Dead by Morning

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Not the guests,’ she said wryly.

  Meaning that the staff were, thought Thanet. Scarcely surprising, really. With so much on display there must be a temptation to think that the odd piece of porcelain or silver might not be missed.

  ‘The guests are usually overwhelmed by it all,’ she went on. ‘Especially the Americans. They’ve never actually stayed anywhere quite like this before and they often walk around in a sort of daze for a day or two, just looking and looking.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘It’s interesting, in a very old house like this there are bound to be inconveniences you wouldn’t find in a modern hotel, but in all the time I’ve been here I’ve never had anyone complain. They just accept it as part of the general, well …’

  ‘Ambience?’ supplied Thanet.

  ‘That’s right. They’re almost, well, in awe of it, I think, and either complaining or stealing anything would be a sort of sacrilege.’

  At the top of the staircase they had turned left along a broad landing and at the third door along she stopped. ‘Here we are. I put Mr Martindale in the Chinese suite.’ She pushed open the door and stood back. ‘And now, if you don’t mind …?’

  ‘Ah yes, your invalid. Just one other point before you go. Staff. How many are there?’

  ‘Theoretically there should be thirty in all. I say “theoretically” because in practice it’s very difficult to recruit staff for a place like this, so we’re always a few short – we’re rather isolated here, you see, there’s nothing for them to do when they’re off duty, and many of the younger ones can’t afford cars, so they get bored and leave.’

  ‘So at the moment you’re how many, in all?’

  ‘Eight in the kitchen, we’re two short there, and seventeen in the house, we’re two housemaids and one parlourmaid short.’

  ‘So apart from the kitchen staff you have a butler, a footman –’

  ‘A head footman,’ she corrected him, ‘then a footman, six housemaids, four parlourmaids, two receptionists, my husband and myself. Then outside there’s the gardener – groundsman rather, I suppose you’d call him – and his assistant.’

  ‘And how many of those live in?’

  ‘Ten, excluding my husband and myself.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.’ Thanet dismissed her with a nod and a smile.

  Inside the Chinese suite Lineham looked around and said, ‘Wow! Some hotel room!’

  There was only one word to describe it, thought Thanet: sumptuous. His living-room would have fitted into it three times over and there was so much for the eye to feast upon that it was difficult to take it all in. He pivoted slowly, looking.

  Predictably the wallpaper was Chinese, in a pale celadon-green with a delicate design of bamboo and herons etched in cream. On the wide, highly polished oak floorboards lay a silky cream carpet with a green and rose design, and the elaborate hangings of the four-poster bed and the long draperies at the windows were in deeper shades of green and rose. On either side of the bed stood low round tables covered with circular floor-length rose-coloured cloths topped with smaller cloths in creamy lace. Half the room was furnished as a sitting-room, with deep, soft sofas and armchairs grouped around a leaping log fire protected by a brass fireguard. There were a number of paintings, including two Chinese scroll paintings of misty mountain landscapes and a series of framed prints of ancient Chinese costumes. Various pieces of antique furniture, including a slender writing desk supplied with headed notepaper and envelopes, were scattered around the room. Everywhere were small personal touches: apart from the ubiquitous television set and a fine enamelled clock, there were pot plants; two arrangements of fresh flowers, in various tones of cream and pink to match the decor; a small wicker basket of wrapped sweets; a bowl of fruit with plates, damask napkins and fruit knives beside it; a tray of drinks; a pile of books both non-fiction and fiction, the latter all recently published novels; and an array of new magazines.

  ‘Wow!’ said Lineham again. ‘Wonder how much it costs to spend a night in a place like this?’

  ‘We’ll pick up a brochure on the way out,’ said Thanet.

  ‘I’m serious!’ said Lineham. ‘If I started saving now, for our wedding anniversary … Louise would love it!’

  Thanet rather wished he’d had that idea himself and irritation that he hadn’t made him terse. ‘Come on, Mike, just remember why we’re here, will you? Let’s see what we can find out about Martindale.’

