First stop, the engine room.
In every hotel, every restaurant, it’s accepted as fact that the kitchen is the engine room, a sacrosanct territory where the head chef reigns supreme.
Smudger Smith was just such a chef, totally in charge of his little kingdom. A true professional with a temperament best described as tetchy, he took great pride in the standard of his cuisine. Criticism of said cuisine was best done at fifty paces and whilst wearing running shoes. Smudger was sensitive about his cooking.
That didn’t mean he didn’t play hard too. Only the week before he had been found snuggled up to a turkey in the cold store. When roused from his slumber he’d muttered something about stuffing a girl from Iceland.
Honey poked her head around the door. ‘Everything OK here?’
Smudger kicked the oven door shut and glared at her as though she’d accused him of murder.
‘Are you insinuating that I’m incapable of coping?’
‘Of course not.’
She knew she should leave, but the aromatic mix of rich plum pudding, mulled wine jelly, and almond paste kept her rooted to the spot.
‘Turkey ready for the oven?’ It was purely an excuse to linger.
The glare surfaced again on Smudger’s pink face. ‘Why? Are you doubting my ability? Do you want to do the job yourself?’
Her voice went high pitched. ‘Of course not.’
Taking over the running of a catering kitchen was the last thing she wanted to do. Forget the glamour trotted out by TV chefs. Catering kitchens were hell on wheels!
She took a backward step. He took a forward one.
‘I was just checking you were OK,’ she said weakly.
‘Of course I’m OK! Now perhaps you’ll leave me to get on with my job.’ His face was pink from heat and agitation.
She judged that right now was the time for grovelling. ‘Sorry. I know you’re under pressure. Yet another pair of turkey legs, yes?’
He blinked as he was considering throwing something. She did a quick reconnoitre of the stainless steel table tops. No meat cleaver in sight. A definite plus.
After a curt nod, he turned his back and positively flew into action. Pans rattled and kitchen staff ducked.
Mention of turkey legs had certainly pressed the panic buttons. A month of office parties had resulted in a freezer packed with them. This was because most diners preferred the white breast meat. There were enough deep frozen turkey legs to last them until April. At first the staff had been pleased to take a leg or two for personal consumption, but after all the office parties they’d had, the limit had been reached. Now everyone was refusing point blank to take the surplus home, whilst pointing out that there were only so many turkey curries they could make – or eat.
‘OK. I’ll leave you to it. I’m off to get in shape for later.’
‘You’re already in great shape,’ shouted a voice from the washing-up area. A tinsel-trimmed halo bobbed above the stainless steel shelving.
Rodney ‘Clint’ Eastwood was scrubbing pans, piling plates into the dishwasher, putting one batch away before reloading another.
Clint, who sported a whole gallery of tattoos over his body, had added a little seasonal trimming. An angelic halo, formed from wire and covered in tinsel and coloured balls, sat on his head. Baubles usually found on a Christmas tree hung from his ears. He looked like an overgrown house elf from Hogwarts.
‘Thanks,’ she shouted back leaving the kitchen to its tasks and expelling a gasp of relief as she let the door whoosh shut behind her.
It was all hands to the job in hand, and Lindsey was wrapping chipolata sausages in streaky bacon to be roasted with yet another turkey.
Musing on Mary Jane and her ghost stories, she wasn’t immediately aware of someone plonking a suitcase down and leaning over the counter.
‘Hi. I’m Jake Truebody. You must be Lindsey Driver.’
Startled, Lindsey dropped a sausage into the tray marked ‘Deliveries and payments pending.’
‘Sorry. Did I startle you?’
Blue eyes twinkled behind owlish spectacles. He offered his hand. ‘You’re wondering how I know your name.’
‘I took your booking?’
She smiled courteously.
He beamed broadly. ‘Oh, I’ve never spoken to you. I booked online then wrote. I like writing. There’s nothing on God’s earth like the written word facilitated with a proper pen and bottled ink.’
