* * *
The problem of being dropped by certain quarters of society no longer bothered her. In its place came the far more delicate problem of those acquaintances whose enthusiasm for the Villa Dorata Hotel had increased.
‘It’s getting beyond a joke. I thought I’d better show it to you, Mrs Lisburne,’ said Harry, ‘it being the end of the month. He handed her a bar bill.
‘Are you saying Mr and Mrs Shaw haven’t paid anything since we opened?’ she asked incredulously, scanning the sheet of paper in her hand.
‘Not one penny. Normally I wouldn’t have let it go on so long without mentioning it, but seeing as they’re such particular friends of yours…’
That was the point. As far as Mercy could remember the Shaws had not been particular friends of theirs, not until the opening of the hotel. She and Peter had known the Shaws, certainly, and she could recall being at the same dinner parties and other functions from time to time. But particular friends? No! Yet since the Villa Dorata Hotel had opened its doors for business Billie and Cynthia Shaw had been in most nights, full of compliments for the decor, the atmosphere and the cocktails – especially the cocktails, as the bill now in Mercy’s hand bore witness. It was astronomical.
‘I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you or Captain Lisburne, it being Mr Seaton’s night off,’ said Harry.
‘You did right, bringing it to me. I’ll see to it. Let me know as soon as they come in, please.’
‘Right oh!’ Cheerily Harry returned to his bar to prepare for the evening.
Mercy looked at the bill again and felt decidedly uncomfortable. So far, she had never had to deal with anything like this. Difficulties with customers had tended to be very minor up till now. What made this situation more embarrassing was knowing the Shaws socially; but it could not be allowed to continue, the bill was too excessive. She could have handed the matter over to Peter, of course, only she knew how much he would have hated dealing with it.
What would Blanche have said to them? she wondered. Probably something like, ‘It is a pity you do not pay as speedily as you drink!’ she decided, and chuckled. It was remarkable how often she found comfort in thinking about her grandmother these days, though goodness knows, the old lady had been far from comforting in her lifetime. Mercy decided that on this occasion emulating Blanche might prove a bit abrasive. She would choose a more diplomatic approach instead.
As soon as Harry sent word of the arrival of the Shaws Mercy headed for the cocktail bar.
‘Good evening,’ she said.
‘Mercy darling!’ Cynthia Shaw greeted her with a flurry of exaggerated gestures. ‘You look absolutely stunning, doesn’t she, Billie?’
‘Absolutely!’ agreed her husband.
‘How kind of you to say so,’ said Mercy, feeling decidedly embarrassed. ‘Especially since I have to broach a somewhat awkward subject. You see, I am afraid you’ve forgotten to pay your bar account.’
She put the bill on the table in front of them.
‘Pay?’ Billie Shaw repeated the word as though it were something from a foreign language. ‘But Mercy, dear, I didn’t think you expected us actually to pay.’
‘Didn’t you? I can’t imagine what gave you that impression.’
‘Because we’re friends, of course. You really can’t charge your friends, my pet,’ Cynthia drawled. ‘It just isn’t done.’
Mercy’s embarrassment evaporated rapidly. She could recognize when she was being swindled readily enough.
‘Is that so?’ she replied sweetly. ‘You could be correct. However, you aren’t friends of my brother, and since he is a partner in this business, on his behalf I really must ask you to pay. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair to him, would it?’
‘I don’t think I’ve enough money on me,’ blustered Billie, clearly disconcerted. He had evidently expected Mercy to slink away shamefaced.
‘Why don’t you look and see?’ she suggested, standing her ground.
Muttering under his breath Billie took out his wallet. Mercy was furious to see it was crammed with five-pound notes.
‘Why, there’s more than enough there to cover your bill,’ she cried gaily, leaning forward and deftly extracting the required number. ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked, as Billie made a cry of protest. ‘Oh, of course. You’ll want to give Harry a little something for the way he’s looked after you all these weeks. Don’t worry, I’ll deduct it from your change!’
