Iris’s only response was a sardonic cackle.
Melissa had still not made up her mind when the phone rang again. This time it was Joe. After the usual enquiries about progress on the novel and her state of health – in that order – he remarked casually, ‘I see Rich Mitch has found something nasty in his cellar.’
‘How did you know about that?’
‘It was on the local radio. William Foley comes from London – he retired to a cottage not far from where I live when he left the force.’
‘He was a real policeman?’ Melissa could not control her surprise, and Joe was quick to react.
‘What do you mean, a real policeman?’
‘He was acting the part of a copper in my pantocrime,’ Melissa explained. ‘I didn’t realise he’d actually been one. I wonder if that’s why …’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Come on, Mel, spill it. You’ve heard something.’ There was a note of unease in Joe’s voice. While he was never averse – after the event – to the publicity brought about by her occasional contact with actual crime, he was inclined to become agitated at the possibility of her being exposed to any risk. He always protested that he was concerned for her safety; Melissa, knowing that he would need little encouragement to show more than concern, made a point of keeping him at arm’s length by maintaining that he was simply afraid of losing a lucrative client.
‘I was there when the accident happened,’ she said, and because her mind was still half on her conversation with Mitch, she added carelessly, ‘Mitch thinks there’s something fishy about it.’
‘Fishy?’ The familiar note of rising alarm in Joe’s voice made her wince. Damn, she thought, I shouldn’t have said that. Now he’ll start fussing.
‘Look here, Mel, I warned you not to get mixed up with that lot. All that rubbish about wanting a sketch for a birthday party – anyone could see through that. At least this gives you an excuse to keep out of it.’
‘How d’you figure that out?’
‘The show won’t go ahead now, surely?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Melissa knew she was being perverse; she had come to the same conclusion herself, but Joe had this effect on her.
‘Well, whether it does or not, you keep out of it,’ Joe reiterated. ‘You’ll let me have the new script by the end of next month, then?’
The opportunity to tease him was too good to miss. ‘If I’m not too busy solving the Heyshill Manor Mystery,’ she said, and put the phone down before he could reply.
Why, she asked herself as she dialled the number Mitch had given her, do men have to be so bossy?
Seven
Mitch brushed aside Melissa’s assertion that she was perfectly capable of driving herself to his house.
‘It’s a sod to find – Chris’ll fetch you in the Jag,’ he said. Sensing that she was unlikely to get the better of the argument, she gave him directions to Hawthorn Cottage and went upstairs to get ready. It took her some time to decide what to wear; it was hardly a dinner date – although she hoped Mitch would remember that she had cancelled an invitation to eat with Iris – but perhaps to dress too casually would not be quite the thing either. She settled for a paisley skirt and shawl, a cream silk blouse and the opal pendant and earrings Guy had given her shortly before he was killed. ‘Opals bring bad luck,’ a friend had remarked on seeing them, but she had laughed away such nonsense. They suited her colouring and she wore them with joy and love. After the motor accident that smashed her world to pieces, she had continued to wear them in Guy’s memory, in defiance of superstition. And as things turned out, despite the tragedy and the trauma of finding herself pregnant and rejected by her parents, life had been pretty good to her and her son. She reflected while she put on her clothes that Simon, grown-up now and helping to keep the oil wells of Texas in production, would be thinking it was time he had a letter from his mother. She’d write tomorrow – there was plenty to tell him.
She was giving her hair a final brush when through her bedroom window came a flash of headlights. She popped her head out and saw the Jaguar emerging from the gathering dusk.
‘Chris’ll have a job turning in that narrow space,’ she chuckled to herself with a certain malicious glee. She closed the window and drew the curtains.
The bell sounded almost immediately; to her surprise, Mitch was on the doorstep.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Almost. If you’d like to come in and wait while I do my hair …’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
Nonplussed, she put up a hand and brushed a loose strand away from her face. ‘I usually tie it back or up in a knot for evenings.’
‘Leave it like that, it looks great.’ It was as if she had asked for his opinion which, once given, settled the matter once and for all. ‘Come on, get your coat while Chris turns the car round.’
