It was nearly one o’clock before Jed returned. Fancy was in bed, reading notes for her talk the following day. At least her legs were getting a rest.
He knocked on the door of room 425.
‘Password,’ said Fancy, slipping out of bed.
‘Dammit,’ said Jed. ‘It’s Jed. Do I need a password?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did we arrange a password?’
‘Of course, we did.’
‘Liar. Campari and ice. Will that do?’
‘Come in.’
Jed looked exhausted. He had combed the grounds, the gardens, all the halls. Nothing. Even the smoker’s gazebo had given up coughing and gone to bed. His Roman fringe was standing on end as if his hand had gone through it a dozen times.
‘We need to talk,’ he said, sitting down on the end of her bed. ‘I’m not staying, don’t worry, but a cup of tea would be great.’
Fancy filled the kettle with fresh water and switched it on. Jed had taken off his vulnerable glasses and was rubbing his eyes. He looked ready for sleep. He’d already driven into Derby and back that afternoon, missed any supper. She supposed his car was fitted with special controls. Another thing to ask him, one day.
‘So what shall we talk about, before you fall asleep?’ asked Fancy, making tea. ‘I’ve a stolen banana. Now defrosted.’
‘Pass over stolen goods. I need the energy. Whoever it is that’s tormenting you with happenings or non-happenings is determined and nasty. He needs to be caught and frightened off, stopped, before someone gets hurt.’
‘Before I get hurt.’
‘Melody got hurt. Badly hurt. So hurt that she is now in a refrigerated box in Derby.’
‘Is there a connection? Is anyone else being sent severed hands in a biscuit tin?’
‘I haven’t heard any other screams of terror.’
‘I didn’t scream.’
‘Only a tiny squeak,’ Jed agreed. ‘Amazing self-control.’
Fancy sat on the bed beside him, wrapped in her pashmina. It was like a replay of the pre-supper party that evening, but without the fun and laughter and wine. She made sure there was space between them as Jed negotiated the hot tea with his one good hand. He noticed her precaution.
‘You should have seen my handwriting when I had to start learning to write with my left hand. It was like a child’s.’
‘Like Nelson’s.’
He was surprised. ‘Have you seen that letter? The first he wrote with his left hand after he lost his right hand?’
‘Yes, the one dated 27 July 1797. I am become a burden to my friends and useless to my country,’ she quoted. ‘I went to an exhibition of Nelson’s relics and memorabilia at Greenwich.’
Jed looked astonished. ‘So did I. Yes, I went to that exhibition. We might have passed each other in the crowd. Brushed shoulders, even.’
‘I think you trod on my toe. Someone big trod on my toe.’
‘It was probably me. I apologize.’
‘I accept your apology.’
‘If only I had said hello.’
Jed put the tea down on the floor, being careful not to tip it over. He looked at Fancy with caution, trying to gauge her reaction. She looked calm enough but she was an old hand at disguising her feelings. He never knew exactly what she was thinking. He could gauge the emotion but not the thoughts.
‘Would you like me to stay the night? You’ve a double bed. We could put a pillow down the centre for propriety’s sake.’
Fancy imaged that pillow, white and pristine. Jed would be only inches away, that silver-streaked hair on another pillow, breathing his own sleep. She had only her pink teddy bear nightshirt. Not long enough to be entirely modest. She thought of the bleak loneliness of other nights, hundreds of nights, when she had longed for a companion. Anyone, just someone there, being on the other side of a pillow.
‘A pillow?’
‘No room for a barbed wire fence,’ he said, keeping a straight face. ‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’
‘Is this to protect me?’
‘I want you to have a good night’s sleep, for tomorrow. It’s your big day. No more surprises. No nasty surprises. I don’t want to find you floating in the other lake. Or floating anywhere.’
Fancy shivered at the thought. She was really frightened. Dew broke out on her skin, not only from a night-chill. Whoever was pursuing her was here at the conference. He was here, at this minute and not far away, watching her every move. It was a relentless onslaught on her nerves. She was supposed to write crime, not be a victim of crime.
