by Ann Granger
This book made available by the Internet Archive.
AUTHOR'S MOTE
The name only of Springwood Hall is taken from that of a Victorian country house in the annexe to which my husband lived as a boy. Sadly this old building was entirely demolished many years ago. I am not aware of any other house by that name and certainly no reference is intended to any such house, should it exist.
A.G.
"Springwood Hall Hotel Restaurant" announced a glossy brand-new sign. "Opening shortly," read a smaller one hung beneath it.
The electricity board van rattled past disregarding both proud announcement and discreet promise. It turned through wrought-iron gates, freshly painted black and picked out in gold, and roared down the newly gravelled drive. This was just another call on the day's work schedule.
The van drew up before the front of the building and a young man in overalls got out of the driver's seat after first reaching for his toolbox. As he slammed the van door he glanced dispassionately at the rambling mid-Victorian Gothic Hall with its false turrets and drainpipes emerging from the open mouths of grimacing gargoyles. It was built of local honey-coloured stone and had been recently scoured clean. Stripped of the kindly patina bestowed on it by lichen, time and weather it appeared oddly naked and had lost its previous harmony with the landscape. The way in which its architectural style jarred with the medium chosen for its construction was unfortunately underlined. Technically restorers had done a good job on the Hall but the results weren't for the sensitive.
Clearly the young electrician saw nothing to impress him. He shrugged and whistling loudly, turned aside to approach a fellow artisan who was several yards away before a separate building labelled "Indoor Swimming Pool." Here plate-glass double glazing on a grand scale had been installed and allowed those outside to
2 Ann Granger
see the pool inside, surrounded by white tiles, potted palms and wicker loungers and, in the background, the doors to changing rooms and showers. But the age, size and location of the pool block with regard to the Hall indicated that this smaller building had once been the coachhouse. The decorator applying a last coat of varnish to the doorframes saw the newcomer draw near but gave no outward sign.
4 'Electrician!" announced the man from the board.
"Nothing to do with me, mate!" returned the var-nisher.
In some mysterious way this stalemate opened the way to casual conversation. The varnisher indicated willingness to chat by pausing, standing back and surveying his work, head on one side.
The electrician was at least impressed by the glimpse of the indoor swimming pool. "Nice place!" he offered, adding with a wave of his free hand at the house, "Done it all up a bit since I was here last. Creepy old dump, it was. Must've cost a fortune."
"Money," said the varnisher ponderously, "is no object, as they say."
"I suppose it'll suit wealthy old geezers but it beats me why they wanted to spend all that time and cash doing it up. I mean, it's still a tarted-up old ruin, innit? I can't see they've done nothing to modernise the place. Windows have still got wooden frames and that funny old boy over there in a cap mucking about with the roses just about sums it up, if you ask me! They'd have done better to have knocked the whole thing down and built something proper in its place. When's it opening as a hotel and that, then?"
"Sat'day. Everyone's buzzin' round like a load of blue-arsed flies gettin' it all ready. Got a load of celebrities comin' down for it. Telly people an' all, I heard say."
"That right?" The man from the electricity board perked up.
"No one you'd ever heard of," said the varnisher in
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tones of disgust. "Blokes in purple shirts what write about food in the heavies, architects and the like. Coupla high-class tarts with buck teeth and flat knockers, just to show the top punters is likely to drop in." He deigned to turn his head. "If you want to know anything, your best bet is to go round the back to the kitchens. That's very likely where you'll find them though whether you'll get any sense out of any of them I couldn't say! It's like a bloomin' madhouse in there. You don't want to fall foul of the chief cook and bottle-washer. Swiss bloke. They got some very sharp knives lying about in that kitchen so I keep clear! Watch out for the bloke what owns the place, another one of them Swiss—but he ain't here at the moment."
At that point a hideous noise shattered the air Midway between a screech and a bellow, it gained in strength until it seemed some soul in torment screamed out in its agony, th<~ - -^ away again
"Blimey, w**
The *--wit^
waS true. Enc Schu^er had been a^da^jce-
hockey player in his (toy. ™ u f ^ises, bu t he was
a s asst ^ :z « oi r wlth whom
Ms brush and careful!), repla e^«* ^ ^ IS * HTchu^ed h^ppu/at this shaft of his own.