‘I’m afraid he’ll find the space a bit tight. Mine’s only a small car and I find it tricky.’
‘No problem. Chris can turn a ten-ton truck on a sixpence,’ boasted Mitch. As he spoke, the car slid to a halt in front of them, its sleek bonnet pointing back towards the road. ‘See what I mean?’
Round one had definitely gone to Mitch. Picking up her handbag and shawl, Melissa switched off the light and closed the front door. He handed her into the back of the car and climbed in beside her. It was almost like being kidnapped.
‘Thought I’d come along too, so’s I can give you a bit of background on the way,’ Mitch explained.
‘Yes, it would be nice to be put in the picture,’ she said, thinking that a touch of sarcasm might have an effect where the direct approach had failed. He brushed aside the tiny barb with a chuckle and the kind of pat on the knee a rich uncle might give a favourite niece on taking her out for an afternoon treat.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve always been a bit of a hustler. Wouldn’t be where I am otherwise – right, Chris?’
‘Right,’ said Chris, without taking his eyes from the road.
‘I got no secrets from Chris. Anything you find out, if you can’t contact me, you can tell him.’
‘Anything I … now, wait a minute. You wouldn’t be suggesting I carry out some sort of private enquiry, would you? There are professionals who do that sort of thing. I invent scams, I don’t investigate real ones.’
‘I’m hoping I can make you change your mind.’
‘Well, you won’t. If that’s what you’re after, you’re wasting your time. Please ask Chris to turn round and take me home.’
‘No, wait a minute, you haven’t heard what I’ve got to say.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
Stop kidding yourself, said a small voice in the back of her brain. You’re dying to know, so shut up and let the man talk.
‘Just hear me out, why don’t you?’ There was a subtle change, a hint of cajolery, in Mitch’s tone. ‘You broke your date – you want to go hungry?’
‘I’ve got food in my freezer.’
‘So who wants to dine on iced hamburgers? Listen, Mel, my housekeeper cooks like an angel, she’s getting a meal for three and she won’t half be wild if there’s only the two of us to eat it.’ His mouth wore the hesitant half-grin of a schoolboy trying to wheedle extra pocket money, but his eyes were steady and serious.
Melissa gave a resigned sigh. ‘Oh, very well. But I’m not promising anything, remember.’
‘Okay. Now, listen, here’s how it all began …’
In the time that it took to arrive at Mitch’s home, a converted farmhouse some twenty miles away, Melissa learned that he had acquired Heyshill Manor Hotel when it came unexpectedly on to the market after the sudden death of the previous owner in a riding accident. As it happened, he knew the place well, having regularly stayed there when visiting Gloucestershire from London to see how the work on his own house was progressing. He had for some time been on the look-out for an opportunity of breaking into the leisure industry; here, it seemed, one was being
served to him on a plate.
‘Course, it was sad about the poor old geezer falling off his nag, but it did me one big favour, didn’t it? He was a widower with no kids and no other relatives except an elderly sister living in Bournemouth. All she wanted was the ready – she couldn’t sell quick enough.’
‘How very convenient for you,’ said Melissa, and promptly regretted it. ‘I’m sorry, that must have sounded rude.’
He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Nah, I know what you’re thinking, but it was all kosher. I got what I wanted, but I paid a fair price. The place was in good nick; old Sir Whatsit had it done over two or three years before he kicked the bucket, but I had the conference wing built on. Kept the staff on as well – all except the chef, that is. Bloody Frog, stuffed everything full of garlic and gave it a fancy foreign name. When I told him I wanted roast beef and Yorkshire pud for Sunday lunch and the menus printed in plain English, he did his nut and walked out. What I say is, there’s nothing wrong with good British grub.’
Gleefully, he rubbed his hands together as he recounted this gastronomic battle of Waterloo. It was plain that he was riding a favourite hobby-horse and Melissa could not contain a burst of laughter, in which he joined. ‘Course, Pen thinks I’m uncouth, but they don’t print menus in English in French restaurants, so what the hell?’
