by H. Y. Hanna
I opened my mouth again to protest that there was nothing wrong but instead, to my surprise, found myself pouring out the entire story—from my initial meeting with Jenn on the plane all the way to the harrowing interview with Inspector Glenn at the police station and the devastating phone call from the tearoom owner.
“I can’t believe Inspector Glenn thinks I’m the murderer!” I fumed as I finished. “It’s just so ludicrous! It’s as if he wants to pin the murder on anyone and I’m the convenient scapegoat!”
Mabel nodded. “That’s just what it is, dear, so don’t take it to heart. I’ve known Inspector Glenn a long time—he used to be the village bobby, you know, back in Meadowford-on-Smythe, before he worked his way up—and I know his wife from church. Robert Glenn is leaving for retirement next month and he doesn’t want an unfinished case on his record so he just wants to wrap this up as fast as possible. Not that he was ever great shakes as a detective anyway—too quick to jump at any easy solution, rather than going the extra mile to investigate things properly.”
“They say that his head is full of nothing else now but his allotment and the cruise they’re going to take around Europe after he retires,” said Florence. “My neighbour’s nephew works at the police station and he says Inspector Glenn has been boring everyone silly with his retirement plans.”
“I heard that a young inspector is coming to take his place—someone from up north. A really good-looking fellow, from what I’ve heard,” said Glenda with a giggle.
“Who cares what he looks like? Let’s just hope he’s a decent detective,” I muttered.
“Well, how good a detective the new chap is, isn’t going to help you now,” said Mabel pragmatically. “The new inspector doesn’t start for another month or so—so in the meantime, you will have to deal with Inspector Glenn. The thing is, Gemma dear, you don’t have to sit back and just accept things.”
“What do you mean?” I said, looking at her. “What can I do?”
Mabel made a harrumphing sound. “Really! Young people nowadays! Such defeatists! I thought you were made of sterner stuff, Gemma.” She leaned forwards and said impatiently, “You can solve the case yourself, of course!”
I stared at her. “Solve the case myself? You mean, look for the murderer?”
“Why not?” said Mabel. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders—don’t tell me that Oxford education was wasted on you. Why shouldn’t you start your own investigation?”
“Because I’m not a detective,” I said. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about detecting or whatever it’s called.”
Mabel tutted. “It’s very simple, dear. Just get nosy and ask questions!”
“But I’m not the police—I don’t have the authority to go around prying into things.”
Mabel made an impatient sound again. “Really, Gemma! It looks like we’ll have to show you how it’s done. Come on, off we go.”
“Where?”
“To the Cotswolds Manor Hotel.” Mabel glanced at the clock on the wall. “Ah… perfect. It’s lunchtime now and I should imagine that the lobby area will be very busy. Come on—we have no time to lose!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Some forty minutes later, I found myself following the Old Biddies into the Cotswolds Manor Hotel lobby. As Mabel had predicted, the place was humming with activity—new guests checking in, old guests leaving, bellboys pushing trolleys of luggage around, and visitors coming to the day spa, to play golf, to have “All Day English Afternoon Tea” in the lobby lounge, with its view of the picturesque Cotswolds hills in the distance. The clink of fine china and the happy hubbub of conversation filled the air, as people drank tea and admired the dainty little finger sandwiches, cakes, and scones served on the silver three-tiered cake stands.
The Old Biddies scurried across the lobby and huddled behind a large potted palm a few feet away from the reception desk, with me hurrying in their wake. Mabel peered around one large palm leaf, then pointed to the door behind the reception counter and hissed:
“That’s where the police have set up a temporary Incident Room.”
“How did you know that?” I said, impressed.
“Village gossip,” said Mabel, as if that explained everything.
And maybe it did. Although my childhood memories of life in Meadowford were pretty hazy, I did remember my mother often complaining about how everyone seemed to know your business—you could barely sneeze before the news had been spread to the other side of the village!
