‘They’re not happy, sir.’
‘Neither’s the bloke in there,’ snapped Doherty, having not quite swallowed the flash of nostalgia. He nodded in the direction of the arched doorway behind them. ‘In fact he’s a damn sight less happy than they are, seeing as he’s dead!’
The young copper had guts if nothing else. He persisted. ‘Yes, sir. They’re saying that they’ve paid their money and you can’t stop them from coming in.’
Doherty raised one eyebrow in disbelief. ‘Oh, do they now!’
A sheepish expression came to the young police officer’s face. ‘Thing is, sir, they’ve got to stay somewhere overnight and they can’t sleep in the coach. They do have a point, sir. We do have a duty of care. After all, some of them are getting on a bit.’
Doherty scowled. There had to be a solution, though it was hardly his job to find the coach party rooms for the night. He wasn’t a hotelier, for Christ’s sake!
Jonesy paused. ‘I hear that this place belongs to a Russian, sir.’
‘That’s right,’ returned Doherty. Tanya, the girl in charge of reception, had told him so.
‘They seem to be all over the place nowadays, don’t they – owning football clubs and that.’
Doherty didn’t answer. So the Russian preferred a hotel to a football club? There was nothing wrong in that.
‘There’s an old lady living in the cottage across the road. It’s set up a bit on a tump so I thought she might have seen something. I went over and asked her.’
‘And?’
‘She looked at me as though I was gaga.’
Doherty looked across the road to the cottage. His constable was right. The cottage was built on raised ground, the upstairs windows having a particularly good view.
‘As long as you reassured her there was nothing to worry about.’
‘I did, sir.’
It came to Doherty that he’d stayed in a few hotels himself – professionally and for pleasure. Looking up at the sixteenth-century façade he wouldn’t mind staying in this one. He loved old places. They had atmosphere, better than a modern place with plate glass and minimalist decor. He wanted to stay here. That was why he’d defied his usual habit and bought a raffle ticket. The tickets were on sale at the reception desk, the proceeds going to charity. The prize was luxury accommodation for two with all the trimmings.
Constable Jones was nothing if not observant.
‘Did you see the raffle tickets, sir? A fiver. Wouldn’t catch me paying all that for a raffle ticket. Mad!’
‘We’re not here to discuss the price of a raffle ticket, Jonesy,’ said Doherty. Eyeing the near-to-rioting senior citizens, he swiftly shoved the ticket he’d purchased into his pocket. A night of luxury for two! Now what would Honey think about that? The hotel was running on low revs at the moment, what with the refurbishment. She had no excuse to say no.
Standing on top of the steps outside the main entrance, he had a good view of the single-track road winding up through St Margaret’s Valley. It was a beautiful valley, narrow, green and sparsely dotted with desirable residences of large proportions, complete with big driveways and a stable or two at the rear.
The view at this moment couldn’t be better. In fact what he saw made his jaw – which had clenched almost painfully – now relax.
A pink Cadillac was nosing its way none too carefully or slowly up through the valley. The cavalry had arrived.
Mary Jane stayed at the bottom of the steps. Once the Americans on board recognized one of their own, she was swamped with complaints and questions.
Honey was accompanied up the steps by the young constable to where Doherty stood at the top. She tried to read the look on his face. Not possible. It was serious, as it always was when there was a job to be done.
‘You’re looking pale,’ Doherty observed.
‘What do you expect? My car’s in for a service, so Mary Jane brought me here. I’ll be fine after a few seconds on terra firma.’
Mary Jane and her car were becoming famous. It wasn’t a big sedan, with dinner-plate stoplights and a canyon-wide front radiator grille, but a simple little Cadillac coupé dating from 1961 – and pink – a delicate shade of pink. Mary Jane’s driving was famous in its own right. So far she’d been lucky. Either that or the local traffic police didn’t want the hassle of filling out a load of forms. The fact was that Mary Jane’s driving was hair-raising but the car had never been involved in an accident. In fact it seemed to lead a charmed life, and Mary Jane took great care of it. She loved her car. She wanted it to last.
