was on a small safe; there was one in every room. You had to make up your own six-digit combination and preset it.’

  ‘What happened if you forgot the combination?’

  ‘I did what most people do – used my own phone number to make sure I wouldn’t.’ A spark of hope flickered. ‘I wonder if that’s what’s been done here.’

  ‘You going to come back with a telephone directory?’

  ‘I mean,’ she said crushingly, ‘perhaps they’ve used the number of the hotel. Do you know it?’

  ‘Got it here.’ He pulled out a notebook and held it to the light. ‘It’s 325400.’

  ‘Right. Shine the torch over here, please.’

  She punched in the digits; each one emitted an electronic bleep, but when she tried the handle it stayed firmly in place. She bit her lip in disappointment.

  ‘I suppose it was too much to hope for – it would have been a bit daft to use such an obvious number. We could be here for a week and not hit on the right combination. At least,’ she added philosophically, ‘we can be sure there’s something hidden in there. We’d better put everything back.’

  They began to lug the shelving into place when Chris said, ‘Try Vic Bellamy’s private number – it’s ex-directory.’

  Melissa rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Now he tells me! Okay, what is it?’

  He thumbed through his notebook again. ‘329133.’

  Holding her breath, she tried again. As she depressed the final 3, there was a buzz and a faint click. She grabbed at the handle as if afraid it would vanish before her eyes and pulled it down. The heavy door swung open.

  Eighteen

  The first thing that struck them was the rise in temperature. In the garage, they had shivered; in here, the absence of chill made it feel almost warm. Some kind of floor covering deadened the sound of their feet. Chris swung the torch to and fro as they made their tour of exploration, treading slowly, almost holding their breath as if tiptoeing round a sleeping giant.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Melissa. ‘I can’t believe I’m seeing this.’

  They were indeed in another part of the crypt. The torchlight revealed a double line of four-sided, whitewashed pillars, identical to those in the cellar and dividing the space into three aisles that ran longitudinally from the entrance. The slowly moving beam revealed that on every visible face of every pillar hung at least one and in some cases two or three paintings, many of them quite small; the walls were hung with larger pictures, some in antique gilded frames. Most were in oils, but there were a few water-colours; the subjects ranged from portraits, still-life studies and interiors to landscapes, street scenes and religious themes. Several, Melissa recognised as the work of famous artists; each one, she suspected, had formed part of a recently raided collection.

  Along the centre aisle was a glass-topped showcase containing enough plunder to fill the treasure chest of a pirate in a fairy tale. As the torchlight glittered on gold and silver jewellery, ornaments and artefacts studded with precious stones, all neatly arranged, she murmured dazedly, ‘There’s a fortune here.’

  ‘Vic Bellamy must run some racket to pay for this lot,’ commented Chris. ‘Wonder if he charges admission.’

  Melissa gaped at him. ‘Chris, don’t you understand? This is the racket. I’ll bet you a year’s royalties that every piece and every picture is hot.’

  ‘You reckon?’ He rubbed his hands in glee. ‘Cor, so we’ve cracked it! Wait till Mitch hears – he’ll crucify Vic!’

  ‘He’ll do no such thing. This is a matter for the police, Interpol too, if Vic’s been smuggling stuff out of the country in that false silencer.’

  ‘It ain’t big enough to hold that.’ Chris nodded towards a painting of the Nativity, considerably larger than the rest.

  ‘It might be, if it was taken out of the frame and rolled up, although I guess the gang have got more than one method of shifting their loot.’ At the word ‘gang’, a chilly wave of apprehension ran through Melissa’s body. ‘We’d better get out of here,’ she said. ‘That electronic lock could be wired up to some sort of alarm signal.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I never thought of that.’ Chris was on his way back to the garage before she had finished speaking and she sprinted after him. They closed the door behind them, heard the buzz and click as the lock was activated, grabbed the shelving unit and shoved it back into position. In silence, with thumping hearts, they screwed back the knurled nuts, cursing when the threads failed to engage at the first attempt, hurriedly replacing the items that had hidden them.

  ‘Let’s hope there isn’t a reception committee outside,’ muttered Melissa. Her mouth was dry and her heart felt as if it would leap out of her throat as Chris slowly raised the outer door.

  ‘
Don’t worry. Khan would have let us know,’ he whispered.

  ‘I hope to God you’re right.’

  There was no one there. Chris gave a soft whistle and the black shape came padding silently out of the shadows.

  ‘On your way,’ he hissed in Melissa’s ear. ‘If you hear anyone coming, make for cover, fall flat and cover your face.’

  They were almost in sight of the gate when a flash of lights and the sound of an approaching car made them stop short.

  ‘Hide!’ said Chris in an urgent whisper but Melissa had already plunged into the undergrowth at the side of the track. She missed her footing and choked back a cry of alarm as she toppled sideways, landing heavily but unhurt in a dry ditch with Khan at her side. It was lighter now; the cloud had thinned a little and she had a momentary view of the soles of Chris’s boots a yard from her nose before burying her face on her folded arms.

  The car had stopped a short distance away, but they could still hear the engine running. There was a grating sound as the metal gate was unlocked and then it came on again in a rush, the wheels passing within a couple of metres of their hiding-place, flinging up loose gravel that fell in a gritty shower over them as it swept by. Moments later came the sound of the garage door being lifted. Melissa held her breath as the seconds ticked away; hearing a movement, she raised her head to see Chris peering over the edge of the ditch, cautiously parting the bushes. Then came a faint metallic clang as the door closed.

  ‘They’ve gone inside. Run for it!’ Chris leapt to his feet and led the way; Melissa scrambled up and raced after him. With Khan at their heels, they tore along the track, through the open gate and on towards the road. They reached it as a stream of cars approached from both directions; each second that they had to wait for an opportunity to cross seemed like an eternity. They ran like hares to where the Jaguar stood, half hidden in the field entrance, and all but fell inside. The engine roared as Chris sent the powerful car streaking away as if they were competing in a rally. It was several minutes before he spoke.