Fury was etched on the couple’s faces but the cocktail lounge was filling up, and they were reluctant to make a scene. When Mercy returned with their change they had gone.
‘So you actually got some money out of them, Mrs L,’ grinned Harry, pocketing his pound note. ‘Well done!’
‘I could have understood them not paying if they were hard up!’ exclaimed Mercy. ‘But that wallet was crammed with banknotes.’
‘And that was how he intended it to stay. I’ll say this, any more of their sort are in for a sad shock if they come here! You’re more than a match for any of them, Mrs L.’
‘Why, thank you! I shall take that as a compliment, Harry,’ replied Mercy. Now the incident was over she felt quite elated, as if she had endured some ordeal and survived.
The confrontation with the Shaws was quite a landmark in Mercy’s career: never again was she reluctant to tackle anyone who tried to cheat them.
‘You should leave such people to me,’ protested Peter, after she had successfully routed one man who had complained about the service only after he had eaten the full five-course dinner without comment.
‘No I shouldn’t! You are far too nice. You’d be kind and apologetic, and these wretched people would fleece us right, left and centre. They’re in a minority, thank goodness, but they shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it!’
‘What did you say to this one?’
‘I told him that the service was free and we only charge for the food, so since he’d eaten every scrap of the dinner he would have to pay for it. He was deliberately trying to get a reduction on his bill, there was nothing wrong with the service. I was watching all the time!’
‘You’re developing into quite a tigress, do you know that?’ Peter chuckled.
‘It must be the Blanche in me coming out.’ Mercy gave a smile as she remembered a conversation she had overheard between two guests, a pair of ‘bright young things’. One had remarked, ‘The Lisburnes seem an awfully nice couple, don’t they?’ To which the other replied, ‘He’s an absolute sweetie, certainly, but she can be a bit of a tartar!’
If being ‘a bit of a tartar’ was what it took to make the hotel a success then she was quite happy to continue. Certainly she had seen off the Shaws: they never returned to the Villa Dorata.
Not all their guests provoked conflict, fortunately. Mostly the people who stayed at the Villa Dorata were perfectly charming. One of the nicest proved to be ‘Dobbie’ Dobson, the ex-colonial officer who had been their very first guest. He had returned again after the briefest of intervals; then, as he had been paying his bill for the second time he had asked if he could stay permanently.
‘I don’t seem able to settle, now I’ve retired,’ he said. ‘I’ve done the rounds of relations, but never fancied putting down roots anywhere near them. This is the only place that’s suited me. Nice country, nice people, good food. I could have my own boat again and go sailing as much as I want. If you’ve room for me I’d like to make your hotel my permanent billet.’
‘We’d be delighted to have you,’ Mercy said. ‘But perhaps I ought to make it a condition of your stay that you and Peter don’t talk yachts and yachting for more than twenty hours out of any twenty-four.’
Mr Dobson grinned. ‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a fortnight then, bag and baggage.’
Mercy was glad for Peter’s sake that Mr Dobson was going to be a permanent guest, he so enjoyed having someone with whom to talk boats and sailing. Poor Peter, he sorely missed the Tan
go, although he never complained. He did not even frequent the Yacht Club as often as he used to – he did not have the time. Having ‘Dobbie’ Dobson in residence was going to be a great consolation.
She had to admit they were lucky in their permanent guests. Among the handful who had made the Villa Dorata their home only Miss Manning ever caused any consternation. Whether Dulcie Manning was mentally vague or merely had a bad sense of direction Mercy was never sure. The old lady had a tendency to turn up in the most unlikely places on the pretext that she was looking for the wireless lounge, or the bathroom, or even her own room. More than once Mercy had found her ensconced in the linen-room with Dolly.
‘Let ’er bide! ’Er idn’t bothering me none,’ said Dolly cheerfully, ‘I gives ’er a cup of tea, and ’er sits there for ages, watching me sort the towels, as ’appy as a sandboy.’
