‘Now, that’s an end to that, my girl. And you just get rid, at the first opportunity, and keep your hands to yourself in future, otherwise you’ll have no future to look forward to.’ She was sure someone had seen her coming out of that last bedroom, but she’d done what she could to prevent any fallout. She just hoped that no one would discover her little peccadilloes.
IV
In the cellar, Steve Grieve burrowed to the bottom of a pile of dust-covered empty bottles, making a small opening through several layers to the floor. As he set each bottle aside, he muttered to himself in anger at his own stupidity.
‘What the hell am I going to do if one of those posh gits staying here smelled anything last night? They were in and out of that dining room like a fiddler’s elbow, and I’d be willing to bet that any one of them could identify the smell of wacky baccy. God, how I had the stupid notion that it would just disappear if it were out of doors, I’ll never know. It sticks around like shit to a blanket. Even going round the back, the wind seemed to be sending it round to the side terrace. It’s bloody lucky that copper didn’t come down here a few minutes later, or I’d be up to my eyes in ‘possession of an illegal substance’, and not a thing I could offer in my own defence.
‘It was only the one joint. And I won’t do it again, ever. I promise. How could I just forget about it the first night, then succumb the very next evening? I haven’t touched the stuff since I got here weeks ago, and then I go and let myself down like that. Well, I’ve got to get the stuff hidden away. I don’t say as I’ll never do it again, but I’ve got to lay off, with the coppers around. I could be out on my ear. And I like doing all that stuff with the cocktail shaker. And I’m good at it. That’s a first for me.
‘Oh, God, give me another chance, please? I’ll lay off the weed and work my socks off. I could be in a fancy cocktail bar in London, if only I play my cards right. No one will ever find it here, under this lot.’
From his waistcoat pocket he withdrew a small packet of herbal content, placed it in the hole he had burrowed for it, and started carefully to replace the bottles, trying to make as little noise as possible. You never knew who was listening, in a place like this. That copper, for instance. For a moment, Carmichael’s mighty frame was conjured up in his mind’s eye, and he shuddered. He’d frightened the life out of him when he turned up in the cellar. Lucky he wasn’t burrowing through the empties then, or he’d really have been for it.
V
Up on the top floor in the room she had slept in during her settling-in and training period, Beatrix Ironmonger sat in her favourite armchair stroking Perfect Cadence, who condescended to make quiet purring noises in a bid to retain this comforting action. The housekeeper’s chatelaine chain was hanging down at one side of her, slowly snaking its way down the side of the cushion, but she was unaware of this treachery on its part, and merely smiled around at all her little babies.
‘Hello, my darlings. Mummy’s come to talk to you again. I’m sorry I haven’t been here with you much over the last couple of days, but Mummy does need a nice place to live, so she has to go and do things, so that we can all stay here in our own little world and dream together.’ Her voice was soft and almost musical, not at all like her normal speaking voice.
‘It’s not like before, when I had to go away for a long time, or when you had to hide in cupboards and chests. We’re free to do what we want to here, and I want you all to be happy. You’re all so beautiful. How could anyone not love you like I do?’
At this thought, she began to scratch Perfect Cadence under the chin, an action which increased the purring to twice its previous volume. ‘And you love me too, don’t you?’ she asked, focusing her attention on the still-living cat on her lap, the surrounding little ruglets forgotten as she enjoyed the weight and warmth of the plump little body, pressed close to hers.
VI
In the yellow room, Lloyd Boyd-Carpenter was getting quite concerned about his wife. After her initial, fragile author’s terror of her plot not ‘cutting the mustard’ with the guests and management, her mood had turned almost feverish with the news of actual murder being done. And then she’d had that ridiculous idea of turning detective – at her age, too!
On retiring to their room the night before, she had pulled all the hotel note paper out of the writing rack, and commenced to scribble notes at a furious rate, ignoring her husband’s pleas for an explanation. He had gone to sleep and left her still writing at about three o’clock, and here she was again, now muttering to herself as she wrote.
