Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5)

by Andrea Frazer

  Jefferson was to be front-of-house, greeting guests as they arrived and making sure their every whim was catered for during their stay, and waving them off for a safe journey home, hoping to see both them and their wallets and credit cards again soon. In anticipation of his role as the hotel’s genial host, he had grown the aforementioned beard, and acquired a wardrobe full of hairy tweed suits and waistcoats suitable for the winter months, and a number of lighter ones, still with ‘country gentleman’ waistcoats, for the warmer seasons of the year.

  With the work nearing completion, the staff interviewed and hired, and the furniture arriving in ten days’ time, they were like little boys with a new toy, and all desperate to get into the dressing-up box.

  The staff would arrive a week in advance of the first guests, to allow them to get used to the layout of the building and grounds, and the demands of their various roles. Training would be strict and exacting – none of this ‘have a nice day’ nonsense and ‘in a minute’ sloppiness. Immaculate and prompt service, with a smile, would be a large part of the appeal of the place – the hotel where service was still given the highest priority, and where the guest was always right, and his every need catered to.

  A voice from the open double doors shouted, ‘Chandeliers, delivery, and fitting thereof,’ and the three large little boys turned as one, with eyes sparkling with as bright a light as that which would soon be reflected and refracted from the myriad crystals that were now to be hung throughout the building.

  ‘Bring them straight through here,’ called Jefferson, and rubbed his hands together with glee, as he contemplated the extra frisson of elegance that French crystal would add to the establishment. ‘Have you got the wall sconces as well?’

  Cherubs! He must have cherubs – putti, if you like, but they were essential to the look that wasn’t quite wholly English, but included a whiff of the exotic European. He should have lived in Edwardian times, he thought. What a hit he would have been in one of the classier hotels in London. What a hit he would be now – there was no doubt in his mind whatsoever that this would be so.

  II

  Early June

  Aylsa Arkwright stared for a moment at the small but attractive advertisement in Country Life, and put the magazine down on the coffee table to think for a moment or two. It looked perfect to her, but she knew it would be useless to approach Enoch with the idea: far better to present him with a fait accompli, and a reasonable explanation for why she had done what she had done.

  This would take some thought, and not a little cunning. Fitting a cigarette into her long ebony and mother-of-pearl holder, and lighting it with a gold lighter, she rose from her recumbent position and walked through the open French windows to take her sneakier side for a walk round the substantial area of the garden, to see what occurred to it.

  Her husband Enoch, a rather dour man who obstinately preferred work to pleasure, and was loath to be dragged away from it, replaced the telephone back in its cradle on his desk, and gave a lupine grin. What a deal he had just done! What a corker! Who said there was no money in scrap metal? Well, he’d shown ’em over the years, and would continue to do so for some considerable time to come.

  He was the top man, and he would celebrate tonight with a bottle or two of champagne with dinner, not that it would be drunk in the confines of a restaurant. Aylsa’s cooking was good enough for him, and although he’d down the champagne with pleasure because he got it from a contact at a rock-bottom price, there was no need to go throwing money around in a fancy restaurant just because he’d just clinched a corker, now was there?

  He’d give his wife a ring a little later, and ask her if she could produce something a little fancier than normal, as he had some good news to share, but he’d make her wait until after they’d eaten, in case she got any ideas about trying for a late booking at that slimy Froggy’s fancy French restaurant ‘L’Etoile’. The prices in there were enough to give a man a severe nosebleed. No, he wasn’t going to be caught by that old trick – the ‘it’ll keep till tomorrow in the fridge’ trick. In fact, he was going to be caught by a totally new one, but of this, he had no idea whatsoever at the moment, and carried on with his afternoon, in blissful ignorance of the fleecing that he was going to undergo later that day.

  Aylsa, meanwhile, had not wasted the forty years she had been married by not picking up a trick or two. His phone call about something a little special for dinner had alerted her to the fact that he was in an unusually good mood, which probably indicated that he had made or put through a good deal that day, and that could only work in her favour, but she’d have to play her cards carefully, lest he suss her out.

