There was a commotion at the head of the steps. Glancing up, she saw Mitch’s face appear over Vic’s shoulder. ‘Let me get to him!’ Half frantic with anxiety, he tried to push past, but Vic restrained him.
‘We’d better keep out of the way, Mr Mitchell.’ He put a hand on Mitch’s arm, urging him back up the steps. ‘The lady’s doing what she can till the ambulance gets here.’
Mitch, his face red and angry, threw off the restraining hand; for a moment it seemed there would be a confrontation. Then they heard the wail of the siren.
She had seen it all before, but only on film or during television coverage of some major disaster. This was reality: the wound swiftly covered; the deathly white face under the mask and the bag pumping air into feeble lungs; the intravenous drip set up with calm dexterity by a burly young man with ‘Paramedic’ on his shirt. Then came the competent manipulation of the stretcher, its burden firmly strapped into place. There was a moment of near-panic as Mitch, in an over-eager response to a request for a hand with the lifting, almost pitched down the steps himself.
Then they were gone and Melissa, leaning against the wall where she had retreated to be out of the way, was left alone with the barrels, the pipes, the stacks of crates, the blood-soaked paper towels kicked into a mangled heap by the ambulance crew. The ancient vaults stretched into limitless darkness. The whirr of the ventilation system filled her head, her stomach churned, her lungs pleaded for fresh air. Blindly, she groped for the handrail.
Vic came clattering down the steps with a mop and a bucket. She stood aside to let him pass.
‘You’d better get cleaned up,’ he said, eyeing her dishevelled appearance. He began stowing the debris in a plastic bag.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘I can manage.’ He jerked his head towards the top of the steps, as if anxious for her to leave. ‘My wife’ll show you where to go.’ She followed his upward glance and saw Kim standing in the doorway.
It was an effort to drag herself up the steps, clinging to the handrail. She paused halfway and glanced back. She was just in time to see Vic bend down and pick up something which, in her shock and agitation, she had failed to spot, which must have fallen from Will’s hand as he fell. He dropped it into the bag – a pocket flashlight with a shattered glass.
Five
‘My, you are in a state.’ Eyeing Melissa’s slacks and sweatshirt with distaste, Kim hurriedly led her up a back staircase leading to the manager’s flat. ‘That lot won’t come out without a good soak – you’d better borrow one of my track suits to go home in.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘The bathroom’s in there.’ Kim indicated a door on which was mounted a small reproduction of an impressionist painting of a woman bathing. ‘I daresay you’d like a shower.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Melissa said gratefully.
‘You’ll find clean towels on the rail and I’ll leave the trackie outside the door. Would you like some coffee when you’ve finished?’
‘If it’s no bother – but shouldn’t you be down in reception?’
‘It’s okay – one of the restaurant staff is holding the fort.’
When she saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror, Melissa realised why Vic had been so anxious to get her out of the way; there had been enough disturbance in the hotel for one evening, without treating the unwary guests to a sight of this distraught-looking apparition with bloodstained hands, face and clothes. Such an encounter might not be too good for business, especially if the person in question had ever spent time in the bar soaking up Janice’s highly coloured version of the saga of Battling Bess along with the after-dinner brandy.
Thankfully, Melissa peeled off her soiled clothes and turned on the water. As she waited for it to run hot, she glanced round the bathroom. It was almost as large as her sitting-room in Hawthorn Cottage and far more sumptuously appointed: thickly carpeted floor, a sunken bath complete with whirlpool and gold-plated taps, an armoury of expensive beauty creams and lotions ranged on tiled shelves and several exotic flowering plants in porcelain cache-pots, supported on the outspread wings of delicately moulded swans. How the other half lives, she thought. There’s a lot of money here somewhere. I wonder what their background is.
As she washed and dried herself, her writer’s mind was busy, mentally recording impressions of the couple who managed this exclusive and highly successful hotel. Vic, she decided, if not actually top-drawer, was no further than second drawer down. His voice and bearing suggested a public school background. Kim, on the other hand, although poised, elegant and beautifully turned out, had a certain quality of over-refinement in her voice that suggested humbler origins. Perhaps she had been a model before she married Vic. She certainly had the looks and the figure – tall, slim and well-proportioned.
