Murder at the Manor Hotel

by Betty Rowlands

  Mitch’s mouth spread in a wide, dimpled grin. ‘It never came on the open market. I happened to be staying in the hotel when old Sir Whatsit kicked the bucket. I got me spies working straight away, contacted his solicitor and told him I wanted to buy it.’

  ‘I see.’

  As if sensing a hint of disapproval in Harris’s tone, Mitch was quick to jump to his own defence. ‘I know what you’re thinking, indecent haste and all that. Let me tell you, Chief Inspector, I didn’t build up me empire through hanging about and letting others get in first. I want something, I go after it. I never play dirty though – that’s right, innit, Chris?’

  ‘Right,’ said Chris.

  ‘I’m sure that’s true, sir,’ said Harris. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘The sole heir to the estate and executor to the will was old Sir Whatsit’s elderly sister. I made me offer, the solicitor passed it on, and she asked to see me.’

  ‘That was unusual, wasn’t it?’

  ‘She’s an unusual old girl. A bit potty, in fact. She told me the two of them didn’t see eye to eye on a few things, and one of them was the colour of blood. He reckoned theirs was bluer than yours or mine.’ Mitch’s eyes sparkled; he was like a schoolboy imitating his headmaster as he continued in an exaggeratedly ‘upper class’ accent. ‘“Ay was awfully fond of may brothah,” she says, “but he reahly was the most fraitful snob. He’d have simply hated the thought of the manah going to someone common.”’ He rubbed his hands together, chuckling. ‘That’s why she sold it to me –’cos me Dad was a costermonger. Good joke, innit?’

  ‘The lady must have quite a sense of humour,’ agreed Harris, without a trace of a smile. ‘So there were no hitches – the sale went through smoothly?’

  ‘Not quite. Her solicitor informed mine that someone else was after it, with a better offer. I said I’d match it, but it turned out the old girl wasn’t interested – she’d made up her mind to sell to me and that was that. So the other party upped his offer, with the same result.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the other party was?’

  ‘The solicitor wouldn’t say, although Mr Medway and I had the impression he was keen for me to back out. Maybe there was something in it for him if he’d been able to persuade me to let go. After the deal was completed, he tried again – said some consortium had put up an offer I’d be mad to refuse, but I told him they could stuff it.’

  ‘Mr Medway is your solicitor?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’d like his address, please.’

  ‘I’ll look it out for you. Anything else?’

  ‘If I could have a look at the drawings and surveyors’ reports on the building some time … ?’

  ‘You can see them now.’ Mitch got to his feet, plainly anxious to co-operate in every possible way. ‘You’ve seen them already, Mel – you want to stay here and have more coffee, or a drink?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer Mrs Craig to come with us,’ said Harris.

  ‘As you like.’

  Mitch led the way to his office and spread the documents on the table. On the plan of the cellar, Melissa showed them what she estimated to be the location of the underground gallery.

  ‘I’m pretty sure this is the dividing wall,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing against it this side which could conceal a door.’

  Looking at the plan, she suppressed a shudder. It all came rushing back the shock at seeing the still figure at the foot of the steps, the agonising minutes spent struggling to staunch the flow of blood, the smells, the hum of machinery, the ghostly voices …

  ‘What is it?’ asked Harris, seeing her start.

  ‘I’ve just thought … remember my telling you how the staff believe the cellar is haunted? I could have sworn I heard something while I was down there that sounded like spooky voices, but I thought afterwards I must have imagined it. Suppose there was someone, on the other side of the wall? Maybe Vic encourages the legend, just in case one of the staff happens to be down in the cellar at the same time as there’s someone in the gallery?’

  Harris thought for a moment. ‘If they’ve got any sense, they’ll be careful not to show their clients the goodies at a time when they’re liable to be overheard.’

  ‘But as a safety precaution, in case of a slip-up?’

  ‘It’s feasible, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve remembered something else. When Vic Bellamy came to find out what was going on, he seemed more angry than concerned about how badly Will was hurt. He muttered something about pinching the key while Janice wasn’t looking, and “What was he doing, nosing around down there?”’

