by L. C. Tyler
‘I assumed you would have found it and read it,’ Ethelred continued.
‘Did you?’ I asked. (See note above on guilt.)
‘It’s fine if you didn’t,’ he went on. ‘It contained some fairly personal stuff that I clearly needed to get out of my system. I’m a bit relieved if you didn’t see it. On reflection, it’s not something I’d want published.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said.
I was just wondering how to reply when the waiter appeared and handed us some menus. Ethelred immediately busied himself with selecting an hors d’oeuvre and an entrée. I went straight to the desserts and made a shortlist of four.
Ethelred had by this stage moved on to the wine list, and was frowning as his finger worked its way down the page. In the absence of grown-up conversation, I contented myself by looking round the room at our fellow guests. The hotel still contained, as Ethelred had warned me, a number of philatelists of various shapes and sizes, few of them attractive. I mentioned this to Ethelred. He reluctantly disengaged himself from the wine list.
‘The place was much fuller last night,’ he said. ‘A lot of people will have checked out today, of course, now that the stamp fair is over. This really is the end of the season. The receptionist was saying that it will be just him on duty tonight. There are only twelve guests remaining in the hotel. By tomorrow evening it will be more or less empty.’
I surveyed what was clearly now just the last dregs of a stamp fair. The dining room must have seemed cavernous even when full. At one end was a giant stone fireplace of a type that could conceivably have been popular in the Middle Ages. Its upper portions were dominated by a grand coat of arms, to which the hotel owner might or might not have been entitled. In the hearth a purely token log fire smouldered fitfully. From a beamed ceiling, painted an improbable shade of red, hung several rustic chandeliers. It called for a large and jovial gathering of lords, ladies, peasants, troubadours and huntsmen. But, sadly, it had us.
The nice (if plump) Mr Davidov was over on the far side, alone but happy, chomping down on a large plate of cassoulet. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and waved a podgy hand in my direction. A weaselly little man was at the table next to him, sipping the smallest size of beer that the restaurant served and reading a stamp magazine in an ostentatious manner. His clothing suggested that he considered Oxfam to be a designer label. A good wash might have given the beige trousers respectability, but only a time machine could have made the chocolate-brown top fashionable. On the plus side, assuming he had cut his hair himself that morning in poor light and using nail scissors, then he hadn’t made such a bad job of it. Observing the trajectory of Mr Davidov’s greeting, the weasel’s attention was diverted in my direction. He studied me briefly and then returned, with a slight sneer, to his philatelic studies. One table further along was a tall, actually rather good-looking, young stamp collector with wavy black hair, on whom my gaze necessarily lingered slightly longer. He looked a bit like a film star – to be exact, a bit like the sort of film star who would play the sympathetic, reliable friend of the kooky main character, who (since it is clearly the kooky main character who is going to end up with Cameron Diaz) might just be available for you. He looked like the nice sort of boy you could take home to your mother, though you’d probably want to try other stuff with him first. I gave him a wink to show that he’d pulled, but he obviously did not see it, and he failed to look in my direction for the rest of the evening. Then there were a couple of quite blatant, balding philatelists, in tweed jackets even Ethelred would have sent to the charity shop. It was an almost entirely male company and mainly quite middle-aged. The only obvious non-collectors were a German family close to us – mother, father, son, daughter, mainly blond, all chattering away. I did a quick tally and made that eleven, not twelve, including Ethelred and me – so somebody had miscounted.
I switched my attention back to the young man with dark hair. He was still looking in the wrong direction, but I undid another button of my blouse, just in case.
‘They have a Chenonceau on the list,’ Ethelred said, looking up at last. ‘By the way, your button has come undone. The Chenonceau is quite rare but, unlike stamps, that does not make it expensive.’
He gave a little chuckle at his joke. I shrugged. Wine is wine and Ethelred (though I hadn’t told him yet) was paying for dinner. It was all much the same to me. There was chocolate torte on the menu. The evening would not therefore be totally in vain.