Liberally splashed – at Kim’s express invitation – with Chanel eau de toilette, Melissa eventually emerged from the bathroom clad in a dark blue track suit embroidered with the logo of a top Italian designer. On a half-open door on the opposite side of the hallway, another reproduction – this time a still-life of a tall pitcher surrounded by apples – suggested that this might be the kitchen, a notion confirmed by the sight of Kim pouring coffee. Melissa knocked and entered, sniffing in appreciation.
‘Oh boy, that smells good,’ she exclaimed.
‘Come and sit down.’ Kim was already perched on a stool at a tiled breakfast bar where toaster, juice extractor and coffee machine were lined up beside packets of cereals and a fruit bowl piled high with oranges. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Yes, thanks. It’s kind of you to lend me this.’ She indicated the track suit. ‘I feel very up-market – I’m afraid I get my casual things at a chain store.’
Kim smiled and stirred her coffee. She was older than Melissa had at first supposed – about her own age, in fact. In other words, nearer fifty than forty, the careful make-up softening but not entirely concealing the age lines round her eyes and mouth, the throat already showing a tendency to sag. From the contents of the bathroom shelves it was plain that she was putting up a fight; Melissa could not help feeling a twinge of self-congratulation at the knowledge that, being blessed with an exceptionally good skin that needed little make-up, she managed to achieve a better result for a far more modest outlay. It was some compensation for having to be content most of the time with chain store clothes and costume jewellery.
‘I wonder how he is,’ said Kim, after a pause.
Melissa felt a stab of guilt. For the moment, she had totally forgotten the unfortunate Will Foley.
‘I can’t imagine what he was doing in the cellar in the first place,’ Kim continued. ‘Vic’s very put out.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’ Melissa recalled the sight of him in the doorway, his head almost brushing the lintel, his face registering more anger than concern.
‘I mean, if one of Mr Mitchell’s friends wanted to look round, he only had to ask and Vic would have shown him. Not that there’s anything to see down there except beer casks and our stock of bottles and canned drinks and so on.’ A faint, nasal whine crept into her voice. ‘I mean, why would anyone want to go poking around? You don’t think he was planning to steal something, do you?’
Melissa shook her head. ‘It seems unlikely. Maybe he’s interested in ancient buildings – isn’t the cellar the crypt of some old priory?’
‘Oh yes, just a part of it. The rest was filled in and blocked off years ago.’ Kim’s dismissive shrug indicated a total lack of interest in the historic nature of the building. ‘Anyway, like I said, he’d have been welcome to look, if he’d asked.’
‘Well, let’s hope he’s not too badly hurt. He did lose an awful lot of blood, though. Did anyone go to the hospital with him?’
‘Mr Mitchell went, and Mr Bright. The others were in the bar when I came up, waiting for him to ring through if there was any news.’
‘The others – good Lord, I’d forgotten all about them! I’d bette
r go down and join them, they’ll be wondering where I am.’ Melissa put down her empty cup and picked up her handbag. ‘Thanks so much – I’ll return your track suit tomorrow. Could you let me have something to wrap my own things in?’
‘Sure.’ Kim left the room and returned with a carrier made of heavy quality dark blue plastic with the legend ‘Dizzy Heights’ zigzagging diagonally across it in striking gold letters. Melissa studied it with interest.
‘I see you patronise the Hon. Pen’s boutique,’ she remarked.
‘Huh?’
‘Penelope de Lavier – Mitch’s, er, business partner.’ She had been about to say ‘girlfriend’ but was unsure if that was strictly accurate. ‘She’s part owner of this outfit, isn’t she?’
Kim shrugged. ‘Is she? I dunno.’ The telephone rang and she went to answer it; during her short absence, Melissa amused herself by examining more reproductions which, she guessed, identified the bedroom, sitting-room and dining-room. When Kim returned, she was on the point of asking for confirmation, but the question died in her throat at the sight of the other woman’s expression.