Enc Schuhmacher, on ^^J^S^SS the narrow entrance ve f^le f *e b?^» passed the ope» do or at the H f^^ denngw L leading down to the cellars. He trwne^, was down there. It was a nuisance, haing h s .nar entrance. The ^ surfaces
^ in this •"■vd
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"Who accepted this delivery? What use will these be by Saturday?''
"I'm sorry, Herr Schuhmacher! ,, apologised one of the sous-chefs.
"Sorry isn't good enough, Mickey! You know what I want for this place eventually? Four stars! And perhaps even, one day, five! That's my ambition! And how will Springwood Hall Hotel get them? By attention to detail, Mickey, detail!"
He returned to Ulli Richter, crouched perspiring over a macabre decapitated animal head on a marble block.
"I can't keep my eye on everything, Herr Schuh-macher!" Ulli said. "We'll be ready Saturday, but only with God's grace! That big oven is playing up again and someone keeps taking my knives!"
This was a serious accusation and Schuhmacher looked suitably wrathful. A master chefs personal set of kitchen knives was sacrosanct and everyone in the kitchen knew this. He turned to address his staff who all stopped working and froze in various attitudes, hatchets half-raised, wooden spoons at the slope, all attention.
"On Saturday afternoon the special guests will be here early to be shown round. So will the TV people. I want no mess, none of this chaos! I want order and complete cleanliness, no unwashed mixing bowls, no grubby rags! And everyone is to smile!"
"Yes, Herr Schuhmacher!" they all chorused obediently, except Ulli Richter who merely twitched his bushy eyebrows.
"Right, back to work!" Schuhmacher turned back to his chef. "Everyone seems to be here, Ulli. Who then is down in the wine cellar? The door's open."
Ulli reflected. "A young man with a toolbox went down there, ten minutes ago. Electrician. That new lighting, it's playing up and without it down there, you can't see your hand in front of your face."
Schuhmacher paled. "Alone?" He started for the door his voice rising to a howl. "Alone in a cellar of fine wines! Some of them great classics! Almost unobtaina-
ble! No one went with him? Good heavens, must I do everything myself?'' He vanished out of the door.
'Til be bloody glad," muttered Mickey the sous-chef, "when Saturday night is over!"
Ulli Richter pretended not to hear. He picked up a meat cleaver, raised it on high and brought it down with a sickening thud. The calf s head, neatly cloven, fell open in two parts like a book, revealing a scrambled mess of pink brains.
''We're flogging a dead horse, my dears!" said Charles Grimsby. "This battle's lost. Gird up your loins for the next one."
"Rubbish!" said Hope Mapple firmly in capacity as chairperson of the Society for the Preservation of Historic Bamford.
Zoe Foster, eyeing Hope's ample figure, had a mental vision of her taking Charles's suggestion literally, an
d stifled a giggle.
"What's the matter, Zoe?" Hope demanded crossly.
"Sorry, hay fever. I've got the snuffles."
"I hadn't realised the pollen count was very high today," said Grimsby. "I'm a sufferer myself and I'm usually the first to know about it." His pale blue eyes peered suspiciously through rimless spectacles at Zoe.
Zoe sank back in her chair, the moment of humour gone, leaving only deepest depression remaining. Trust Charles to be so tactless as to talk about dead horses.
Its youngest member, Zoe had joined the society in its aim of saving such old monuments as survived around Bamford simply because it was campaigning against Eric Schuhmacher's plans for Springwood Hall. The Alice Batt Rest Home for Horses and Donkeys was on land belonging to the Hall. The rest home and its aged inhabitants were Zoe's life. She hadn't founded it. That had been done by Miss Batt many years ago. Zoe had been the last in a long line of helpers to toil willingly for Miss Batt and, when that lady had finally retired to
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a rest home for humans in Bournemouth, Zoe had taken over.
"I'm leaving it in your safe hands!" Miss Batt had said. "I know you won't let me down, Zoe, or most importantly, you won't let our four-legged friends down!"