  Harris frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I remember getting a bit ratty with him.’

  ‘My officer’s report didn’t mention anything about Foley having taken the key.’ Harris scribbled in his notebook. ‘He said the staff, and Bellamy himself, were unanimous that he was on the way to the gents and must have gone through the wrong door by mistake.’

  ‘He may have given a visit to the gents as a reason for leaving the bar, but there was no mistake. He meant to search the cellar. That’s why he had a torch.’

  ‘The report didn’t mention a torch either.’

  ‘It was on the floor, a little way away from where he was lying. It must have rolled there.’ Melissa thought for a moment. ‘I remember now; after they’d taken Will to the ambulance, Vic came down to clear up. He took it away with the rest of the mess.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  ‘Nobody asked me. Besides, I never gave it a second thought. Remember, I had no inkling at the time that Mitch was suspicious of Vic, and I was feeling pretty shocked.’

  ‘You must have been.’ A touch of gentleness broke through Harris’s official manner for an instant, barely noticeable but unexpectedly heart-warming. ‘It seems that Bellamy suspected Foley of snooping around, but was anxious not to let his suspicions be known.’

  ‘Of course … in case of awkward questions about what he might have been looking for,’ Mitch broke in.

  ‘Did Foley tell you he was planning to search the cellar, sir?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Never said a word. Like I told Mrs Craig, he could be a right sphinx when he wanted to. Y’know, when he died I very nearly came to you lot and said I reckoned there was something fishy about it, but Tanny talked me out of it.’

  ‘Tanny?’

  ‘Dittany. Me girlfriend.’

  ‘How much have you told her about all this?’

  ‘She knows a bit. Nothing about the gallery, or the firebomb – I don’t want to scare her.’

  ‘I suggest you keep it that way. Remember what I said earlier.’

  ‘Okay. About Will, is there any news yet about the cause of death?’ A shadow fell over Mitch’s normally cheerful face. ‘His daughter keeps phoning me, she’s really upset, not being able to arrange the funeral …’

  ‘I’m afraid not. These reports can take a couple of weeks to come through. Tell the lady she’ll be notified as soon as possible.’ Harris closed his notebook and put it in his pocket. ‘If I could just have details of your solicitor?’

  ‘Mr Medway? Sure.’ Mitch referred to an address book on the secretary’s desk. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘And perhaps I could take these papers away with me? I’d like to study them more closely.’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘You’ll keep me posted? If there’s anything you want any of us to do …’

  ‘It may be some time before there are any developments, so I must ask you to be patient. All I want you to do is carry on your business as if nothing had happened. No more amateur sleuthing, is that understood?’

  ‘Yessir, Chief Inspector!’ Mitch gave a mock salute. ‘That’s exactly what Mel – Mrs Craig – said I should do.’

  Harris permitted himself a hint of a smile. ‘I hope Mrs Craig will practise what she preaches,’ he said
drily. He assumed a stern expression as he looked from Chris to Melissa, and back again. ‘Since no complaints have been made, I shall not be pursuing the matter of illegal entry, but I strongly advise you not to make a habit of it.’

  The dogs followed them to the front door and sat on their haunches on the step, one on either side of Mitch as they took their leave. Melissa patted Khan’s head. He licked her hand, but made no attempt to follow her to her car.

  ‘He’s happy to be home,’ she remarked. ‘He did a great job last night. Thanks for letting him stay.’

  ‘Glad he was there,’ said Mitch.

  Before getting into his own car, Harris said to Melissa in a low voice, ‘You’ll be sure to tell me if you think of anything else that might be relevant?’

  ‘Of course. You’ll let me know how things are going, won’t you?’

  His only response was an enigmatic lift of an eyebrow.

  When she reached home, Melissa’s spirits lifted at the sight of the vintage Morris Traveller parked outside the door of Elder Cottage. Iris was hauling a battered canvas holdall from the back, while Binkie wound himself round her legs, purring in ecstasy.