Honey was OK with that. She merely wanted to live longer herself.
She followed Doherty through the oak-panelled reception room over black and white Dutch tiles. Spotlights were trained on medieval tapestries, suits of armour, and pewter plate. St Margaret’s was Grade I listed. In the right light, at the right time, it was easy to imagine ladies in Elizabethan bodices and bearded gents in doublet and hose peopling the hall.
‘This way,’ said Doherty.
She followed him along a panelled corridor, their footsteps accompanied by the squeaking of ancient oak floorboards.
Forensics had just finished. The bathroom was luxurious in the old-fashioned way. The tub was enormous and supported on brass claws. The tiles were dark green and looked Victorian. A polished brass water pipe connected the willow-patterned lavatory pan to its overhead cistern; beautifully period, though perhaps not too practical on the cleaning front. She noticed the pull chain was missing.
The window was wide open. A panel of glass was missing and broken bits were scattered on the floor. Doherty pulled it closed.
‘The manager was called to open the door with his set of keys but couldn’t. The bathroom was bolted from the inside.’
So who discovered him?’
‘Scaffolders. They were putting up scaffolding in this section so the stonemasons could repair some of the mullions. The bloke nearly fell off his own scaffolding when he looked through the window.’
‘Method of death?’ she asked.
‘Philippe Fabiere was choked with the handle of the lavatory chain. It was lozenge-shaped, made of willow-patterned china from the Wedgwood factory – according to Forensics that is.’
Visualizing Philippe – someone she knew quite well – with a lavatory handle and chain stuck in his windpipe sickened her. As a result she said something stupid.
‘No chance of him having done it himself then.’
Doherty looked at her askance, one eyebrow up, one corner of his mouth down; as though she might have an angle on this that he hadn’t considered. He decided not.
‘No chance. Not unless he had an odd penchant for eating vitreous china. Someone bent him backwards over the lavatory pan and tore the chain down. Somebody strong. There are bruises at the side of his neck. Loads of fingerprints, of course. It is a communal lavatory.’
‘What a shame! Philippe directed his revamps like the theatre producer he used to be. He had a full cast. And the bolt?’
Doherty was examining the bolt that had been so firmly locked. He frowned as he shook his head. ‘Wiped clean.’
‘So definitely murder, but how come the door was locked and the bolt pulled across?’
Honey could see that Doherty was not best pleased. He was scowling at the bolt as though it, and it alone, was responsible for the dastardly deed.
He muttered, ‘A bolted empty room except for a dead body. Reads like a bloody Agatha Christie novel.’ He slid the bolt backwards and forwards then rubbed finger against thumb. ‘Grease.’
‘Vaseline,’ said someone from forensics. ‘Helps it run more smoothly. Not that it didn’t run smoothly anyway. It’s a pretty old bolt. A new one would be a bit stiff. But not this one.’
Honey shrugged. ‘So?’
‘No doubt somebody will inform me exactly how it was done,’ said Doherty. He said it as though the police had all the answers – which she doubted.
Honey had her own ace of wonders. ‘I’
ll ask Lindsey. She’s good at puzzles.’
‘I’ll find out before you do.’
‘Would you like to bet on that?’
‘Ten pounds.’
‘You’re on.’
She shivered again as she walked back through the elegant reception hall where lords and ladies had once dined and danced. This time it had nothing to do with old ghosts but the manner of Philippe’s demise. Being choked to death with the handle of a lavatory flush – even an antique one – was pretty macabre. Thank goodness the body had been removed before she’d got there.
‘So how about his competitors?’
‘Two main ones.’ She gave him the names Casper had given her. ‘He expects an early arrest,’ she added.
Doherty eyed her wryly. ‘Casper always expects an early arrest.’
Things were pretty bad. She couldn’t have possibly guessed that they’d get worse.
Mary Jane was standing at the head of the aged tourists looking downright smug.