‘If you’re sure?’ Mercy was not convinced. ‘It worries me in case she wanders away from the hotel and gets lost.’
‘’Er’ll be all right,’ Dolly said confidently. ‘I don’t reckon ’er’s as muddle-’eaded as ’er makes out. ’Er just seeks a bit of company when ’er gets lonely.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. At least when she’s with you I know she’s all right. We really can’t have her wandering into the gentlemen’s lavatory again, as she did last week.’
‘There, what did I tell ’ee?’ Dolly was triumphant. ‘’Er idn’t nearly as muddle-’eaded as ’er pretends!’
Mercy was still laughing as she left the linen-room. The summer season progressed, with the hotel getting busier and busier. The number of bookings for resident guests was very satisfactory, but it was the growing volume of non-resident trade which was most gratifying. Some were summer visitors, of course, birds of passage who came in for an occasional meal or a drink, or to attend one of the regular tea dances, but a goodly number were locals. Many came out of curiosity, interested to see what Torquay’s newest hotel had to offer, and the number who began coming again and again was very satisfactory. There was no denying that the cuisine at the Villa Dorata was a definite attraction. Remembering Peter’s reservations about Lucien, the head chef, Mercy was convinced he was mistaken. So far the stocky Swiss had not put a foot wrong. He cooked like an angel, and the worst that could be said about his behaviour was that he could be rather morose at times.
It was while Peter and Mercy were having tea in their flat that the internal telephone rang. The day was hot, sultry, and tiring, and they had both crept away for a brief rest before the rigours of the evening, so neither of them was pleased at the interruption.
‘I’ll answer it, while you pour the tea,’ said Peter, reaching out for the receiver.
From where she sat Mercy could hear that the caller was agitated. As he listened Peter’s face became more and more grave.
‘Clear everyone away from the area,’ he said. ‘Above all, don’t let anyone try to enter the kitchen. I’m on my way!’ He leapt to his feet before he had replaced the receiver.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mercy.
‘The chefs gone berserk!’ Peter’s reply was given over his shoulder, he was already heading for the door.
Without another thought Mercy followed him. At the bottom of the main stairs they found a knot of people anxiously staring through the dining room door towards the kitchen. Fortunately it was a fine day, so few of them were guests. The head porter was holding the crowd back. By his side, looking decidedly pale, stood Charlie, one of the young under-chefs.
‘What’s going on?’ Peter demanded.
‘It’s Monsieur Lucien, Captain, he’s gone off his head,’ replied Charlie, shakily, ‘He’s got half the kitchen staff trapped in there and he’s threatening them with a knife!’
‘Is anyone hurt?’ asked Mercy, horrified.
‘Mickey, the other under-chef, he’s got a bad gash on the arm.’
‘And he’s still in there? Quickly, tell me what happened,’ commanded Peter.
‘We’d all just come on duty for the evening, and Monsieur Lucien seemed all right at first. A bit quiet and moody maybe, but that’s nothing unusual for him. Then, right out of the blue he starts yelling we’re all his enemies and plotting against him, and how he’s more than a match for the lot of us. That was when he picked up the knife. He lashed out, and Mickey got cut. I took my chance and made a dash for it. He nearly got me, too. Look!’ Charlie pulled at the sleeve of his white overall. The stout material had been slashed cleanly and his arm beneath it bore a livid scratch.
Peter whistled under his breath.
‘That was a close shave,’ he said. ‘Now, these unfortunate people in the kitchen, perhaps we can get them out by going through the back entrance?’
‘That’s no good, Captain. Monsieur Lucien locked the door. The only way’s through the dining room,’ said Charlie.
‘Come and show me! Mercy, you phone the police!’
‘No, I’m coming with you. You go and phone!’ She gave the nearest waiter a slight push towards the office.
