“Who would have been jealous of her for that?”
“How would I know,” Williams answered. “I suppose Irene was easily disliked, especially by other women. But, I’d be hard pressed to name a woman in Alnmouth that I consider homicidal, Inspector.”
“You knew Irene better than most?” Ward asked.
“We were friends,” Williams said frankly.
“How would you described Irene Hall’s relationship with Donald Hall?”
“They were husband and wife.”
Unfazed, Ward said, “Happily married?”
A long pause preceded Edwards reply: “Irene was very dramatic about almost everything in her life. She enjoyed certain amounts of friction and sometimes went out of her way to cause it if none was to be found. I’m the type of man who goes out of my way to avoid it, Inspector. I continually urged Irene to, shall we say, settle down. Without success, needless to say.”
“Did she ever mention leaving her husband?”
“Not to me,” Williams replied.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“I saw her on the street quite often,” Williams said. “I last spoke to her a couple days ago.”
“About what, Mr. Williams?”
“She came up here to complain about Donald, as usual. I advised her to speak to Donald if she wasn’t happy. I was getting somewhat tired of her games, Inspector.”
“Of course,” Ward said. “I don’t wish to take any more of your time, Mr. Williams. But I will need to talk to your wife. I will go there now if you believe she will be in.”
“She should be,” Williams answered. “Do you prefer I stay here?”
Ward grinned and nodded, saying, “If you don’t mind.”
Margaret Williams was the antithesis of Irene Hall. Plain looking—although not unattractive—and reserved, Ward found her calmly accepting of the fact a prominent woman had just been found murdered in her village; a woman who was obviously a close friend of her husband’s, by his own admission.
“Was Irene Hall a frequent guest of your house?” Ward asked Margaret.
“I would not say that, no. We do not entertain very often.”
Ward asked, “If you husband talked to Irene, it would have most often been at the store?”
“I assume so,” Margaret replied.
“Did Edward ever discuss with you any difficulties Irene was having in her marriage?”
Margaret gazed out the window of the living room before saying, “Not specifically. I believe he was…perhaps…a little irritated at her immaturity sometimes. Not angry, you understand. Just tired of it.”
“Where was Edward last night?”
“Here, of course.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
The Inspector thanked Mrs. Williams for her time and walked to the Brampton Hotel with the late afternoon sun making its way toward the rolling terrain beyond it. Pedestrians along Northumberland Street gave indications of the village returning to near normal, although one person barely passed another without a discussion ensuing. Ward had no time for such niceties. He needed to interview as many of the hotel staff as he could before the day came to a close.
Clive Witherspoon looked more than a little haggard when Inspector Ward entered his office. The manager slouched in his chair, a look of despair making his gaunt face look even more so than usual.
“Not your typical day at work?” Ward asked in an attempt at levity.
“Goodness no, Inspector,” Witherspoon said. “And if everybody that was in this hotel this morning had been a paying guest, I could retire.”
“I’m more concerned with who was in the hotel before the non-paying guests arrived,” Ward said. “Most importantly, last night.”
Witherspoon sighed and said, “I understand. Ask whatever you questions you must and I’ll answer the best I can.”
“When did you leave the premises yesterday?”
“Shortly after dinner time.”
Ward said, “Did you see anything suspicious at that time, or before you left?”
“No, sir,” Witherspoon replied.
“Did you see anyone enter the hotel in the evening?”
“Yes,” Witherspoon said, “Lord Stewart and his butler and the young lady. Also, the reporter lad came in a little after them.”
“He was alone?”
“He was.”
“And when did you learn of Irene Hall’s death?” Ward asked.
“This morning. I was here in my office when the desk clerk entered and told me.”
“What did he say?”
Witherspoon said, “That a housekeeper found Irene’s body on the third floor, by the closet door leading to the attic.”
“Do you have any guests staying on the third floor, Mr. Witherspoon?”