“Come on…” said Mabel, starting towards the reception. “We must look through the police reports for clues.”
“Wait—you’re not going to snoop through police documents?” I said, aghast.
Mabel gave a dignified sniff. “Whoever said anything about ‘snooping’? We are simply looking for Mr Sutton, the hotel manager, and happened to go into his office. It is certainly not our fault if there are papers on the desk and we happen to glance at them.”
“But…” I started to say again, but my protests fell on deaf ears. The Old Biddies were already toddling purposefully towards the reception.
I scurried after them, half appalled and half disbelieving. I just couldn’t believe that they were really going to sneak into the inner office. There was a single girl on Reception, head bent over the computer, her nails clacking away on the keyboard. She was facing the other way and Mabel kept a beady eye on her as we sidled past the opposite end of the long reception counter and stepped behind it. Luckily, the door to the inner office was at this end, barely a few steps away.
Mabel gave a final furtive look around then, quick as a flash, darted into the doorway. I didn’t think anyone in their eighties could move so fast. The other three followed her, leaving me standing by myself.
A minute later, Mabel popped her head back out. “Don’t just stand there like a lemon!” she hissed. “Everyone will see you!” She grabbed my arm and yanked me inside after them.
I stumbled through the doorway and glanced around. It looked pretty much the same as yesterday when I had come in to sign my statement, except perhaps with more reports and witness statements stacked on the desk. The Old Biddies hurried over and began rifling through the papers, bumping into each other in their haste.
“You do that pile,” said Mabel bossily. “I’ll look through the reports here.”
“No, I want to do that pile,” said Ethel, jutting her bottom lip out. “I’m the ex-librarian. I can read faster than any of you.”
“You also forget faster than any of us too,” said Glenda under her breath.
“Oh bother… I haven’t got my glasses,” said Florence, holding a witness statement at arm’s length and squinting at the small words on the paper. “Can you read that, Glenda, dear?”
Glenda peered owlishly at the paper. “Can you hold it a bit farther away?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This is a crazy idea. Do they really think a bunch of geriatrics could solve a murder? Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion that their enthusiasm had less to do with helping me and more to do with the chance to poke their nose where they shouldn’t. From their flushed cheeks and the excited gleam in their eyes, it seemed that the Old Biddies were positively delighted at this opportunity to meddle in a murder investigation.
Then I felt a wave of shame. What was I doing standing here, belittling their efforts? At least they were doing something! And they weren’t even under suspicion themselves. Their futures weren’t at stake and yet here they were, giving it their all. How could I make fun of their efforts when I hadn’t done anything so far except splutter in indignation and feel sorry for myself?
Feeling chastened, I turned to the pile of papers on the filing cabinet nearest to me and began rifling through them. I realised that they were various pieces of information about Jenn herself—a copy of her hotel booking, some bills, several pages of notes gleaned about her from interviews with the hotel staff and guests, a communication from the Australian police confirming that a wor
k colleague had identified Jenn’s photo… I spied an Australian passport tucked into a clear plastic wallet and pulled it out, flipping it open to the ID page. A picture of Jenn stared solemnly back at me. On an impulse, I pulled out my phone and quickly snapped a picture. Just as I was returning the passport to the plastic wallet, I suddenly heard the sound I had been dreading.
The sound of footsteps in the doorway.
I dropped the passport back on the pile and froze like a frightened rabbit, my eyes darting frantically around the room. What should we do? Where could we hide? I looked across at the sash window. Could we climb out of the window in time?
Then I heard an exclamation and turned guiltily around. Derek Sutton, the hotel manager, was standing in the doorway, staring at us in astonishment. But it was the person behind him who made my heart stop. It was Inspector Glenn and his face was like thunder.
“What are you doing in here?” he demanded, pushing Derek Sutton out of the way and coming into the room.
“We came to see Mr Sutton,” said Mabel grandly. She sailed forwards, completely ignoring the detective inspector, and wagged a finger at the hotel manager. “We have been waiting for you a very long time, young man!”
