by Amy Cross
With that, she turned and hurried away, and her friend from the nearby table immediately went after her.
Left alone with her coffee, Jo tried to make sense of everything she'd just been told. In truth, she had come to see Harry Morgan as a fairly harmless man, albeit slightly intense, but the scar on Vivian's forehead wasn't something she could ignore. At the same time, the nature of Deborah's murder – a single stab wound to the belly – struck her as less an act of passion and anger, and more an act that had been very carefully planned. The wound had caught Deborah in just the right place cause a fairly quick death, which made her think that the killer was someone who'd planned ahead.
And who'd executed that plan with merciless calm.
Chapter Ten
Six months ago
“And that is me done for the day,” Susannah muttered with a sigh as she closed her briefcase. “Monica, if anyone calls this evening, tell them to eff off until tomorrow. Short of a nuclear explosion, I don't want any more hassle.”
“Of course, Miss Marriot,” her assistant replied. “Should I ask Greg in the bar to make you usual and have it sent up to your room?”
“I don't want to be disturbed once I'm up there,” Susannah replied. “I'll go and fetch it myself.”
“Good night, Miss Marriot.”
Once she'd finished tidying her desk and setting the paperwork up for the next morning, Susannah took her briefcase and headed to the door. At the last moment, remembering Deborah's manuscript, she grabbed the set of papers from the coffee table and then made her way out into the hotel lobby. Her heels tapped loudly against the marble floor as she crossed to the bar, and then she slowed as soon as she saw that although the bar was mostly empty, a familiar figure was sitting on one of the stools, staring into a glass of beer.
After a moment, Susannah made her way over to the bar, trying very hard to keep from looking too obviously at Doctor Lucas Evans. Within just a couple of seconds, however, they'd already made brief eye contact and exchanged a nod, before Lucas looked back down at his drink.
“The usual, Miss Marriot?” the barman asked.
“Please.”
She watched as he headed around to the other side of the bar and started mixing her drink. For a few seconds, she managed to keep her gaze firmly on the cash register, but finally she couldn't help but glance over at the doctor. She'd already noticed earlier in the day that he was handsome, and now up-close she was struck by the intensity of his gaze as he watched his barely-touched drink. He seems lost in thought, brooding even, and she had to remind herself that he was off-limits. Had it not been for her conversation with Deborah earlier in the day, she'd have thrown herself at him.
Still, she figured a little light flirtation wouldn't hurt.
“Is your drink okay?” she asked finally.
He glanced at him. “I'm sorry?”
“Your drink. If there's a problem, you must order something else and it'll be on the house.”
He furrowed his brow.
“Suzie Marriot,” she continued, reaching a hand out toward him before she could stop herself. “I own the hotel.”
“Right.” He shook her hand with a calm, steady grip. “It's a very nice place you have here.”
“I inherited it from my father,” she told him, unable to keep herself from chatting. Deep down she knew she should leave him alone, but curiosity was already getting the better of her. “I've changed a lot of things, though, and I really pride myself on making sure that all our guests have a good time. So if there's anything wrong with your drink at all, you mustn't hesitate to ask for a new one.”
“The beer's fine,” he replied. “I guess I'm just not...”
His voice trailed off.
“Not in the mood to drink alone?” she asked.
He nodded. “Something like that.”
As he looked back down at his glass, Susannah realized that on a normal evening, this would be the moment she went in for the kill. She'd sit herself down right next to him and make small-talk, and she'd get a few G&T's down her throat just to loosen herself up a little, and then she'd casually suggest some reason why they might want to go up to one of the rooms. She always hated herself on mornings when she woke up next to a guest, but the evenings were completely different. Morning-Susannah might have some blushes, but Evening-Susannah could never hold back.
“Is your room okay?” she asked finally.
“Huh?” He turned back to her, as if he'd zoned out for a moment. “Oh. Sure. Yeah, my room is perfect. Thank you.”
“And the bed?”
She immediately knew she was going too far, but she also knew she couldn't possibly hold back. He was just too handsome, and his mysterious connection to Deborah made him even more interesting.
“Everything's fine,” he said, forcing a faint smile. “I think I'm just not feeling the whole bar thing tonight. I might take a short walk, just to get some night air before I go back to my room.”
“But it's so early!” Checking her watch, she saw that it was, in fact, almost eleven. She knew that eleven wasn't early, not for most people. Not for people who didn't drink themselves silly every night. “I suppose I shouldn't keep you,” she added, realizing that Morning-Susannah would be thankful for her restraint, even if right now she hated Morning-Susannah with every fiber in her being. “I'll be heading up myself shortly.”
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, she watched as Lucas headed toward the door.
“Do you mind if I ask one more thing?” she said suddenly.
He glanced back at her.
“I don't think you mentioned why you're in town,” she continued, as the barman set her G&T down. “Are you visiting someone, or maybe looking for someone?”
“Just visiting.”
“You're not looking for anyone in particular?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope she's worth your time.”
“It's a man,” he replied. “A colleague.” He hesitated, as if he was on the verge of saying something else, but finally he wished her a good night and made his way out into the reception area.
A moment later, hearing the hotel's main door swing open and then bump shut, Susannah turned and took a sip from her drink.