The chair squeaked as the manager shifted his weight.
“Why, no. We don’t. But…but that wouldn’t prevent a housekeeper from going up there.”
“Why would she?” Ward asked.
Witherspoon’s mouth opened, closed, and finally he said, “I don’t know, Inspector.”
Betty Taylor was summoned into a sitting room off the lobby, just minutes before she was scheduled to get off work. The first few moments of the interview suggested to Ward that Betty was a bright woman more suitable for a job in a private residence. However, such housekeeping opportunities were few and far between in Northumberland.
“Describe to me, Miss Taylor, how you came about finding the body of Irene Hall this morning,” Ward said.
“Certainly,” she offered. “As I entered the hotel, through a door in the kitchen, the cook saw me and asked if I could fetch some cooking oil for him that was stored with other supplies in the attic. I told him I would and took the stairs to the third floor. As soon as I opened the door on that floor I saw Mrs. Hall’s body in front of the closet door. I didn’t know it was her at first, but her face was turned in such a way that I recognized her when I looked. Then I saw the knife and ran back down to tell somebody.”
“You did not see or hear anybody else during your ascent or descent of the stairs?” Ward asked.
“Not at all. I was quite alone.”
Ward said, “Did you see or hear anything yesterday that was out of the ordinary?”
Betty thought for a moment and replied, “Not that I recall, Inspector.”
“Miss Taylor,” Ward said, “Are you aware of, or have you heard any talk of, trouble between the Halls or of Donald Hall being involved in the misuse of funds from the village?”
He saw the housekeeper ponder the question for several long seconds before replying, “Well, sir, that suspicion…of Mr. Hall misusing funds…has been present for nearly as long as he’s been here. Naturally, I wouldn’t have any way of proving it right or wrong. As far as them arguing…well now, Irene Hall argued with all of us at some point or another.”
Inspector Ward ended his work day when it became apparent neither Betty Taylor nor any of the hotel’s staff had any useful information for him. He decided to meet again with Witherspoon the next day to expand his interview list to residents known to frequent the hotel the most or were often seen on the streets after dark.
Ghosts in the Attic
Dorothy Dunne knew who killed Irene Hall. It could only be the Brampton ghost and she made it her personal burden to prove it.
‘The demon is agitated,’ she told herself. ‘It won’t be happy that all those people are traipsing around in its territory. I have to redouble my efforts and put an end to it. Yes, they won’t soon forget Dorothy Dunne in Alnmouth after I’m successful.’
Her weapon of choice was a gold encrusted cross with Jesus skillfully carved on the front. The half foot long object normally hung by her fireplace, except for when Dorothy made her impromptu visits to the hotel. Then it was safely tucked inside the pocket of her overcoat, ready for use when the apparition appeared.
Dorothy dreamed of the night she could come face to face with th
e ghost, seeing the look in its eyes when the cross was presented and watching the spirit fade away like early morning fog, never to kill again.
Thus, as the moon rose and the lights of the village began to dim, Dorothy Dunne entered through the back door of the Brampton Hotel, up the steps to the third floor, and out into the gloomy hallway. She, alone, knew of an advantage she had over the others in Alnmouth. Dorothy reached into her pocket and withdrew a key, which she inserted into the door of a room near the center stairway. The key had been provided by a housekeeper who no longer worked at the hotel, but knew of and believed in Dorothy’s endeavors to put an end to the haunting. With the slightest of sounds, she unlocked the door and opened it barely wide enough to slip inside. Dorothy then kept the door open just a crack, in order to peer down the hallway toward the closet. There was no doubt in her mind the ghost resided in the attic and made its appearance in the hall by passing through that door.
Then the waiting began. Dorothy was a patient woman when it came to the Brampton ghost. Time was of no importance to her. Her eyes were glued to the closet door for an hour and her ears picked up every sound, weeding out those from the floors below or the wind outside.