Had I needed any confirmation as to what my choice of dessert was going to be, then I received it halfway through my main course. Mr Davidov waddled up to our table. He was smartly but casually dressed in a leather jacket, plain grey shirt, capacious and well-pressed blue Armani jeans and an IWC Grande Complication – a watch that makes a plain old Rolex look a bit cheap. He seemed to be making the point that hewas Russian New Money in much the same way that Ethelred’s shapeless linen jacket made the point that he was English distressed gentry – not a good plan in either case. Davidov smiled genially.
‘I have,’ he said, ‘just been to the kitchen to congratulate the chef on his torte. It is really excellent.’
‘A personal visit?’ said Ethelred. ‘It was too good then to just send your compliments via the waiter?’ The words were innocent enough, but there was an edge to them – a suggestion that Davidov was being a little pretentious. If so, the suggestion rolled off Davidov like water from a (fat) Labrador’s coat.
Davidov fingered the soft leather of his jacket and smiled. ‘I find that kitchen staff are so appreciative of a personal visit,’ he smiled. ‘I also congratulated them last night on their soufflé.’
‘Really? That’s thoughtful of you,’ said Ethelred. Again, the words were unexceptional but the note of antagonism was obvious to anyone with the slightest sensitivity. Perhaps it was just that our food was getting cold as we chatted. Ethelred pointedly took a pinch of salt and aimed it roughly in the direction of his food. Most of it missed the plate.
‘That is unlucky,’ said Davidov, eyeing the tablecloth. ‘To spill salt, I mean.’
‘You’re superstitious?’ asked Ethelred.
‘All Russians are superstitious,’ said Davidov.
‘I’m not,’ said Ethelred. ‘And there’s plenty more salt where that came from.’
Davidov simply grinned, winked at me and whispered: ‘Chocolate torte, madame.’ He bowed very formally to Ethelred and went on his way.
‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ I asked.
‘I have no views one way or the other,’ said Ethelred huffily.
I did not pursue it. To the extent that I had a view, I too doubted that the chef welcomed kitchen visits by random hotel guests at the busiest time of the evening. But my mind was already focusing on obscenely rich chocolate cake, so these thoughts did not detain me long.
We had scarcely drunk our coffee before Ethelred announced that he wanted an early night, leaving me with the choice of wandering the freezing streets looking for an emergency twenty-four-hour chocolate dispensary or heading for the bar. The sight of a nice boy, whom I could take in due course to meet my mother, moving bar-wards convinced me that I needed a little nightcap. Since Ethelred had blown the chance of an evening in my company, I felt free to turn my attentions elsewhere.
I followed at a discreet distance, got myself a Perrier and nonchalantly wandered over to the only occupied table.
‘Is there room here for a small one?’ I asked.
He looked blank and then said: ‘Oh, you mean you.’
I confirmed that was what I meant. He looked round at the five empty tables elsewhere in the bar and shrugged. I joined him at his table, smoothing my skirt slowly as I sat.
‘Elsie Thirkettle,’ I said, skirt adjustments complete. I held out my hand.
‘Jonathan Gold,’ he replied, as if his attention was elsewhere.
My hand was still hovering in mid-air. He seemed disinclined to shake it or do anything else w
ith it. I put it away for later.
‘Nice evening,’ I said.
‘Is it?’
Well, possibly not. It was the middle of winter, after all. I realized he was now looking over my shoulder and turned to see what competition I had. It was just the weaselly individual, still improbably clutching his small beer. He took a seat at one of the empty tables.
‘A friend?’ I asked conversationally.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ said Gold.
Since they had been staying at the same hotel, this seemed likely. I pointed that out.
‘No – before I came here,’ said Gold, a little irritably. He lapsed into a contemplative silence. This was not good.
I decided it was time to show we had shared interests. I therefore did my best to remember the details of the Danish stamp story.