‘I can swim,’ she said again.
‘After a blow on the head? Or being drugged?’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘If it’s a pillow problem, I could go downstairs and get a pillow and duvet from my own room. I would then sleep on the floor, not exactly against the door as there isn’t room for my legs, but alongside the bed or below the window. Any space that’s six feet long.’
‘What do you think is going to happen?’
‘I don’t know, Fancy. I hope I’m wrong, but something is clearly going on here and you are at the centre of it. What have you done to upset someone so much? It is revenge? Is it something or someone in your personal life that you haven’t told me about?’
‘I can’t think of anything or anyone. No reason at all. Someone might dislike my books but surely not to that extent. It must be something to do with those cold cases, maybe a case that I have already published. Perhaps I have unearthed a kettle of worms.’
Jed flinched. ‘A can,’ he said.
‘I can’t think at this time of night. I’m not one of those small-hours writers. Office hours for me, nine to five, or nine to near midnight. I often just keep on writing, only stopping for tea or a sandwich.’
‘I usually write at night. Research and routine work during the day. Work-out at the gym, walk a lot. I have to keep fit. It’s only too easy to give up if you have an injury.’
‘Will you tell me about it one day?’ Fancy asked, blinking. ‘You know, what actually happened. Would you mind?’
She might be able to understand him if she knew what had happened. He was an enigma. One moment joking, the next totally distant. Frosted.
‘I might. I might not. It was a bit gory. You should get some sleep. There’s this pillow question to resolve. Your decision, lady. Make up your mind, before we both fall asleep, where we are.’
Fancy wanted him there but she did not want the reputation. Jed could hardly sneak away at dawn to his own room. It would soon be all over Northcote, a juicy item of gossip for breakfast and lunch. Though it might be forgotten by supper time.
‘I shall be all right now,’ she said, dredging up the last of her courage. ‘This room is safe enough. I’m not afraid of a couple of wet scarves. We both need our sleep. But thank you for the offer. The pillow was very reassuring.’
Jed got up, stretched, obviously relieved. He touched her shoulder briefly. ‘I like my own bed, too. But I might change my mind one day and to hell with the pillow.’
It was the smell that awoke her. A faint whiff of smoke that eddied round her nostrils and made Fancy cough. The window was half-open and she had not drawn the curtains. She always liked to see the night, the stars, the dark drift of clouds over the moon. Sometimes she got her best ideas in the middle of the night.
She would lay, only half-awake or half-asleep, and a story would drift around in her mind and she would see scenes as if she was watching late night television. She always kept a notebook by her bed. Sometimes she could not read what she had written in the night, lines like wriggly worms. Only this was not late night television, this was not dreaming.
Fancy sat up, coughing. Smoke was curling up under the door, in tendrils of vapour, almost white against the wood panelling of the door. Now her ears caught a faint sound, a crackling of splinters bursting.
Something was on fire outside her bedroom.
She knew that the first rule in any
fire is: do not open any doors. It was called backdraught, or something. It only made a fire worse. She had seen a film. But Fancy was on the third floor. It was a pretty long drop from her window even if she knotted sheets together. She only had two sheets and she was hopeless at knots.
She was gambling on it not being a very big fire. It didn’t sound like a roaring furnace. She switched on the bathroom light and propped open the door, running the cold tap. She put a wet flannel over her mouth and nose and cautiously opened the bedroom door.
A gust of smoke blew into her face. She coughed and coughed, doubling over, clutching the doorpost, waving the smoke out of her sight.
The fire was burning inside a large bag. On the top of the bag was printed A BAG FOR LIFE, one of those sturdy, save-the-environment projects. The burning bag was settling down inside a bucket from the garden. There was still earth clinging to the sides of the bucket. Flames were beginning to lick upwards and over towards the door of the bedroom.
Fancy ran back into the bathroom, picked up a big towel, plunged it under the running water, came back and threw it over the bucket and the bag. Then she grasped the handle of the bucket and carried the whole thing into the bathroom.