Zoe had done her best. The rest home never had enough money, of course, but it struggled along. A local vet gave his services free, which helped. But the animals tended to be unattractive from old age and various disabilities and several, owing to previous mistreatment, were very bad-tempered. It made fund-raising so much more difficult.
Good fortune had briefly shone on them during the time of the Hall's previous owner. As a horse-lover himself, he'd not only been happy to accept the peppercorn rent they paid but had even given them a modest subsidy.
All had changed with the arrival of Schuhmacher. As bad luck would have it, at the same time the lease came up for renewal. The decrepit collection of horses and donkeys and the ramshackle stabling, not to mention the distinctive odour, had not been seen by the Swiss as an asset, adjacent as they were to the landscaped gardens of his luxury hotel. He had no intention of renewing the lease. The rest home had six months to find new premises and if it didn't, which it probably wouldn't, it must close down.
Zoe closed her eyes and tried to shut out the dreadful vision of what would happen to all her poor, balding, grumpy, kicking, lop-eared, yellow-toothed and dearly loved charges.
"I'm sorry you're not feeling well, dear," Hope Map-pie said. "But you can go on taking the notes, can't you? Would you rather Charles took over as secretary for this meeting?"
"No, it's fine really. It was just a bit of a sneeze."
Robin Harding, losing patience with the whole lot of them as he frequently did—though not with Zoe—de-
manded, "So what do you propose we do, Hope? The place opens on Saturday in a blaze of publicity! There'll be cordon bleu cooking, magnums of champers and celebrity guests in black tie and designer gowns. Concluding with a firework display to a background of Handel. Bad taste isn't in it, in my personal view. But the fact remains that you, I and the rest of our merry band would make as much impression if we turned up as a set of plaster gnomes. There's no point. Not until the day we can afford the grub," he finished bitterly.
"Denis Fulton will be there," said Grimsby, adding rather self-consciously, "I've got one of his books."
"The cookery fellow?" Robin dismissed Denis Fulton. "A load of hot air!" Scorn crossed his freckled snub-nosed face.
"He's famous!" said Grimsby huffily.
"I don't think he's as good as Paul Danby," Zoe put in, rallying to Robin's support. Besides which, Paul's daughter Emma regularly helped out at the rest home without demanding a penny in return, happy to muck out and groom for the pleasure of it. "His cookery articles are practical and fun. I don't know why they had to get Fulton down when we've got our local man. Paul Danby's verdict on the new restaurant would mean a heck of a lot more to local people!"
"But not a damn thing to the society crowd Schuh-macher hopes will spread the word about his upmarket eating place. Paul's small fry—sorry, bit of a pun ..." Grimsby looked quite pleased with himself. "Fulton has a TV series and he's married to Leah Keller, as she was."
"Look here!" ordered the chairperson firmly. "Stop gassing on about food. It's disgusting! We're talking about our heritage! We're getting away from talking about our course of action!"
A slim dark-haired woman in the corner stretched her arms above her head, clinking a collection of silver bracelets and displaying to advantage her scarlet
MURDER AMONG U5 9
sweater. She murmured in a slightly nasal voice, "We haven't got one, Hope!"
Hope Mapple gave Ellen Bryant a look of pure dislike. All the other members of the committee knew Hope had it in for Ellen. It was mutual. Ellen riled Hope, did it on purpose. Perhaps Mrs. Bryant's slim elegance was enough to upset Ms. Mapple. Zoe wondered, not for the first time, about Mr. Bryant. Ellen never mentioned him and no one had ever seen him. But she wore her wedding ring all the time, a great broad gold band of a thing, "Ellen's knuckleduster," Robin called it.
"Hope has!" Robin said now unexpectedly. "You have got a plan, haven't you, Hope? Come on, spit it out!"
Ms. Mapple rose to her feet to make some momentous pronouncement. The atmosphere became electric. But the contrast between Hope and Mrs. Bryant couldn't have been underlined more. It was unwise of Hope to wear those baggy floral pants, thought Zoe. And the shocking pink jersey halter top didn't help. Someone ought to have a word with Hope about brassieres. It was downright embarrassing.
