Murder at the Manor Hotel
A completely unputdownable cozy mystery novel
Betty Rowlands
Also by Betty Rowlands
THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Murder in the Morning
Murder on the Clifftops
Murder at the Manor Hotel
Murder on a Winter Afternoon
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Murder on a Winter Afternoon
Hear More from Betty
Also by Betty Rowlands
A Letter From Betty
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage
Murder in the Morning
Murder on the Clifftops
One
About the middle of August, Melissa Craig had a telephone call from Joe Martin.
‘Just wondering how the new novel’s coming along,’ he said, his tone deceptively casual. ‘How many corpses so far?’
‘Three. The latest has been put on ice for a while.’
‘You mean he’s in the morgue?’
‘No, in limbo. I’m working on something else.’
There was a pause, during which Melissa gleefully visualised her agent’s brow knotted in disapproval. When she made no attempt to enlighten him, he said stiffly, ‘Am I to be told what the “something else” is?’
‘Of course, it’s not a secret. I’m writing a piece for a local drama group. Their producer is a lecturer at the college where I teach my creative writing class.’
‘What sort of piece?’ asked Joe suspiciously.
‘A pantomime,’ said Melissa, wishing she could see his face.
‘A what?’
‘Perhaps “pantocrime” would be more accurate.’ Minor explosions of exasperation fizzled along the wire as Melissa, suppressing with difficulty the laughter in her voice, explained. ‘Murderous plots and murky deeds, all in rhyming couplets.’
‘What’s it in aid of, for God’s sake?’ spluttered Joe. ‘No, don’t tell me. The Cotswold Senior Citizens’ annual Christmas treat. Or some new fringe activity called “Entertainment for the Feeble-Minded”.’
‘You shouldn’t make fun of the elderly or the handicapped,’ reproved Melissa. ‘You’ll be among their number yourself one day.’
‘Thank you for reminding me. Meanwhile, may I remind you that you have a deadline?’
‘I haven’t forgotten. This’ll only take a week or two and I’m having a lot of fun with it. I shall return to Dancing with Death with renewed enthusiasm.’
‘I should hope so.’ There was another pause. ‘Well, aren’t you going to tell me more about your pantocrime?’
‘If you really want to know, but I should warn you, there isn’t anything in it for you.’
‘I guessed as much.’
‘Joe, just for once, forget about money. Chloe produces for the Stowbridge Players and she asked me along to one of their readings. Some wealthy eccentric wants an entertainment for the guests at his birthday party and as it happens to coincide with Hallowe’en, they thought they’d make it a spooky murder mystery.’
‘And?’
‘They’d chosen a piece from some published collection for amateurs but it was pretty turgid. Chloe asked if I could give them some ideas for improving it.’
‘If advice was all they wanted …’ began Joe, but Melissa hadn’t finished.
‘I suggested that as it was a party and everyone would be half cut by the time they settled down to watch, there was no point in treating it too seriously,’ she explained. ‘I thought it’d be fun to make a few changes – you know, camp it up a bit – but Chloe was concerned about copyright, so …’
‘… so you undertook to write a completely new script, I suppose? Really, Mel, you might consider your poor starving agent before wasting your valuable time on frivolous causes.’
‘Starving be blowed! Last time we met, you looked sleeker than ever. Anyway, I’m really enjoying this.’
‘Just the same, if this character’s so wealthy, I don’t see why he can’t pay for his entertainment.’
‘But he is paying. He’s coughed up several K for lights and sound equipment in Stowbridge Assembly Rooms.’
‘Big deal. Who is he, anyway?’
‘A chap by the name of Mitchell. Very matey, by all accounts. Likes to be called Mitch.’
‘Not Richard Mitchell?’ The sudden change of tone conjured up a picture of Joe with head raised, ears pricked and nostrils quivering, like a hunting dog scenting the air. ‘Rich Mitch – the one the tabloids call “the barrow-boy millionaire”?’
‘What a vulgar way to describe anyone …’
‘Always hitting the financial headlines … owns a string of companies … branched out into the hotel business a year or so ago?’
‘Could be. Chloe mentioned he owns the Heyshill Manor Hotel, where this thrash is taking place. Gosh, I wonder if it is him!’ Melissa, never able to resist an opportunity of teasing Joe, assumed a sultry tone of voice. ‘How exciting – I’ve always wanted to meet a millionaire. Perhaps I can wangle a meeting. They say he’s a handsome hunk, too, and still a bachelor … mmm!’
‘Up to you. I doubt if he’d be your type.’ This time there was frost on the line.
‘Now, why should you say that? He might be very charming – and he’d be quite a catch, wouldn’t he? If I could nobble him, I wouldn’t need to write crime novels for a living.’ That was a bit cruel, she thought, knowing how Joe felt about her, but it did no harm to remind him now and then that she didn’t rate him a potential suitor.
‘You be careful,’ said Joe in what she thought of as his schoolmaster’s voice. ‘Where there’s that sort of money, there are crooks.’
Melissa burst out laughing. ‘Oh Joe, anyone would think he belonged to the Mafia!’