The handle was heavy and hot. She stood the bucket in the shower cubicle and turned on the cold water. A cascade of water hit the fire in seconds.
Fancy jumped back. It hissed and spluttered and the plastic shower curtain melted into shreds like molten sugar.
She leaned back against the tiled wall, gasping and catching her breath. She leaned over the basin and, cupping her hands, drank huge gulps of water from the tap. It was then that she saw that she had red burns on the palms of both hands. Her nightshirt was wet through, clinging to her curves. The shower had sprayed her too.
The fire was almost out. It was drawing its last spluttering gasps, the flames dying, the red ash speckling through the towel as it, too, ate the cotton.
She was shaking now as shock set in. She sat on the side of the bed, making the sheets damp, and unsteadily dialled the number for the night manager. The number was printed on the front of the phone.
‘There’s been a fire outside my bedroom,’ she said. ‘Lakeside 425. No panic. I’ve put it out.’
There was such a fuss and commotion in the corridor that it was a wonder anyone got any sleep. Half the inhabitants were up, clad in a variety of nighties and pyjamas, bathrobes and satin gowns, hair in curlers, faces shiny with night cream.
‘You were wonderful, Fancy. We could all have been burnt to death.’
‘You’re a heroine.’
‘Back off, everyone. Shock, she’s in shock.’
‘Everyone make tea! We all need tea.’
Fancy was wrapped in a big dry towel and plied with hot sweet tea. She kept her hands hidden, letting someone else hold the cup to her lips. She was still too shocked to wonder who had started a fire outside her bedroom. It could have been Jed. He knew she was alone and locked in….
The night manager was on his mobile phone, waking up the housekeeper and a couple of gardeners. ‘Get here, fast. Lakeside 425. I need help.’
He needed witnesses, not help.
‘The whole corridor could have caught fire. You saved us all,’ said Fancy’s neighbour in 423. She was an elderly woman, hardly able to climb out of a window at her age. She wrote very long, involved sagas about country life.
Fancy’s heart fluttered down to a steadier beat. She didn’t want to be a heroine. She didn’t want high blood pressure.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fancy, reassuring her. ‘It was probably a prank. A very silly and stupid prank.’
‘Too many parties?’
Fancy tried to raise a smile. ‘You’ve got it. Now you go back to bed.’
‘The housekeeper is on her way,’ said the night manager. ‘She’ll get you another room.’ He was very young, spiky blond hair, shirt tucked hastily into jeans. He’d never had anything like this to deal with before.
‘The bed is all right. I can sleep here.’ If she could get to sleep, thought Fancy.
‘I think we ought to have to look at the damage or something,’ he said. He had no idea, really. This was beyond his normal experience. ‘You know, clues.’
Fancy nodded. She was too tired to argue. Perhaps the arsonist had left his room number on a calling card.
SEVEN
Tuesday Morning
The night duty manager, hot on the heels of the marathon tea-making industry, was still sweating. When he realized that Fancy had put out the fire and there was no need to evacuate the whole of Lakeside and summon the fire brigade, he relaxed and, to a degree, he began to participate in the event.
He removed the ‘evidence’. He said the fire inspector would want to look at it. Another writer with some knowledge of first aid put something soothing on Fancy’s burns and bound them up with lint and bandage. She felt like a boxer with two white gloves.
‘To keep the air out,’ said the first aider. ‘Cling film tomorrow.’
The night manager shooed everyone back to their rooms. He was now in his element. It made a change from lost room keys and people locking themselves out. He inspected room 425. There was minimal damage. It needed a new shower curtain and a good scrub, that was all.
‘You were very brave, Miss Jones. Thank you, thank you so much. You didn’t panic and that’s the main thing in all emergencies. I’m just so sorry that you got hurt. Would you like me to call an ambulance? Maybe you need hospital treatment,’ he suggested.
‘No, thank you. It’s only a little burn. I’ve done it many times at home, taking something out of the microwave without a cloth.’