‘You’ll be pretty excited about this ten-kroner puce thingy,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’ he asked. He glanced over my shoulder again, but this time I did not turn round. I needed to focus his attention on me.
‘It’s a stamp,’ I said. When talking to Ethelred earlier it had all been fairly fresh in my mind, but, a few hours on, my brain had discarded all the bits of the story that it did not require long-term. ‘It’s a pink stamp.’
‘You collect them, do you?’ he asked.
‘I’m fascinated by them,’ I said. This seemed to be the right thing to say in order to pull a really fit stamp collector.
He shrugged.
‘Maybe it’s not the sort of thing you collect?’ I said. I was aware that serious stamp-heads didn’t just grab everything they could lay their hands on and gum them in.
‘What colour did you say?’ asked Gold.
‘Puce.’
‘Sounds revolting.’
‘You are here for the stamp fair?’ I asked.
‘Yes – it’s just not the sort of thing I collect,’ he said. He seemed a little distant, but he would soon be putty in my hands.
‘And what do you collect?’ I asked sweetly, cupping my chin in my hands and fluttering my eyelashes.
I was expecting him to name a country or period or (could that possibly be right?) a colour. I hoped he might say: ‘Actually, I collect babes like you, when my luck is really in.’ But he just said: ‘Let’s get this straight. You’re a friend of Davidov’s, aren’t you?’
‘Not a friend exactly,’ I replied, though obviously there is an affinity between all chocolate lovers. In a very real sense Grigory Davidov and I were chocolate buddies. ‘You might say that we share a similar view of the world.’
‘You approve of Davidov?’
‘He seems to be right on the important issues,’ I said with a smile. The smile was not returned.
‘How can you side with that bloated oligarch?’ asked Gold.
That’s the trouble these days. One small square of chocolate, a few extra inches round the waist, and you’re automatically some sort of food criminal. It’s sad. Though deep down I still had plans for young Gold to rip my clothes off with his teeth, I drew myself up to my full height and said: ‘OK, I may not be entirely politically correct but I honestly think that Mr Davidov has excellent taste . . .’
Not exactly conciliatory, I grant you, but I wasn’t expecting him to stand up and say: ‘You make me want to vomit.’
I would have said something clever in response but he had gone before I had taken it all in. And even after he had gone I couldn’t think of anything clever to say. As hot dates go, that had to be the seventh or eighth worst I had ever had.
But a nastier date was on offer within moments.
‘May I join you?’
The weaselly-faced stamp enthusiast had edged silently across from his table to mine. Close up his trousers looked a little more stained than from a distance, but otherwise he was much as expected.
‘If you must,’ I said – a bit ungraciously, but I’m not usually told by attractive young men that I have emetic qualities and was trying to work out what I was supposed to have said.
‘I see that you have a drink already,’ he said with a nod towards my Perrier. No need for him to buy me one then. Well, he certainly knew how to show a girl a good time.
‘Yup,’ I said, absent-mindedly, still wondering how I had spooked the only decent man in the hotel (crime writers excepted).
‘You have been talking to Mr Davidov and to Mr Gold,’ he observed.
‘Briefly,’ I said.
‘Both of them?’
‘Spot on,’ I said. He wasn’t proving to be much of a conversationalist either.
He looked at me more closely than my own reply would seem to justify. ‘Are you a collector or a dealer?’ he asked.
‘Neither. I’m an agent.’
He frowned, as though trying to fit me into the world of stamp collecting. He couldn’t. ‘And you are working for . . . ?’
I looked him up and down and decided I wouldn’t be asking him to rip my clothes off with his teeth, at least not tonight.
‘I’m here with Mr Tressider,’ I said.
‘And what is your relationship with him?’
‘Purely business,’ I said, a little primly perhaps.
He nodded.
‘So, what’s your role, exactly?’ he asked.
I wondered whether to explain in detail what a literary agent did.
‘The way I see it,’ I said, ‘I’ve been sent to keep Mr Tressider on the straight and narrow. And, right now, to ensure he gets safely back to London and then home.’
