Murder at the Manor Hotel

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Mrs Craig, how very nice to see you,’ she said in her precise, pedantic voice. ‘It was such a pity you were unable to attend our event last night.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Extremely well. We sold three model gowns and a number of separates.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Melissa said politely, inwardly fuming at being thus hindered.

  ‘Yes, an excellent result, was it not?’ Lady Charlotte’s small mouth, which in repose had a pinched look as if she were sucking a particularly sour piece of lemon, curved in a satisfied smile. ‘I am sure the Stratford branch will prove an enormous success, thanks to Mr Mitchell’s invaluable support. He and Penelope make a delightful couple, do you not agree?’ The smile wavered and a frown puckered the smooth brow. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  Melissa became aware that her gaze had been darting in all directions while the other woman was speaking. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said. ‘I spotted a friend a few minutes ago and I wanted to speak to her, but I seem to have lost her.’

  ‘How unfortunate. It happens so easily in a crowd, does it not? I do hope you find your friend.’ With a gracious smile, Lady Charlotte went on her way.

  With little hope now of any success, Melissa walked the length of the arcade, glancing in every shop as she passed, but everywhere she drew a blank. Ruefully, she retraced her steps; as she skirted the ornamental pool, she happened to glance upwards and her gloom vanished at the sight of the woman in the tweed suit descending the staircase from the café. Reaching the bottom, she made for the far exit, with Melissa following at a discreet distance. In a very short time, they reached a line of glass doors which gave on to the High Street in the old part of the town.

  The woman turned left and crossed over. Her pace slackened; she paused once or twice to look in shop windows. Once she glanced round, as if checking to see if she was being followed, but Melissa, who had played this game before, had stayed on the opposite side. Eventually, she turned up a short alley leading to the churchyard, and entered a shop. Melissa waited for several minutes; when the woman did not emerge, she decided to investigate more closely.

  The fascia-board above the shop bore the name ‘Antony Purvis’ in Gothic capitals and below it ‘Antiques and Works of Art’. The centrepiece of the window display was an easel bearing a seascape in oils, mounted in an ornately carved and gilded frame. The maritime theme was echoed by a few smaller paintings of ships and a pair of bronze mermaids. A framed notice in one corner invited the passer-by to enter and browse with no obligation. Melissa pushed open the door and went in.

  A man in a green corduroy suit was standing beside a desk talking to the woman Melissa had followed. She had removed her jacket and was evidently an employee, for in response to something he said, she replied, ‘I have it here, Mr Purvis,’ took a file from a drawer and extracted a letter which she handed to him. He studied it for a few moments, nodded and returned it saying, ‘Thank you, Mrs Wilson,’ before coming to greet Melissa.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said with a pleasant smile. ‘Do you have any particular interest, or would you prefer to look round at your leisure? Our main gallery is upstairs.’ With a slightly affected gesture he indicated a staircase in the corner.

  His appearance was striking, almost theatrical. His collar-length grey hair fell in symmetrical waves on either side of aquiline features. When speaking, he inclined his head to one side and held the tips of his long, tapering fingers lightly pressed together – rather like an actor playing a clergyman, Melissa thought.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ she began. ‘I was wondering … that is, I went to an exhibition in London a few months ago and I was very struck by some pictures by a French artist … nineteenth century, I think … I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name. They were interiors … one was called Le Goûter and there was another of a girl making a bed …’ She was adlibbing, saying the first thing that came into her head, aware that she knew very little of what she was talking about and wishing she had studied more closely the catalogue Iris had shown her. ‘I think the second one was called La Chambre à Coucher,’ she continued, becoming a trifle desperate.

  While speaking, Melissa had a feeling that Mrs Wilson was uneasy. Her colour had risen slightly and she began rummaging in a desk drawer – almost, it seemed, as if she was trying to hide her face.

  Mr Purvis’s smile lost none of its urbanity; on the contrary, as Melissa floundered on, it deepened to the point of condescension. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said smoothly when her store of improvisation ran out, ‘would this be the exhibition at Butchers’ Gallery last March?’

  ‘I, er, don’t remember exactly when it was …’

  ‘I think you are probably referring to André Ducasse, sadly neglected during his lifetime and only recently accorded the recognition his work deserves. I am afraid all his known paintings have been snapped up by galleries or private collectors. They may occasionally be seen in exhibitions but very rarely come on to the market. If you admire his style, there are one or two canvasses upstairs which might appeal to you.’

  Melissa was about to make an excuse and leave, then decided it would be prudent to keep up the pretence a little longer. She allowed Mr Purvis to escort her to the upper floor and made what she hoped were intelligent comments about the paintings he showed her.

  ‘They’re very interesting … perhaps I’ll come back in a day or two and have another look at them,’ she said. ‘I must go now, I have an appointment … thank you so much for your help.’

  Mr Purvis escorted her to the door and held it open for her. ‘I look forward to seeing you again,’ he said politely as she made her escape. She hurried back to the car park, where Dittany was still patiently waiting.

