Moonflower Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘So have I. I’m a very lucky man.’

  Samantha hurried over to the table and kissed her husband lightly on the cheek. Then she went off to read about Narnia.

  Three

  The Queen’s Ransom

  Melissa had planned to leave the Moonflower as soon as she had spoken to the Gardners. But when she came out of the manager’s office, she noticed Nancy Mitchell behind the reception desk and of course she had to stop for a quick chat. Nancy had worked for the hotel from the very start. She was a good, reliable girl, the daughter of the lighthouse keeper, and it was always Melissa’s policy to be friendly with the staff. She knew how easy it would be to get a reputation for being standoffish.

  ‘How are you, Nancy?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, Miss James.’

  But she didn’t look well. Nancy always had a slightly nervous quality, as if she was terrified of causing offence, but today she seemed to be completely exhausted. Her eyes were red from either tiredness or tears and her long fair hair was tangled, in need of a brush. It must be boyfriend trouble – but did Nancy even have a boyfriend? She was in her early twenties and though not unattractive, her features didn’t quite marry, like one of those paintings where the artist is trying to be too clever. That was Melissa’s first thought. The second was that she couldn’t have guests coming in and out of the hotel past a weeping receptionist. It really wouldn’t do.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes, Miss James.’ Now Nancy seemed fearful.

  ‘How are your parents?’ Melissa was trying to be pleasant, unthreatening.

  ‘They’re very well, thank you, Miss James.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She looked around her. The two of them were alone. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘If there’s something worrying you, you can tell me. I’d like to think we’ve known each other long enough to consider ourselves friends.’

  To her surprise, the girl was looking at her with something close to horror. ‘No!’ she exclaimed, then more quietly: ‘I mean . . . you’re very kind, Miss James. But the thing is . . . I’ve just been having a few problems at home. Dad’s been worried about his knee, going up and down all those stairs.’

  Only a moment ago Nancy had said that her parents were both fine. As an actress herself, Melissa knew immediately when someone wasn’t telling her the truth. She was actually getting quite irritated with the girl. ‘Well, it’s just that you are the public face of the Moonflower,’ she warned. ‘To be honest with you, Nancy, you can’t sit here looking like that. If you don’t feel well, you should go home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss James.’ Nancy did her best to pull herself together, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘I’ll just go to the ladies’ room and powder my nose and then I’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s right. You look after yourself.’

  Melissa gave her a brief smile and continued on her way. There was something about the encounter that worried her. It was her suggestion that the two of them were friends. Anyone else would have been flattered, but Nancy had seemed shocked. Had the Gardners said something to her? Did she know something about the hotel’s financial difficulties?

  She decided to put the girl out of her mind, but her troubles were far from over. As she reached the car, there was a man standing there and Melissa knew, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that he was deliberately waiting for her. The man was small and thickset, dressed in a dark suit that had got crumpled after being in the rain. His hair, what little he had of it, was also damp. Although he had shaved, there were dark shadows over his chin and upper lip. He looked completely out of place in a seaside village, like a small-time gangster who had just been released from jail. Even before he spoke, with an accent that betrayed his Eastern European origins, it was obvious that he had come from abroad.

  ‘Good evening, Melissa,’ he began.

  ‘Simon! This is a surprise. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

  ‘Because if I had told you I was coming, I think I would not have found you here.’ He beamed at her as he said this, as if he was making a joke. But they both knew that he was serious and that what he had said was true.

  ‘You know I always love seeing you,’ she replied, gaily. ‘But I wish you’d told me because I’m afraid I can’t talk to you right now . . .’

  ‘Five minutes, Melissa.’

  ‘I have to get home, Simon. Francis and I are going to the opera.’

  ‘No. I have driven for five hours from London to see you. Five minutes is not so very much to ask.’

  She couldn’t have an argument with him. Not here, in front of the hotel. There were guests who might come in or out. Anyway, perhaps it was best to get this over with. She raised both hands in a gesture of surrender and smiled. ‘Of course. Let’s go into the bar. Are you staying at the Moonflower?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you a drink. These stupid licensing laws. But I can get someone to put on the kettle . . .’

  They walked back in together.

  Simon Cox wasn’t his real name, of course. He would have anglicised it when he arrived in the country. He was probably Simeon or Semjén or something equally unwieldy. Her agent had introduced him to her in London, explaining that he was a successful businessman who had made a fortune in insurance and banking and was now wanting to move into film. Melissa had met plenty of those, but to be fair, Simon had gone further; he had actually gone out and bought the rights to a book and then commissioned a screenplay. He wanted Melissa to play the lead part.

  The film was called The Queen’s Ransom and it was a historical romance, set in the twelfth century. Melissa would be playing Eleanor of Aquitaine, who had become queen of England after her marriage to the duke of Normandy – later Henry II – in 1152. The screenplay focused on her relationship with her favourite son, Richard, and her time as queen dowager, fighting to raise the enormous ransom that had been demanded for him when he was captured after the Third Crusade. Shooting was due to start in two months’ time and all the terms had been agreed, but Melissa’s contract was still sitting, unsigned, on her desk.

