‘Mr Dart? I’m Melissa Craig. We spoke on the phone yesterday morning. I asked you about fitting a dummy silencer.’ She waited for him to respond, but he did not, nor did he meet her eyes.
‘You promised to show me …’ she continued, but before she could finish, he said brusquely, ‘I’ve been thinking it over and it can’t be done.’
‘But you told me …’
‘Not feasible. Can’t be done,’ he repeated, still avoiding eye contact. He threw down the rag and picked up a spanner. Plainly, he intended the conversation to end there, but Melissa was not prepared to be so easily put off.
‘Look here,’ she said, raising her voice above the inane babbling of a disc jockey. ‘You said you’d already done it for someone, so how can you pretend …’
‘You must have misunderstood. I only said it might be possible. I’ve thought it over, and it isn’t.’
He began tinkering with the Morris, his back towards her and his face hidden.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, suddenly angry. ‘I remember distinctly …’ A thought struck her. ‘That job you told me about on the telephone, for the gentleman who travels abroad …’ The spanner slipped from Dart’s hand and he swore as he reached into the engine to retrieve it. ‘That job,’ she repeated, ‘was it by any chance for a man called Bellamy?’
He straightened up and turned round, his hand clenched round the spanner and his expression grim. ‘Don’t you understand plain English?’ he said harshly. ‘I told you, I’ve never done a job like that.’
His attitude was threatening. The cacophony from the radio seemed to increase in intensity, bouncing off the bare walls and roof in harsh echoes that punished Melissa’s eardrums and tore at her nerve-ends. She felt her knees begin to wobble, but she stood her ground.
‘How much did he pay you to keep your mouth shut?’ she asked. ‘Or did he threaten you with something nasty?’
It was a shot in the dark, but she saw the muscles round his mouth tighten and knew she was on the right track.
‘Just bugger off and leave me alone!’ he shouted, taking a pace forward and brandishing the spanner. Melissa stepped back, lifting her hands in a gesture of capitulation.
‘Okay, I’m going,’ she said.
She walked back to her car with as much dignity as she could manage on unsteady legs. She was shaken by the encounter, but at the same time seething with excitement. The look in Stumpy Dart’s eyes when she accused him of lying under duress had not been anger, but fear.
Twelve
The road back to Heyshill Manor was long, straight, and reputed to be of Roman origin. On either side, the rolling landscape was a palette of rich autumnal colour, but Melissa, absorbed in her own thoughts, barely noticed it. It was midafternoon and there was very little traffic to disturb her concentration, which was directed towards linking together and making sense of the jumble of fact and speculation presently whirling in her head like leaves tossed by the wind.
Go back to the beginning, she told herself, take things in order, maybe then some kind of pattern will emerge.
First there was Mitch, suspecting that the Bellamys were living beyond their legitimate means and using Innocent Blood Avenged as a device to plant Will Foley at Heyshill Manor for one evening a week to do some quiet probing.
Next, there was Will’s exploration of the cellar. He had taken a flashlight, presumably because he wanted to search in corners and cupboards, or maybe behind pillars, where the electric light might not penetrate. Since neither Chris nor Mitch had referred to his motive for going down there, it was a reasonable assumption that he had not told them. He had gone to his death – the cause of which was still not known – without revealing that particular secret.
So what could he have been expecting to find? Surely not a cache of stolen goods or drugs? No one in their right mind would store such things, even for a few hours, in a place to which members of the hotel staff had free access however reluctantly, in view of the sinister reputation of the cellar, they might go down there.
So, if Will had hoped to find something incriminating, it would seem he had been barking up the wrong tree. By giving her the opportunity to visit the cellar, Vic had shown that he had nothing there to hide. In which case, Mitch’s belief that the hotel manager was somehow involved in Will’s death would seem to be groundless. Unless, of course, he was on to something else, something too hot for him to be allowed to live, of which he had said nothing. If only he hadn’t been so tight-lipped.