‘Quite,’ agreed Melissa, egging him on. ‘And if people want French cooking, they can go to France, can’t they?’
‘Right. I can see you ’n’ me’ll get along just fine. Let’s have some music.’ Settling back in his seat with the air of one confident that a deal is all but in the bag, he pressed a button in his arm-rest and the slow movement of a Mozart piano concerto played softly from concealed loudspeakers. ‘This is one of me favourites. They used it in some film or other, didn’t they?’
‘Elvira Madigan.’
‘That’s right. You know it?’
‘Very well. I love all Mozart’s music’
‘I don’t know much, but I’m learning.’
From Dittany, perhaps? Melissa wondered. She, too, felt herself relaxing. The atmosphere was warm, the scent of leather overlaid with the fragrance of some expensive masculine toiletry, the upholstery soft and yielding. The big car purred along, the beams from its powerful headlamps sweeping the road ahead like searching fingers and kindling tiny flares in the eyes of nocturnal animals lurking by the roadside.
‘Not far now,’ said Mitch as they turned into an unmarked lane. During the drive, Melissa had been trying to keep an eye on the route they were taking. They had passed through Chipping Campden and headed towards Banbury, but after that they had turned on to minor roads and it was some time since she had seen a familiar name signposted. A vague feeling of disquiet made her shiver and pull her shawl more closely round her shoulders.
It was absurd, of course; Mitch was respectable, well-known and highly thought of in the world of business, not at all the sort of shady character who lures women into out-of-the-way places with felonious or murderous intent. He had brought her here quite openly; at the end of the evening he would arrange for her to be driven safely home. As for wanting to involve her in some as yet unexplained bit of private sleuthing – well, she could always refuse, couldn’t she? Just the same, he was being unnecessarily evasive; perhaps it was time to pin him down.
‘Look, Mitch,’ she said, trying to sound brisk and business-like. ‘You’ve told me how you came to buy a hotel and got rid of the French chef, and it’s all very interesting and entertaining, but …’
‘Nearly there,’ said Mitch blandly. ‘Lovely spot, this. Pity it’s nearly dark – you’ll have to come and see it in daylight some time.’
As he spoke, Chris swung the car into a concealed entrance and along a narrow track, lit at intervals by mushroom lamps on either side. It snaked downhill through a series of tight bends, ending at a pair of wrought-iron gates set in a high stone wall. Chris had evidently actuated some remote-control mechanism, for there was a buzz, a click, and the gates swung inward. As the car crept forward, they closed behind it. Simultaneously, two dark shapes came padding out of the shadows and ran beside the car until it pulled up at the front door of the house.
Unusually for the Cotswolds, it was built of mellow red brick, with mullioned windows and carriage lamps on either side of the studded oak front door. The walls were partially covered in brilliant red Virginia creeper and scarlet geraniums spilled from tubs and hanging baskets. As the car stopped, the door was opened by a grey-haired, middle-aged woman. Her appearance and her smile of welcome were reassuring.
‘Here we are, Mrs Wingfield,’ called Mitch as he got out of the car. ‘You wait there a tick while I introduce you to the boys,’ he said to Melissa.
The instruction was unnecessary. Faced with two pairs of baleful eyes and two gaping mouths full of spiky teeth, she had every intention of staying where she was. ‘Okay, boys, she’s a friend. Friend,’ he repeated, opening Melissa’s door and beckoning. Warily, she stepped out; to her relief, the dogs greeted her with wagging tails and amiably exploring muzzles. ‘They know you now and they’ll never attack you,’ Mitch promised. ‘Just let ’em have a sniff so’s they recognise your scent. The brindle’s Attila and the black one’s Genghis Khan – Khan for short – and if anyone they haven’t been introduced to tries to get in, they’ll chew his balls off.’
‘Charming,’ murmured Melissa as she patted the rough coats.
The two German Shepherds followed them indoors, keeping close to their master’s heels. Mitch led the way into a low-beamed sitting-room where a log fire burned cheerfully on a stone hearth.