  She had decided that she didn’t want to do it.

  She had been impressed to begin with. The screenplay was strong, written by a former history teacher who had worked with Roy Boulting and Anthony Asquith as a technical adviser before he had started writing himself. The character of Eleanor was absolutely central to the action. In fact, she would barely be off the screen . . . the sort of performance that would demand attention once the awards season came around. It had been years since she had made a film in England and her agent had assured her that, despite the relatively low budget, her fans would be thrilled. He had sold it to her as the perfect vehicle for a comeback.

  Unfortunately, it now turned out that the dates clashed with the film she hoped to make with Alfred Hitchcock. Dial M for Murder (she wasn’t sure about the title) would be bigger, glossier, more international and better paid. It would be shot in America, in the sunshine – not in the drab backwaters of Shepperton Studios. Looking at Simon Cox as he perched himself on one of the leather banquettes in the hotel bar, she felt a stab of annoyance – with herself as much as with him. What had possessed her to lend her name to a producer with no experience and no credits to his name? And how dare he come here and approach her in this way? He should have called her agents in London or New York. If he had something to say, he should say it to them.

  Well, she would get this over with as quickly as possible. It was unlikely, she reminded herself, that they would ever meet again.

  ‘Melissa—’ he began.

  ‘I’m sorry, Simon,’ she cut in. ‘I don’t think we should be having this conversation. Not here. Not now.’

  He gazed at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This isn’t the right way to do things. If you had more experience of the film industry, you’d understand. You don’t talk to the talent! Yo
u have to talk to the agent.’

  ‘I did talk to your agent and he told me he sent you everything, but I don’t hear from you. Nothing! And filming is now only three months – ten weeks – away. We have everything in place, except you. Where is your contract? Why do you not come for meeting the director, for costume fittings, for script!’

  Melissa couldn’t take any more of this. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Things have changed and I’ve decided I’m not interested in The Queen’s Ransom.’

  ‘What?’ He looked as if he had been punched in the face.

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Melissa . . . !’

  ‘It’s a good script. There are lots of great things in it. But I don’t think it’s right for me.’

  ‘But it was written for you! Your agent said it is perfect for you!’

  ‘There are plenty of other actresses who could do it.’ She wanted to stand up and walk away but he was staring at her. ‘I haven’t signed my contract because the truth is that I’ve had a better offer and I’ve decided this project isn’t right for me. Even so, I wish you lots of success—’

  ‘You’ll ruin me!’ The words caught in his throat. He had difficulty getting them out. ‘All the money I have borrowed, it is because of your name. The director, the designer, the studios, the scripts, the cast. Already we have built the palace, the tower, the walls of Jerusalem . . . This is all happening because of you. If you say now that you do not do it, I am finish!’ His English was deteriorating the angrier he got.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. If you knew the first thing about film production, you’d know this sort of thing happens all the time. People change their minds. I’ve changed my mind!’ She tried to find some hint of sympathy. ‘My agent represents some very big names. Maybe I can talk to him—’

  ‘I don’t want big names. I want you. That is what we agreed.’

  ‘We never agreed anything. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Honestly, Simon, this is all wrong. You shouldn’t have come down here. You can’t put pressure on me.’

  The man looked as if he was going to have a heart attack. Melissa had had enough. She broke free of him and got to her feet.

  ‘I suggest you go back to London and find someone quickly,’ she said. ‘Please don’t try and speak to me again.’

  She left.

  Simon Cox stayed where he was. He seemed to have shrunk into his chair. His hand was stretched out on the table but slowly his fingers curled into a fist. Outside, he heard the slam of a car door and the quiet cough of an engine starting. Still he didn’t move.

  Someone else had come into the bar. It was the girl from the reception desk, Nancy. She was looking at him with concern. ‘Is there anything I can get you, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘No. No, thank you.’

  He got up and brushed past her, walking out of the hotel. Another couple, coming in, stepped out of his way, alarmed.

  Later on, they would say he had been a man with murder in his eyes.

  * * *

  Nancy Mitchell had heard much of the conversation between Melissa James and the producer from her place behind the reception desk. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop but the door had been open and with nobody around, sound carried easily in the Moonflower. She saw Miss James emerge from the bar and disappear through the main door of the hotel and then, when she went in to see him, the little man who had signed in as Mr Cox did exactly the same. Out of curiosity, Nancy followed him outside, just in time to see him climb into a stubby black car and drive off. She could tell that he was heading out of Tawleigh in the direction of Clarence Keep. Was he going after her?

  It was none of her business. She watched until the car had disappeared from sight, noticing that the rain had stopped once again, although water was still dripping off the trees and the driveway was full of puddles. She glanced at her watch and went back to the reception desk. There were only fifteen minutes left until six o’clock and the end of her shift. Mrs Gardner took over in the evening until ten o’clock, when the night manager arrived.