Inspector Glenn looked nonplussed. He opened his mouth but didn’t seem to know what to say. Mabel took advantage of his confusion to continue blithely to Derek Sutton:
“We wanted to ask you about hiring out the hotel ballroom for the Meadowford Ladies’ Society lunch next month.”
“The… the hotel ballroom?” said Derek Sutton. “Er… are you sure? It’s normally reserved for large weddings and banquets. It’s… er… very expensive to hire.”
“Well, in that case, you had better give us a special discount, hadn’t you?” said Mabel tartly. She turned as if to go but the young detective sergeant, who had followed Inspector Glenn into the room, stopped her.
“Wait a minute—” he said with a suspicious look at the desk behind us. “All the papers on the table have been disturbed. Have you been snooping through the reports?”
“What reports?” said Mabel with the most perfect display of innocent surprise. The woman deserved an Oscar. She picked up a piece of paper from the desk and looked at it. “Is this something important, Sergeant?”
He snatched it from her hand. “It’s a witness statement,” he said testily. “This is all confidential information pertaining to a murder enquiry.”
“Are you suggesting that I would pry into official police matters?” Mabel glared at him. “And there is no need to take that tone with me, young man. Is that how you speak to your grandmother?”
The young sergeant flushed and seemed to shrink inside his clothes. “N-no,” he stammered, dropping his eyes. “I… I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think… Of course, you wouldn’t…”
“Humph!” said Mabel, glowering at him. “I shall write to the Police Commissioner and tell him that I find the standards of conduct in the modern police force absolutely appalling. Good day!”
Bristling with offended dignity, Mabel marched out of the room, followed by the other three Old Biddies. I tried to scurry after them but Inspector Glenn’s voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Just a minute, Miss Rose…”
I turned reluctantly back to face him.
“What are you doing in here?” He growled. “Don’t tell me you came here with Mrs Cooke and the others—I know you’re not in the Meadowford Ladies’ Society.”
I looked wildly around. “I… uh… I came to see Mr Sutton as well!” I said, glancing over at the bewildered hotel manager. “I… um… wanted to ask him… I left something of mine in Jenn’s room that night and I wanted to see if I could get it back.”
“You didn’t mention this yesterday when I took you to look over the room,” said Inspector Glenn, his eyes hard.
“Yes, I… um… forgot. You know, the shock of Jenn’s death…”
“Very well—you can tell us what it is now.”
“Oh… actually, don’t worry about it. I can see that you’re all very busy right now. I’ll get it some other time,” I said quickly, making as if to leave the room.
“No, I insist,” said Inspector Glenn. His voice was soft but I could hear the veiled threat in there. “What is the item?”
Blast, I thought as I felt all eyes in the room on me. How was I going to get myself out of this mess now? I had said the first excuse that had come to mind but now if I didn’t come up with something that could genuinely be found in Jenn’s room, I’d be stuffed. It was bad enough being found in the police Incident Room when I was already the top suspect in this case. I had to convince Inspector Glenn that I really had come to see the hotel manager. But what could I say?
I closed my eyes for a second, desperately trying to recall what I had seen in Jenn’s room. Something in the bathroom, I thought—anything—there were so many things on that vanity counter, the police would never know if I said one of them was mine. I dredged up my memory of what I had seen in the bathroom that day: a little group of creams and lotions, a quilted gold cosmetic bag, a wooden hairbrush and a couple of elastic hair ties, the electric toothbrush standing forlornly by itself next to the sink…
“A… a cosmetic bag!” I blurted out. “I… er… left a gold cosmetic bag in the bathroom.”
I looked pleadingly at Derek Sutton, begging him with my eyes to help me.
He blinked, then a look of understanding came over his face and he smiled, saying quickly, “Oh, yes, right. I’ll have Marie go and look for it. She’s in charge of the rooms on that floor.” He stepped over to the desk and picked up the phone, dialling an internal number. “Marie? Can you pop along to Room 302 and have look in the bathroom for a quilted gold cosmetic bag… yes, on the vanity counter, I think…” He glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. “That’s right. Can you bring it straight down, please?”