  When Enoch arrived home that evening, he found his wife draped pathetically on the sofa in her silk dressing gown, an expression of woe on her face lifting slightly to a small smile as she caught sight of him. ‘Hello, darling,’ she greeted him in muted tones, as he bent to plant a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, while he sniffed the air like an elderly Bisto kid.

  ‘I can’t smell anything cooking,’ he barked, his good mood slowly evaporating. ‘Why can’t I smell cooking? I said I wanted something special, because I had something to tell you.’

  ‘I know, my treasure,’ she cooed, looking into his eyes pitifully. ‘Tell me your news. I’m sure it’ll perk me up. I’ve been feeling so seedy and exhausted for the last couple of weeks.’ (She couldn’t make the period too long, or he’d wonder why she hadn’t mentioned it before.) ‘Have you been very clever? Oh, do tell me: I can’t wait any longer. Have you made an awful lot of money, my clever, clever bunny?’

  She knew that Enoch could resist anything but flattery, and she was right. With a small rise to kiss his cheek, and a hand intertwining with one of his, he was hers, bait taken, hook, line, and sinker.

  Later, over coffee and brandy at L’Etoile, she showed him the advertisement which she had prudently clipped from the magazine and placed in her handbag, explained how woozy and tired she had felt of late, and he walked, metaphorically, off terra firma and down into the jaws of the trap. She had caught her bear. He might be a grizzly to others, but to her, with the right handling, he was her teddy bear, and he’d just come up trumps again by promising to book a room for the opening weekend of The Manse first thing in the morning.

  III

  Céline Treny, idly studying the ‘situations vacant’ column in the local paper while trimming her cuticles rather untidily with her teeth, suddenly sat upright in her chair, and stared at one of the job advertisements. Why, that looked like exactly what she was looking for, and its location was perfect, so there would be no trouble with the non-existent rural train and bus services. It was only fifteen minutes’ walk from where she rented her share of a flat, and any travel during working hours would be in the company vehicle, so she didn’t even need a car, which was very lucky indeed, as she couldn’t afford to run one. In fact, she was beginning to wonder how on earth she had ever done her job without benefit of wheels.

  She knew what was in the offing, and she had found the perfect passage for a mole. She would dazzle them in her interview and get the job, and then she would see. In fact, everyone would see, and that would be that.

  IV

  Freddie Newberry, known as Fruity, had positively goggled when he saw the name in the chat room on the internet. By Jove! He could hardly believe his eyes, as the memories floated back. It surely couldn’t be the same person, could it? He’d have to get his twinkling fingers on the keyboard and make some enquiries.

  When he proved to be correct, he began to twirl the ends of his moustache with his free hand, then brushed his hair back off his forehead, so that he would look his best, even though the person with whom he was communicating could not see him, vain old codger that he was. His slightly watery, gooseberry eyes widened in anticipation, as he considered the rekindling of a friendship hailing from some time back, and what a time it had been!

  Later that day, a pair of slightly slanting, dancing, brown eyes happened upo
n an advertisement in The Times, and positively twinkled with merriment. Wouldn’t that be fun! It would take a bit of wriggling and conniving to get it organised, but one must have faith, mustn’t one? With an outstretched hand, a finger depressed the button that switched on the computer, and then eyes gazed hungrily at the screen, willing everything to connect up with as much speed as was technologically possible.

  Edwina Newberry, aka Teddy, woke at 1 p.m. on the dot, made her morning ablutions, dressed, and came downstairs to find her husband poring over the small ads section of the Daily Telegraph, with a look of fervour on his face. ‘What gives, old stick? No racing paper for you today? I didn’t know you were planning to take a holiday.’ Fruity was a professional gambler who made a living from betting on the horses, and any deviation from his perusal of form, track conditions, and current odds and tips, left him momentarily out of touch, and vulnerable to losses instead of gains.