‘Honey, these poor folk have been told that they can’t possibly stay here until the day after tomorrow. The police want to continue their questioning and their investigation without guests tramping around the place. Understandable of course …’
‘Of course,’ returned Honey.
‘And they need somewhere to stay …’
‘I expect they do,’ said Honey. When her fingertips touched the door handle, it was as though the car had been electrified. A bolt of something similar to electricity shot through her. Her fingers tingled. But she knew it was not electricity. Suspicion. A deep, worrying suspicion that Mary Jane had done something she should not have done; not without asking.
She turned a jaundiced eye on her slightly dipsy friend.
Mary Jane smiled. ‘I’ve sorted them out,’ she said in no-nonsense fashion, slamming the car door behind her. ‘I’ve told them that all your rooms are empty and they can stay there as long as they don’t mind the smell of paint and no carpet on the floor.’
Before Honey had a chance to say, ‘No way. I’m in the middle of a makeover’, Mary Jane was waving to her new-found friends.
‘It’s OK, guys and gals. I’ve got everything under control. Just get your bus driver to drop you and your stuff at the Green River Hotel.’
Hands and walking sticks were waved and a big cheer went up. Mary Jane had done her good deed for the day. Honey still had reservations. No one was as critical as a hotel guest on the wrong side of sixty-five.
The drive back to Bath passed in a blur of horns, sounded by other road users, accompanied by Mary Jane wittering on about something to do with Tarot cards, though Honey couldn’t work out what.
It was bad enough that Mary Jane had been outside playing the Good Samaritan while she’d been inside playing Hercule Poirot. Her main thoughts were with Philippe Fabiere. She couldn’t help dwelling on what had happened. Who on earth would do something so macabre, something so … original?
They beat the coach back to Bath. Honey entered reception in a dream. It wasn’t until Lindsey asked her for details that she got round to telling her about the locked bathroom. That was after she’d wailed about a whole coachload of people being foisted on her.
‘Are you getting paid for having them?’ Lindsey ventured.
‘Well … yes … There will be insurance ...’
‘Then it isn’t all bad. Now for the brainteaser. How much have you bet Doherty?’
‘Ten pounds.’
‘Easy peasy,’ said Lindsey, her smile cracking her face. ‘Follow me.’
Lindsey trotted into the men’s lavatory. Puzzled and curious, her mother followed her into one of the three cubicles.
Squashed between the washable walls, Lindsey slid the bolt across. She was wearing one of her very serious looks. Lindsey was good at deep thinking. Honey hadn’t a clue where she got it from. Not from her. Nor from Carl, her father. Carl had been a party animal and Lindsey was far from being that. As for taking after her grandmother, Honey’s mother Gloria, neither of them had been tarred with that particular brush. Honey preferred jeans to Jaeger and Lindsey preferred casual to classic. Neither kept their nails in good order and painted to match their outfits. Only Gloria Cross, Honey’s mother, did that.
Lindsey slid the bolt to and fro. ‘This one’s a bit stiff, but as long as the bolt runs free it’s quite easy really. Strong thread or fishing twine.’
‘OK, Professor Hawking, explain.’
‘I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you.’
Back they went to reception. She snipped a length of cotton from the emergency sewing kit behind the reception desk and headed back to the cloakrooms – this time they opted for the ladies’. Lindsey ran a piece of cotton thread around the bolt handle, keeping the two loose ends in her hand.
Honey had noted that the bolt had been pretty loose and said so.
‘It’s Doris. She polishes everything with beeswax. It helps things run more smoothly.’
‘As good as using Vaseline, I expect,’ Honey observed.
Lindsey ordered her to close the door. Honey obeyed.
Using both hands Lindsey gently pulled on both ends of the thread. The bolt slid home. Once she was sure it was tightly secured, she pulled just one end of the thread. Slowly but surely the thread lengthened in her hands. She slid the thread out altogether.
Honey tested the door, pushing at it with both hands. It didn’t budge.
‘Amazing! It’s locked.’
Lindsey grinned. ‘Here endeth today’s magic trick!’