‘Have a seat. Drink?’
‘Thanks – a gin and tonic, please.’
While he poured the drinks, she glanced round the room. Someone with taste and unlimited money had been given a free hand and the result would have graced the glossiest of magazines. Everything, from the heavy curtains in a random pattern of brown and cream like the fleece of a Jacob sheep to the huge copper warming-pan that reflected the glow of the log fire, had been carefully chosen and meticulously placed. Much of the furniture was antique and the pictures and ornaments looked valuable, with the exception of a couple of photographs in plain wooden frames, standing alone on a small table. Seeing her eye on them, Mitch picked one up and handed it to her along with her drink. It was of a beaming, rotund couple whose clothes were covered in white buttons; the man wore a cap, similarly adorned, and the woman a hat with a huge feather.
‘Me Grannie and Grandad,’ he said proudly. ‘They was Pearly King and Queen of Bermondsey that year. That was taken on a costermongers’ outing, just before the war.’
‘Your grandfather was a costermonger?’
‘And me Dad. They call ’em barrow-boys nowadays.’ Mitch sat down beside her, took back the photo and studied it with an affectionate smile. Then he replaced it and picked up the second one. ‘That’s me Mum and Dad with their fruit barrow.’ He pronounced it ‘barrer’; his Cockney accent had grown markedly stronger as he handled the mementoes of his family.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said as he replaced the photographs, setting them in place with care. ‘I’m out of me class, living in a place like this, owning Heyshill Manor, mixing with the nobs …’
‘I’m not thinking anything of the kind,’ protested Melissa, with total sincerity. ‘You must have worked damned hard to get where you are.’
‘That’s what I tell Pen when she tells me off for not holding me fork right,’ he said, with a lop-sided grin. ‘And talking of forks, supper’s ready.’ Chris had appeared at the door and summoned them with a jerk of the head.
On the pretext that he didn’t want to spoil anyone’s appetite, Mitch steadfastly refused to discuss the real business of the evening until they had finished their meal of smoked salmon, roast beef and treacle tart. Instead, he encouraged Melissa to talk about her writing; several of her books had been set in other countries and he seemed to know them all well.
‘Have to get about quite a bit, y’know,’ he explained. ‘Don’t get much time for sightseeing, though. Lots of things I don’t get enough time for,’ he added, and his face softened as he spoke, as if a secret, pleasant thought had come to mind. Again, Melissa wondered if it had anything to do with Dittany.
‘Well, now,’ he said, as they returned to the sitting-room, where Chris was already pouring coffee for the three of them and brandy for Mitch and Melissa. ‘Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.’
‘Yes, it’s about time,’ said Melissa, stroking Khan’s head. The great dog had sat beside her throughout dinner and now settled against her legs, yawning contentedly at the fire; after a moment he lay down with his head on her foot.
‘He’s taken a shine to you,’ said Mitch, with obvious pleasure. ‘You’re one of the family now.’
A warning bell sounded in Melissa’s head. Watch it, girl. They’re in it together, dogs and all, working to soften you up. Keep your head and don’t let them flannel you into doing anything you don’t want to do.
Aloud, she said, ‘I think it’s time you told me exactly why you invited me here.’
Eight
‘I dunno where to begin,’ said Mitch in a dull voice. The cheerful front that he had kept up so far had fallen away and he sat staring moodily into the fire.
‘Okay, let me do a spot of guesswork,’ said Melissa. ‘You suspect someone at Heyshill Manor of being up to no good – maybe trying to rip you off. You ask Will to do a bit of ferreting around. Next thing, Will dies as the result of a fall down the cellar steps, and you feel it’s too much of a coincidence. Am I right?’
Mitch nodded, still gazing into the fire. ‘Got it in one.’
‘That much wasn’t hard to figure out. Did the doctors find anything suspicious?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘But you suspect Vic Bellamy of having had something to do with it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’s a pretty serious allegation.’
Murder at the Manor Hotel Page 7