Not a soul appeared, either natural or supernatural. Until…the door to the same stairway she had used slowly opened and a form appeared. It was a man, and he pushed the door shut without a sound. After a fleeting glance down the hallway, he pulled open the closet door. Only then did Dorothy recognize Donald Hall.
He was carrying something, roughly the size of a small grocery bag. Hall clutched it to his chest as he entered the closet and pulled down the rope for the attic steps. He climbed up and out of Dorothy’s sight. She dared not come out of her hiding place for fear of Hall finding her. A short moment later, he came down the steps, pushed them back up, closed the closet door and exited through the stairway door—all with an absolute minimum of noise.
Without hesitation, Dorothy left the hotel room, locking it behind her, and proceeded up into the attic. The smell of the recently extinguished candle still lingered as she relit it. However, ten minutes of searching did not reveal the location of Donald Hall’s package.
Convinced that no ghost would make itself known after the clamor of the last several minutes, Dorothy went home.
The next day was pleasantly warm and sunny. After breakfast, Mary found Anna walking alone on the sidewalk and was accepted into her company by the teenager.
“Where are you going, Anna?” Mary asked.
“Nowhere.”
“Do you want to walk to the sand with me?”
“Yes. I like the sand,” Anna replied. “As long as it’s not too hot or cold.”
“I think today it should be just right,” Mary answered, noticing the girl was wearing her old, worn out shoes.
“There’s been quite a fuss over the death of Mrs. Hall, hasn’t there,” Mary said, interested in the girl’s response.
“Mr. Clarke says the hotel is a bad place.”
“Did you know Mrs. Hall very well?”
They turned off the street and onto the grass leading down to the mouth of the river. The sandy soil crunched under their feet.
“She was not very nice sometimes,” Anna replied. “She yelled at me just like she yelled at other people.”
“You’ve heard her yell at other people?”
“Sometimes. At night.”
“Tell me, Anna,” Mary prompted the girl.
“Martha would be mad,” Anna said. “I’m not supposed to leave the cottage at night.”
“But you do?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you hear things.”
“And see things,” Anna said as they reached the sandy shoreline. “Mrs. Hall never seemed to be happy.”
Mary watched Anna stop, take off her shoes, and hand them to her.
“How’s the sand, Anna?”
“Nice. I like the sand, but Martha yells at me for not wearing my shoes all the time. They hurt my feet.”
“These shoes are so small,” Mary told her. “Maybe I’ll buy you some new ones while I’m here. Would you like that.”
“Yes, Mary.”
They walked a while before Anna said, “I don’t like Mr. Williams’ shop, either.”
“Why’s that, Anna?” Mary said with surprise.
“I don’t know.”
“There must be a reason, Anna. Did something happen inside the shop?”
“No.”
“What don’t you like about the shop?”
“Mr. Williams,” Anna said brusquely.
“Did Mr. Williams yell at you?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you like him?”
“Mr. Clarke says to stay away from him. So I don’t go to the shop unless I have to for Martha,” Anna said.
A gust of cool wind came in off the sea, blowing Anna’s hair about and nearly causing Mary’s hat to fly off. Mary suggested they turn back toward the river and the path to the street.
“I know a faster way,” Anna said.
Mary gave Anna back her shoes and walked beside her through what appeared to be a swampy field but, indeed, was solid enough ground to get them back to the street. The only damage was a little sand and mud on the bottom of Mary’s shoes.
They parted ways across from the hotel and Mary contemplated all the things she had heard from the girl. It almost cost her dearly as a dairy truck had to swerve to miss her when Mary stepped absent-mindedly into the street. Following a perfunctory apology, Mary entered the hotel.
Charles sat in a corner of the lobby that was again routinely empty now that the initial uproar following the murder was over. Smoke from his pipe billowed above him before wafting out the top of the nearest open window. Mary sat upwind from him.
“I’ve had the most interesting conversation with my friend Anna,” she told him following their preliminary greetings.