‘I don’t have to go in there again, do I, Captain?’ asked Charlie nervously.
‘No, I may want you to explain the way things are in there, that’s all. Come on! Make sure you aren’t seen!’
The three of them stealthily skirted the dining room. There were two doors to the kitchen, one in and one out, and each had a small glass panel in the top. The sight through these panels was an alarming one. Half a dozen people were huddled in a corner, held at bay by the head chef, who was tensely prowling back and forth in front of them, swinging an enormous carving knife in one hand.
‘I’ll have to go in, and quickly!’ whispered Peter.
Mercy gave a gasp of protest. ‘It’s far too dangerous!’ she exclaimed.
He silenced her with a finger to his lips. ‘We daren’t wait for the police. That carving knife’s getting closer to those poor souls all the time. You two must create a diversion. Stand in the “in” door, and make as much noise as possible. I’ll tell you when.’
‘No!’ Mercy repeated her protest, but again it was in vain. Peter had picked up a marble figurine and was weighing it in his hand as a potential weapon. Then he crept over to the other door.
She had no option but to do as he asked. She exchanged an anxious glance with young Charlie as they armed themselves with metal trays. Then they waited!
The moment Peter gave the signal the pair of them clashed their improvised instruments together hard, yelling and screaming as they did so. Through the glass panel she had a clear view of Lucien swinging round, his glaring eyes blazing in their direction. He never saw Peter come up behind him, nor did he know anything of the marble figurine until it crashed down on the back of his head. Peter had disarmed the chef even as he hit the floor.
A mutual sigh of relief seemed to sweep right through the hotel, and in its wake came an upsurge of noise as people laughed and cried and cheered.
‘We’d better restrain the poor man in some way, in case he comes round suddenly,’ said Peter, looking anxiously at his handiwork.
Charlie was already on his knees beside the fallen chef. ‘It’ll be a fair time before he comes round, Captain,’ he said, tearing a linen tea towel in strips to bind Lucien’s wrists. ‘That was a good crack on the head you gave him.’
‘I hope I didn’t hit him too hard.’ Peter sounded worried.
The hall porter had given up trying to restrain the crowd round the dining room door. They rushed forward, engulfing the shaken occupants of the kitchen, and almost smothering them with mingled consolations for their ordeal and congratulations for their deliverance. Everyone was loud in their praise for Peter’s bravery. What with tending to the under-chef who had been injured and dispensing tea and brandy to his shocked companions Mercy scarcely noticed the arrival of the police. The first she knew of their presence was when two hefty constables began carrying out the semi-conscious form of Lucien.
‘I reckon he’s the hospital’s business rather than ours, in more w
ays than one,’ remarked the sergeant in charge. ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of him. You did a fine piece of work there, Captain Lisburne, if I may say so. Without your intervention we might have had a very nasty incident indeed.’
There were statements to be made to the police, the injured Mickey to be transported to the doctor, shaken and distressed employees to be ferried home. Then suddenly the hotel was quiet, and Mercy and Peter were alone in the office.
‘The police sergeant was right, you prevented a terrible tragedy,’ Mercy said. ‘You were so brave! You might have been killed, or badly hurt, or…’ The sobs that choked her took her completely unawares. She found herself clinging to Peter, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks, her body trembling violently, as delayed shock beset her.
‘It’s over! I’m all right! I was in no real danger!’ Peter folded her in his arms, and, rocking gently back and forth, soothed her.
‘You were in danger…’ wept Mercy. ‘Terrible danger… and I… I should be comforting you…’
He laughed. ‘I like things as they are,’ he said, in fact, I’d be quite content to stay like this all night.’
‘There’s no reason why we can’t…’ Mercy began, then abruptly she pushed away from him with an exclamation. ‘My goodness, the dinner! Who’s going to cook the dinner?’
Peter released her, a look of almost comic dismay on his face.
‘I’d forgotten about that,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to close the dining room for once.’
To Dream Again Page 42