Murder at the Treasure Hunt

by David W Robinson

  She had chosen Stewart because he was reliable. A man who could be trusted to stay close to Brenda and ensure that she was all right, that she got a fair chance of winning the Whitby treasure hunt (she wanted the prize for Sheila’s neighbours who had fallen on hard times). When Sheila outlined her requirements to Dalmer on the telephone the previous evening, he had been agreeable, although he remained mystified as to what was really going on, and Sheila declined to tell him. If she was not prepared to divulge the nature of her business to Brenda or to their good friend and boss, Joe Murray, then she would not tell Dalmer. All she would say was that her alternative business was vital, it was absolutely necessary that she handle the matter in complete secrecy, and she would gladly explain everything to him at the conclusion of the weekend. All Sheila asked for at the moment was that he trust her and look after Brenda.

  And he readily agreed.

  The door to his shed opened and he came out, carrying a small suitcase, which he dropped on the pavement, while he attended to locking up the doors and checking that the windows were properly secure. The taxi driver climbed out of his seat, opened the car boot, and allowed Dalmer to drop his suitcase in, then both men climbed back into the car, and Sheila instructed the driver to take them to the Miner’s Arms.

  As they settled into the rear seat, she took his hand. It was a gesture of friendship, not anything more intimate. “You’re sure you don’t mind, Stewart?”

  “I’m intrigued, but I’m only too happy to look after Brenda on your behalf.” He frowned. You’re sure she does need looking after?”

  Sheila giggled. “I’ve been looking after her since we were at school, fifty years ago. She needs someone to curb her natural enthusiasm, and I’m relying on you to keep her in check.”

  By the time they reached the Miner’s Arms off Doncaster Road, Brenda was already ticking off the members as they arrived. She worked under the watchful eye of the new chairman, Les Tanner.

  When they climbed out of the taxi, and Sheila paid the driver off (Dalmer had offered, but she insisted) Brenda greeted her with a grimace. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Sheila checked her watch. “It’s only twenty to one. No need to panic yet, Brenda.”

  Brenda handed her the checklist and pencil. “Do us a favour and take over, will you. I need to visit the ladies in the Miner’s before we get going.”

  Sheila had been about to try and speak to her friend in confidence, but she took the membership list instead. There would be plenty of time on the bus once they were moving.

  Chapter Two

  To most of the passengers it was as if the bus gave a sigh of relief as it reached the top of the hill and level ground.

  Riding on the aisle seat immediately behind the driver, Brenda felt obliged to comment. “If Joe was here, he’d be telling you it’s time your boss was buying new buses.”

  Behind the wheel, Keith Lowry, the man who had put up with the Sanford 3rd Age Club outings for years, felt equally duty bound to respond. “He already has, but he reserves this piece of junk for you lot.”

  “We’re his best customers.”

  “Says you. According to the old man, even without Joe you grind the price down to nothing and whatever he makes on the deal he has to pay out in cleaning and valeting. And it’s all right for you. I have to go back, yet. It’ll be seven by the time I get back to the depot, eight before I’m finished cleaning up after you, and by the time I get home, it’ll be too late for the pub.”

  Brenda frowned. “We’re here for the weekend. I thought you’d be staying.”

  Keith shook his head and checked his offside mirror before signalling to turn right at the approaching junction.

  “You know what the old man’s like. You’re not down for any excursions this weekend, so he won’t have me jollying it up in Whitby. I’ve a day trip to Cleethorpes tomorrow and I’ll be back here to pick you up on Monday afternoon.”

  The North Sea hoved into view as Keith reached the end of the street and paused to turn right. Drinking in the sight with a sense of relief and pleasure, Brenda decided to ignore the driver’s last complaint.

  It had been a long and tiring journey from Sanford to West Cliff at Whitby. Only about eighty miles, but leaving their West Yorkshire home at one on a Friday afternoon had not been the smartest of moves.

  “The Westhead Hotel won’t let us check in until four,” Brenda had told the members at the club meeting where the arrangements were finalised. “What do you want to do? Get to Whitby at ten in the morning and tow your luggage around all day?”