  ‘Nothing of the sort, lollipop. I was just considering the idea of a few days away from the madding crowd: give the two of us a little break; a little luxury.’

  ‘Ooh-er,’ replied Teddy with pleasure. ‘And when would this little break be? And where?’

  ‘There’s a fancy new boutique hotel opening, out in the countryside not far from a little town called Carsfold. It’s going to specialise in the Victorian/Edwardian era in style and service. They’ve got their grand opening coming up, with a very special offer, on a first-come-first-served basis. There’s going to be a murder mystery dinner with period costume provided, and the author of the mystery will be in attendance too. What do you think? I thought it’d be rather fun.’

  ‘In the countryside, Fruity? Won’t we be terribly bored? I mean, Brighton is a rather happening place at the moment, and I haven’t got over that weekend when you took me to Newbury. You were at the races, and I was left to fend for myself in a tiny town that only had one department store. I thought I was going to die.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative, Teddy. The ad says there’s loads to do, and it promises a real taste of the Edwardian country house, with tea on the lawn, cocktails on the terrace, and this murder mystery thingy thrown in as well. It won’t be crowded because they’ve only got ten guest rooms – ahem, ten ‘luxury guest suites’. It should be rather exclusive, in my opinion. Go on! We’ve never done anything like that before. Why don’t we give it a try?’

  ‘Is it dreadfully expensive?’

  ‘Not as expensive as it’s going to be for any follow-up weekends, and I’ve had a couple of really good weeks. Let’s just do it. You can get a few days off, and just relax and read all those books you’ve been meaning to get round to. Or we could go out in a boat. The river Darle runs through the grounds. And there’s a ha-ha to fall down, a summerhouse to take tea in if we want to, a folly, a gazebo to canoodle in, a lily pond with a tiny island and ornamental fish, and an oriental bridge.

  ‘It seems they’ve got some fancy French chef, and a reputable company providing all the costumes, which are included in the price. Eh? What do you say? Shall we give it a go, old girl? Go on, be a sport. Let old Fruity have a taste of the high life.’

  ‘Oh, go on then. We haven’t really done anything other than work since that Caribbean cruise in January. It’ll give us a little lift. I’ll just get my diary, so that I can note down the dates, and I’ll arrange time off when I get to the casino tonight.’ ( Teddy was a croupier in a gay casino on the seafront.)

  V

  Suzanne Veede (known as Sue), thirty-nine years old, still pretty and with a good figure, assistant to her husband Lewis (Lew) who was a third-generation master baker, and bored out of her mind with her life, looked down at the tray of pastries she was putting on displaying in the window of their shop, and clenched her teeth, to stop herself from screaming. If she had to look at one more cream horn, she was going to go insane and beat the next customer she saw to death with a loaf tin. She had to do something; had to have something to look forward to.

  Turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, she marched through to the bakery at the rear of the shop, put a hand on her husband’s shoulder to gain his attention above the noise of the machinery, and drew him into the little lobby that housed the cloakroom.

  Before he could open his mouth to ask what she thought she was doing, she launched into her desperate off-the-cuff plea. ‘Lew, I’m going mad. I can’t cope any more without a break, even a little one. I haven’t had any time off since last year, and I’m losing the will to live. I covered for you when you were away on that un-leavened and sour-dough course; now it’s my turn to do something.’

  ‘Like what?’ Lew was surprised, but cagey. He couldn’t close the shop for a week, or he’d lose a whole mess of customers, who were surprisingly fickle these days, and two weeks out of the game and you were in the gutter, such was the competition in these hard times.

  ‘It’s a weekend I’ve seen advertised. It’s not cheap, but it looks like just the sort of thing to distract and amuse us, and I’ve got a real yen to go. I know you can’t close up, but my parents could cover the shop, and maybe your father would come out of his precious retirement for a couple of days, just to let us catch our breath.

  ‘If they won’t help, I’m going to go on my own. I am so sick of the smell of yeast and crème patissiere, and I’ll probably run away to sea if you don’t take me away from all this.’