‘Vic’s just had a call from Mr Mitchell,’ said Kim, her voice unsteady with shock. ‘Mr Foley died on the way to hospital.’
The rehearsal of Innocent Blood Avenged had come to an abrupt end when the company learned of Will Foley’s accident. One or two people had left immediately, others repaired to the bar to steady their nerves while awaiting news. Eventually they, too, had begun to trickle out, expressing shock, anxiety and hopes for an early recovery. Everyone, it seemed, had a warm regard for Will.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Melissa entered the bar, an hour when drinkers would normally be at their most relaxed and talkative, but apart from a group of young people standing at the counter with glasses in their hands, chatting to Janice, everyone seemed quiet and subdued. She guessed that news of the tragedy had filtered through.
Vic was helping Janice serve the customers. He caught Melissa’s eye as she entered and jerked his head towards a corner where Penelope, Dittany and Iris sat half hidden by a wooden pillar. They looked up as she joined them, their faces sorrowful. Even Penelope seemed genuinely moved.
‘Isn’t it dreadful!’ Dittany’s expressive eyes were moist. ‘Mitch will be devastated – he thought the world of Will.’
‘However did it happen?’ asked Penelope.
Melissa sank into a vacant chair and spread her hands in a helpless gesture. She felt utterly drained; the news of Will’s death had been a blow whose effects were only just filtering through. ‘We think he must have missed his footing and pitched down the steps from top to bottom, cutting his head open as he landed. He lost a hell of a lot of blood in a comparatively short time – and of course, there may have been other injuries as well.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, still damp from the shower, and then pressed a hand to her eyes. ‘I still can’t believe it,’ she muttered.
‘What was he doing in the cellar anyway?’ asked Iris.
‘That’s another mystery.’
‘Here’s Chris.’ Penelope craned round the pillar and beckoned. ‘Maybe he can tell us something.’
Chris could tell them very little. He leaned on the table, declined offers of a drink and announced that he had come to drive Penelope home, to say that Mitch would keep the business appointment arranged for the two of them for the following morning, and to make sure – here his normally taciturn manner softened slightly, as if he was making a subconscious effort to convey the spirit as well as the words of the message – that Dittany was feeling well enough to drive. She assured him that she was; by unspoken consent they all stood up and made for the door. Vic’s smile as he called ‘Good-night!’ did little to conceal his relief at their departure.
It had stopped raining and the wind was slackening. As they made for their respective cars, Chris bent and said something in Dittany’s ear. A quick lift of the head and a shy smile told the watchers that, despite the sadness of the occasion, the message had been received with pleasure.
‘They certainly get some well-heeled customers here,’ commented Iris as she and Melissa crossed the car park. ‘Look at that gas-guzzler. Brand-new, diplomatic plates and all. Place must be a gold-mine.’
‘I doubt if Mitch would have bought it otherwise.’
They drove home in almost total silence. It was still comparatively early and there was plenty of traffic about, many of the drivers impatient to the point of insanity. ‘Accidents looking for somewhere to happen,’ Iris observed caustically as a scarlet BMW hurtled past them on a blind bend. It was a relief to turn into the quiet lane leading to Upper Benbury; a few minutes later the Golf was bumping along the narrow dirt track that led to the pair of adjoining stone cottages where the two of them lived in neighbourly rural solitude.
The last of the storm clouds had cleared. A full moon, more brilliant than any floodlight, threw a wash of silver on darkened windows, cast inky shadows across the gardens and bleached every vestige of colour from the surrounding fields. All was silence except for faint rustlings from the tangle of brambles and long grass on the steep bank behind the cottages, beyond which the valley stretched away in a pattern of black and misty greys, like an artist’s exercise in perspective.
‘Bit different from Heyshill Manor,’ Iris remarked, as she and Melissa contemplated the scene. ‘But beautiful in this light. Think I’ll do it in charcoal one of these days.’ Receiving no response, she gave her friend a sharp glance. ‘You feeling all right? Come in for a cuppa?’
‘Yes, I think I will.’
