‘Settled in okay? Got everything you need?’
‘Everything’s fine, thank you.’
‘Listen, Mrs Wingfield’s cooking a special dinner for Dittany and me this evening. How about joining us?’
‘That’s very nice of you, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.’
‘You won’t be. Chris’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘Well, if you’re sure … thank you, I’ll look forward to it.’
She put the phone down and reached for the Yellow Pages. ‘Might as well do something to justify all this VIP treatment,’ she said to herself as she flipped through the directory until she came to the entry, ‘J. E. H. Dart. Cars Rebuilt and Repaired’.
The first thing she heard when the call was answered was the sound of pop music, playing very loudly. Above it, a man’s voice shouted ‘Hello!’
‘Is that Mr Dart?’
‘Speaking.’
‘My name’s Melissa Craig, I’m a writer,’ she began.
It was her standard opening when approaching a stranger and the usual response was a guarded, ‘Oh, yes?’ In this case, all she got was, ‘Eh? What? Can’t hear you.’
‘I’m a writer,’ she repeated, raising her voice. ‘I wonder if you …’
‘Hang on a minute.’ After a couple of seconds the row was turned down. ‘Say all that again.’
Melissa told the same story she had given to Ken Harris. Stumpy Dart’s reaction caused her pulse to notch up an extra beat.
‘Funny you should ask that,’ he said. ‘I did a job like that not long ago. Gentleman who takes his car to foreign parts where things are liable to get pinched – wanted a safe place to hide his valuables. Tell you what,’ he went on before she could get in another word, ‘if you’d like to come round to the workshop, I’ll show you a drawing of what I did.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘No trouble. Tomorrow afternoon be all right? Got an urgent job to finish in the morning.’
‘That’ll be fine.’
She put the telephone down and checked the time. It was only three o’clock, a little early for afternoon tea. She decided to take a stroll round the gardens.
Vic Bellamy was at the reception desk as she made her way to the door. He glanced up and nodded, but did not smile. As she stepped outside, she had an uncomfortable feeling that he was staring after her, his gaze far from friendly. She had a vague sense of being threatened, then told herself not to be stupid. He was a busy man; he probably saw her as a tiresome female scribbler who would waste his time with a load of silly questions.
She made her way round the side of the building and almost immediately bumped into an elderly woman in a tweed coat and skirt, carrying a small dog under one arm and apparently in a state of great excitement. ‘The Heyshill Martyrs!’ she exclaimed, clutching at Melissa with her free hand. ‘They’re here!’ She released her grip and made a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the entire extent of the grounds. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
Completely taken aback, Melissa stared in all directions and said, ‘I don’t see anything.’
The woman looked scornful. ‘Of course not. I didn’t see anything either. Didn’t you know – they don’t show themselves. But just now,’ she dropped her voice, as if about to speak of something holy, ‘I sensed their presence all around me!’
‘In the garden? I thought they were supposed to live in the cellar,’ said Melissa, and received a look of disapproval from piercing blue eyes.
‘It’s plain you know nothing about the history of Heyshill,’ the woman retorted.
‘I know about the legend of Battling Bess – Janice told me,’ said Melissa defensively.
‘Janice!’ The woman’s upper lip curled in scorn. ‘What does an insensitive creature like Janice know about the spirit world? You have to be psychic to make contact with them – or an animal, of course. Dandie knew they were there, didn’t you, my precious!’ She bent her head; from the bundle of fur nestling in the crook of her arm, a small pink tongue emerged and licked her face. ‘You should have seen his little hackles rise – he was aware of them before I was.’
She gave Melissa a triumphant smile, as if the behaviour of Dandie’s hackles put the matter beyond doubt, and deposited the dog on the ground. He wandered on to the grass and began sniffing at the base of a tree. ‘Not too far, my precious,’ cooed the woman, ‘or the nasty man will get cross again. Really, that gardener!’ She jerked her head towards the rear of the house. ‘He got so angry, just because Dandie had strayed on to a bit of garden marked “Private”. You’ve never heard such a fuss. Then when I went to pick him up – I’m afraid he was a bit naughty, he didn’t come the minute Mummy called him – the fellow positively shouted at me. Of all the impertinence – I’ve a good mind to complain to the manager!’