  It looked as though Martindale had intended to stay some time. The old-fashioned leather suitcase plastered with airline stickers which had been stowed on top of the wardrobe was large, and the wardrobe and chest of drawers were full of clothes, all expensive if somewhat the worse for wear. As well as a dinner jacket, there were several tailor-made suits and Thanet looked into an inside pocket for the tailor’s label: Filligrew and Browne, Sporting Tailors. Conduit Street 21.9.72. Quickly, he examined the others. None was more recent than 1981. The shoes, six pairs, all Church’s, were well-worn, some of the shirts were beginning to fray at collar and cuffs and the underclothes definitely needed replacing.

  ‘Looks as though he was a bit short of the ready,’ said Lineham. ‘He must have nearly fallen out of that barber’s chair with delight when he read that article.’

  ‘Quite. Short of the ready but definitely not at his wits’ end. If he had been he would have pawned those long ago.’ Thanet nodded at the objects scattered on the chest of drawers: a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes, silver hip-flask, and gold cufflinks.

  ‘True.’

  Thanet wandered into the bathroom which displayed the same attention to detail: bowl of potpourri; cut-glass dish of cotton puffs; posy of cotton buds; little basket of toiletries – shower caps, shampoos, foaming bath oil, and a selection of Floris soaps. The towels were thick, soft and in plentiful supply and two luxurious towelling robes with Longford Hall embroidered across the pockets hung behind the door. Martindale’s possessions were scattered about: razor, shaving cream, badger shaving brush, aftershave, toothbrush, toothpaste. His sponge bag held supplies of paracetamol, Rennies, Alka-Seltzer, and antiseptic cream.

  ‘Nothing much here, Mike.’

  There was no reply and it occurred to Thanet that all sounds from next door had ceased. Raising his eyebrows he returned to the bedroom to find that Lineham was asleep on the sofa in front of the fire.

  ‘Mike!’

  Lineham awoke with a start. ‘Oh, sorry, sir. I must have dropped off. The fire …’

  ‘You did drop off. And I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry that you are so tired you actually fall asleep in the middle of a murder enquiry!’

  ‘We don’t know that it’s a murder enquiry yet, sir.’

  Thanet waved a hand irritably. ‘A potential murder enquiry, then. You know perfectly well what I mean. And stop avoiding the issue.’

  ‘I really am sorry …’

  ‘It’s an explanation I want, Mike, not an apology.’

  Lineham rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s my brother-in-law.’

  Thanet gave an exasperated sigh and sat down in an armchair facing the sergeant. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Lineham yawned. ‘I was up half the night talking to him. He’s having problems with his marriage and he just turned up on our doorstep last night with a suitcase.’

  ‘Left his wife, has he?’

  Lineham shrugged. ‘Temporarily, anyway.’

  ‘Look, Mike, I’m sorry your brother-in-law is having marital problems and I don’t want to appear unsympathetic, but this really will not do, you know. I simply cannot have you dozing off in the middle of an investigation, murder or otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, I realise that, sir. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Won’t it? Leaving the question of your brother-in-law aside, I’ve noticed that you seem to have been looking very tired lately. So what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Not wrong, exactly. It’s just that Richard still hasn’t settled at school yet. I don’t
think he gets on with his teacher, she seems to have taken against him. So he isn’t sleeping very well, wakes up every night crying, that sort of thing. We take it in turns to get up, but it’s pretty tiring, never getting a decent night’s sleep. Last night put the lid on it, I think.’

  ‘OK, I understand. I’ve got something similar going on at home myself, as a matter of fact. Ben’s just changed schools, as you know, and he’s finding it pretty difficult having much stiffer competition. At his last school he could just coast along, but now … Anyway, I appreciate your difficulty. But Mike, you’re going to have to do something about it. Discuss it with Louise, go and see the Headmaster, but do something. And as far as your brother-in-law is concerned, well, I’m sure you’ll find a tactful way of ensuring that any discussions you have are before bedtime. Right?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course. Really, it won’t happen again, I promise.’