‘Suppose Mitch will abandon his plans for a party now,’ speculated Iris as she filled the kettle and rummaged in tins for an assortment of her home-made cookies.
‘Probably. Unless …’ Chloe’s words came back to Melissa: There’s something going on … I keep thinking the whole thing is a charade. Chloe was a clever, practical woman, highly numerate as well as artistic, something of a polymath, in fact. She was not the sort to let her imagination run away with her.
Iris pushed a steaming cup across the kitchen table and waved a hand at a plate of cookies. ‘Help yourself. Unless what?’
Melissa told her of Chloe’s misgivings. ‘You were there this evening. Did you notice anything unusual while I was gone?’
‘Not a thing. Seems to be going swimmingly. Not my idea of a birthday party but everyone to his own taste.’ Iris looked thoughtful. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Several things are bugging me but I can’t fit them together for the moment. I think we can take it that Will has been there for some reason other than his part in the show. Whatever it is, I suspect Chris is in the know as well because Chloe’s seen them conferring. Will wanted to look round the cellar without Vic’s knowledge – but why? After all, the place belongs to Mitch; he could have inspected the place from cellar to attic if he’d wanted to.’
‘Most likely has already.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘With a surveyor. When he bought the place.’
‘Of course.’
‘Maybe’ – Iris cupped her pointed chin in one hand and dunked her herbal teabag in a cup of hot water with the other – ‘Will was looking for something that wouldn’t be there if he viewed the place by appointment.’
‘Such as?’
‘Dunno. Maybe Vic’s been working some fiddle over beer deliveries – charging for more than he receives and pocketing the proceeds.’
Melissa shook her head. ‘You could hardly tell that from a casual look round – you’d need to check invoices, delivery notes and things. And compared to the income from the hotel and the restaurant, it would only amount to peanuts.’
‘Small beer, eh?’ said Iris, with a cackle at her own joke.
Melissa managed a watery smile. ‘Exactly – and hardly worth the risk of losing a well-paid job, to say nothing of a luxury apartment. Iris, you should see it.’ She sketched a rapid word-picture.
Iris looked smug. ‘Said they were ostentatio
us.’
‘She is. I’m not so sure about him.’
‘He’s the one with the flashy car.’
‘Yes, but she may have talked him into buying it. You know,’ Melissa’s brain was beginning to peck away at several ideas at once, like a bird at a patch of crumbs, ‘they seem a well-matched pair on the surface but in some ways they’re … not ill-assorted exactly, but … different.’
‘How?’
‘Vic’s a good-looking, well-spoken man, rather distinguished in a florid sort of way. You could almost take him for one of the local landed gentry. I have the feeling that Kim’s not in quite the same class. Oh, I know that’s a snob word,’ she went on hastily, seeing Iris’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘I don’t know how else to express it.’ Somewhat lamely, she tried to put her misgivings into words.
Iris frowned. ‘You saying Vic married beneath him? “Wealthy hotel manager weds barmaid” – that sort of thing? So what if he did?’
‘Nothing really, except that it might account for all the kitsch, using a reproduction Degas to indicate the door to the loo and so on.’
‘Mm, that is a bit over the top.’ Iris lifted out the sodden teabag and replaced it with a slice of lemon. ‘Tell me about the other pictures.’
‘I didn’t recognise any for certain, except I’m sure the nude on the bathroom door was a Degas. From the brushwork, the still-life might have been a Van Gogh but I’ve never seen it before. Then there was one of some people sitting round a table and a maid carrying a teapot – I guessed that was the dining-room.’
Iris was beginning to look interested. ‘Can you remember any more about that one?’
Melissa thought for a moment. ‘I think there was an old man drinking from a cup, and a woman holding a plate.’
‘Was the table round, and was there a tall cake-stand on it?’
‘Now you mention it, I believe there was.’
‘Just a tick.’ Iris went out of the room and returned with a catalogue from an art exhibition. She flipped through the pages and laid it open on the table. ‘Is that it?’ She pointed with a lean brown finger to a picture entitled simply Le Goûter.
Murder at the Manor Hotel Page 5