Robin, also eyeing Hope's top-heavy form, muttered, "That woman needs scaffolding!"
"Shut up!" Zoe hissed.
They were after all in Hope's tiny flat, drinking Hope's abysmal tea, and one oughtn't to insult one's hostess. Also sharing the room were Hope's three pekinese dogs. Their odour hung in the air and their hair got on everyone's clothes. Ellen Bryant had already ostentatiously picked some from her scarlet sweater. One of the dogs was wedged on the sofa between Charles Grimsby and the armrest. He didn't dare try to move it because it was a snappy little beast and for some reason all three pekes snapped more at Grimsby than at anyone else.
Ms. Mapple threw out her hand towards her television set. On the top of it was a photo of the three dogs. "They will be there on Saturday!" she announced dramatically.
4 'Not the dratted pekes!" Grimsby exclaimed unwarily.
"No, not my poor boys! They'd be terrified by all those strangers! Really, Charles. No, I mean the television people. Schuhmacher and the forces of mammon may have won in a sense, but they haven't heard the last of us! We shall go out in a blaze of glory, not abjectly, not beaten by base commercial interest! We'll show 'em! We'll demonstrate! On their opening day with the TV cameras to show our protest to the nation!"
"All right!" said Grimsby, sitting up straight and inadvertently nudging the pekinese which growled. "And a real bunch of twerps we'll look! Ten to one security will be laid on with all those celebs there. Some thugs with no necks and wall-to-wall shoulders will grab us before you can say knife! Certainly before we can get our banner unfurled! We'll never get it or a placard into the grounds so how will the TV viewers know what we're demonstrating about?"
"Thought of that. I'll smuggle the banner in," said Ms. Mapple. "I'll wind it round my midriff beneath my Batik shift."
Stunned silence fell on the committee.
"Would that be practical, Hope?" Zoe ventured. "I mean, how would you get it out?" Robin began to shake in a silent mirth but Zoe went on, determinedly ignoring him, "You can't undress on the lawn and unwind the banner from your middle."
There was another silence. Robin's shoulders stopped heaving and he looked up, his face appalled. "Gawd, Hope! You wouldn't?"
"Oh yes I would!" cried Ms. Mapple in ringing tones. "What's more, I intend to go the whole hog!"
"Hope!" they yelled in unison.
"I shall streak!"
cried their leader.
Sensitive perhaps to the sheer power of emotion in the room, all three pekes awoke and began to yap frantically.
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"Well, I think you've been slighted!" said Laura Danby fiercely.
Her husband, placidly making mayonnaise at the kitchen table, looked up and smiled affectionately at her as she stood arms akimbo in the doorway. She'd departed for her office that morning a picture of legal efficiency but a long busy day and supervision of the younger children's bath-time had taken its toll. Her blonde hair had fallen out of its neat pleat and tumbled round her flushed face. She'd changed out of her solicitor's severe tailored costume into shorts and a striped French matelot's shirt.
"You look very sexy," Paul said.
"Denis Fulton!" She wasn't to be distracted. "What does he know about cooking? He pinched your recipe."
"He asked my permission and I was happy to give it. After all, once you've given out a recipe it's common domain. You're a solicitor, I'm surprised at you throwing wild accusations around."
"Wild, my eye! Not illegal perhaps, but shifty. He picked your brains. He ought at least to have given you credit. A man who doesn't own up to a thing like that is likely not to own up to other things!" She nodded vigorously.
"He's pretty good, actually, knowledgeable and a big name."
"You're as good! If he's such a whizz, let him think up his own recipes!"
He knew better than to waste time in confrontational argument when she was off in full cry like this. Diversion was the best option. Paul tapped his mayonnaise spoon against the side of the bowl.
"Tell you who's better than either of us. That chef of Eric's, Ulli Richter. I for one am looking forward to Saturday night even if it will be a bit of a busman's holiday! I hear Eric's made a wonderful job of the interior of the house. He had Victor Merle, the art historian, to advise him, you know. Nothing but the best in
every department! It'll be a memorable evening! Yodel-ay-i-dee!"