  Melissa gave her friend a hug. ‘Oh, Iris, I’m so glad you’re back!’

  ‘Not sorry to be home. Hate London. Can’t think why anyone wants to live there.’

  ‘But you’ve had a good trip?’

  ‘Very good. Got something interesting to tell you. Come in for a drink.’

  ‘Love to.’

  ‘Hope Gloria’s kept the place warm. Supposed to check every day.’

  ‘I’m sure she has.’

  They sat in the cosy kitchen and sipped home-made dandelion wine while Iris dropped her bombshell.

  ‘Remember those paintings I told you were nicked?’ she said.

  ‘The ones Kim Bellamy’s got reproductions of?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘No colour reproductions were ever officially made.’

  ‘But there must have been, I saw them,’ protested Melissa. ‘Besides, you showed me the catalogue …’

  ‘Only done in black and white. No colour trannies, no postcards.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How did Kim get hold of them, then?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I suppose she could have taken the shots herself, when she visited the exhibition?’

  ‘Unlikely. Rules are very strict – no photography at exhibitions.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘Pure chance. Friend had a private show at the same gallery. Called round to see him, he was busy for a moment, got talking to the gallery owner. She was sorting out some postcard reproductions and I asked her which were the ones that were nicked. She showed me the Renoir and a Van Gogh. None by Ducasse.’

  ‘Did you ask her about them?’

  ‘Only casually. She was quite emphatic that they weren’t selected for colour reproduction.’

  ‘So how did she account for the ones I saw in the Bellamys’ flat?’

  ‘Didn’t mention them.’ There was an impish sparkle in Iris’s keen grey eyes. ‘You’re the detective – thought I’d tell you first.’

  Melissa nibbled thoughtfully on a nut cookie. ‘What’s the procedure for getting reproductions of paintings for catalogues and postcards and so on?’

  ‘Gallery owner makes a selection from the exhibition items and sends them to a studio that specialises.’

  ‘They’re not photographed on the premises?’

  ‘Not normally. Conditions not right.’

  ‘Presumably the negatives and transparencies become the property of the gallery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And they keep them, so they can reorder?’

  ‘Some are kept in an art library. That way, anyone who cares to pay a fee can use them for book illustrations or calendars or whatever.’

  ‘So maybe Kim got hold of hers that way?’

  ‘Only if it was photographed in colour in the first place. The woman was quite definite it wasn’t.’

  Melissa’s synapses were fairly humming. ‘Have you still got your catalogue of that exhibition?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. Want to borrow it?’

  ‘Please.’

  Twenty-One

  Melissa left Iris to her unpacking and returned to her own cottage in a state of considerable excitement. She immediately rang Gloria to ask for the address and telephone number of her husband’s Auntie Muriel.

  ‘I think she may be able to help me with research for my new novel,’ she explained, raising her voice slightly to overcome what sounded like the outbreak of Armageddon in the background. ‘You did once tell me she worked as a lady’s maid, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. Ooh my, she’ll be that thrilled!’ Gloria’s voice rose to a squeak. ‘She do love to talk about her times with the gentry. She be a bit posh in her ways, like, but she do tell some good stories. I got her address right here, and her phone number.’

  Miss Muriel Parkin received Melissa’s request in the calm manner of one who has been trained to show surprise at nothing, and extended a cordial invitation to tea that afternoon.

  ‘I shall be pleased to help you in any way I can, Mrs Craig,’ she said. Her voice was low-pitched and a shade over-refined. ‘Gloria often speaks of you and the books you write. I’m sure they’re very good, although’ – here she gave an apologetic cough – ‘I confess I never read detective novels myself. I always feel there’s so much real wickedness in the world.’

  ‘That’s all right, lots of people feel like that,’ Melissa assured her. ‘I’ll see you this afternoon, then.’