‘You’ll be pleased to know I’ve decided against detecting,’ she informed Lloyd. ‘But this could be the start of a whole new writing career for me. I could pull up my backlist, and go on to one of these electronic sites. The Crime Writer whose Creation was the Inspiration for a Real Murder. I can see the headlines now. And, oh the titles – Hotel of Death; Death Comes to Dinner; Sticky End at the Dessert Trolley; Cocktail for Death; A Canapé Too Far; A Trifling End …’
‘Whatever are you gabbling about, old girl?’
‘Me! Us! A whole new career for my writing. This could be the beginning of a revival.’
‘Slow down, m’dear. Best not to get too carried away, with your blood pressure.’
‘Oh, damn my blood pressure. I must ring my agent.’
‘But, Percy, your agent died five years ago.’
‘Then I’ll get another one.’
‘But it’s not that easy. You can’t just order one on the internet. You know how long it took the first time. And it wouldn’t have happened then if I hadn’t put a word in for you with old Bingo.’
‘Nonsense! He was just a senile old fool.’
‘Who happened to work in publishing.’
‘Talent shall override all obstacles.’
‘More likely to be the other way round. Anyway, you’re a has-been. You haven’t written anything new in years; said it bored you to tears.’
‘What rubbish you talk, Lloyd, dear. I feel positively charged with creative energy. What luck!’
‘I say, old thing, that’s a bit strong isn’t it? If you crow any more, I shall almost feel that you had a hand in it somewhere.’
‘Oh, you are a clever old dog! What a simply marvellous idea. I’ll make a note of that before I forget it.’
With his head on one side, rather in the manner of a parrot, Lloyd began to think. ‘She couldn’t … She wouldn’t … She hadn’t … Not just for publicity? Although she had been acting a bit strangely, and been very forgetful. With an effort, he mentally pushed away the dreadful word Alzheimer’s. She was just getting into one of her states. She always did when she’d cracked a plot in the olden days. He mustn’t get carried away with the thought that she’d had anything whatsoever to do with what had happened last night.
Sighing in exasperation, he turned to his morning newspaper. She’d just have to blow herself out, like a storm, and then he’d be left to pick up the pieces. He’d been really pleased when she’d retired from writing, and now they were headed back there, he didn’t know if he could face the endless insecurity, interspersed with the towering fits of ego that used to sweep over her. He should have put his foot down when Grammaticus approached her. Now he was on the highway to hell again, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it until she paid her next visit to reality.
VII
The final conversation worthy of note that morning took place, not in a bedroom, but outside the office in the entrance hall.
‘Yes, Carmichael? What is it?’
‘I can’t do this, sir.’
‘You can’t do what?’
‘These interviews.’
‘Why ever not? You’ve done scores of interviews before. Why should these be any different?’
‘Because I’m on my own, sir.’
‘Well, you’re a big grown-up boy now, Carmichael. What’s the problem?’
‘That I am on my own. We always do interviews together. You’re good at the questions and
catching them out, and I’m good at taking notes. I can’t do both at the same time. I’m hopeless at knowing what to ask, and my notes aren’t worth tuppence.’
‘Notes?’
‘The ones I try to do as discreetly as possible – out of eye-line – when you’re asking the questions.’
‘Notes!’
‘Yes, sir – notes. What is it? You look kind of upset.’
‘Notes, Carmichael!’
‘Are you sure you’re OK, sir?’
‘Damn, blast, bugger, and bum! I forgot to take any blasted notes when I was in with Grammaticus. Well, just cast me as the village idiot, and you as the wise man, in this farce. You’re quite right, Sergeant. I don’t know where my mind was. We’re a team, and we work together. I thought it didn’t feel right in there, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I’ve had a few things on my mind the last couple of days, and I don’t seem to be thinking straight.’ ( Nightmares, Nanny Vogel, Mycroft, Ruby, Tar Baby, fish fingers, a most infuriatingly inaccurate book …)
‘Oh, right, sir. Does that mean we can do things the way we usually do?’