  It was an unpopular decision, reluctantly accepted, and as his passengers boarded at the Miner’s Arms, Keith had warned them of the difficulties ahead.

  “At this time on a Friday, the world and his wife are heading off home for the weekend. And those who aren’t going home, are going away on holiday and they’re even worse.”

  “How come?” Sheila Riley had asked.

  “Most of the holiday crowd don’t know where they’re going. So be prepared for a long journey.”

  And Keith was right. It was slow, tedious and wearisome. Jams at every junction on the motorway, traffic crawling along on single carriageways, a half hour stop at a roadside café outside York that turned into a full hour, and the coach struggling to climb the steep hills as they crossed the North Yorkshire Moors.

  During the journey, Sheila had immersed herself in Dickens’ Great Expectations, while Brenda had downloaded a couple of Agatha Christie novels onto the e-reader app of her smartphone, but by the time they reached Malton, with a 30-mile trek across the moors ahead of them, she had begun to tire of Poirot and his ‘little grey cells’, and dropped the phone in her bag.

  It had been a curious eleven months since Joe’s surprise return from the dead. He had been true to his word, and signed over minor partnerships in The Lazy Luncheonette to Sheila, his nephew Lee, and Brenda herself, after which he had retreated into the background, working only part-time. He had also resigned the Chair of the 3rd Age Club, leaving the post to Les Tanner, a man who had stood in for Joe on a number of occasions. The Payroll manager at Sanford Borough Council, Tanner was perfect for the job, but in contrast to Joe, he was pernickety, painstaking, more concerned with administration, ensuring the t’s were crossed at the i’s dotted than the actual management of the club.

  As a favour and a nod to his long service, Joe had agreed to continue negotiating with hoteliers to get the best possible deal for their members, and he would haggle with Sanford Coach Services to ensure that the price was ground down as far as possible. But that was as much as Joe was prepared to do, and he had refused point-blank to share the coach to Whitby with them.

  “I’m meeting up with Maddy Chester, and I’m going to her place. I’ll be in Whitby a lot earlier than you people.” With a smug smile, he concluded, “I’ll see you at the hotel… when you get there.”

  Brenda had sniffed disdainfully. “If I know you and her, you’ll be horizontal by eleven o’clock in the morning.”

  Joe remained unrepentant. The threat to his life during the abortive week in Majorca had seen a change come over him. The café, catering for the truck drivers of Sanford, and particularly the draymen of Sanford Brewery, had always been his life, but now he was more interested in enjoying the fruits of his long labour.

  Joe was not the only one who had changed. Brenda and Sheila had been best friends for as long as both could remember, and when they attended a 3rd Age Club outing, they stuck to each other like glue. They invariably shared a room, they drank and danced together, and the only time they were separate was on the few occasions when Brenda decided to indulge her libido with one of the few available males in the club.

  This time it was different. Sheila had made it clear from the moment they settled into their seats on the coach that she had other business to attend to in Whitby, and she refused to say what.

  As the bus came to the top of the hill and turned along West Cliff, giving rise to a ragged
cheer from the passengers at their first sight of the sea, Sheila reminded Brenda.

  “Do remember that I have other plans for the weekend. I don’t mind helping out with the clues for the treasure hunt, Brenda, but I have business which I really need to attend to in Whitby.”

  Brenda sniffed. “And yet you won’t tell me, your best friend, what this business is about.”

  Sheila would not be moved. “All in good time. I promise you I will bring you up to date. But I do need to deal with this matter. Anyway, you have Stewart Dalmer to help you on the actual treasure hunt, don’t you?”

  “He’s not as good as you with the gossip.”

  Brenda tuned into Keith as he turned right towards the Westhead Hotel, and spoke over his shoulder. “Better make your announcement, lass.”

  It was a task Joe had always taken care of, and Les Tanner had insisted that she, Brenda, deal with the matter. She was a better public speaker than him. Or, at the very least, she could command attention better than he. Reaching up beyond Sheila, she unhooked the PA microphone, switched it on, and tapped it a couple of times to ensure it was working.