A few moments later, there was a knock on the office door and Marie the maid came into the room. In her hands was a gold cosmetic bag.
“That’s it!” I said quickly, reaching out to take it, but the inspector intercepted me.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you remove any evidence while the murder enquiry is still ongoing,” he said, whisking the cosmetic bag out of reach.
“Oh, but you said…” I trailed off, confused as to why he let Marie bring it down in the first place.
He gave me a cold smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I like to call people’s bluff, Miss Rose, and see if they’re speaking the truth. In this case, I have my doubts as to whether this…” he held up the bag. “…was the real reason you came into this office but for the time being, I shall take your word for it. You can have it back when the investigation is over and all items are released. Until then, it will remain in police custody.”
I murmured something in reply and, trying not to show too much relief, escaped the office a few moments later. As I stepped out into the lobby, I was accosted by the Old Biddies.
“Well! I think that was a very successful sleuthing mission,” said Mabel with great satisfaction.
I stared at her. “What do you mean? It was a disaster! Not only did we not find anything useful, the police caught us snooping red-handed. You even abandoned me in there with Inspector Glenn,” I said accusingly. “I was forced to concoct a whole bunch of lies just to convince him that I had an innocent reason for being in there.” I heaved a sigh. “I think I lost five years off my life in the last ten minutes.”
Mabel waved a dismissive hand. “It’s good to have to think on your feet once in a while.”
While I spluttered in indignation, Ethel gave me a soothing pat on the shoulder and said, “And we might have inadvertently discovered a very important clue, dear.”
Glenda nodded eagerly. “Something we read or saw in there might point to the identity of the killer!”
“Well, it’s not much use since we don’t have copies of anything,” I said sourly. “I doubt I could remember everything I glanced over—c
an you? Especially at your age—” I broke off, embarrassed.
But the Old Biddies didn’t seem to take offence. Mabel smiled complacently and shook her finger at me.
“Just you wait, dear… you never know what you might notice. You won’t remember it now but your mind has probably stored it away, ready for a rainy day. And now…” She turned and surveyed the lobby lounge, patting her woolly white hair. “Those cakes look lovely. Shall we have some tea?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I was ridiculously delighted, when I found myself awake the next morning, to see that the clock on my bedside table read 8:10 a.m. Progress! I lay for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, the events of the last few days drifting through my mind. Like watching a movie in reverse, I went back over everything that had happened until I was back on that plane, meeting Jenn Murray for the first time. I remembered the way she had been so nervous about flying; I remembered the tentative initial introductions, gradually warming into easy conversation and friendship.
I felt a sudden pang of regret. I hadn’t known Jenn Murray well enough to really grieve for her when I found out about her death. I had been shocked and horrified, yes, but it hadn’t really been personal. It was a distant sort of sadness, like hearing about an old school friend who had got cancer or a favourite high school teacher who had passed away. Now, however, for the first time, I felt a genuine sorrow at her death.
I had liked Jenn Murray. Perhaps we might even have become good friends. And it seemed terribly wrong that her life should have been cut short like this. Suddenly, quite apart from wanting to prove my own innocence, I wanted to get justice for Jenn. I wanted to find her killer and see them punished.
I sprang out of bed and hurried through my shower, grumbling as I kept finding more bits of glitter clinging to me. Then I hunted around my room for my favourite pair of jeans. I frowned. Where were they? I was sure I had left them there on the chair by the window, along with a bunch of other clothes that I’d been intending to wear again in the next few days. But looking at the chair now, I realised that the pile looked distinctly smaller. In fact, I could see that several things seemed to be missing. I was sure I hadn’t put them away (no point hanging stuff up or putting them back in drawers if you were just going to take them out again soon—that’s my motto) so where had they disappeared to?