  She took out a hand mirror and examined herself, remembering what Miss James had said. Her hair was still a bit of a mess but nobody would have known she had been crying. She wished that Miss James – of all people – hadn’t been the one to notice it. And the very idea that the two of them could be friends! Nancy had heard things about the rich and famous Melissa James that nobody else in Tawleigh would ever have suspected. She pretended to be nice. But she wasn’t.

  Even so, she needed a friend, now more than ever. The very thought of it brought tears to her eyes. How could she have let it happen? How could she have been so stupid?

  It was two weeks since she had seen Dr Collins. Nancy hadn’t even told her parents that she had an appointment. Her father was the sort of man who had never had a day’s illness in his life and expected the same of everyone else. She hadn’t thought it was anything serious and she had been completely stunned when Dr Collins had come up with his diagnosis.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to be happy about this, Nancy. But you’re pregnant.’

  It was a word that Nancy had never even heard, certainly not spoken to her by a man – even if he was a doctor. It opened up a world that she only partly understood. It changed everything in ways that she couldn’t even begin to consider. ‘It’s impossible!’ she whispered.

  ‘Why do you say that? Are you telling me that you’ve never . . . been with a man?’

  She couldn’t answer. She could feel her cheeks burning.

  ‘If there’s someone you’ve been seeing, you’re going to have to tell him. Whatever you decide, he’s going to be part of it.’

  What could she do? What would happen when her father found out? All sorts of questions had rushed into her head. But there were no answers. Unless, of course, it wasn’t true. It could still be a mistake.

  ‘It was only once,’ she said, on the edge of tears. She was looking down at the floor, unable to meet his eye.

  ‘I’m afraid once is enough.’

  ‘Are you sure, Dr Collins?’

  ‘A hundred per cent. Would you perhaps like to talk to my wife? You might find it easier, woman to woman.’

  ‘No! I don’t want anyone else to know.’

  ‘Well, they’re going to find out soon enough. You’re already beginning to show and another month . . .’

  Show! She cradled her stomach with her hands.

  ‘We’ll have to make further tests and I’m going to want you to go into the hospital in Barnstaple. You’re young and you’re in very good health, so there are no worries there . . .’

  There were only worries. She could think of nothing else.

  ‘Do you want to tell me something about the father of your baby?’

  ‘No!’ She couldn’t tell anyone – not until she had told him. But could she even tell him?

  ‘It might help if the two of you came in and met me together.’ Dr Collins could see how distressed she had become. He gave her a kindly smile. ‘What’s his name?’ he asked.

  ‘John.’ She blurted it out. ‘He’s a local boy. I met him in Bideford. We . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘It was only once, Doctor. I never thought . . .’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  She shook her head. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  Dr Collins came over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You mustn’t upset yourself,’ he said. ‘Having a child is a wonderful thing. My wife would say it’s a miracle, creating a new life. And you’re not the only young woman to have made a mistake. You have to be strong . . . for the baby’s sake.’

  ‘No one can know!’

  ‘Well, obviously you must tell your parents. They ought to be the first to know. And they’ll send you to stay with relatives. Everything can be arranged for you, Nancy. The baby will be put up for adoption and when you come back it will be as if it never happened.’

  The very next day, Nancy had gone to the
library in Bideford and looked at the medical books, but they hadn’t told her what she wanted to know. She had to stop the baby being born. Somewhere she had heard that drinking a lot of gin would do it. Wasn’t that why it was called ‘mother’s ruin’? And there was a girl at the Red Lion who had once said that you had to have a very hot bath. So the following Saturday evening, while her parents were at the pictures, she had done both. She had drunk half a bottle of Old Tom and sat in the bath, fully dressed, with the steaming water up to her neck. Later that night she had been thoroughly sick and she thought that maybe it had done the trick, but, going back to Dr Collins, she had discovered her condition hadn’t changed.

  And so she had written to the man she had called John, to the father of her child. She had made it clear that he was the father, that there had never been anyone else, and she had tried to be conciliatory. She would keep his secret, she had told him. But she was frightened and she was on her own and she needed his help.

  The answer had come the following morning, a thick white envelope that had surprised her by the weight of its contents, with her name in typed letters on the front. He must have written her a very long letter, she thought, but when she opened it her eyes had fallen on twelve five-pound notes and a single sheet of paper with a name and an address: a doctor in Baker Street, London.

  Could it have been any crueller? The note was unsigned and the typewriter concealed his handwriting so that it could never be traced back to him. There was no attempt at sympathy or understanding. Nor was there to be any discussion. Get rid of it. That was the simple message. And there was something uniquely horrible about the payment, the amount – sixty pounds – worked out precisely and paid in used five-pound notes. Nancy knew that he must have made enquiries. If he had discovered that an illegal abortion would cost sixty pounds and two shillings, he would have thrown in a handful of coins.

  The letter had changed everything.

  Previously, Nancy had been ashamed of herself. She had thought it was all her fault. Now she thought otherwise. She knew she couldn’t name the father. It would be a scandal that would rebound entirely on her, forcing her to leave Tawleigh for good. But she wasn’t completely powerless. She could still make him pay for what he had done – and it would cost him a lot more than sixty pounds.