“Just now?” he asked.
“Yes. It seems John Clarke is not only a surrogate parent to her, but also quite the advisor,” Mary said. “He has basically made her afraid of the hotel, Edward William’s store, and, interestingly enough, Edward Williams himself.”
“Really? Do we know why?” Charles inquired between puffs.
“I haven’t had time to think that through, yet,” she replied. “Or, perhaps, he’s just overly protective of her. Also, Anna’s nightly romps away from home has allowed her to see and hear interactions involving the late Irene Hall. The nice thing about Anna’s condition, if I’m allowed to say this, is that she states things as they are. There’s no sugar coating.”
“What was Irene up to in the dark, according to the girl?” Charles asked.
“Heated discussions. I didn’t push her for details, yet. I’m not sure there’s much to gain when I do. Anna’s perception of importance isn’t always going to match ours. But, I think it’s interesting that John Clarke has such strong opinions about people he has not known for that long.”
Charles rapped the bowl of his pipe against an ash tray to empty it and said to Mary, “First impressions, my dear. Don’t underestimate them.”
A couple blocks away, in front of the village hall, Dorothy Dunne walked toward the market. She was deep in thought, considering what she had seen the night before in the hotel. Dorothy was like the majority of extroverted people in that she best organized facts in her mind by verbalizing them to someone.
Luck was momentarily on the side of Clifford Rothwell as he exited the village hall and became the first person Dorothy saw.
“Oh, Mr. Rothwell. Mr. Rothwell!”, she barked in his direction.
Clifford turned and smiled.
“Hello, Mrs. Dunne. Pleasant day, is it not?”
“Better than most,” she admitted as they came together. “Do you have a moment, Mr. Rothwell?”
“Certainly.”
Dorothy looked around them and directed Clifford to the nearest bench. Once again making sure they were alone, she leaned closer t
o him.
“Mr. Rothwell, I believe there’s something you need to know,” she began. “It is something I saw in the hotel and it’s of the upmost importance.”
“Really?” the young man acknowledged. “What is it?”
“Well, I was on the third floor of the hotel last night, doing my duty to track down that wicked ghost, when I saw a man enter the closet and proceed up into the attic,” Dorothy told him. “Can you guess who that man was, Mr. Rothwell?”
Without the slightest pause, he replied, “The police Inspector who just arrived from Newcastle?”
“Good heavens, no. There’s another Inspector here now? From Newcastle?”
“That’s how the police work, ma’am, when there’s been a murder,” Clifford said calmly.
“The spirit won’t be liking that, no it won’t. But the man I saw, Mr. Rothwell, was none other than Donald Hall, and he was carrying a package with him, all wrapped up in brown paper,” Dorothy said, the tone of her voice rising with excitement. “Now why would the husband of a murdered woman be hiding packages practically on top of the spot of her death?”
“You know the package to be hidden, Mrs. Dunne?” Clifford asked.
Embarrassment passed over her face for a second, and then she said, “I did look for it, you understand. It could be a clue to the crime, could it not? But I couldn’t find nary a thing. Somebody needed to know about it, so I thought you were best, being a reporter and all.”
“I do appreciate it,” he replied. “Did Mr. Hall do anything else while you watched?”
“No, sir. Went up and hid the package and was gone in a flash. Didn’t take a minute of time.”
They soon parted ways with Clifford envisaging all the legitimate reasons for a prominent village resident and official to be using the attic of the hotel. He had not previously had reason to explore the space in question and ultimately decided against making the trip based solely on what he had heard from the frenetic Dorothy Dunne.
He was within shouting distance of the hotel when he noticed a familiar figure walking out the front entrance. John Clarke seemed to be in quite a hurry as he darted across the street and turned in the general direction of his home. The act itself wasn’t suspicious, but Clifford couldn’t help but notice the brown paper package Clarke had tucked under his arm.
People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery Page 8