‘Darn right, cowboy. Now let’s go and chase some outlaws.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘But don’t think I haven’t noticed your bootlace tie, because I have. And this is where it stops, OK? No cowboy boots tomorrow, no shirt with metal collar ends, and definitely no – I repeat no – ride ’em cowboy hats. Do I make myself clear?’
‘No ties, no collars, no hats, sir.’
‘Correct!’
Good. He hadn’t mentioned chunky leather belts with lots of metal studs and other manly things on them. He was in the clear, as far as that was concerned, thought Carmichael, as they headed, a partnership once more, towards the staff sitting room, to see what was afoot.
‘Oh, by the way, sir, I’ve just been talking to that barman, and I know that this is only hearsay, but he said that the chambermaid said that she thinks Mr Newberry tripped over the housekeeper’s cat, and that’s why he fell downstairs.’
‘That’s good! We’ll have to get that checked out; find out if anyone else heard it too. If we can turn hearsay into reality, then we can put that one down to an unfortunate accident – not that I didn’t think it was anything else, but it is nice to be absolutely sure, isn’t it?’
‘Indubitably, sir,’ confirmed Carmichael, forcing the inspector to do a double take of surprise at this multi-syllabic response.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday 20th June – afternoon
I
Jefferson, at the request of the police, had given permission for his guests to stay on at a disastrously reduced rate, to allow the investigation to proceed, and for them to be interviewed by the police. It was a request he could hardly refuse, for he was as anxious as they to discover the identity of whoever was responsible for stabbing Jocelyn Freeman and poisoning Chef. He had no idea whether this involved one or two people, and at the moment, he didn’t really care. He just wanted things back to normal, whatever that was.
As he sat in his office with his head in his hands, he thought about what he had intended to do, after the guests had left at noon; the planning of the residential French cookery courses that Antoine would present; the creative writing courses that Percy would lead, inspiring with her past success and her impressive back list.
She had also promised to come up with at least five other murder mystery dinners so that he could rotate them and get full value for money out of each one, Percy only expecting a small fee for the repeat use, as long as she and Lloyd had free bed and board and their small parts to play in the dramas. As this would give him the added kudos of an author mingling with the paying guests, he had, at the moment, no objection to the idea. After all, everyone wanted to rub shoulders with someone of even minor celebrity.
But all that was out of the window for the moment, and suddenly it didn’t seem to be in very good taste to be thinking of offering any more murder mystery weekends for a good while to come. Unless, of course, he could come up with an angle; a spin on what had happened to present it in a positive light. That was exactly what he needed – an angle.
For now, however, his whole world appeared to be in tatters. In fact, it had ceased to be. He could see no further than the next few hours, nor did he want to. If he couldn’t find a way to treat these devastating events to his advantage, he could kiss goodbye to his investment here, and he hadn’t enough capital left to provide him with the sort of genuine retirement that he had dreamed of. There had to be a loophole back to success, and if anyone could find it, he could. Lifting his head and shaking it, as if to loosen his thought processes, he set his mind to work on producing positive from negative.
Although the hotel could probably rustle up something for them to eat, the marketing had been done only to midday, and more supplies would need to be sent for to restock with fresh goods. There was also no chef, and bread and cheese would probably not be what was expected after what had come from the kitchen over the last two days, but it would just have to do, and Jefferson, deciding that action was better than moping around, steeped in self-pity, moved himself to action, no matter how mundane.
Making the decision to summon his reduced crew to set out everything they had available, picnic style, in the grounds, in an attempt to alleviate the air of desperation that sandwiches would represent in the dining room, he left the office and headed for the kitchen with a general call to arms. With the addition of fresh fruit and a couple of freshly-baked sponge cakes, and the use of fine linen and china, a picnic might even suggest the air of adventure that the advent of the motor had given to al fresco meals in the past, and he suspected that the odd jug of Pimm’s and lemonade (not too strong, mind!) might be well received, too.