‘How do you know he doesn’t? Your so-called “pantocrime” might be a set-up for some scam or other.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ It was illogical, of course, but the word ‘scam’ sent a frisson up her spine. ‘You know I don’t appreciate that sort of joke.’
‘Who said I was joking? Just be on your guard, that’s all. And remember your deadline.’ Before she could think of a riposte, he hung up.
Having handed a script entitled The Grisly Fate of Ann Bull of Cow Lane, or Innocent Blood Avenged to a grateful Chloe Anderson, Melissa prepared to resume work on her current novel. The weather, however, was far too pleasant to be wasted at a desk and by ten o’clock each morning she was out of doors, revelling in the blue skies and glowing warmth of the early September days and congratulating herself on having had the good sense and good fortune to leave London and settle in a peaceful Cotswold village.
‘How I endured living in town I can’t imagine,’ she remarked one morning to her artist friend who occupied the cottage adjoining her own. With a contented sigh, she contemplated the multi-hued mass of flowers bordering her little kitchen garden, the ripe fruit on her apple tree and the hawthorn hedge bejewelled with scarlet berries. ‘Who’d swap this for traffic fumes and buses thundering past the window?’
Iris Ash, lean as a shoot from a coppice
d hazel and brown as a nut, paused in her task of lifting potatoes and wandered across to the fence dividing the two gardens.
‘So you opted for combine harvesters and the smell of dung!’ With a wry grin, she jerked her head of short, mouse-brown hair in the direction of a heavy machine throbbing and clanking to and fro in a dusty haze on the far side of the valley.
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ said Melissa. ‘Country noises and smells aren’t nearly so bad. And it’s such a joy to be able to grow my own vegetables,’ she added smugly, throwing a handful of freshly gathered beans into a basket.
‘Good crop there,’ said Iris, eyeing the heap of long green pods. ‘Going to freeze ’em?’
‘Not all of them. I promised some to Chloe.’
‘Your actress pal? How’s the show coming on?’
‘First rehearsal this evening. She’s invited me along, and guess who’ll be there. Rich Mitch in person.’
‘Lucky you. Saw his picture in the Gazette a few days ago, handing over a cheque for some worthy cause.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard he’s a bit of a philanthropist. I’ve been kidding poor old Joe that I’ve got designs on him.’
‘Watch it!’ Iris’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘The Honourable Penelope de Lavier is about to land him, so I’m told.’
‘Iris! I didn’t know you read the gossip columns!’
‘Got it from a client.’ Iris was much in demand as a painter of water-colours of the houses and gardens of local landowners.
‘Did you learn anything else?’
Iris raised an eyebrow. ‘Why all the interest? Not seriously after him, are you?’
‘Don’t be wet, Iris, of course I’m not. He’s still in his thirties – too young for either of us, I’m afraid. Pity.’ Melissa sighed in mock regret. ‘He might find a mature lady crime writer more intriguing than some feather-brained deb with shoulder-length legs.’
‘Penelope de Lavier is no feather-brain,’ declared Iris who, it emerged, had had her ear bent for the better part of an hour by an ambitious, but in this matter disappointed, mother of an eligible daughter. ‘Runs the Dizzy Heights boutiques with Lady Charlotte Heighton. Wants finance – plans to get it along with the wedding cake.’
‘That rings a bell. Didn’t I read something in The Times Business Section? They’ve got plans to open more branches and they’re looking for a backer.’
‘Not looking any more, according to Lady Vowden,’ said Iris with a puckish grin. ‘And she says Penny and Charlotte’s motto is “finders keepers” so you’d better not be too charming to young Midas or you’ll get a knife in your back.’
‘Now don’t you start! I’ve had enough dire warnings from Joe about the danger of sinister connections with the underworld.’
‘You’re cruel to that nice man.’ Iris had long expressed the opinion that Melissa should give Joe more encouragement. ‘By the way,’ she added inconsequentially, in a careless tone that entirely failed to deceive, ‘if your thespians want a hand with set designs, I wouldn’t mind helping out.’
‘And get to meet Rich Mitch at the same time? Iris! Fancy you turning into a gold-digger, at your age!’
Iris was unabashed. ‘Seriously. Might lead to a commission to paint his haunted manor.’
‘Is it haunted? Chloe never said.’
‘Got to be. Built over the remains of a medieval priory. Well, can’t stop here gossiping. Want to finish this before lunch.’ Iris levered herself away from the fence and reached for her fork. ‘By the way, got a spook in this panto thing, haven’t you?’ She gave a throaty cackle. ‘Hope the real ones don’t think you’re making fun of ’em. Might turn nasty!’
Two
‘This fellow Mitchell is a bit of an oddball,’ said Chloe as she parked her elderly Fiesta among the Range Rovers, Porsches and Mercedes in the forecourt of the Heyshill Manor Hotel. ‘Insists we have all the rehearsals here, intends to be at every one, wants to speak the prologue himself and brings in some boozy old pal of his Dad’s to play the policeman.’
‘Wish fulfilment – indulging a lifelong desire to tread the boards?’ suggested Melissa.
Chloe shrugged. ‘Could be, I suppose. I only hope they’ve got some talent between them. I thought tycoons gave the orders and then let their minions get on with it.’
