Murder at the Manor Hotel

by Betty Rowlands

  She sat up, trying to get her bearings in the unfamiliar room. There was a rustling sound, and a pattering; for a terrifying moment she thought the dream had caught hold of her again and she tried to fight it off, then realised that these were natural sounds of rain falling on glass and curtains rustling in the wind. Muttering to herself and still heavy with sleep, she got out of bed, stumbled over to the window and closed it.

  There was no moon, and no light in any of the windows. All the outside lighting had been switched off, but the reflection from the illuminated sign at the front of the hotel gave a faint glow which intensified as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Gradually, she made out the roof-line of the building and the black shapes of the trees. Below her window, a vague, grey figure slowly emerged from the background. She strained her eyes, peering through the rain-spattered glass; it was the stone shepherdess, of course, but there seemed to be a strange, will-o’-the-wisp glow at its feet. It gave the illusion of movement, as if the statue were floating, first this way, then that, yet all the time remaining exactly where it was.

  A sudden squall threw a flurry of rain against the window. When it had passed, the one remaining light had been extinguished and the stone shepherdess was nothing but a motionless blur. Shivering, Melissa groped her way back to bed.

  Eleven

  By morning, the rain had stopped and the sky was blue and cloudless. There was still enough heat in the early autumn sun to coax a gentle exhalation of steam from the soaked earth; it rose in soft swirls and drifted over the fields like a thin layer of fog. In the garden below Melissa’s window, a blackbird wallowing in a stone bath sent arcs of sparkling water flying in all directions; a robin, perched on the arm of the stone shepherdess, proclaimed for all the world to hear that this territory was his.

  Reflecting that there could hardly be a more peaceful, more reassuringly normal scene, determinedly dismissing from her mind the oneiric fancies of the night, Melissa made a cup of tea and drank it while waiting for her bath to fill.

  A short while later, as she passed through Reception on her way to breakfast, she was greeted, with unexpected cordiality, by Vic Bellamy. After enquiring if she had slept well, he said casually, ‘Mr Mitchell mentioned you’d be interested in a proper look at the cellar. I’m expecting a delivery from the brewers at ten o’clock and I’d be happy to show you round – if you feel you can face it after what happened, of course.’

  ‘That’s really very kind of you,’ said Melissa. She went in search of breakfast, reflecting that he was not such a bad sort after all.

  She made for a corner table, hoping to be able to read her morning paper in peace, but was beckoned by Mrs Clifford, who, in between mouthfuls of scrambled egg, was loudly complaining at not being allowed to bring Dandie into the dining-room. ‘He wouldn’t be a mite of trouble,’ she grumbled, glowering at a waitress who arrived at that moment with coffee and toast as if holding her personally responsible for Dandie’s banishment. The girl backed away with a nervous smile and Mrs Clifford rounded on Melissa.

  ‘The poor darling simply hates being left alone in a strange room,’ she confided. ‘Especially after last night.’

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘My dear, he was so excited when we got back from our late-night walkies, he was trembling all over.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you bumped into the ghosts again!’ said Melissa in an exaggerated stage whisper, but Mrs Clifford was too carried away to notice the disrespectful levity of her tone.

  ‘I wasn’t aware of them myself, not then, although I’m sure they couldn’t have been far away,’ she said earnestly. ‘But Dandie could sense them, I know he could.’ She scythed the air with a slice of buttered toast to emphasise her point. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to come for a stroll through the grounds with me later on this morning?’ she continued. ‘I’ve been to the reference library to study some reports of the local archaeological society about the history of the priory, and I’ve made simply sheaves of notes. I thought I’d see if I could trace the original site.’

  ‘Are you an archaeologist, then?’

  ‘Oh, bless you, no!’ Mrs Clifford laughed horsily at the suggestion, causing several heads to turn in her direction. ‘It’s not the buildings I’m interested in so much as who lived there … and,’ she lowered her voice and leaned towards Melissa with a conspiratorial air, ‘the ambience they left behind!’

  ‘Ah! Yes, of course … well, I’d love to come with you,’ said Melissa politely. It might turn out to be a complete waste of time; on the other hand, she might pick up something to include in her report to Mitch. It would at least help to prove that she was taking her assignment seriously. ‘I’ll be busy for a while, though. Would eleven o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Jolly good. Eleven o’clock’s fine. See you later.’

  Mrs Clifford departed and Melissa drank a second cup of coffee before repairing to the lounge, where she settled down to do The Times crossword while awaiting the arrival of the delivery lorry. Shortly before ten o’clock, she spied it turning into the hotel entrance. She slipped upstairs for a coat and then wandered outside to see what was going on.

  The lorry was parked at the rear of the building. The tailboard was down and the driver and his mate were unloading barrels, crates and cartons, which they stacked beside an open trap-door. Near by stood Vic, clipboard in hand; as each item was taken from the lorry he ticked it off his list. When they had finished unloading, the two men disappeared down a wooden ramp and began rolling up the empty barrels. Vic caught sight of Melissa and waved.

