by T. H. Hunter
“Mr. Urquhart,” she said in exasperation. “If you can’t be constructive, please try at the very least not to be destructive. Please keep talking to a bare minimum and focus on the task at hand.”
Patrick’s handsome facial features immediately rearranged themselves into those of a humbled schoolboy, folding his hands meekly in front of him on the table.
“Sorry, Olivia,” he said.
But Dr. Linton, waving the annual report in his left hand and fidgeting with an unlit cigarette in his other, had used the brief interlude to rally for another attack.
“As I was saying, our fundraising has hit granite on almost all fronts. Old investors are leaving the ship like rats. We’re sinking.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Highgarden bellowed.
“If it is,” said Dr. Linton, shaking from head to toe, “you might tell the esteemed committee just what you were discussing last night with Mr. Brown of this very hotel. He still is a contributor, for the present moment, I take it?”
Mrs. Highgarden looked as though she had been stabbed in the back with a crooked knife.
“Why,” she thundered, dropping all pretence at remaining cordial with her arch-enemy, “you spying little…”
“Mrs. Highgarden, what happened exactly?” came Jane’s timid voice. “I’m sure Dr. Linton didn’t mean to do any harm. And I’m sure we’d all be interested.”
There was a general murmur of agreement amongst the other members, Patrick included. Mrs. Highgarden had been manoeuvred into a trap by Dr. Linton. There was no way out for her now. A few moments later, she must have come to the same conclusion as she puffed her cheeks in a self-righteous manner.
“Mr. Brown,” she said sharply, “has – to my greatest regret – decided to put an end to his contributions.”
“Entirely?” asked Mr. Bolton, his large face drooping in surprise.
Mrs. Highgarden nodded her head heavily.
“But that’s impossible,” said Mr. Bolton, making the chair beneath him creak as he turned around quickly to the other members. “He’s bound by contract, isn’t he?”
“Not entirely,” Dr. Linton said. “I went over it this morning. After I… erm… happened to overhear what had been discussed yesterday evening. Mr. Brown is unfortunately well within his rights to terminate his contributions at this moment in time. In exchange for the cheap acquisition of this island and the buildings thereon, Mr. Brown’s contractual obligations were to share a percentage of the hotel’s profits with us as well as maintain the lighthouse’s automated systems. The contract was formed for a twenty-five year period. Regrettably, that is now coming to an end this June.”
“So, he’ll own the lighthouse, too?” asked Mr. Bolton, outraged.
“No,” said Dr. Linton. “The committee retains control of the lighthouse, though I suppose it will be very difficult to prevent him from going there and using it, considering we can’t afford anyone to stay here permanently. Or even check on it more than a few times a year.”
There was a moment of silence as the message sank in.
“And Mr. Brown remains adamant?” asked Patrick, frowning. “Couldn’t we persuade him somehow?”
“We have nothing to offer him,” said Dr. Linton. “No leverage. He’ll hardly do it out of the kindness of his heart, that’s for sure.”
“He’s horrid,” said Vanessa McQuinn suddenly. “A disgusting old man, that’s what he is.”
Everybody turned around in surprise. Vanessa had made no indication that she had been listening to the conversation at all. In fact, she had been swiping away at her smartphone for most of the time and had only once said something to complain about the non-existent internet connection. Now, however, her haughty exterior had turned into something both disgusted and frightened.
“Vanessa, please,” said Jane, just as taken aback by her sister’s outburst as we were. “Watch your language.”
“Shut up,” Vanessa barked at her sister.
“Vanessa…” Jane began weakly.
“I think,” said Mrs. Highgarden quickly, “a little recess is in order. This whole affair is getting to all of us. Quite understandable. What we need is perhaps a little fresh air. I certainly could do with some.”
“Also, it’s almost lunch time,” said Mr. Bolton enthusiastically.
“Fine,” said Mrs. Highgarden in an exasperated voice. “We’ll reconvene after lunch at three o’clock here. Please be on time. That goes especially for you , Mr. Urquhart.”