The afternoon was wearing on and the air was becoming cooler by the minute. Melissa, anxious to continue her walk, began to edge away. ‘Well, I’ll be on the look-out for them, the ghosts, I mean,’ she said. ‘If I should see anything’ – she caught the woman’s eye and hastily corrected herself ‘if I should experience anything, I’ll let you know. I take it you’re staying in the hotel?’
‘Room 32. Millicent Clifford.’ A gloved hand was graciously extended. ‘Of course, it’s highly unlikely that dear Bess and her friends will reveal themselves to you. No offence, of course’ – a superior smile exposed an expanse of pink gum above well-kept teeth – ‘but I doubt if you have the necessary aura to make contact with the other side. Enjoy your walk.’
Ten
‘Found anything yet?’
Mitch’s question was addressed to Melissa, but his gaze was fixed on Dittany, who responded, as she accepted the drink he handed her, with a shy but intimate smile of thanks. As he sat down beside her on the couch, and before Melissa had time to reply, she turned to him and shook her head in reproach. ‘She’s hardly had time to unpack yet. You shouldn’t be so impatient.’
Dittany was, Melissa thought, looking quite lovely in a dress of pleated cream silk, her hair piled like a swirl of rich brown honey on top of her head. It was plain that Mitch thought so too; from the look on his face, it was evident that the reason for his question was momentarily forgotten. Melissa, seated opposite them with Khan stretched out at her feet, glanced across to where Chris sat sipping orange juice. His left eye flickered for a moment and she guessed that he shared her thoughts.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she began, and at the words, Mitch’s head jerked towards her as if a string was attached to his ear.
‘You’re on to something!’ he said.
‘Just a bit of spade work,’ she replied, and told him about her conversation with Stumpy Dart.
Mitch’s eyes grew bright. ‘That’s amazing! It could have been Vic’s car he doctored.’
‘It could. And the reason for wanting the mods done could be perfectly genuine. We know he visits Spain regularly, and the papers are full of reports about cars being broken into out there. Maybe he’s had property stolen in the past.’
‘But just think, he could hide all sorts of stuff in a secret compartment like that.’ Mitch was carried away by the idea, excited as a schoolboy. ‘Drugs, maybe … forged currency, dud passports, anything.’
‘I’m sure Melissa’s thought of that.’ Dittany’s quiet voice reminded him that he was stating the obvious. ‘Would it be worth having a chat to Kim about it?’ she suggested. ‘You said she was quite friendly, Melissa – she might let something drop.’
‘Forget that.’ Abruptly, Mitch released the hand he had been gently caressing, got to his feet and went over to the drinks trolley. ‘She might mention it to Vic, and he’d be sure to smell a rat.’
Seeing the girl’s downcast expression at having her idea so summarily rejected, Melissa interposed, ‘I’m sure Dittany only meant, ask her if they’d had any bad experiences. I might learn something …’
‘Nah!’ Mitch waved his glass at her in a gesture that was unmistaka
bly a command. ‘If he is up to something, we don’t want to give the slightest hint we’re on to him. Besides, Mel, you’re only supposed to be interested in spooky old buildings, remember.’
‘Talking of spooks …’ Melissa described her encounter with Mrs Clifford. ‘Actually,’ she went on, when they had finished laughing, ‘she might be quite useful. She implied that she knew a lot about the history of the place.’
‘Yeah, well, remember what you’re really there for.’ Mitch was still smiling and his tone was bland, but the look in his eyes reminded her that he expected value for his money. He drained his glass. ‘Refill, anyone?’
There was a general shaking of heads; Mitch returned to the couch and put his free arm round Dittany’s shoulders. Once again, the two exchanged a quick, loving glance. There seemed to be no doubt which way things were heading; the Honourable Penelope, Melissa reflected, would have to accept honourable defeat.
‘That’s all you’ve got to report, then?’ There was a brisk, almost peremptory note in Mitch’s voice that he might have used when speaking to an underling. Melissa pictured him behind a desk, a battery of telephones at his elbow and a secretary or two hovering, notebooks at the ready.
‘That’s all for the moment,’ she replied.
Mrs Wingfield appeared and announced dinner. As they settled at the table, Mitch remarked, ‘Got those drawings for you to look at presently. And Dittany’s been doing a spot of research in the archives, haven’t you, love?’ He winked. ‘You’ll never believe what some of those old monks got up to.’