He looked puzzled, and then the light seemed to dawn. ‘Then it could be we have more in common than I thought. Perhaps we could continue this discussion in my room? Where we won’t be disturbed?’
‘In your dreams,’ I said.
‘If you change your mind,’ he said with a creepy smile, ‘I’ll be in room twenty-seven.’
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘I won’t be.’
And he left also, to go and do whatever it was he did in room twenty-seven.
That appeared to be the end of the floor show for the night. I was pretty sure I’d had at least one conversation at cross purposes with somebody but wasn’t certain if I was more worried that I had driven Jonathan Gold away or that I had received a warm and open invitation to join the weasel for bedroom-based fun (bring your own drink). So that was that – it was off to my own lonely bed, which was not so much of a novelty for me as you might think.
There were only two really strange little incidents that occurred in the next sixty seconds.
First, passing the reception desk I saw the receptionist having a heated conversation with the chef. My French was just about up to it, and they were saying this:
RECEPTIONIST: Well, you should lock the [word not understood] things away then.
CHEF: How the [several words not understood] do you expect us to keep the kitchen locked when we have to use it to prepare food? It must have been one of the guests.
RECEPTIONIST: You think one of our guests is using it to slice a grapefruit maybe?
CHEF: Careful – it’s that [words understood, but surely misheard?] Englishwoman. Shut up for a moment.
‘Bonsoir, madame,’ said the chef and receptionist together, with smiles that did not seem totally genuine.
‘Bonsoir, messieurs,’ I replied.
I carried on very slowly indeed, but all I heard for my pains was:
CHEF: Come to the kitchen if you don’t believe me.
RECEPTIONIST: How can I leave this desk unattended?
CHEF: Who will need you at this hour?
RECEPTIONIST: This is utterly pointless – but very well. I cannot be away more than five minutes.
Not much to go on there, as I think you will agree.
*
The second strange incident – bearing in mind my earlier conversations – was that I came across the fat Mr Davidov and the nice Mr Gold in an urgent whispered conversation. They stopped abruptly when I saw them and they too smiled at me in a tight-lipped sort
of way.
‘Goodnight, dear lady,’ said Davidov with the lowest bow his waistline would permit.
The very nice Mr Gold just scowled at me, but eventually got out the words: ‘Yes, goodnight, Miss Thirkettle.’
Their conversation did not seem to concern me at all but, even so, I did not stay and try to listen to it. Had I hidden round the next corner I might have learned a great deal and prevented multiple murders. But then again, maybe not. You can, in my experience, waste a lot of time casually eavesdropping on complete strangers. And I did have one of Apollinaire’s chocolates waiting for me in my room.
Had I known what was to come, I would have sat in my room with a stopwatch, noting when all of the different noises occurred. As it was, the best I would be able to give the police in the morning was that I heard somebody entering the room next to mine – or possibly another nearby room – not long after I went to bed. Some minutes – or possibly hours – later I heard the door open and close again. At the same time, or perhaps very much later indeed, I thought I heard feet moving very rapidly and then a bathroom tap ran for a long time. Then a muscular, dark-haired man ripped my clothes off with his teeth while feeding me peach truffles. No, I think I must have dreamt that, because shortly after that I woke up to hear the dustcart outside, noisily loading hotel rubbish. The fact is that I usually sleep pretty soundly, so there isn’t much point in asking me what happened overnight, as the police soon discovered. Still, these fragmentary memories gave me something to think about as the case unfolded.
I knew Ethelred would be up early and sitting in the restaurant half an hour before they started to serve breakfast, so he and I found ourselves alone when the croissants and coffee made their appearance. We were not the only ones up and doing, however. Mr Davidov was at the reception desk as I passed it. He too was giving the receptionist a hard time.
‘You must,’ he was saying, ‘have given me the wrong envelope.’ There was only one in the safe,’ said the receptionist, not I suspected for the first time that morning. His expression was both annoyed and weary.