  ‘Hold your horses, honey. If it’s that important to you, of course we can go. I can’t speak for your parents, but the old man won’t give us any trouble. He’ll be in his element, being back at the helm of a bakery for a few days and, to be quite honest, I was feeling rather flat and stale myself. Show me the advert.’

  Sue excitedly fetched the newspaper through from under the counter, and pointed out the advertisement, which she had ringed in red ballpoint pen.

  For the next few minutes, the only sounds were, ‘How much??’ and the, inaudible to the human ear, whining and whimpering that a desperately pleading look would have made, were it capable of sound. Then, after an exceedingly long silence which was, in fact, only ten seconds, he capitulated, and said:

  ‘Oh, all right, then! You mind the shop and I’ll go and book it. We could both do with some down time.’

  Sue positively skipped back into the shop, punching the air with her fist and muttering, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ returning only to her normal sensible demeanour as she turned the ‘Closed’ sign back to ‘Open’, and opened the door for an elderly lady, who was staring through the door in astonishment at finding her favourite bakery closed at this time on a weekday.

  Chapter Two

  Friday 18th June – morning

  I

  It would not be too much of an exaggeration to state that the staff and owners of The Manse were running around like blue-arsed flies, on this, the morning of their first day of business. Although check-in today was not until after four pm, things were by no means all prepared and raring to go.

  Persephone (Percy) Boyd-Carpenter (author of tomorrow night’s first mystery for The Manse) was incarcerated in the office locked in a battle of wills with the computer. She had uploaded all her character parts, and that of the between-courses narrator – a part to be played by Jefferson Grammaticus, in fine pompous form – had turned the printer on and, she firmly believed, put the two machines in communication with each other, but every time she pressed the print button, it produced half a hotel brochure, with tonight’s menu right in the middle of it.

  With a cry of ‘Damn and blast you, you cyber cretin!’ she fled the office in a rage, in search of her husband Lloyd. At seventy-one years of age, he wasn’t very computer-savvy, but he might just know a trick or two that she didn’t about those two machine-creations of the devil

  II

  Beatrix Ironmonger, housekeeper of this establishment, was in her quarters on the top floor, a grimace of fury on her stern countenance, her free hand running through her bleached topknot of curls in impatience, as she engaged in a telephonic battle with yet
another supplier who had not delivered.

  This time it was the butcher, who was supposed to have delivered at nine o’clock sharp. ‘I don’t care what troubles you have your end, Mr Catchpole, I am only concerned with the problems that I have this end. We are expecting a full complement of guests this afternoon, and we have not a scrap of meat to serve them. Were they all vegetarians, I would, no doubt, not be in this position, but they are not, and so I am. I want that meat here within the hour, or we look for another supplier – one who can deliver on time – for what will be quite a nice regular little earner, might I add. Do I make myself clear?’

  Slamming the telephone back in its cradle, a sensation of softness made itself known at her ankles, and her expression changed immediately to that of one smitten with adoration. Her darling silver-spot Bengal cat, Perfect Cadence, was winding herself round her owner’s feet, making little ‘meep’ noises and purring.

  ‘Hello, my darling little precious,’ she crooned, bending to lift the animal into her arms, where it proceeded to lick her cheek. ‘Does Mummy’s ickle baby want a little snackie-poos, den? Come with Mummy and we’ll see if we can find any of those delicious dried whitebait for a beautiful girl, shall we?’

  Carrying the cat in her arms like a baby, she went into her small food preparation area, laid out a few choice mouthfuls for her darling, then returned to the telephone, two more names on her list yet to tick off, in more ways than one. As she walked, the chatelaine chain that Jefferson Grammaticus had lovingly assembled for her, to add an historical air to her presence, jingled softly as it dangled from her waist. She already found the sound comforting, as it confirmed her status here in this establishment. It was the sound of security and respect, and she sat down with a little flourish of her right leg, to set off its jingling once more.