  ‘You’ve timed it just right,’ he said. ‘This way.’ He led her back through Reception and along the passage to the cellar entrance. The door stood wide open, but a bar had been placed across the opening, evidently as a safety measure. Vic lifted it and signalled to Melissa to descend, which she did with some hesitation, clinging grimly to the rail and staring straight ahead with gritted teeth. Reaching the bottom, she stepped quickly past the spot where Will had been lying, averting her eyes and drawing a deep breath to quieten the spasm in her stomach.

  It all looked so different from the other night, and so innocent, with no dark corners, no menacing shapes or mysterious shadows. As well as the fluorescent tube on the ceiling, there was sunlight streaming through the trap. The stainless steel pipework, the walls and arches of whitewashed brick, the rows of metal shelving laden with cartons of canned drinks and almost as many varieties of snacks as could be found in the average supermarket – all had an air of almost mundane normality.

  The men had sent up the last of the empty barrels and were now disposing of crates of bottles which Kevin, clad in jeans, T-shirt and trainers, was lugging to the base of the ramp. When the last load of empties had gone up, full ones were sent down, followed by case after case of cans; lastly came the barrels, bumping and rumbling their way down the wooden slope. Melissa noticed that Vic checked every item a second time. It was hard to see how any fiddling could be going on here.

  ‘I’ll be back in a tick,’ he told her, when the last item had been accounted for. He scribbled a signature, tore the top sheet from the clipboard and ran nimbly up the ramp. Through the opening, Melissa saw him hand the paper to the driver; then, without warning, the daylight disappeared as the trap-door closed.

  It was so unexpected that she experienced a moment of panic as the heavy slab of wood fell into place with a thud that echoed among the vaults. Without the sun, the temperature plunged and the place took on an eerie, almost hostile quality. Above the low hum of machinery was the sound of muffled voices; for one uneasy moment she fancied there were ghosts crowding around her, then realised that it was only Vic taking leave of the brewer’s men on the other side of the trap-door. Kevin had climbed the ramp to bolt it from inside; on his way down he caught her eye. He must have read her thoughts, for he said, without a trace of a smile, ‘It’s all right, lady, they ghosts only chatter after dark.’ He looked none too happy himself as he began s
towing away the day’s delivery, hurrying to and fro with crates and casks as if anxious not to remain in the cellar a moment longer than necessary.

  Feeling slightly foolish at her momentary attack of nerves, Melissa began to look round. It would be as well to think of some questions to ask, to support her reasons for being here. She wandered over to the far wall. It too was built of brick, and whitewashed. The total area of the cellar was smaller than she had imagined; even so, there was a fair amount of unused space. Electric cables ran here and there, serving the light, the air-conditioning unit and a large refrigerator which stood in one corner. She moved up and down, examining the floor, walls and arches, hardly knowing what she was looking for and finding nothing remarkable.

  The door at the top of the steps opened and Vic reappeared. ‘Seen all you want to see?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure what I expected,’ she told him. ‘Is this really the original brickwork?’

  ‘As far as I know. I can’t say I’ve ever delved into the history of the place; all I can tell you for sure is that it’s a listed building and can’t be altered without permission.’

  ‘But the original crypt was larger than this, wasn’t it? I was told a large part had been bricked up.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Hands in pockets, Vic glanced round, as if sizing up the place. Then he looked down at Melissa and grinned. ‘That was before they had all the rules and regulations.’

  ‘Where would the other part have been? I mean, in which direction?’ With one hand on a brick pillar, Melissa turned slowly round, trying to orientate herself. She glanced upwards, thinking she might find some clue from the arrangement of the vaults and wishing she knew a little more about architecture, but all she saw was more electric cable.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Vic glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I don’t want to rush you, but…’

  ‘Of course, you must have loads of things to do.’

  At the top of the stairs, as she waited while he replaced the barrier and relocked the door, she asked, ‘Have you ever heard the ghosts of Battling Bess and her friends?’

  She had expected him to dismiss the whole matter of ghosts as superstitious nonsense, but his tone was serious as he replied, ‘I can’t deny there’s a strange atmosphere down there sometimes, especially at night.’

  ‘You’ve felt it too? Janice claims to have actually heard the ghosts talking.’

  He gave a slightly contemptuous laugh. ‘I wouldn’t pay too much attention to Janice – she has a vivid imagination and she enjoys putting the wind up the youngsters.’

  ‘The customers seem to enjoy her stories. Don’t any of them ask to go down there and listen for themselves?’

  ‘It has been known but we don’t encourage it. Guided tours of the cellar aren’t included in our tariff!’ he added with a grin.

  ‘Well, thanks very much for giving me one,’ said Melissa cordially. ‘By the way, I heard there was a disused quarry near where the old priory used to stand. Can you tell me anything about it?’

  They were back in Reception, where Kim was dealing with a guest who was settling his account. She appeared to overhear the question and gave a sharp glance first at Melissa and then at her husband. It was only for a split second; almost immediately she turned back to the departing guest with one of her polite, professional smiles as she handed him his receipt and wished him a safe journey home, while Vic replied in a casual tone, ‘Yes, the remains of the quarry adjoin the hotel grounds, but it’s quite inaccessible. Anyway, it’s in a dangerous state. I’d keep away from it if I were you.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Thank you once again, Mr Bellamy, for sparing me so much of your time.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  It was a little after half past ten. There was just time for a cup of coffee before her appointment with Mrs Clifford.