Then there was the question of the alleged haunting. The previous evening in Mitch’s house, as she examined the plans that had awakened such disturbing memories, Melissa would almost have been willing to swear on oath that she had witnessed something supernatural. Now, she was less sure. Having that morning seen the cellar under normal conditions and in daylight, she found it difficult to relive fears experienced under stress. But, if those voices were natural, where did they come from, and did they have any sinister meaning?
Most puzzling of all was the way Stumpy Dart had changed his story. It was possible that, out of a sense of responsibility to his customer, he had decided to clear her request before revealing details of the dummy silencer. So far from being given permission, he might have been ordered to deny all knowledge, or maybe bribed or coerced into doing so. In that case, although the customer could still be Vic Bellamy, it could as easily be someone else.
On the other hand, if by chance either of the Bellamys had overheard her telephone conversation with Stumpy – at this point she recalled Mitch’s injunction not to call him from the hotel – the same thing could have happened, except that in that case the car could only have been Vic’s. Either way, the indications were that the purpose of the dummy silencer was to conceal something more valuable than a few personal belongings.
By the time she had reached this point in her deliberations, Melissa was less than half a mile from Heyshill Manor. A short distance ahead was a lay-by with a telephone box. She pulled over, switched off the engine and took from her handbag the notebook with Mitch’s telephone number.
A secretary answered and she asked to speak to Chris. There was an interval, during which she was regaled with an electronic rendering of ‘Knocked ’em in the Old Kent Road’ before he came on the line.
‘I think I may be on to something, but I don’t want to say anything to Mitch till I’m certain,’ she said. ‘Can we meet?’
‘Sure. Where are you?’
She told him, and they arranged to rendezvous in a village midway between the hotel and Stumpy’s workshop.
‘Be with you in twenty minutes,’ he said.
He was there in just over fifteen; she saw him park the Jaguar a short distance away and flashed her lights to attract his attention. He came and slipped into the passenger seat beside her.
‘So, what’s new?’ he asked. She told him, and he nodded, lower lip jutting.
‘You don’t seem surprised.’
‘Not entirely. That gas-guzzler of Vic’s – remember I said I didn’t know much about Yankee cars?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I know a man who does. Imports them for certain people with dough that needs laundering.’
‘And?’
‘That model that Vic drives doesn’t have twin exhausts.’
‘I wonder if Will knew that.’
‘He could easily have found out.’
‘I’ve just had a thought,’ said Melissa after a pause. ‘If you were in Vic’s shoes, and you knew someone was going to make some unwelcome enquiries, what would you do?’
Chris shrugged. ‘Do what we think he did – get the guy who did the job to keep his trap shut. Bribe him, or threaten to have his place turned over … or worse.’
‘I think I’d go further than that.’ He waited for her to go on, not making any visible effort to keep up with her train of thought. ‘I’d get the car up to Stumpy’s workshop pronto and have that dummy silencer whipped off and hidden until things had cooled
down.’
‘You could be right.’ Chris sat for a moment in silence, digesting this new possibility. Then, uncharacteristically, he came up with an idea of his own. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘it’s probably in that workshop now.’
‘We can soon check if that’s what happened. When I go back to the hotel, I’ll have a look at the car. If the second exhaust pipe is missing …’
‘Does Stumpy live on the premises?’
‘I don’t see how he can – it’s just a shed.’
They turned to look at one another. Melissa felt a tingle of excitement as the idea took shape in her head like a Japanese paper flower growing in water. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ she said.
‘A silencer isn’t something you can stuff in a drawer. Should be easy to find.’
They arranged to meet at nine o’clock, when it would be quite dark and there was unlikely to be much traffic.
‘That’s assuming the second exhaust has gone from Vic’s car,’ Melissa pointed out. ‘If it hasn’t, I’ll call you straight away and we’ll have to think again.’