Meanwhile, the two detectives had shut themselves in the drawing room with a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door, having refused the offer of the staff sitting room, so as not to deprive those running the place of their bolt-hole. Anyway, if they had the chance to gossip, all the better, as they might repeat it when interviewed. Someone might let something slip, and he doubted there was much loyalty between the various members of staff here. They had had little time to get to know each other, and would be looking out for their own skins first. The two men were just about to launch on an examination of what they had learnt so far when Falconer’s mobile phone rang.
‘When was that?’ … ‘Did it make sense?’ … ‘Did you make a note of it?’ … ‘Read it to me, word for word.’ (Longer pause this time) ‘And they’re going to do that when?’ … ‘Ring me if he so much as stirs, and stay right by him. No sloping off for a cup of coffee, or a girly natter with the nurses, OK?’ He hung up.
‘That was PC Starr,’ he informed Carmichael. ‘She’s been on duty by Chef’s bedside, to make sure there isn’t any monkey business while he’s out cold, and to make a note of anything he says if he wakes up.’
‘I gather that he must have said something.’
‘He did, Sergeant. Give that man a cigar. He got a bit restless, about a quarter of an hour ago. Starr said it was just a jumble at first, but then he got a bit more lucid. Even though it didn’t make sense to her, she had the nous to take it down, in case it made sense to anyone else.’
‘So come on, sir. Shoot!’
‘I said no cowboys, Carmichael.’
‘Sorry, sir. Go on.’
The inspector lifted a small notepad from his lap, in which he had been scribbling, while on the phone, and read, in a surprisingly humorous French falsetto:
“No … no … not ’ere. Ah weel not do zat. Got to get ’way from Céline. She iz not ’oo she says she iz. Don’ stalk me! No stalkairs! Een mah kitchen. No … no … not een mah kitchen. Must ’ide. Must ’ide.”
Here, he resumed his normal speaking voice, noticing with amusement the expression on Carmichael’s face. The younger man couldn’t have looked more surprised if Falconer had produced a white rabbit from his jacket pocket.
‘I s
ay, sir! I didn’t know you could do French.’
‘It wasn’t French, you doughnut,’ – again, a look of disbelief at this expression from the prim and proper inspector – ‘It was a French accent. And I learnt to do that at prep school. That was just how the French mistress spoke, and I got out of many a thumping by using it to amuse the bullies.’
‘Not French?’
‘Er, no, Sergeant.’
‘But …’ Carmichael still looked puzzled, and went as far to demonstrate this as to scratch his head. ‘But if it wasn’t …’
‘What?’
‘Dunno, sir. It’s just that … Oh, never mind. It’s gone now.’
‘And good riddance to it, probably. Anyway, back to the phone call. That was all he actually said that made sense, and then, apparently, he slipped back into unconsciousness, and hasn’t stirred since, although the doctors are going to withdraw the sedative this evening, so it shouldn’t be too long before he can talk to us properly.’
‘If he remembers anything.’
‘Well, he was certainly frightened of someone, from what he said. It sounded to me as if he had a visitor to his kitchen that … What is that dreadful noise from the billiards room? It sounds like a hen party in full swing. I asked the guests to keep to the library and the dining room, if they didn’t want to stay in their rooms, and heaven alone knows there are enough grounds here to satisfy a whole rambling club.
He rose from his seat as he spoke, and strode in the direction of raised female voices, drawing Carmichael in his wake in a wave of curiosity.
II
‘Now look here, madam, I’ve had to literally drag you out of your flat this morning to bring you here, and the first thing you do is slope off again. Either you work for me or you don’t. I’m not paying you a perfectly good wage to skive off, smoking and admiring the décor. I want those costumes collected from outside the guests’ rooms as arranged, and I want them collected now. Now, are you going to do it or not?’ Alison Meercroft had really lost her rag. Mademoiselle Treny seemed to have the greatest difficulty in lifting a finger to help, and she wasn’t going to stand for it any more.
Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Page 15