Over the meal, Dittany gave a surprisingly racy account of the fall from grace of the members of the Heyshill monastic community. Over a period of years, tales had filtered out of over-indulgence in secular pleasures and a neglect of spiritual duties. In the opinion of one historian, the sheltering of destitute women in the crypt had begun long before the Reformation and was not prompted solely by considerations of charity.
‘Things got so bad that the Bishop intervened, had most of the crypt bricked up to put a stop to the naughty goings-on and eventually disbanded the community altogether,’ Dittany explained. ‘In any case, the quarry was worked out so they had no source of regular income.’
‘What quarry?’ asked Melissa.
‘There’s a disused quarry, adjacent to the edge of the manor grounds. Last century, archaeologists investigating the site came to the conclusion that the builders of the abbey discovered it when they were digging the foundations, and continued to work it for several years.’
‘I noticed this afternoon how the land falls away on the other side of the boundary wall,’ said Melissa. ‘Are there any plans that show the layout of the original buildings?’
‘Dunno,’ said Mitch. ‘I’ve only seen the drawings old Sir Whatsit had done when he refurbished the place. They’re in my office – if you’ve all finished eating, we can go and look.’
He stood up. Melissa and Dittany followed him from the room, but Chris remained behind and began clearing the table. As usual, he had said very little throughout the evening, although he had joined in the laughter at some of Dittany’s tales and Mitch’s mildly ribald comments, even occasionally adding one of his own.
Mitch’s office was at the back of the house. It was equipped almost as luxuriously as the other rooms, with a deep carpet, velvet curtains, desks and bookshelves of polished wood and padded leather chairs. The filing cabinets were wooden-fronted to match the rest of the furniture and the walls were hung with reproduction old masters; the only items of undisguisedly modern appearance were telephones and a fax machine, a word processor and a computer.
‘This is how I keep in touch with me empire,’ said Mitch. ‘Course, me head office is in London, but I do as much from home as possible. The drawings are over here.’ He led them to a table at the back of the room and switched on a reading lamp.
After a good dinner they were all in a relaxed and mellow mood. As they began their examination, Mitch regaled them with anecdotes about his negotiations with the executor of old Sir Whatsit’s estate, whom he described as ‘a toffee-nosed git’. When they came to a plan showing the position and layout of the cellar, however, their laughter died away and they fell silent. Dittany shivered and moved nearer to Mitch, who put an arm round her and held her close, his head bent over hers. Melissa shut her eyes, reliving the horror of the previous Thursday, the interminable wait for help to come as she tried to staunch the wound in Will’s forehead. She recalled the pain in her cramped legs and the chill air of the cellar with its sickening overtones of beer and blood and cigar smoke, heard the murmuring voices from the bar, saw Mitch’s anguished face over Vic Bellamy’s shoulder as he tried to reach his friend.
A thought struck her. She opened her eyes, reached out for the ground floor plan and studied it for a second time, comparing the two. ‘That’s odd,’ she said, half to herself.
‘What’s up?’ asked Mitch. ‘Spotted something?’
‘The cellar – I thought it was directly under the bar.’
‘Nah. It runs in the opposite direction. What of it?’
‘Oh, nothing. I just … no, it’s nothing.’ She pushed the plans away and thought, This isn’t real, I’m being fanciful. Too much wine, I expect – that and listening to Janice and old Mrs Clifford with their ghost stories. But it surely hadn’t been her fancy that while she was crouched beside Will there had been faint, muffled voices not far away. She had assumed, without thinking, that they came from overhead, from the bar … but now it was plain that was impossible. And in any case, the sounds had died away, almost as she became aware of them.
Sort of murmurings … as if you were listening to a radio through a thick wall, was how Janice had described the ghostly manifestations. And a musty sort of smell, as if a grave had been opened up. The hairs rose on the back of Melissa’s neck; despite the warmth of the room, she felt cold. She pushed the plans away. ‘I’ve seen all I want to,’ she said, trying to keep her voice even. ‘I don’t think these help very much.’
‘Feel free to look at them again, any time,’ said Mitch. He rolled up the drawings and slid them into a cardboard tube, which he stowed away in a drawer. ‘Have to keep the place tidy or I get an earful from Medusa. Me secretary,’ he explained, nodding towards one of the desks. ‘Her name’s Joan, but she’s a right battle-axe, gets her knickers in a twist if there’s a paper-clip out of place.’