  The first half-hour of the walk was one of the most frustrating Melissa had spent in a long while. Mrs Clifford had obtained a photocopy of an old map of the area, on which the presumed site of Heyshill Priory, said to date from pre-Tudor times, was marked with a dotted line, but it was obvious that she had no sense of direction and much time was spent wandering in circles, with frequent pauses to allow Dandie to stop, sniff and lift his leg. Not until Melissa persuaded her to relinquish the map, thus revealing the beautifully executed compass rose that she had been covering with her thumb, did they manage to establish the orientation of the site and relate it to the existing building.

  It was at this point that Mrs Clifford became excited. Ignoring Dandie’s desire for a prolonged inspection of a tree, she set off back towards the house, muttering, ‘Of course, of course, that explains it!’ under her breath. Totally bemused, Melissa followed her; when she reached the edge of the plot presided over by the stone shepherdess, she swung her arm to and fro like a policeman directing traffic. ‘This,’ she suddenly bent her head and lowered her voice to a reverent whisper, ‘is hallowed ground!’

  For one moment Melissa was convinced she was going to fall to her knees. She stood with clasped hands and a look of ecstasy on her large, pale features. Dandie, meanwhile, took advantage of his mistress’s preoccupation to trot forward on his extending lead and hop over the miniature hedge, heading for the patio and some promising stone urns that stood there. Halfway across the lawn, he stopped short and began growling softly.

  ‘I think Dandie’s spotted a cat or something,’ said Melissa.

  If Mrs Clifford’s behaviour so far had been eccentric, it now became positively bizarre. ‘He feels them, he feels them!’ she declared in tones of awe. ‘And I can feel them too. Listen, oh, listen! Any minute now we may hear their spirit voices.’ She closed her eyes and assumed a trance-like expression. ‘Bess, Bess!’ she cried. ‘Speak to us! We are fellow women and we know how you have suffered!’

  The woman’s out of her tree, thought Melissa, I must get away from her. She was on the point of making her escape when Mrs Clifford opened her eyes, grabbed her by the hand and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Now you must surely feel them. Close your eyes and experience their vibrations!’

  But Melissa had had enough; looking around for some diversion, she found one in Dandie. Whatever had caught his attention had evidently gone away; he was on the patio, doing the round of the pottery urns and cocking an optimistic leg at each. ‘I think you’d better call your dog off before someone sees him,’ she said. Without waiting to hear Mrs Clifford’s response, she tugged her hand free and hurried indoors, hoping that her afternoon visit would be more profitable.

  Twice, Melissa drove past the narrow track leading to Stumpy Dart’s workshop as she looked in vain for the sign he had assured her was there. It was only when she left the car on the grass verge to investigate on foot that she saw the board, with the name amateurishly painted in green, propped against a hedge and almost invisible from the road. It was not a promising start.

  The track was muddy and uneven, ending in a clearing littered with the rusting wrecks of half a dozen cars which, she suspected, had been picked up from scrapyards, cannibalised and then abandoned. The workshop, which had a second, more legible sign fixed to the wall, was a breeze-block structure under a galvanised metal roof, with several broken windows crudely mended with sticky tape and a heavy sliding door covered in peeling green paint. From outward appearances, Stumpy Dart was not making a fortune from his business.

  The door was partially open and through it came a blare of rock music at maximum volume. Buried somewhere in the din was the strident jangle of a telephone. Picking her way across the uneven ground, Melissa reached the entrance just as the ringing ceased, and peered inside.

  The place was lit by bare fluorescent tubes and smelled strongly of motor oil. The floor was of concrete and the walls, their greyness partially disguised with a roughly applied layer of white paint, were hung at roof level with cobwebs. Lower down, they were bedaubed with irregular patches of colour, obviously applied with a spray and no doubt for practical purposes, but accidentally giving a random,
abstract touch of brightness to the dingy surroundings.

  A workbench, littered with tools and spare parts, ran along one side, there were old tyres piled up in one corner, a welding booth, and several other pieces of equipment which Melissa could not identify. There were two cars, one a fairly new hatchback which she guessed was Stumpy’s own vehicle, the other an elderly Morris Traveller on which he had evidently been working when interrupted by the telephone. A transistor radio, still playing loudly, stood on the floor beside it.

  A man’s voice could just be heard from the far end of the building but its owner was invisible. It was several minutes before he appeared from the partitioned-off corner which presumably served him as an office.

  It was easy to see how he had come by his nickname. At five feet five inches in her flat shoes, Melissa was a good half a head taller. He was stockily built, broad-shouldered and short-necked, with squat features topped by a straggle of unkempt brown hair. As he approached, he pulled a rag from the pocket of his grimy overalls and wiped his fingers, looking vaguely uncomfortable, as if afraid he might be expected to shake hands. He did not return Melissa’s smile.