Chapter Three
Even with the rooms occupied, the hotel seemed to echo with silence, though there was no time to dwell on the ambience. A number of the staff had taken advantage of the circumstances and taken annual leave. That was OK, although it did mean more for Honey and Lindsey to take care of. For Honey this included taking over the cooking of breakfast. Doris had packed her case.
Rumour had it that Dumpy Doris had bought a minuscule bikini and flown off to the sun.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ said Honey as she struggled into the kitchen carrying the fifteen pounds of sausages she’d just bought at the specialist shop in Green Street .
Smudger made a puking sound. ‘Dumpy Doris in a bikini. Disgusting! I just don’t want to think about it.’
The sausages landed on the stainless steel table with a resounding thud. The sound echoed off the stainless steel shelving, cupboards, and appliances that lined the kitchen walls.
‘I hope you wouldn’t say the same about me behind my back,’ said Honey.
Smudger smiled and a mischievous look sparkled in his eyes.
‘I’m a man that knows quality meat when I see it. Give me a glimpse and I’ll let you know.’
‘Quality meat? In that case you can check these sausages.’
Honey made her way along the corridor leading to reception. The painters and decorators were huddled in a group. Philippe’s assistant, Camilla Boylan, was standing slightly apart from them. Honey surmised that some discussion had taken place.
She didn’t stop to pry but headed for the stairs and the linen cupboard. Besides cooking immeasurable amounts of bacon, sausages, and free-range eggs, there was housekeeping to attend to. Dumpy Doris kept a strict check on the laundry: the sheets, the linen tablecloths, and the mountains of bath towels they got through. So far the fact that her empty rooms had been filled – thanks to Mary Jane – was not causing problems.
The restaurant was unaffected by the alterations so it was business as usual. The seniors seemed to take everything in their stride, even when a sticky toffee pudding captured a set of false teeth. Finding bedding and making the beds had been more of a problem. Heating in the rooms had been turned off. They’d needed airing. A few grumbles had ensued about freezing English bedrooms, but they’d got over that. Thanks to the tourist guide travelling with them, plus some input from Mary Jane, Honey’s visitors were settling in.
Making the beds was quite therapeutic for the most part a
nd helped her deal with the mode of murder. Who would do it and why?
She was smoothing a pillow when Doherty phoned.
‘I thought you might like an update.’
He sounded subdued. She was feeling that way herself and he possibly knew that.
She sighed deeply and let the pillow fall on to the bed. ‘I cannot believe it. I think even Casper is dumbstruck. He hasn’t phoned me yet today to check up on progress.’
‘No,’ replied Doherty. ‘He phoned me, but he’s far from being dumbstruck. He’s downright vocal in fact. Wants me to go out and arrest somebody right away.’
The news that the exuberant and very self-centred Casper St John Gervais was moved enough to phone Steve Doherty before phoning her was news indeed.
‘I could do with a break. How about you come to my place for dinner tonight? I’m good at dealing with stuff like this. I’ve got the experience.’
‘You can’t tell me you’ve had victims throttled with a lavatory chain handle before.’
‘It is rare.’
His cynical attempt at humour almost made her laugh; almost, though not quite. Familiarity might breed contempt; familiarity with crime led to more than contempt. In Doherty’s case he’d developed a kind of immunity over the years. He’d had to in order to cope.
She looked towards the window where the spring sunlight was attempting to coax lime-green buds from bushes and trees. A host of daffodils turned their bright yellow trumpets skywards as though they were sounding a silent welcome.
The sunlight made her want to emerge from winter too.
‘OK. Casual or evening gown?’
‘Whichever one shows off your figure to best advantage.’
The call was interrupted. Philippe Fabiere’s partner was waiting for her in reception. She made her excuses to Doherty and signed off, though not before informing him that he owed her ten pounds. ‘Cotton. Tie on a piece of cotton, pull and it slides across. Simple. Got to go now.’
Camilla Boylan had a heart-shaped face and jet black eyes. She also had red lips and black hair cut into a geometric bob. The distant look was at odds with her direct way of speaking.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 2