Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5)

by Andrea Frazer

  ‘Not bad. Although I’m not too happy about all that stuff last night. Have you got anywhere, finding out who done it?’

  ‘Not so far,’ admitted Carmichael, feeling that he was establishing a definite rapport with the young man in charge of all the fancy cocktails served on the premises. As far as Carmichael was concerned, a rum and black was as far as he could see himself enjoying a cocktail, and he knew that this didn’t really count. ‘I’m kind of hoping that I can string bits and pieces that people remember together, to work that out. Can you remember what you were doing during, say, the first course of dinner?’

  ‘I was in the bar, like I’m supposed to be. Mr Grammaticus said he’d call me if he needed me to do anything else, but that I’d better save myself for the after dinner rush and the clearing up. Me, I wasn’t going to argue with that, now was I?’

  ‘Suppose not. So you didn’t leave the bar at all?’

  ‘Well, yeah. ’Course I did. I wanted a smoke when I was on a break, and there’s no smoking anywhere in this place.’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  ‘Just outside on the terrace, so I could hear if I was wanted.’

  ‘Did anyone see you there?’

  ‘’Course not. I didn’t want to be seen smoking. They might’ve thought I was skiving.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Anyone who saw me.’

  ‘But nobody did?’

  ‘No. That’s what I just said, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Look, can we start again? You were in the bar, then you went out for a smoke on the terrace, and nobody saw you.’

  ‘That’s dead on, so I don’t think I can really help you.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can. Well, thanks anyway. I’d better be getting on.’

  ‘Before you go, Chastity – that’s Chastity Chamberlain, the chambermaid – she told me that just as that bloke took a header down the stairs, she heard a cat howl, maybe like it had been tripped over. Well, the housekeeper’s got a posh little grey cat that she dotes on. I wondered if maybe he could’ve caught his foot on the cat, and that caused his tumble.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Carmichael, scribbling in his notebook. That would be a feather in his cap, if he could definitely prove that Newberry had died by misadventure, and not been helped on his way. They had taken it more or less for granted that it had been an accident, but this sounded like proof positive.

  ‘You’re welcome. Oh, and good luck!’

  ‘Thanks again.’ Carmichael realised that his questioning technique was rubbish, even if that last piece of information had been very useful. He just hadn’t felt comfortable. The barman was only a few years younger than him, and he’d seemed straight enough. There’d been no guilty looks or evasions, so he thought he’d stick with what he’d got, and go back to him later on if anything came up that might implicate him. It was just that he just didn’t feel comfortable having to think up the questions himself. With having to take notes as well, he’d felt like a third-rate actor asked to improvise, and the result had not been a great success.

  He really had been spooked down in the ‘dungeon’ level of the hotel, and the grandness of the first floor had already intimidated him. He wasn’t used to posh and moneyed places, and they always made him feel, somehow, inadequate, as if he should be tugging his forelock in deference, and minding his p’s and q’s, in case he got put in the village stocks by the gentry.

  Making a conscious decision to re-establish his right to be here, he removed a small machine from his pocket – his new toy. An inkless electronic fingerprint machine – and did a lightning tour of the hotel, meeting little resistance, as each new person was fascinated with this advance in technology (with the exception, unsurprisingly, of Enoch Arkwright, who felt it breached his human rights), and delighted at not having to spend ages washing ink off their fingers afterwards.

  Assuring them that someone would interview them in due course, he then headed for the kitchen. He knew there was a sous chef, because he’d seen the job title in the list of employees, and he always felt comfortable in a kitchen, whatever its size or contents. Food was food, and everyone had to eat, even film stars and the Queen. In the simple need for fuel, everyone was equal, no matter what their station in life. Even cowboys, he added, as he doffed an imaginary ten gallon hat at the bust of a lady, sitting on a pedestal just inside the entrance hall near the kitchen doors, and mouthed, ‘Howdy ma’am,’ as he replaced said invisible hat on his head.