  ‘I hope not. Now, what have you got there? Is that the key to Martindale’s suitcase?’

  Dangling from Lineham’s hand was a tiny key on a leather thong. ‘I should think so. It was in the toe of one of his socks.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lineham with satisfaction as it turned sweetly in the lock.

  ‘Now this looks a bit more interesting,’ said Thanet.

  Inside was Martindale’s passport and a large brown envelope which looked much handled and which crackled when he picked it up. They sat down side by side on the sofa to examine their finds. The passport didn’t tell them anything useful. It had been issued only a year ago and bore no stamps; if Martindale had done any travelling since then it had presumably been in the European community, most of whose member countries no longer bothered to stamp the passports of internal travellers.

  There remained only the envelope. Thanet tipped out its contents. These looked more promising: an address book, a bundle of letters and postcards, and another, smaller envelope of photographs.

  Lineham picked up the address book and flicked through it. ‘We’re going to have our work cut out if we have to check all these.’

  Thanet split the bundle of letters in two. ‘Take a quick look at these, will you? We’ll go through them thoroughly later. Put them in chronological order, if you can read the date stamps.’

  They were all, they discovered, from women and almost all of them were addressed to hotels or readdressed from one hotel to another. The theme was almost always the same, regret that the sender had not heard from Martindale as she had hoped to, coupled with anxious requests for news of him. Several of them delicately referred to ‘loans’ made to him, and one or two were more strongly worded requests for information about ‘investments’ made by him on the sender’s behalf.

  ‘Love ’em and leave ’em was certainly his motto,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Preferably with a pocket full of cash, by the look of it.’ Thanet tapped one of the postcards, most of which were of the ‘wish you were here’ variety. ‘Looks as though this one was the last.’

  The card was date-stamped 10.11.84 and was a photograph of the Byron Hotel in Worthing. The message on the back read, Room ready for your return. Roll on the 23rd. It was signed ‘B’ and addressed to the Hôtel Paradis in Nice.

  ‘Looks as though at some point he spent some time in Worthing,’ said Lineham. ‘It’d be a good hunting ground for Martindale’s type, I should think.’

  ‘You’re assuming the room she’s talking about is in the Byron Hotel. But it could simply mean that the sender was staying in the Byron when she wrote the card, and that the room she’s referring to is in her own home.’

  Lineham pursed his lips. ‘It could, I suppose. But isn’t the other interpretation much more likely?’

  ‘No way of telling. In any case, after this there are no more letters or cards.’

  ‘Perhaps it was at the Hôtel Paradis that Mr Martindale met this Frenchwoman he’s supposed to have been living with.’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘Who knows? But I agree, it’s a possibility. Pity there’s no indication of who she is or where she lived.’ He bundled the letters up and emptied out the envelope of photographs. Predictably, these were almost all of women, either alone or with Martindale, posing against varying backgrounds. A few, though, were obviously older, smaller, of poorer quality and with curling corners. Thanet picked these up and studied them more closely. ‘I think this must be Martindale and his sister, look.’

  They were recognisably the same pair, both wearing riding breeches and sitting on the steps leading up to the front door of Longford Hall; Delia with a cloud of dark hair framing those classically beautiful features, Leo handsome and carefree, one arm resting lightly across her shoulders.

  ‘And these must be their parents,’ said Lineham.

  Tea on the lawn this time, the man lounging in a deck chair, the woman elegantly erect, caught in the act of pouring tea. They were a handsome pair, and Thanet, always interested in the quirkiness of genes, noted that it was her father Delia resembled, and Leo his mother. He wondered how the Martindales would have reacted to this present situation: with dignity and the famous British stiff upper lip, he imagined.

  ‘Pretty pathetic, really, isn’t it?’ said Lineham, gesturing at the letters, the photographs.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, presumably this stuff, the stuff that’s here, in this room, is all the gear he had.’