She was dismayed to find, on returning to the hotel, that the car had been backed into position, making it impossible to see what she wanted by a cursory glance. It would be simple to walk up to the wall and examine the car from there, but it would look extremely odd. She had a shrewd idea that it had been done deliberately; there was also a chance that someone was keeping a look-out.
While she stood hesitating, help arrived in the shape of a small Yorkshire terrier. Dandie had managed to evade his mistress and came toddling in her direction. He went straight past her, making a beeline for one shining rear wheel, which he eagerly sniffed before cocking his leg.
‘Oh Dandie, you are naughty!’ exclaimed Melissa, leaping forward and pouncing on him. He gave an indignant yelp as she scooped him up, just as Mrs Clifford arrived in a state of agitation and a great kerfuffle took place as she reclaimed her pet.
‘I’ve been looking for him everywhere,’ she panted. ‘He disappeared while we were walking up by the old quarry. I was terrified he’d get into the road and be run over. Thank you so much for rescuing him.’
‘It was nothing, really. He’d come home by himself,’ Melissa assured her.
‘And your nice jacket – it’s all muddied. You must let me pay to have it cleaned, I absolutely insist.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s an old one, and anyway I’m sure it will brush off.’ At that particular moment, Melissa would not have cared if the jacket had been ruined. She had seen what she wanted to see.
Chris had said, ‘Wear something dark’. Melissa had packed a navy blue track suit, but if she wore that down to dinner it might look odd, and she did not want to draw attention to herself by changing before going out. Instead, she put on a black, high-necked sweater and long black flared pants. As she entered the dining-room, Mrs Clifford caught her eye and beckoned.
‘Do come and join me! Have an apéritif!’ She reinforced the invitation by waving her own drink; the hint of a slur in her speech suggested that it was not her first. Melissa accepted a small dry sherry and as soon as she had given the order, Mrs Clifford went on, ‘I can’t thank you enough for rescuing Dandie. Did the mud brush orf?’ Under the influence of two martinis, her accent had become exaggeratedly ‘county’.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Melissa.
‘Awfully glad to hear it.’
‘Did you say you’d been walking in the old quarry?’
‘Not in it. Can’t do that – it’s enclosed by a fence, to keep the animals from falling down, don’t you know. There’s a footpath that goes near it, into some woods. It’s such a pretty walk – would you like me to show you tomorrow?’
‘That would be lovely, if you can spare the time.’
‘Time’s one thing I’ve got plenty of, m’dear.’ Mrs Clifford had, it emerged, a passion for walking. ‘Can’t go as far as I used to, of course, not with my gammy knees.’ She turned out to be an even more compulsive talker; over their first course, and throughout the meal, she regaled Melissa with her life history. She was a widow of independent means; her home was a flat in London in which she spent as little time as possible. In summer she travelled abroad; in the autumn she stayed in hotels in various parts of the country.
‘Shan’t be using this one again,’ she declared. ‘Never told me I couldn’t bring Dandie into the dining-room. Pity,’ she went on, spooning redcurrant jelly on to her saddle of lamb. ‘The food’s tip-top. Sensible menu, too. I hate it when everything’s something à la something, haw haw haw!’
Mrs Clifford’s appetite, like her laugh, was hearty and unrestrained. She took twice as many vegetables as Melissa and finished in half the time.
If Melissa had any fears about having to detach herself without inviting awkward questions, they were soon dispelled. As soon as she had finished her dessert, which she did in record time, Mrs Clifford put down her spoon.
‘I must go and see to Dandie,’ she said. ‘Do please excuse me. It’s been awfully nice having your company.’
Twenty minutes later, Melissa left the hotel for her assignment with Chris, wrapped in a dark blue car coat. A relief receptionist was on duty. That was good; with any luck, neither Kim nor Vic would realise that she had gone out.
Chris was at the meeting-place before her. As soon as she parked her Golf, he came over. ‘We’ll use the Jag,’ he said. ‘It’s got longer legs. Just in case we need to hurry,’ he explained. A nerve twitched in the pit of her stomach. It had not occurred to her that they might have to make a dash for it.