  “All right, folks, we’re here at the Westhead Hotel. Usual routine. Keith will throw your suitcases all over the street while I check with reception to ensure they’re ready for us.”

  “Hey, you,” Keith complained. “Careful I don’t chuck you all over the street.”

  “Promises, promises,” Brenda riposted before addressing her fellow club members again. “For those of you taking part in the treasure hunt, there’s a meeting in the lounge bar at eight o’clock this evening. Don’t forget, the entry fee is twenty-five pounds per team, and it all goes to charity. For the rest of you, those tightwads who don’t want to give to the poor and needy, there’s a disco tonight and entertainment tomorrow and Sunday night. The rest of the time, you’ll have to get drunk on your own.”

  From halfway down the bus, Alec Staines chimed up. “These poor and needy, Brenda. What’s Joe’s commission on drumming up recruits?”

  “He gets nothing, but I get a head start on the treasure hunt.” Brenda had no doubt that Joe would have come up with a better put-down, but it generated a small chuckle amongst the seventy passengers. “Keith will be back to pick us up at one o’clock on Monday. Hopefully with a bus in slightly better fettle than this one. In the meantime, enjoy the weekend, and if you have any problems… sort them out yourself. What am I? Your mother?”

  George Robson squeaked in mock delight. “Mummy. I’ve found you at last.”

  The gag brought a much louder laugh from the passengers and even Brenda smiled as she took her seat again.

  The interchange woke up everyone, and as Keith heaved to at the kerb outside the hotel’s decorative entrance, people were yawning and stretching, preparing to get out into the summer sunshine.

  The Westhead Hotel stood 150 yards in from the point of West Cliff. A four-storey, multi-roomed block of white stone, matching the external appearance of its neighbours, its lines of windows looking out over sea to the north and east. The famed, bronze statue of Captain Cook could be seen from the main entrance, but fifty yards to the right of that, the equally well-known whalebone arch, leading to steep steps down into the town, remained invisible from the Westhead. Much further out, looking across and above the town was the church of St Mary and just visible behind its small, square tower, the upper part of the ruined Abbey.

  Joe, Sheila and Brenda had stayed at the adjacent Headland Hotel during an awards ceremony one Christmas, and while the event was one of those best forgotten and consigned to history, they had enjoyed the town with its busy, narrow streets, rows of fisherman’s cottages, its shops, pubs and bars.

  “The weekend starts here,” Brenda said, her voice brimming with anticipatory enthusiasm.

  Sheila nudged her. “Yes, look who’s here already.” She pointed beyond the bus windscreen at Joe’s second-hand Vauxhall, and in the entrance of the hotel, stood the man himself, smoking a cigarette, and chatting with Maddy Chester.

  Sheila and Brenda were first off the bus behind Keith, and Joe greeted them with a lopsided grin. “You look like you’ve had a bad trip.”

  Brenda scowled. “And you look like someone who’s going to get a smacked bottom.”

  With an insouciant smile, Maddy came in on Joe’s side. “How do you know he hasn’t already had one? And how do you know he didn’t enjoy it?”

  The naughtiness signalled a truce, and Joe greeted his closest friends with his more customary, businesslike approach. “I negotiated the deal, so I’ll get to the counter and sort out the rooms.”

  He stepped in through revolving doors surrounded by wooden frames bearing intricate and (to Joe) meaningless carvings, crossed the spacious entrance hall of dressed pillars and marble-effect Formica, to the reception desk to begin the tedious process of checking in the names and home addresses of his members.

  It was another of those duties he had carried out a hundred times in different hotels up and down the country, and he would have been happy to have handed it over to Les Tanner, but Tanner lacked Joe’s negotiating skills. A club official he might no longer be, but Joe still had the welfare of the members at heart.