  IV

  In the office, Harry Falconer was still getting the lowdown on what was supposed to have happened the night before, and wondering at the ingenuity of a mind that could turn a game to its own advantage in such a way, and that’s exactly what this looked like,when one examined the demise of Jocelyn Freeman. It might have been the wrong footman that paid the price, but was this by accident or design?

  Had the murderer realised that Jocelyn had taken his brother’s place at the last minute, or had he or she killed Jocelyn in the sure and certain knowledge, now proved to be flawed, that it was Jerome? Which of them had been the actual intended victim? And had he been chosen as the victim before or after Jerome had started pouring booze down his neck?

  As for the departure from this vale of tears by Freddy Newberry, the jury was still out on whether that was an accident or by design. There had been some talk of hearing a cat, as the man had fallen to his death, but he’d have to follow up on that piece of information. If he was lucky, it would prove to be a case of an inebriated man losing his footing when a domestic animal cut across his path.

  Chef’s misadventure would also have to wait. On telephoning the hospital this morning, he had learned that swift intervention medically and the man’s copious vomiting had left him alive, but desperately ill. He was still in the ICU and under sedation to allow his body an opportunity to recover, but there was a fair chance he would not be allowed to recover consciousness for some time, and anything he could offer them about how he might have ingested poison or who might have administered said toxin would greatly advance the investigation.

  All other considerations aside, there was something he dearly wanted to know about those employed here. ‘I’m puzzled Mr Grammaticus, and I wonder if you’d enlighten me. How did you manage to get staff to come out here to work? I mean, Carsfold’s the nearest town, but it doesn’t have any noticeable night life or entertainment. The nearest cinema’s in Market Darley, and we aren’t exactly blessed with good bus services in these parts. Oh, I know it’s nothing to do with the investigation. I just wondered, that’s all. Don’t give it another thought.’

  After an initial sharp glance from under his eyelashes, Grammaticus summoned up his genial ‘mine host’ expression and said, ‘It’s no secret. Each member of my staff was in need of employment when I was setting up this enterprise, and they were all existing on benefits in some quite unpleasant little bedsits and flats.

  ‘All I did was to identify their various talents, and give them a chance to get on their feet and get on in life. Living-in would give them an ideal opportunity to build up some savings, and work towards a really good reference from a first-class establishment. I don’t see that a little help along the road to those we pass on life’s journey can do any harm, do you, Inspector?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Grammaticus. Not at all.’ answered Falconer, while getting just the hint of a suspicion that there was more to this staff business than met the eye. That one sly little glance had told a totally different tale, and if he or Carmichael couldn’t winkle it out of the one or other of the members of staff, he’d eat his straw hat – and without brown sauce too.

  ‘Tell me about last night. Did you see or hear anything that may have any bearing on our investigations,’ asked Falconer. ‘As an hotelier, you need to have eyes and ears everywhere. Is there anything at all that you can tell me that might point me in the right direction? Let’s start with your late business partner. Is there anyone here who might have wished him harm?
’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but on the other hand, we all thought it was Jerome who was dead, didn’t we, so are we looking for someone who had an axe to grind with Jerome, or with Jocelyn? I certainly didn’t know about the change of roles, but that’s not to say that someone else didn’t.’

  Damn! The man was perfectly correct. Was Jocelyn killed as Jocelyn, or was he killed as Jerome? He’d have to ask the man when he recovered from his night on the tiles and the shock where they were when they agreed to the switch. That was the only way they could establish whether they had been overheard or not.

  ‘Very astute of you, Mr Grammaticus. Now, moving on to another member of your staff: was Chef well liked? Was he a popular character? Or was he temperamental, as so many of these culinary gentlemen seem to be these days?’