There was a general ruckus of screeching chairs and the creaking of bones as we all got to our feet. Before I could head for the exit to search for Val and Barry, however, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Miss Sheridan?”
It was Patrick.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering whether you could fill me in on what happened yesterday,” he said, chortling. “Don’t want provoke the dragon even more by my ignorance, eh?”
“Sure,” I said. “I was just on my way out. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I might even light the old pipe up.”
We stepped out into the lounge together. Dr. Linton – desperate for a cigarette, no doubt – was hastily opening the front door of the hotel.
“Speak of the devil,” said Patrick quietly, inclining his head towards the reception desk. “There he is.”
“Who?” I asked, turning to look in the direction that Patrick had indicated.
I almost missed Mr Brown, since the reception desk was high enough to obscure most of his body as well as the wheelchair. At first, I thought he was doing some paperwork because he seemed to be hunched over somewhat. But on closer inspection, I saw that he was in fact taking snuff tobacco again, sending it up his nostrils with a horrible snorting sound that one would normally associate with the most horrible of maladies. Patrick and I exchanged looks of disgust. When Mr. Brown saw us, he scowled and, closing his snuff tin, wheeled himself off in the direction of the dining room area.
Patrick opened the door for me, and we stepped out together. I was slowly getting used to the icy winds, though some rays of sunshine had penetrated the cover of clouds below, making the island appear much greener and friendlier.
“Charming brute, isn’t he?” Patrick said, fumbling for something in his trouser pockets.
“Quite,” I said. “No wonder he’s getting out of the contract as soon as he can.”
“Yes,” said Patrick. “Awful fellow. Never liked him.”
“Oh, you knew him before?” I asked.
Patrick hesitated briefly.
“That’s right,” he said. “We had a committee meeting here a few years ago. He wasn’t in a wheelchair then, which made it a lot worse. Drunk out of his mind for most of the time. But strong as a horse. By the way, did she… say anything about me?”
“Who do you mean?” I asked.
“Mrs. Highgarden, of course,” he said, producing matches from the inside pocket of his coat.
“Erm, well, yes,” I said. “I don’t think she was particularly pleased that you came today instead of yesterday.”
“Oh, that old bat,” he said, though he was grinning. “She never liked me, you know. Never thought I took this whole lighthouse business serious enough. Perhaps she’s right.”
“Then why are you here?” I asked earnestly.
“Haven’t I asked that myself,” he said, lighting his pipe, “if I have to put up with her all day. Not that the rest of them are a particularly happy bunch, mind you. But believe it or not, I like lighthouses. My father used to own a few of them. Used to let me play in them, too, when we visited. And the keepers were also very decent to me.”
“He owned a few of them?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes, he didn’t want to invest too much,” Patrick said apologetically, misunderstanding my disbelief entirely. “He preferred old castles, mostly. We had a whole string of those. Always good for a museum or two.”
“So, do you deal in real
estate, as well?” I asked.
“Lord, no,” he said, flashing another smile. “No, I don’t work, you see. Don’t need to, in fact. Inherited everything myself. I don’t have any siblings. Just as well, I suppose. Never could hold a job for long. But I promised my father – before he died – to join the committee. And so I did.”
“How long have you been a member, then?” I asked.
“Oh, about twenty years,” he said. “Joined up when I was fifteen. Dr. Linton was still in charge then. He led us through the crisis. Worked day and night for the committee. He pulled it off, too, but my Lord did he pay for it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see that.”
“Quite a place here, isn’t it?” said Patrick conversationally. “You wouldn’t think it would have such a dark history, would you?”
“Dark history?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, a few decades ago, two men were killed in the lighthouse over there,” said Patrick casually. “Strangled, both of them.”
“That sounds awful,” I said.
“Yes, isn’t it?. I read about the case in a local guide when I first came here. The perpetrator was a man called Jenkins.”
“So they got him in the end?”
“Oh yes,” said Patrick. “There was a manhunt and they got him alright.”