‘The housekeeper says you can have the room opposite for the rest of the night. The lady who was occupying it has had to go home. Some family problem.’
‘How sad. What a pity,’ said Fancy, clutching the towel round her. Her damp nightshirt was feeling clammy. And the sheets were damp where she had sat down.
‘Can I get you anything?’
Fancy wanted to say a large brandy but that would cement her reputation as an old soak. ‘Nothing, thank you,’ she murmured, moving across the corridor like a sleepwalker.
She also wanted music. Chris Rhea singing Josephine would do nicely. Four minutes of cheer and a pulsing beat.
The room opposite was identical to hers in every way; same furniture, same colour quilt and curtains, except that its view was the car park and the new lake. But it seemed alien. It was not home. It was bare and cold, had none of her things. Fancy wrapped herself in the duvet and tried to sleep. Fire or no fire, there was still tomorrow to get through. But it was already today, she thought sleepily, as she drifted through cotton wool into some haven.
She had the keys to both rooms so she was able to find clothes the following morning and ferry them back to the new room. It was the Question and Answer Panel first so she had to look reasonably intelligent and informed, but relaxed and friendly. A tall order. Black jeans were the answer, with a fitted, black suede jacket. Her shirt was vintage black-and-white striped silk to minimize the severity of the outfit. She added a tasselled scarf for jollity.
A fire incident officer came out from Derby and Fancy spent breakfast time answering his questions. The day manager took him to inspect the damage in room 425. Fancy managed to grab some orange juice and a croissant. That was all. She would make up for it at morning break time, indulge in a biscuit.
She thought she might see Jed but he was nowhere around. Surely he had heard about the fire? The grapevine at Northcote was faster than Twitter or Facebook. Again, the awful thought. Perhaps he had put the fire outside her room. He had left her locked in. He’d had time to set it up. He would know how to do it.
She saw him striding across the lawn, munching on an apple. No time for breakfast either. He waved, then stopped when he saw her hands.
‘You’re hurt,’ he said. He seemed concerned. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘This is a big fuss. A
bit of cling film would have worked just as well.’
‘Keep the bandages on,’ he advised. ‘Milk the sympathy vote. Always useful. Tell me what happened.’
Fancy gave him a rundown of the incident from her viewpoint. He nodded, listening intently.
‘You did exactly the right thing in the circumstances, but not if it had been a big fire. Never open a door. Hang out the window and yell for a hunky fireman to carry you down the extending ladder.’
‘It was instinct.’
‘This time instinct was right but it’s not always. I’ll examine the fire remains,’ he went on. Then seeing her face, he added. ‘The fire officer is an old mate of mine. He may ask for my opinion as I’m here. I’ll do it immediately.’
‘You do have a strange circle of friends,’ she murmured as he walked away.
But he was back before she had stopped talking to some of the writers at her lecture. They drifted away when they saw his serious face.
‘Classic incendiary,’ Jed said. ‘A wigwam built of books of matches, opened up and stood on their end. Torn up paper all around and the whole put in the middle of a big clump of paper. It looks like a typed manuscript. There are page numbers still visible in the corners going up to three hundred.’
‘Oh, I hope not. Some poor soul who wanted me to read her novel,’ said Fancy. ‘Perhaps she left it outside my door. I hope it wasn’t her only copy.’
‘There are charred bits and pieces left. The fire officer has taken the evidence. Was it a sequel to Gone With The Wind?’
‘So they just put a match to it?’ They were walking slowly towards the main conference hall. Delegates were merging in the same direction. There would be a bottleneck at the door.
‘No, a match would just go out without any air. Whoever it was put a burning cigarette down among the books of matches and they went off, one by one, like miniature fireworks. Guaranteed to keep burning.’
‘How come you know all about it?’
‘Am I a suspect, Fancy? Surely not? True, I was downstairs. I know how to start fires. I’ve dealt with enough arsonists in my time.’
Money Never Sleeps Page 7