  ‘Antoine was a handful, make no mistake about that, but he cooked like an angel. His food was, literally, heavenly, and we had great plans to hold residential cookery courses. I have to admit that he and Persephone Boyd-Carpenter were my two greatest assets for the future. A hotel is, no matter how sumptuous, just a hotel, and excellent service is something that any discerning establishment may offer. But to have a tame author on hand to write original plots for in-house dramas and present creative writing courses, and a chef who loves food so much that he would die for it, and be willing to pass some of his secrets on to punters, was just a dream for me. I didn’t see how this place could fail.

  ‘If we added wedding packages into the mix – and I have been having talks with a wedding planner on the sly – we could just about mop up the market in this county, and possibly draw in people from all over it. I’ve just got to hope to get an angle on what’s happened, find a way to turn it to my advantage, and make sure I’m not left dead in the water.’

  Cold-hearted bugger! thought Falconer, then steered the man back to Chef. ‘Is there anyone here that had fallen out with Chef? We’ve identified, from what he brought up, that he was poisoned by a toxic fungus – I can’t remember its Latin name, but it’s commonly known as the Death Cap and is very similar to a type of perfectly edible mushroom – and a search of the kitchen last night produced a small morsel of quiche that contained the same – er – ingredient. Basically, did Chef have any enemies?’

  ‘Anyone who didn’t praise his cooking to the heights, I suppose,’ was the answer, then Jefferson’s face clouded over, and he paused, as if in thought. ‘He did say something odd. Oh, I don’t think it was last night. It was probably the night before, because of all the excitement with the arrival of the costumes. Yes, it was Friday night. Someone – I can’t remember who – mentioned the name of the costume company I’ve employed to dress the guests, and Chef said something about the name.’

  ‘That’s “DisguiserGuys”, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘That’s right. Now, let me think. I’ve got it! He said something like, he was the one who should be in disguise, not the guests.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘I left just about then. I can see him, but I can’t … Hang on. He said … he said … it was something about a woman, or someone chasing him. I had no idea what he was talking about. I suppose I put it down to his usual over-dramatisation of every little thing that happened, or a jilted girlfriend. I certainly didn’t take it seriously. Should I have done? Is that what you’re implying? Someone got at him? Someone real, and in my hotel?’

  ‘It’s too early to confirm that, sir, but I’m grateful for the information. Now, just a quick word about Mr Newberry. At the moment, we’re treating his unfortunate demise as an accident, pure and simple, but I need to ask you, just for the record, whether you noticed anything about him that could have caused resentment; or maybe any signs of him knowing any of those already present here?’

  ‘I don’t think … Actually, I don’t know. He was definitely a ladies’ man. Yes, a terrible old flirt, and I did notice him making eyes at one of the other guests, and she returned the interest. I did think that he was just a fast worker, and how alcohol was a great breaker down of social barriers, but … I don’t know what it was, about the way they behaved towards each other. I mean, I could be mistaken, but it wouldn’t surprise the hell out of me if I discovered that they had already made each other’s acquaintance before.

  ‘I don’t want to cast aspersions, Inspector. I’ll not blacken someone’s character – especially a lady’s – without some proof. I probably shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. Anything you say to me will be treated in the strictest confidence. If it proves to have no bearing on events, it will not be mentioned again. If, on the other hand, these signals that you seem to have picked up have a direct bearing on what happened, I should be very grateful if you would confide in me.’

  And, of course, he did. There was no way he wanted to be tainted with the stain of withholding evidence. Not on top of everything else.

  At this point, there was a discreet knock at the door, and Carmichael’s naked head snaked round it, an apparition that caused Jefferson to visibly start. ‘Good grief! Ringworm?’ The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  ‘Could I have a word, sir?’ asked the head, before glaring at the man behind the desk, and retorting, ‘Kojak!’ as if it were a curse, rather than an explanation.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunday 20th June – late morning

  In the various bedrooms of the hotel, conversations were taking place, and consciences were being searched, suspicions uttered.