‘I’m sure a lot of them do, but I suppose some like to know what’s going on in their offices. I’ve heard of heads of corporations wandering round incognito and ringing up branches to check that the receptionist isn’t being rude to the customers.’
Chloe grunted. ‘That makes sense when they understand the business. I get the impression this character doesn’t know a fly tower from a proscenium arch.’
‘I shouldn’t worry,’ chuckled Melissa. ‘I doubt if you’ll have either in the small function room.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. He’s tickled pink with your script, by the way.’
‘That’s good.’
Chloe heaved her substantial form out of the car and began groping behind her seat. ‘Oh blast!’ she muttered. ‘I forgot the bag of props.’
‘What props?’
‘The stuff for the prologue – you know, the knife, the gun, the bottle with the label marked “Poison” …’
Melissa burst out laughing. ‘You’ve failed the first test, I’m afraid – you’d better collect your cards.’
Chloe’s plump face was a study in dismay. ‘He’ll think I’m hopelessly inefficient,’ she wailed.
‘Don’t admit to forgetting – just say your props person hasn’t prepared them yet and he’s got to mime. It’ll make him feel ever so professional. Come on, it’s almost seven o’clock. You’ll lose Brownie points for being late.’
‘Hope the others are here.’ Chloe cast an eye round the gravelled forecourt. ‘Oh good, there’s Dittany’s car – she’s bringing some of them.’
‘Who?’
‘Dittany Blair. Unusual name, isn’t it? Some sort of flower, I believe.’
‘Rather beautiful. Like this place.’ While they were speaking, Melissa had been admiring the broad façade of the ancient manor house, its walls of honey-coloured Cotswold stone made golden by the evening light. ‘Iris hinted that it has quite a history.’
‘So I believe. The main part of the building’s Jacobean but the site is much older. It’s been added to, of course, and modernised. The new conference wing is at the back, out of sight.’
‘I’ll bet it costs a fortune to stay here.’
The oak-beamed reception hall was thickly carpeted, the atmosphere a subtle blend of pot-pourri, wax polish and general opulence. A gilded basket of bronze chrysanthemums stood on a marble column and the walls were hung with pictures of horses and hounds racing across fields and jumping over hedges. Above a stone fireplace, carved with a coat of arms, hung a portrait of a beaming, ruddy-faced gentleman, resplendent in scarlet jacket, black cap and white stock.
‘The previous owner, Master of the local hunt,’ Chloe informed Melissa.
A good-looking blonde woman in an elegant black suit, faultlessly groomed and coiffured, was welcoming a couple who had just arrived. She glanced up as Chloe and Melissa entered, flashed them a brilliant smile and tilted her head over one shoulder.
‘Mr Mitchell and his party are here,’ she informed them. ‘Go straight through.’
‘What a gorgeous creature!’ whispered Melissa as they made their way along a corridor.
‘That’s Kim Bellamy, the manager’s wife. I met them both last week when I came to look at the room where we’re performing this epic. They’ve been very helpful.’
‘They would be, wouldn’t they? You’re working for their boss,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘Are those diamonds genuine, do you suppose?’
‘They look like the real thing, don’t they? They must get jolly good wages – or perhaps she’s got a wealthy admirer.’
They passed through a double door marked ‘Priory Suite’ into a vestibule leading to a kitchen, cloakroom and toilets. Swing
doors at the far end were marked ‘Conference Room’ and as the two women passed through them the faint buzz of a digital watch sounded at the far end of a large, sunny room with panelled walls and mullioned windows.
‘That’s what I like, good timing!’ A youngish man in a well cut slate-blue suit came to meet them. ‘Evening, Chloe. This the lady who wrote our script?’
‘Melissa, may I introduce …’ began Chloe, but the attempt at formality was brushed aside.
‘Richard Mitchell – call me Mitch.’
‘Melissa Craig – call me Mel,’ Melissa heard herself say as she took the proffered hand.
His eyes, set in a clean-shaven, tanned face, widened in surprise. ‘The Mel Craig – the crime novelist?’ He turned to Chloe. ‘You never told me she was that famous!’ He pumped Melissa’s hand energetically and then released it with a look of deep concern. ‘Sorry, don’t know me own strength – hope I haven’t damaged the writing hand!’
‘I don’t think you’ve broken any bones,’ said Melissa, flexing her fingers and feigning acute pain.
With great solicitude, he took her hand between both his and massaged it. His skin was warm and dry; she found the contact distinctly agreeable. ‘All better now!’ he announced, with a pronounced glottal stop and a lop-sided grin that immediately called to mind Joe’s reference to the ‘barrow-boy millionaire’. With that impish expression and the clipped, metallic London accent, he would have no difficulty charming susceptible housewives into buying double quantities of oranges and bananas.
‘Meet me pals,’ continued Mitch. ‘This is the Hon. Pen.’ He took the arm of a slinky brunette who had been hovering at his elbow and now showed her disapproval of his style of introduction by a pout and a flick of theatrically made-up eyes, half hidden behind drooping lids. Mitch responded with an unabashed grin.
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