Evidently, he had noticed nothing untoward in Melissa’s manner, but as they left the room, Dittany whispered in her ear, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Melissa managed a smile. ‘But I am a bit tired. Mitch, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be getting back to the hotel.’
‘Sure.’ He raised his voice. ‘Chris, bring the Jag round!’
‘Feeling better?’ asked Chris, after driving a mile or two in silence.
Melissa glanced at him. In the dim light reflected from the headlamps, his face was expressionless, his eyes fixed on the road. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.
‘Yes, you do.’ He halted at a junction; as he waited for a car to pass, he looked her full in the face and said, ‘Something happened while you were in Mitch’s office. You came out looking as white as a sheet. Didn’t the others notice?’
‘Dittany asked me if I was all right and I told her I was tired, that’s all. I don’t think Mitch was looking at me.’
Chris gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘He doesn’t look at anyone else when she’s around.’
‘Do you think he’s serious about her?’
‘Never known him so serious about anyone in his life.’ After a pause, he said, ‘You haven’t answered my question. What made you look as if you’d seen a ghost?’
Melissa’s first impulse was to stall but she knew it would be a waste of time. In his way, Chris was as shrewd as Mitch.
‘I didn’t see a ghost,’ she said, ‘but I think I may have heard one. Several, in fact. Not just now, but last Thursday, down in the cellar.’ She explain
ed, thinking how improbable and absurd it sounded. ‘You must think I’m hyperimaginative, and you’re probably right. I was overwrought … my ears must have been playing tricks.’
‘I guess that’s it.’ It was clear that Chris wanted no truck with the supernatural. ‘Here we are.’ He brought the car to a standstill at the front door of the hotel and she got out. ‘Be seeing you,’ he said, and drove away. She watched the car disappear and went inside.
A night porter at the reception desk smiled and nodded as she went through; there was no sign of the Bellamys. The door to the lounge stood open, revealing a glimpse of Mrs Clifford seated in an armchair by the fire with Dandie on her lap. She was addressing an elderly man who wore a hearing aid; her voice was raised and as Melissa hurried past, she was repeating her claim to have made contact with Battling Bess and the Heyshill Martyrs. ‘They’re all around us,’ she was saying, her voice pursuing Melissa along the corridor and up the stairs. ‘If you’re psychic, like me, you can feel their presence everywhere!’
‘Damn the woman!’ Melissa exclaimed aloud as she unlocked the door to her room. She felt thoroughly edgy and ill-at-ease; a pleasant evening had ended on a disturbing note. She wished she was back at home in Hawthorn Cottage, where she could have called Iris and shared a cup of herbal tea with her. Dear, down-to-earth Iris, with her clipped speech and her common sense, would soon have dispelled these idiotic fancies. Ghosts, indeed! She could almost hear the contemptuous sniff that would have greeted her story.
A quiet read in bed would calm her nerves. Thank goodness the hotel provided an electric kettle and tea-bags. Parts of the building might be old and spooky but there was nothing antiquarian about the service. In fact, the central heating was almost too efficient; the room was uncomfortably warm. She turned down the radiator and opened the window a fraction. An hour later, relaxed and drowsy, she put out her light.
Almost immediately her mind, no doubt prompted by memories stirred earlier in the evening, turned to Innocent Blood Avenged and the final scene in which the spirit of the murdered heroine returned to accuse her killer. It was to be the high spot of the piece, intended to give the audience a deliciously scarey finale to their Hallowe’en entertainment. Penelope had gone to town on effects; Dittany was to appear in a long white gown, heavily stained with Kensington Gore and treated with some luminous substance to give a spectral appearance. As Melissa drifted off to sleep, the darkened stage seemed to materialise before her eyes and Dittany entered, hands clasped to her breast, her costume with its scarlet stain shedding a faint, unearthly glow. But there was something wrong; the pain and terror in the girl’s eyes were real and no make-up could have produced such a deathly pallor on living flesh. The front of her gown lay open to reveal a frightful wound, spurting blood that poured through her fingers, spread along her wrists and arms and dripped on to the stage. People in the audience were screaming, and Melissa awoke, gasping and trembling.
Murder at the Manor Hotel Page 10