  ‘I imagine so, yes.’

  ‘I mean, someone like him, with his sort of background … What went wrong, I wonder?’

  ‘What made him leave it all behind, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With any luck, we’ll find out.’

  But Lineham was right, it was pathetic. And something more, too. Thanet couldn’t believe that this small pile of letters represented the sum total of Martindale’s correspondence over twenty years or so, or that there hadn’t been many more photographs than this. No, in his view, they were the end result of a fairly ruthless weeding-out process. What had been Martindale’s criterion? One letter or card, one photograph per woman? What Thanet was holding, he realised, were the trophies of one man’s amorous past. He had a sudden, vivid picture of Martindale sitting in a chair, glass of whisky in hand, poring over them with a small, self-satisfied smile on his face. With a shiver of distaste he began to bundle them all back into the envelope. Later he would sort out which leads were worth following up, if any.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was one of the DCs, accompanied by a housemaid.

  ‘What is it, Markham?’

  The girl turned away and the constable shut the door behind him before saying, with understandable triumph, ‘We think we’ve found the car, sir.’

  Thanet stood up. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, a van, actually, sir. It was parked at the back of the hotel. A 1981 Bedford HA. It’s grey, going rusty and we found a couple of threads which look as though they might match the victim’s overcoat snagged on a piece of flaking metal just beside the front offside headlight.’

  ‘Excellent. Who does it belong to?’

  ‘The hotel, sir.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go and take a look, shall we?’

  FIVE

  Thanet and Lineham returned to the lobby near the front door to put on their boots. While they were doing so Tessa Hamilton passed through with a young man in tow, presumably the one in whom Leo Martindale had shown an interest. What had Mrs Byfleet said his name was? Fever, that was it. Toby Fever. Thanet caught no more than a glimpse of him, but there was something vaguely familiar about his features. Could he have a record, perhaps?

  As the three policemen stepped outside the young people drove off in a newish Ford Escort, its wheels skidding on the packed snow of the drive.

  After the warmth of the house the icy air was a shock to the system and Thanet turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket, casting an apprehensive look at the sky which had that ominously leaden look which
heralds snow.

  ‘Looks as though we might get some more,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Hope not.’ Thanet raised his voice to speak to Markham who was leading the way along the front of the house like an eager dog guiding its master to a particularly exciting find. ‘This van. Who normally drives it?’

  Markham slowed down. ‘Chap by the name of Tiller, apparently, sir. He’s the groundsman. This way.’

  They turned right, along the side of the house.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Thanet remembered Mona Byfleet mentioning him. ‘He’s got an assistant, I believe.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir. Someone’s gone to fetch Mr Tiller, he should be there by now. Your Land Rover’s back, by the way, sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  They rounded the back corner of the house and a large cobbled yard opened out before them, surrounded on three sides by a range of low, picturesque buildings in brick and tile. At the far side, standing around a small grey van, was a group of policemen stamping their feet against the cold. Amongst them was a man in boots, parka and cloth cap.

  ‘Yes, that’ll be him,’ said Markham with satisfaction.

  As they drew closer Thanet saw that Tiller was in his sixties, a burly figure with weatherbeaten face and angry blue eyes.

  ‘Mr Tiller?’ said Thanet.

  The man thrust his chin forward aggressively. ‘You in charge of this lot? What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about Mr Martindale’s … accident, by now, Mr Tiller. We need to ask you some questions. Perhaps we could go somewhere a little warmer? A garage, perhaps, or a stable?’

  Tiller stood his ground. ‘Why?’

  Thanet walked around the van and inspected the spot indicated by one of his men. It looked as though they were right and this was the vehicle they were after. A couple of threads of cloth were caught up in a snag of rusty metal. Thanet looked closer. Yes, black-and-white tweed by the look of them. He nodded at Lineham and the sergeant took out a pair of tweezers and a plastic sample bag.

  Thanet straightened up.