‘Ah, yes. I saw your letter.’ She hesitated, not sure quite how to interpret the way he was looking at her. ‘You said you knew my father.’ It was all she could think of to say.
He took off the black hat he was wearing and smoothed back his hair. It was fairly long and curled over his coat collar.
‘We set up a business together. ’Course, you wouldn’t know that. You were pretty young when he died. I don’t suppose you really knew him that well.’
‘No. Not really.’
Feeling oddly awkward, Lindsey turned away, ostensibly to check the system. Usually brimming with confidence, he’d bowled her over. He’d known her father. She’d met few people who’d known her father, mainly relatives in the US. Every so often she got a card or a present from someone she didn’t remember. She found the email. ‘If you could sign the register entering your passport number and address in the box provided.’
He took the pen and did as requested.
‘And if I could check your passport details against the particulars you’ve written …’
He handed her his passport. The address was in Maine and he looked more or less like his photo: long face, horn-rimmed spectacles, a black felt fedora and greying hair curling over his collar.
‘The mug shot was taken some time ago,’ he said laughingly.
Lindsey smiled. ‘They’re never very flattering, are they!’
He agreed that they were not.
The passport number also checked out. Everything seemed to be in order.
‘Room 16,’ she said, handing him the key.
Just for a moment – the very slightest of moments – he held on to her fingertips and gazed into her eyes.
‘You really do look like your father, Lindsey.’
The comment made her stop tapping the computer keys.
‘Do I really?’
‘I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.’
‘Right.’
He thanked her and headed for the stairs.
She watched him head for the stairs before entering the name, passport number and address on the system. There it was; Professor Jake Truebody and an address in Maine. Everything checked out – with the exception of his handwriting. It was neat enough, though not as elaborate as the letter her mother had shown her.
His arrival unnerved her. Maine was where her father had lived and this man claimed to have known him. But had he and what was he doing here?
She rechecked the handwriting on the registration form. The capital letters were fairly elaborate, though certainly not calligraphic standard, though writing of that calibre must take time.
She wondered if she’d inherited her mother’s suspicious mind. Amateur sleuths had to be endowed with suspicious minds. Perhaps it ran in their family, and why not? A Sherlock Holmes-type gene could easily lurk in their blood.
But he’d mentioned her father. That alone was enough to make her curious to hear more.
Later she’d wonder at the impetuousness of her next action, but for now she was driven. She dialled the professor’s room.
‘Professor, I’ve been thinking about you knowing my father. I’d like to hear what you and him got up to – if that’s not too much trouble.’
She sensed a withholding of breath and figured he was seeking a get-out clause. No problem. She could do that.
‘If it’s too much trouble, then please feel free to say so.’
‘No. No trouble at all.’
She sensed it wasn’t quite true, but she’d asked and he’d accepted.
‘In re
turn perhaps I can take you on a tour of the city? Just let me know the kind of places you like to see.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Jake Truebody said. ‘History is my subject. That’s why I’m here and quite frankly I would be mighty grateful to be taken around by someone as pretty as Carl Driver’s daughter. But if it’s any trouble …’
‘No trouble at all.’
‘Then I accept. What’s there to protest about when a pretty girl like you is offering to hold my hand?’
‘Bullshit,’ muttered Lindsey as she put down the phone. Jake Truebody was here for a reason, though what that reason might be was anyone’s guess. Hopefully it was nothing to do with upsetting her mother’s life.
Chapter Five
Professor Jake Truebody stood aside to let the first of the Mallory and Scrimshaw Christmas party guests through the door into reception.
Honey had so far avoided any contact with the man who claimed to be an old friend of Carl’s. She really didn’t want to go there and besides, she was just too busy.
A self-assured young man with floppy hair leaned over the reception desk.
‘Mallory and Scrimshaw. Are we the first?’