  ‘Sorry to be so long,’ she panted. ‘That car … I’ve seen it before, driven by different people. At least I know now where to find one of them.’ She glanced across to where the blue Renault had been left; the space was now occupied by a battered Ford Cortina. ‘I don’t suppose you happened to notice who drove it away?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Was it important?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think it may have something to do with what’s going on at Heyshill Manor.’

  ‘Really?’ For the first time that morning, Dittany showed signs of animation. ‘What makes you think so?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get home.’

  When they reached Hawthorn Cottage, Melissa led the way to the kitchen and unloaded her shopping on the table. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink,’ she said. ‘How about a glass of wine?’

  ‘Not when I’m driving,’ said Dittany firmly. She accepted a glass of fruit juice and Melissa bustled about, putting things away. She put soup on the stove to heat and set out plates and cutlery.

  ‘So what was all the excitement about the car?’ asked Dittany.

  Melissa took her time over slicing bread and unwrapping cheese, trying to decide how much she should reveal. ‘It’s all a bit vague at present,’ she said. ‘Chris and I have to do a bit more nosing around. We’re not saying anything to Mitch just yet because we’re not sure if we’re on the right track. If I tell you, please don’t mention it to him, will you?’

  ‘I’m not likely to have the opportunity,’ said Dittany glumly.

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since Tuesday. We were supposed to be going out this evening but he rang last night and called it off.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He was in Stratford yesterday for the opening ceremony at the new branch of Dizzy Heights and it seems the Honourable Penelope had organised a surprise theatre party for this evening. She sprang it on him in front of the people from the press – said it was to say “Thank you” for showing confidence in her business. He told me he didn’t feel he could get out of it.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he could,’ said Melissa. ‘I saw her and her partner on Thursday in Stratford. They were talking then about tickets for the theatre and
they spoke as if Mitch was to be in the party.’

  ‘And he was in London with her on Wednesday night,’ Dittany went on. ‘He said it was a business dinner but …’ She was looking sorry for herself again; she had taken out a handkerchief and was twisting it between her fingers, biting her lips and blinking as if trying to avoid the need to use it. ‘She’s determined to have him, I know she is.’

  ‘Well, he’s quite a catch and you can’t blame a girl for trying,’ Melissa pointed out, making her tone deliberately flippant although secretly she shared Dittany’s doubts. ‘But seriously, I’m sure you’re more his type than she is … and so is Chris.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ The threat of tears seemed to have receded for the moment. ‘Did he say so?’

  ‘He did. And he says he has no intention of allowing Mitch to fall into the Hon. Pen’s clutches, so cheer up and come and have some lunch.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a wimp, but I was so looking forward to this evening …’

  ‘I’m sure he was too. These things happen. High-powered tycoons like Mitch are always having to rush around to meetings and functions and boring parties.’

  ‘That’s what Eric keeps telling me. He spends all his time trying to convince me that I’ll never stand the pace, and Mitch will get tired of me anyway.’

  ‘Eric’s pretty keen on you, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. He’s a nice guy, but he’s so intense. He wanted a commitment after only a couple of dates. I told him to back off but he’s very persistent.’ Dittany heaved a sigh. ‘He says life in the fast lane soon gets boring.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s very exciting if you can take it – and put up with the snags. I remember when my son was at school, the headmaster was always banging on about taking the rough with the smooth.’

  ‘Your son? I didn’t know …’

  One topic led to another, and it was over an hour later that Dittany said she really must be going, and in the same breath reminded Melissa that she had not yet explained her interest in the blue Renault or her pursuit of its driver.

  ‘I think, on reflection,’ said Melissa, ‘I’d rather not say any more just yet – there may be nothing in it.’

  But I’ll bet there is, she said to herself as she watched her guest drive away. She was by now certain that the blue Renault, as well as Vic’s own car, was being used to carry something both valuable and illegal. In a few hours, with any luck, she would know exactly what it was.

  Chris rang during the afternoon to confirm their time and place of meeting. He listened in silence to her eager account of the incident that had led her to the premises of Antony Purvis. When she had finished, he dampened her spirits by remarking that it was interesting but didn’t add much to what they already knew, and she hung up feeling deflated and almost ready to believe that even the evening’s expedition would probably turn out to be a waste of time.

  A short while later, she received a second call which made her think again.

  ‘Just checking you’re home and everything’s okay,’ said Iris.

  ‘I came back on Thursday afternoon, and everything’s fine.’

  ‘Binkie all right?’

  ‘Fast asleep on my bed.’

  ‘Aah, bless him. Give him a kiss from muvver,’ cooed Iris.

  Melissa cringed, but countered with, ‘How about you? Are you having a successful trip?’

  ‘Very rewarding. Lots of contacts. Been to several galleries.’

  ‘That’s good. When are you coming home?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Heard something yesterday that might interest you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Remember those reproduction paintings by Ducasse – the ones Kim Bellamy uses as door signs?’

  ‘You mean, La Chambre à Coucher and so on?’