  In contrast to the cheerfully extrovert Gloria, with her loud laugh, somewhat garish taste in clothes and sense of humour as broad as her hips, Miss Parkin was a quietly dressed woman of sixty or so with the genteel manner of an Edwardian governess. Melissa tried to picture her at the family gatherings which Gloria often described in hilarious detail, and found it difficult.

  ‘It’s very good of you to spare me your time,’ she said as she followed her hostess into the sitting-room of the tiny bungalow.

  ‘Not at all. I love to talk about the old days.’ Miss Parkin gave a little sigh and patted her faded blonde hair, which was dressed in old-fashioned curls like the Queen’s. ‘Things were so much nicer then, I always think. Please take a seat while I make the tea – the kettle has just boiled.’

  She went out, quickly and yet without apparent haste. Melissa sat down in a wing chair, upholstered in crimson velvet to match the curtains, and glanced round. She was struck by the contrast between this small, neat room and Gloria’s clutter of ill-matched modern furniture and gaudy knick-knacks. Here, everything was traditional in style, the few ornaments of good quality and carefully placed. There were two bookcases and a glass-fronted cabinet displaying a collection of porcelain figurines. On the plain walls – Miss Parkin did not share her young relatives’ flamboyant taste in wallpaper – were a few good pictures. Some photographs in silver frames stood on a table under the window, among them a portrait of a lady in court dress, posed beside a potted palm against a background of elaborate draperies. Melissa went over to examine it more closely, just as her hostess re-entered with a tray of bone china tea-things.

  ‘Ah, I see you’re admiring Lady Sophia.’ She set down the tray, picked up the photograph and handed it to Melissa with an affectionate smile. ‘Beautiful, wasn’t she? Now that,’ she pointed to another picture, ‘is her daughter, the Honourable Deirdre, in the dress she wore for her coming-out ball. She was so excited, I had quite a job to get her to stand still while I dressed her. She wasn’t presented, of course – they did away with all that after the war. Such a pity, I always thought.’

  ‘You must find working at Heyshill Manor a big change from what you were used to,’ said Melissa.

  ‘I didn’t intend to work after I retired, but with inflation, my pension doesn’t go so far.’ Miss Parkin’s smile h
eld no trace of self-pity. ‘My nephew very generously offered to make me an allowance, but I value my independence. And I did find it rather lonely here on my own, especially after spending part of the year in London. I simply loved London. There was so much to do in my free time: concerts, theatres, art galleries … especially the art galleries.’

  ‘You enjoy looking at pictures?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lady Sophia owned some wonderful paintings and she very kindly taught me a little about them. You see that one there?’ She indicated a study of roses in a silver bowl which hung above the mantelpiece. ‘Lady Sophia left me that in her will and I get so much pleasure from looking at it. It’s not particularly valuable, of course, but it is my most treasured possession.’

  ‘I believe Mr and Mrs Bellamy are art lovers too,’ said Melissa casually, after she had admired the picture.

  There was a brief silence while Miss Parkin poured tea and offered an assortment of home-made cakes and scones. Then she said, ‘I’m not sure what you mean by “art lovers”. They have what seems to me a rather vulgar attitude towards it.’

  Her manner had undergone a subtle change. Melissa had the impression that she did not consider her present employers deserving of the same respect as Lady Sophia and her family. She nodded and smiled to encourage further confidences, which were soon forthcoming.

  ‘Do you know,’ Miss Parkin continued, her nose wrinkled in distaste, ‘they actually have a reproduction of a lovely Renoir nude on the bathroom door!’

  ‘Yes, I know, I’ve seen it. I must say, I thought it was a bit naff.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Melissa had the impression that the sentiment was approved, but not the adjective. ‘I dare say you noticed that every door in the flat has “an appropriate picture”, as Mrs Bellamy calls it.’ Miss Parkin let out a trill of scornful laughter. ‘I don’t say anything, of course – it’s not my place – but I can’t imagine what gave her the notion. As a matter of fact, I did rather a dreadful thing last Thursday.’ A sudden, mischievous smile made her kinship with the rumbustious Parkins entirely credible.