Honey confirmed that they were and beamed her brightest smile. The booking for ten persons, office party, rooms, and a forward booking for dinner on Christmas Day had turned up. Not that she’d doubted they would; payment having been made up front. Employees never looked a gift horse in the mouth. In her experience, if the boss was paying, they were up for it.
She put on her best smile.
‘Welcome to the Green River Hotel. Now if you’d just like to sign in, we can get you settled in your rooms. The party starts at eight, so you’ve got plenty of time to get ready. Complimentary glasses of champagne will be served in the bar from 7.15.’
The plastered on smile threatened to crack her face in half. The countdown had begun; only residents and Christmas dinner diners over the holiday, easier to cope with than firm’s parties and people checking in and out. Christmas parties were great for those attending, but for the staff twenty or so parties on the trot were pretty wearing.
The sight of the Mallory and Scrimshaw crowd helped put her in the festive mood. Each and every one of them – with the probable exception of a woman with blue/black hair and a chalk white complexion – were as pink-faced as chocolate-box cherubs. The weather outside was nippy for December. Cold snaps like this weren’t usual until January. This year was proving the exception; snow had fallen and ice had been spotted on the Avon floating like crisp white pancakes. Rumour had it that the stone polar bear standing on the roof at Bear Flat – a particular area of the A37 – had been seen to shiver.
‘I can’t believe this,’ said one wide-eyed blonde, her eyes taking in the crystal chandeliers, the Louis XIV style furnishings and the pale blue walls.
Assuming she was referring to her taste in decor, Honey puffed up with pride. ‘I designed it myself.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’ The girl looked puzzled.
Honey was disappointed, though consoled herself that judging by the girl’s outfit, her taste was more High Street than high class.
One of the young men in the party slapped the reception desk and grinned. ‘Sam here is a bit overcome – as are we all come to that. This is a big first for us on account of the boss has never dug deep into his pockets for a Christmas “do” before. Come to think of it, he’s never been in the habit of digging into his pockets at any time of year. You’ve heard of Scrooge? Not forgetting the ghost of his old business partner, Marley.’
‘Ah. Not forgetting him,’ said Honey, though fully aware that she had.
‘And when can we expect Mr Scrimshaw to arrive?’ she asked brightly.
‘He’ll be along.’
‘And Mr Mallory?’
‘He’s dead.’
Aware that his companions were hanging onto his every word, the over-confident young man almost doubled in size as he further elucidated.
‘But Ebenezer Scrooge is a fact and is alive and well – or so we thought.’
The small crowd nodded in unison and made jokey asides or more assiduous comments that included the words skinflint, tight as a duck’s arse, and miserly.
Honey just smiled and listened. There was no way she was going to make comment this way or that. Mr Clarence Scrimshaw of Mallory and Scrimshaw was an OK guy as far as she was concerned. He had booked a five-course Christmas meal and all the rooms so that those of his staff who wished to make merry with alcohol could stay overnight and do so. They were also booked in for dinner on Christmas Day. There was nothing tight-fisted about that.
‘Don’t know what’s come over the old skinflint,’ said the confident young man who signed himself in as David Longborough.
‘A change of heart?’ suggested Honey.
The blonde girl sniffed. ‘Didn’t know he had one.’
There followed chuckles and clucks of approval. The boy, David, patted the blonde girl’s hand.
‘Come on, Sam. You didn’t do so badly by the old goat.’
Honey slyly observed without appearing to observe, raising her eyes just a teeny bit. Observing guests while carrying out a mundane task is a prerequisite for any dyed-in-the-wool hotelier. She noticed a pink flush spread over the girl’s face and reached the obvious conclusion; old Scrooge might have had a soft spot for at least one of his employees.
Listening to conversations but appearing not to was also a skill acquired by hoteliers.
‘There’s plenty of hot water, and coffee- and tea-making facilities are provided in your rooms,’ she added as she pushed the registration book and a pen beneath each frost-nipped nose.
‘Enjoy your party and have a jolly time. After all, it is the season of goodwill to all men,’ Honey said brightly.