“Did they find out why he did it?” I asked.
“That’s sort of the mystery about the whole thing. Apparently, he didn’t say a word at the trial. Kept quiet about it. Most people just assumed it was a random act of violence. Like a bestial urge.”
We chatted for a little while longer as we strolled around the island. I was keeping an eye out for Val and Barry, though I couldn’t deny that I was less in a hurry than I thought I would have been earlier. Patrick’s account of the island’s chilling past fascinated me for some reason. Despite the rather sinister topic, Patrick seemed to lighten the otherwise gloomy atmosphere of the island considerably. Although he had lost his mother early in life – and then his father a few years later – Patrick had retained a surprisingly optimistic view on life. Or perhaps that was his unique way of dealing with his loss. He was also curious about my background, so I told him all about my days as a waitress back at home, how I had become best friends with Val, and finally about the surprise inheritance of Fickleton House that had changed my life – as well as Val’s – forever.
“Oh, there you are, Amy,” said Val, emerging from behind the workshop with Barry at her heels. “We were wondering when you’d finish in there.”
At that moment, she only just registered the man next to me. She eyed him with an appraising look that only your best friend could develop over the years.
“This is Patrick Urquhart, Val,” I said, grinning.
“Oh, hi,” she said, sounding slightly out of breath. “Picking up men already, are you Amy?”
“Val!”
Patrick smiled rather sheepishly.
“Quite my fault, I assure you,” he said, stretching out his hand. “How do you do, Miss…”
“Valerie. But just call me Val. That’s what everyone does. Even Barry will some day…”
I shot her a warning glance.
“Who’s Barry?” Patrick asked, bewildered.
“Oh, my…” she began, faltering as she struggled to find an answer that sounded less insane than ‘our talking cat’ to a heb.
“… her ex-boyfriend,” I said, smirking. “But it’s over now, isn’t it, Val?”
She looked daggers at me but eventually decided to play along.
“Yes,” she said. “At least, I hope so. Much too old.”
Barry made a noise between a meow and an indignant growl that certainly sounded nothing like a cat’s.
“Aaanyway,” she said quickly, changing the subject, “you up for lunch?”
“You bet,” said Patrick, apparently oblivious to what was going on. “What about you, Miss Sheridan?”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I said. “Call me Amy. And yes, I’m hungry. And I think Barr- I mean, the cat might also be since he missed dinner yesterday.”
Barry, standing behind Patrick, gave me the faintest of nods, as well as a you-owe-me look.
“We’re all set then, I…” began Patrick.
But before he could finish his sentence, there was a deep, bloodcurdling cry as if from a wounded animal. It came from within the hotel. Exchanging pointed looks with Val and Barry, we quickly made for the hotel entrance, Patrick Urquhart close behind us.
“What’s going on?” he said, as I tore open the door.
But the scene in the lounge quickly answered his question. Before us, the crumpled body of Anita Brown lay spread-eagled on the floor close to the stairs that led up to the guests’ rooms. Her mouth was not quite closed, and her eyes stood wide open. Her father, Mr. Brown, was on all fours next to her, his wheelchair discarded. He was making every effort to revive her, pressuring her chest region with a desperate rhythm.
The rest of the committee members, who had also been alerted by his cry, had come to the lounge to see what was the matter. Dr. Linton, seeing the body, quickly came to the front. Mr. Brown kept pumping, but to no avail. Dr. Linton nervously knelt down and felt Anita Brown’s pulse. By the look on his face, the verdict was already clear.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Brown,” he said after a moment. “I’m afraid your daughter is dead.”
Chapter 5
Mrs. Highgarden gasped, holding her bejewelled hand to her mouth. Mrs. Haughton, who arrived at the scene last, was teetering dangerously on the spot as if she were about to faint, but Jane McQuinn quickly hurried forward and caught her before she could do so. Then, we all stood there in silence for a while, not knowing what to do next. Val and I exchanged a dark look. The elderly maid, Mrs. Haughton, had been proven right – there had been a death. But was it also murder? That was the decisive question. And though I was almost certain that it was, I hoped against hope that it had been a tragic accident.