  ‘And Le Goûter and Le Salon. Series of three.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Loaned by a private collector in New York for an exhibition at Butchers’ Gallery last March. Minor Post-Impressionists. Showed you the catalogue, remember?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Never got back home.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Crated up for shipment when the exhibition closed. Van hijacked and later found empty. Police reckon they were pinched to order.’

  ‘And never recovered?’

  ‘Seems not.’

  ‘What an odd coincidence.’ Remembering Mrs Wilson’s reaction to her enquiry about the same paintings in Antony Purvis’s gallery, Melissa’s brain was busy with new possibilities. ‘Would you have any idea how much they’re worth?’

  ‘Quite a lot. Not much of his stuff around. Last one I heard of went well into six figures at Christie’s.’

  ‘So for a series of three we could be talking about something like half a million?’

  ‘Or more. Well, see you tomorrow.’

  Iris hung up and Melissa sat down to decide if there was any significance in what she had just heard. There was no obvious reason to suspect a connection between the Bellamys and the theft of the paintings; there must be several hundred people besides Kim who had taken a fancy to them at the exhibition and bought reproductions. But, on the other hand, Mrs Wilson had appeared disconcerted when, quite off the top of her head as a pretext for entering Antony Purvis’s gallery, Melissa had enquired about them. And Mrs Wilson had been driving the blue Renault. Which Melissa had seen before in slightly odd circumstances … and which had at least once spent some time in a garage very close to Heyshill Manor. A garage that Melissa and Chris were planning to break into in a few hours’ time.

  Seventeen

  Chris backed the Jaguar through an open field gate a short distance from the hotel, on the opposite side of the road. He cut the engine and switched off the lights.

  ‘Got your bearings?’ he asked.

  Melissa peered through the windscreen. ‘I think,’ she said after a moment’s hesitation, ‘we’re about halfway between the hotel and the entrance to the quarry. The track runs at a sharp angle from the road; it’s pretty well invisible as you drive past on that side.’

  What remained of the moon was hidden beneath a heavy blanket of cloud. To their left, the hotel sign shone through the trees like a bright beacon beckoning to the passing traveller; to their right, the land on either side of the road was an undulating chequer-board of black and grey, relieved here and there by the light from a distant dwelling. The occasional car sped past, headlamps sweeping aside the darkness, receding tail-lights glowing like sparks in a dying fire.

  ‘Is there some kind of barrier across the entrance?’ asked Chris.

  ‘Just an ordinary farm gate. It was open last time I was here – I suppose the driver of the Renault left it ready to come out. She was only in the garage for a short time.’

  ‘It might be fastened with a chain. I’ll take this, just in case.’ He fumbled beneath his seat.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Bolt cutter. Easier than climbing about in the dark.’ He made to open his door.

  ‘Just a minute.’ Melissa caught at his arm. ‘We don’t want to leave any traces of our visit.’

  ‘What’s it matter as long as they don’t catch us?’

  ‘It’ll make them extra careful, maybe suspend operations for a while. Look,’ she went on as he seemed unconvinced, ‘all we’re after tonight is proof that the garage is being used for something illegal.’

  ‘Suppose we catch Vic Bellamy in there? We might get him to talk.’

  It took her a moment to grasp his implication; when she did, she was appalled. ‘There’s to be no more rough stuff, do you understand? This isn’t a commando raid, it’s an intelligence-gathering operation. If we see anyone, we keep out of sight; if we find anything, we leave it where it is.’ She could feel her nerves becoming taut, heard her voice growing harsher and more urgent.

  Chris did not reply. She could sense his disappointment and frustration and almost sympathised; the notion of catching Vic red-handed
with a sackful of stolen property and marching him off in triumph to the nearest police station was preposterous, but not without attraction. It was also impractical, highly dangerous and, even if successful, would bring the wrath of Ken Harris crashing round her ears like thunderbolts from Valhalla.

  ‘There’s more to this than you realise,’ she said, as Chris remained silent. ‘I can’t explain, but if you don’t give me your word, I’m pulling out … now.’

  There was a pause before he muttered, ‘If you say so,’ and put the bolt cutter back.

  Melissa could hear Khan moving around behind her, as if anxious to be up and doing. Chris was drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel; the rhythm seemed to keep time with the pounding of her heart.

  ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Let’s get on with it. Mind how you go. I won’t use the torch till we’re off the road. If you see a car coming, duck out of sight. We don’t want some clever dick telling the fuzz he’s seen someone acting suspiciously.’

  It crossed her mind to point out that there was nothing particularly suspicious about a couple taking their dog for a walk, but she kept quiet. Chris was evidently feeling sore at being baulked in his plans for making a citizen’s arrest and there was no point in unnecessary arguments.

  They waited until the road was clear in both directions, then sprinted across and ran the fifty yards or so that she had calculated would take them to the track entrance, but she could see no sign of it. Her eyes had still not adjusted to the darkness; even Chris, clad like herself in black, was almost invisible.