  A petite brunette, of about forty years according to Joe’s estimate, immaculately dressed in the hotel’s blue and white, candy-striped blouse, greeted him with a pleasant smile. Her gold-coloured nametag announced her as Tracy, and to Joe, it was the perfect name. Her pretty features and genuine smile identified her as a Tracy.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, Tracy.” It was one of the hallmarks of Joe Murray that he preferred informality. “I’m Joe Murray of the Sanford 3rd Age Club, and please, don’t call me, ‘sir’.”

  “He’s not an officer and he’s never been a gentleman.”

  Brenda’s voice, ringing in Joe’s ears, caused him to turn his head sharply to the left, cricking his neck. “Ouch. Now look what you’ve made me do.”

  Brenda held up a thin sheaf of printed papers. “The passenger list, Joe. Even you can’t remember all seventy of us.”

  Joe grunted his thanks and while Brenda disappeared back through the main exit, he concentrated again on Tracy, whose smile was still present but a little faded.

  “Sorry about that. Let’s start again. I’m Joe Murray, Chair of the Sanford 3rd Age Club. We have reservations for seventy people.”

  Appearing slightly relieved to be back on familiar territory, Tracy consulted her computer. “Ah. Yes. Your rooms are all ready, s…Mr Murray, if we can go through the guests.”

  ***

  Back out on the pavement, where the luggage was stacking up, Brenda joined Sheila at the front, as Sheila helped the elderly Irene Pyecock down from the bus and Les Tanner ticked off her name.

  “How’s Joe doing?” Sheila asked.

  “Chatting up the receptionist,” Brenda reported, “and making progress, by the looks of things.”

  “I should think Maddy will have something to say about that,” Sheila replied.

  “Every fella needs a hobby,” Irene suggested as she planted her feet cautiously on the pavement.

  The comment brought a ripple of laughter from those who heard, but it quickly faded as a well-dressed, blonde-haired woman pushed her way through the gathering crowd.

  “Come on, get out of the way, let me through, move out of the way.”

  Wearing a two-piece, dark grey business suit, and starched blouse, she reinforced her air of assumed authority by physically pushing people aside as she made for the hotel entrance. Aged about forty, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, the ice in her blue eyes spoke of a woman accustomed to getting her way, and as if her actions did not demonstrate it sufficiently, one who was prepared to take her own way if she had to.

  She was followed at a distance, by two men pulling hard-shell suitcases along the pavement.

  Passing close to the clutch of people at the front of the bus, she bumped shoulders with Irene and almost
knocked the old woman to the ground.

  “Hey,” Sheila snapped, catching Irene by the arm to prevent her falling.

  “Ignorant tart,” Irene grumbled.

  The blonde rounded on them. “Are you talking to me?”

  “No. About you.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “The owner of the hotel?” Brenda asked.

  Completely missing the sarcasm, the blonde declared, “Not yet, but I will be soon.”

  Sheila smiled mock-sweetly. “And what will your first action be? A course in your special brand of customer relations?”

  The steel blue eyes narrowed further. “My first action will be to get rid of the riff-raff and hoi-polloi like you, and bring in proper guests.”

  Sheila looked up from her clipboard. “You know, Ms…”

  “Ashton. Kim Ashton.”

  “You know, Ms Ashton, the last time we stayed in Whitby, we met a woman just like you. Arrogant, demanding, snooty. She was murdered over the weekend.”

  Kim’s breathing accelerated and her voice turned to a hiss. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. I’m making an observation. In the unlikely event that I should ever want to commit a murder, it wouldn’t be someone like you. It would be someone worth serving a life sentence for.”

  Sheila went back to her fellow members as Norman Pyecock, Irene’s husband climbed off the bus.

  Kim was fuming, ready to take Sheila on, but Joe’s voice, coming from behind, stalled her.

  He stood in the doorway, Maddy at his side, and blazed angry eyes at her. “It might also interest you to know that this riff-raff, this hoi-polloi, have just taken thirty odd rooms in this hotel, making sure it’s over half full and that it pulls a good profit over the weekend. And as the organiser of the outing, you have my word that if, as you suggest, you buy the place out, we’ll never stay here again.”