“MY DAUGHTER,” Mr. Brown bellowed, tears streaming down his red face. “My daughter…”
He tried to get up but wasn’t able to. His legs wouldn’t support him. He looked lost. Never did I think that I would have felt such sympathy with a man like that, but I did. By the looks of it, I wasn’t the only person, either.
But as Patrick and Dr. Linton stepped forward to help him up, he waved his hand at them as if he wanted to swat flies. He looked around him wildly, grabbing the armrest of the wheelchair as he did so.
“It was one of you, wasn’t it?” he roared. “One of you KILLED HER?”
“Please,” said Dr. Linton, who was beginning to shake again, “Mr. Brown. We understand your… your pain but I’m sure that nobody here would have…”
Dr. Linton tailed off weakly at the end. Perhaps he didn’t believe what he was saying. Or maybe he was simply quailing before the wrath of Mr. Brown. The latter was now pulling himself up with a newly-found strength and heaving himself into the wheelchair on his own. Nobody dared aid him this time. We all waited there in an absurd scene, all watching Mr. Brown’s every move. When he had finally succeeded, he turned around to us menacingly. He pointed his finger at the lot of us, his eyes darting from face to face.
“Murder,” he said quietly, which sounded a lot more dangerous and terrible than when he had shouted and raged. “I’ll find out who did it if it’s the last thing I do. You mark my words.”
And with that, he turned his wheelchair around and rolled towards the corridor. Stunned by Mr. Brown’s threat, nobody spoke or did anything for a minute or so, until Patrick broke the silence.
“Well, what do we do now?” he asked heavily.
“We need to contact the authorities on the mainland,” Dr. Linton said.
“Doctor,” I said, taking advantage of the brief moment of silence that followed his answer. “Do you know what might have caused Anita Brown’s death?”
“I’m no pathologist, you have to understand,” he said firmly.
/> “I didn’t mean a definite diagnosis,” I said. “Just whether Mr. Brown’s suspicions have any basis in fact…”
Dr. Linton stared at me for a moment and then looked at Anita Brown’s body.
“I’d have to take a closer look. All strictly off the record. But I think we all do need to know…”
“But why did Mr. Brown say it was murder?” asked Mrs. Highgarden, who was still as white as a sheet.
Apparently, nobody knew. I was certainly keen to know the answer myself, though seeing the reactions of all those who were present was almost as intriguing. Apart from Williams, the surly workman, everybody was there. Though Jane McQuinn looked terrified, her twin sister’s expression was blank. I wondered what was going on in her head at that moment. Then I remembered her outburst in regard to Mr. Brown just a little while ago. For the life of me, I couldn’t see the reason why she hated him. As far as I knew, they hadn’t even been in the same room together.
Dr. Linton decided that the body should be moved to one of the sheds and placed in one of the large freezers after he had examined it. That way, any sign of foul play would be preserved until the police arrived to pick up the body. It was decided that, under the circumstances, committee meetings would be postponed until more was known. Mrs. Highgarden tried to protest but even she had to admit eventually that it was out of the question. It was a sign of respect to cease all other activities for the present moment.
In the meantime, Williams was located by Dr. Linton near the lighthouse and had been sent to the mainland to report the incident, though the police wasn’t expected to arrive until the following day. I couldn’t imagine how terrible an effect that Anita Brown’s death would have on Williams. Their affair, as far as I knew, wasn’t common knowledge amongst the guests, and so Dr. Linton had naturally seen nothing wrong with tasking him with going over to the mainland.
The rest of us were left wondering whether Mr. Brown had been right or not about the murder. However nasty and disagreeable he was, it was more than likely that his suspicions were correct, I thought. The coincidence of Mrs. Haughton’s prophetic words a mere twenty-four hours earlier was simply too great to be ignored or dismissed.