Following her directions, Chris turned into the entrance to the track leading to Stumpy’s workshop, then backed round and parked on the verge, close to the hedge. He switched off the lights; before locking the car, he opened one of the rear doors and a dark shape spilled out. It was Khan.
‘Thought he might as well come along,’ Chris remarked. ‘Attila’s looking after things at home.’
A gibbous moon was partially obscured by clouds, but there was a bright glow over Evesham and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car. Their eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom as they crept along. Khan padded at their heels, barely visible but for a glimmer of white teeth. He had not greeted Melissa nor invited a caress; he seemed to understand that this outing was strictly business.
‘Any idea how the front door’s fastened?’ whispered Chris as they reached the building.
‘I think it’s bolted from inside.’
‘That means a window – unless there’s another door at the back.’
There was another door. Cautiously exploring with the aid of a torch dimmed with a cloth, Chris located it in a matter of seconds. A few seconds more and he had it unlocked. They were in.
‘We won’t chance the electric light,’ said Chris. He removed the cloth and sent a powerful beam on a circle of exploration. Everything was much as Melissa remembered it from her afternoon visit; tools scattered untidily on the bench, the Morris with the bonnet still open. And, behind the Morris, the new red hatchback.
‘That’s funny,’ she said, not bothering to keep her voice down. ‘I’m sure that’s Stumpy’s own car. I wonder why …’
She broke off on hearing a low growl from Khan, who had been stationed close to the door with the command ‘Guard’. Chris grabbed her and pulled her behind the Morris. In the split second before he switched off the torch, she could see the outline of the dog against the wall, crouching, wolf-like, with shoulders hunched and hackles raised.
‘Get down!’ commanded Chris in a low voice.
They held their breath and waited. The darkness seemed absolute until, straining her eyes, Melissa could just make out the dim squares of the windows. For a few seconds, they heard nothing; then came the sound of footsteps, slow and cautious, first dragging through grass, then picking their way across the rough hardcore, past the main door and along the side of the building. They stopped; there came the sound of a handle turning and a rectangle
of grey appeared, framing the dark silhouette of a man. Then the electric light clicked on. From their hiding-place they could see, reflected in a window at the far end of the building, a shirt-sleeved Stumpy Dart, shotgun at the ready.
‘All right, whoever you are, come out with your hands up!’ he shouted.
There was a pause, during which Melissa could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Stumpy was peering nervously this way and that, swinging the barrel of the gun in all directions.
With perfect timing, Chris gave a low whistle and Khan sprang out from behind the half-open door. The next minute, a bewildered, terrified Stumpy was spreadeagled face down, with one arm gripped in the dog’s powerful jaws and the gun spinning away out of his reach. Chris stepped out and stood in front of him as he wriggled, gasping and groaning, struggling to raise his head to look at his attacker.
‘If you want to stay joined to that arm, you’d better lie still,’ said Chris, his tone almost conversational.
‘Call him off,’ whined Stumpy. ‘He’s hurting me.’
‘He’s not even trying.’
Chris picked up the gun, opened the breech, shook out the cartridges and examined them.
‘Blanks,’ he called, with a glance in Melissa’s direction. ‘We’ve got a real tough egg here.’
‘It’s only to scare people off.’ Stumpy’s face was contorted with pain and fear. ‘Living out here with no one else around …’
‘You live in this dump?’
‘I’ve got a caravan at the back. Who are you, what do you want, for God’s sake?’
‘I want to talk about a silencer,’ said Chris.
‘What silencer?’
‘The false one you took off Vic Bellamy’s car.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Almost casually, Chris strolled across and stood over Stumpy. Then he lifted one foot and brought it down hard on the man’s head, driving his face against the concrete. There was a thud and a howl of anguish; Melissa, watching from behind the Morris, gasped and covered her eyes.
Murder at the Manor Hotel Page 12