  I

  Aylsa Arkwright was in full flow. ‘Come on, Enoch; out with it. I know you’ve got something on your mind, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s to do with that coloured gentleman who got himself killed. I know you’re a bigoted old sod, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? You know something about it. Well, spit it out.’

  ‘I don’t know anything whatsoever about him getting himself killed. It was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but you know something I don’t, and I want you to tell me what it is here and now, or I’ll tell the police that you’re hiding something.’

  ‘I’m not hiding anything.’ But he could not meet her eyes, and she suddenly declared, ‘It’s about that site you didn’t get planning permission for, all those years ago, isn’t it? It’s that environmentalist chap who discovered some weird and wonderful toad, or flower, or whatever on that piece of land, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, my dear. It’s got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Oh yes it has! I can see it in your eyes. That was a coloured chap, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Look, shut up, Aylsa. It doesn’t matter who it was that scuppered my plans. That’s history. It’s now I’m concerned about. I didn’t know him. I’ve forgotten all about that. And so have you!’

  So surprised was she by his vehemence that she stared at him in disbelief and held a handkerchief up to her mouth, as if to stop herself saying another word.

  II

  At the room diagonally opposite the pink room in which the foregoing conversation was taking place, another was underway in the white and gold room. ‘I saw you with my own eyes, last night, fluttering your eyelashes at that revolting old lecher. No, don’t deny it, because it’s true.’

  ‘I was only getting into character and playing along with things, Lew,’ protested Sue Veede. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  But her protests were in vain. ‘So what exactly did you mean by being such a caring, loving wife when I woke up with the hangover from hell yesterday morning?’

  ‘I was just concerned. You know you don’t usually drink, and you had been going it a bit, hadn’t you? You said you couldn’t even remember having dinner.’

  ‘I couldn’t, then. And how convenient for you, that I should have had a bout of alcohol-induced amnesia. Know what, though?’ he asked, his smile wolfish and cruel.

  ‘What, Lew?’

  ‘A couple of hairs of the dog last night, and t
he sight of you two practically drooling over each other – oh, you made me sick! – was enough to jolt a few of the old brain cells back into action. I remembered. Now, what have you got to say to that?’

  ‘Lew, it was nothing. Nothing happened, I swear to you. I’ve never done anything like it before; it’s just so long since I felt like a woman, and I didn’t think a bit of harmless flirting was so awful. After all, we were all supposed to be acting a part, weren’t we?’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ve checked your mobile. Oh, only because I mistook it for my own, but it was very educational. You’ve got mail, my little darling. You should have checked it and deleted it, before I got the chance to look. Now what have you got to say for yourself, eh?’

  III

  In her staff bedroom on the top floor, Chastity Chamberlain hastily gathered together a number of small items that she had concealed in her chest of drawers and dressing table. They were not items of any high monetary value, but neither were they hers.

  ‘You stupid cow!’ she admonished herself, as she put them in a pile on the bed. ‘Why do you have to go on doing it? It’s not as if you needed any of this stuff, and it’s not as if it’ll be greatly missed. But you just have to go on doing it, don’t you. Silly bitch!’ This last, she whispered as she used the blade of a plundered kitchen knife to prise up a floorboard she had loosened during the first day of her stay here.

  ‘You’re going to have to stop this. You’ve got a real chance to get on here, and get good at something useful, and that’ll be a first. A bit of time doing a really good job, and you can move away with a good reference in your pocket, and no more hassle.

  ‘In a few years’ time you might even be able to start up that little hospitality staff agency you’ve been thinking about – give yourself the opportunity to send other people off to do the hands-on work, and just take a cut for sitting on your bum and making a few phone calls.

  ‘You might even get a little flat where you can live all on your own, and not have to be constantly looking over your shoulder, wondering if you’ve annoyed anyone enough to get yourself a clip round the ear. Come on, get in will you.’ She shoved the last of her little collection into the hole, and trod on the board viciously, to make it flush with the others.