David Longborough chuckled. ‘You’re right there, darling. We’re all going to make the most of it. It might never happen again.’
‘Yes,’ said a woman with black hair and heavy makeup. ‘There has to be a reason for him acting out of character, though for the life of me I can’t work out what it is.’
Chapter Six
Mr Clarence Scrimshaw was far too small for his desk. Heavily ornate and made from a rich red mahogany, the desk had been handed down from his grandfather, Percival Charles Scrimshaw.
His grandfather had established the business back in 1905 with one hundred pounds that, as family history would have it, came with his marriage to one Daphne Beatrice Moore, the daughter of a bishop. A further one hundred pounds had come when he’d acquired his partner, Eamon Mallory senior, father of Eamon Mallory junior.
For the most part the company published books of local interest, nostalgic non-fiction titles such as Bath Chairs and the Nineteenth Century Invalid , A History of Green Park Railway Station, and Lewd Residents of the Regency Period.
The last title had been their most successful so far and old Clarence had been keen to get the author to write a follow up – something saucy in the title of course. Bath was a Regency city and you could always count on anyone associated with the fourth Hanoverian king to be a bit racy.
Unfortunately Arthur Lovell, the author of this insight into the Regency , was unattainable unless a medium was employed to make contact with the hereafter. Arthur had met a sticky end out on the Avon Estuary trying to rescue a cat. The cat had survived, neatly skipping up over Arthur’s body as he slowly sank into the Avon mud.
The offices of Mallory and Scrimshaw were situated down a narrow alley which in turn led to a shaded courtyard encased tomblike by other old properties. Cobblers Court had changed little over the centuries with the exception of a better drainage system and plastic guttering. Inside could be described as period, but perhaps more correctly, basic and dated.
Despite the necessary introduction of computers, inside toilets and all things necessary to publish books in the twenty-first century, the premises of Mallory and Scrimshaw still possessed the gloomy atmosphere of an earlier time. Outside
an old gas lamp, long converted to electricity, hung at a crooked angle from the wall. Inside the floorboards creaked underfoot and the walls were bumpy and painted cream.
Not that any of that counted for anything any longer to the aging, miserable old man Mr Clarence Scrimshaw had been.
Although dwarfed by his desk when sitting behind it, that was not the case now. His body was presently spread-eagled on the desk top, the handle of a letter opener sticking out of one ear, blood oozing profusely onto a conveniently placed piece of blotting paper.
A gloved hand had put that blotting paper there, and a vengeful, devious, mind inwardly chuckled with glee at the fact that the old boy used some pretty archaic items, most of which should have been ditched long ago. A fountain pen? Blotting paper?
The job was done. It was time to go.
The floorboards and old staircase creaked underfoot on the way out. The walls were still dull and lumpy. Nothing had changed in the world except that Clarence Scrimshaw was no longer in it.
A chill mist had descended on Cobblers Court, blunting the effect of the hanging lantern and the few remaining lights in the building opposite. Office cleaners were finishing up their work on the first floor. On the floor above that the lights were still bright and people were moving around. A banner draped across the windows on the inside proclaimed that a hair stylist had taken up residence.
Down in Cobbler’s Court a cloaked form exited Mallory and Scrimshaw, swept into the alley way and disappeared into the Dickensian mist.
Manning Reception at the Green River Hotel Anna, the hotel’s Polish receptionist, put a call through to room seventeen without noting the caller’s name. It was normal practice to write this down just in case the recipient wished to call them back and had mislaid or forgotten their number.
Anna was in no mood to be that pedantic. She was nearly nine months pregnant and beginning to get threatening twinges. But she wouldn’t give in. There was no way she was going to miss the festivities.
Up in his room Paul Emmerson, the company bookkeeper for Mallory and Scrimshaw, was wearing a track in the carpet. His wife was sitting on the bed, watching him, her dark eyes shooting daggers. The call had been for him.
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 4