“You've got a secret, Debs,” she muttered under her breath, as she twisted the straw between her fingers. “A very attractive secret. And I would really, really like to know what it's all about.”
Chapter Eleven
Today
“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said over the phone, “but Miss Marriott has already left for the day. Can I give her a -”
“I already left several messages,” Jo replied as she sat in her car with the engine switched off, staring out at the large, mostly-unlit edifice of Lord Chesleford's manor house looming ahead in the darkness. “I was hoping she might find time to give me a call some time today.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sure she -”
“Please tell her I called,” Jo added. “Again. And please tell her that I really need to speak to her. Tell her it's important.”
“I'll most certainly do that.”
“Tell her it's about Deborah Dean.”
“I believe I mentioned that to her earlier.”
“Tell her again.”
“I will.”
“I'm sure it'll do a lot of good,” Jo muttered after hanging up. “I know this feeling. I'm being avoided like the plague.”
She hesitated for a moment, before leaning back in the seat and closing her eyes. For a few seconds, she felt as if she lacked the strength to even get out of the car, let alone to spend the evening with the venerable and very sociable Lord Chesleford. Finally, however, she forced herself to open the door and climb out onto the gravel driveway, and as she swung the door shut again she could already see Lord Chesleford waving at her eagerly from one of the windows.
She had no choice but to wave back.
***
“Chesleford Hall has been in my family for a very lon
g time indeed,” the old man explained a short while later, as he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. “I once traced our roots in the area back to the mid-fifteenth century, and I'm sure there's further to go when I eventually find the time. I rather think I shall find some mention of us in the Doomsday Book!”
“That's fascinating,” Jo replied, raising another forkful of slightly pink chicken breast to her lips and hoping once again that she'd survive the evening without a bout of food poisoning. “When Deborah -”
“If you ask anyone in town about the Chesleford name,” he continued, as if he'd not even heard her, “they'll tell you that we're really the most important family in the entire area.” He looked up toward the oil painting that dominated the dining room, showing a picture of a man who bore a strong family resemblance to the current Lord Chesleford himself. “There's pride in our blood. You can't shake that, whatever the circumstances. And although Phillip has turned out to be incapable of continuing the bloodline in a proper manner, I still have hope that something can be done regarding the need for another heir.”
Jo glanced at Phillip, who was hunched over his plate as he ate, and who seemed oblivious to his father's pronouncements.
“About Deborah Dean,” she said cautiously, “I was wondering -”
“I am fifty-seven years old,” Lord Chesleford continued, with a sense of great importance. “That is not too old for a man to sire fresh offspring.”
Jo stared at him. “Um...”
“James Doohan.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The actor. Scotty from the television series Star Trek. Have you ever seen an episode?”
“Of course,” she replied, furrowing her brow a little as she tried to figure out exactly what path the conversation was now taking. “Why do you ask?”
“To boldly go,” he continued, “where no man has ever gone before. In this particular case, I am referring to the fact that Mr. Doohan fathered a child at the age of eighty. I mean, when one hears about something like that, one realizes that one still has plenty of time. I mean, fifty-seven suddenly seems rather sprightly and young, does it not? I still have another twenty-three years before I reach Mr. Doohan's level. Plenty of time to...”
He hesitated for a moment, red-faced and seemingly a little out of breath.
“Plenty of time,” he continued finally, with a broad grin, “to find a nice young lady who could see her way to entering the world of the Cheslefords. It's a happy world, I think, even if there have been tragedies along the way.” He glanced at Phillip, and for a moment a hint of disdain crossed his features before he looked back toward Jo and raised his glass in a toast. “To happier times! To children! Useful children, anyway!”
Jo put the glass to her lips, just enough to taste the wine, before setting it back down.
“You've barely drunk a drop!” Lord Chesleford pointed out, as he topped up his own glass for the fourth time since sitting down for dinner. “You're going to fall behind, young lady!”
“I'm fine, thank you,” she replied, glancing at Phillip and briefly catching his eye. Having clearly been watching her for a moment, Phillip quickly looked down at his food and muttered something under his breath.
“More wine, more wine,” Lord Chesleford continued, taking a big slurp from his glass and then grinning at Jo, evidently unaware that his lips and teeth were stained red. “It's so nice to have company here in our humble home. Isn't it, Phillip?”
“I wanted to ask you about Deborah Dean's arrival at Skellin Cottage,” Jo replied. “From everything you've told me so far, it seems like she just came out of nowhere. Did you see any ID when she came to rent the place from you?”
“ID?”
“A passport? A driving license?”
“Oh, I don't remember. It was so long ago.”
“What was it about her, specifically, that made you decide to let her take the cottage?”
“My nose.”
“I'm sorry?”
“I have a nose for people. I'm quite well-known for that, in fact. I can judge a person's character with great alacrity.” He sighed, before taking another sip of wine. Already, his glass was almost empty again. “I could tell immediately that Deborah was a troubled soul. I wasn't blind to the fear in her eyes. At the same time, I could also see that she was fundamentally a good person. You never met her, I know, but trust me, she had a strong core. She was stable. I knew within a couple of seconds of meeting her that she was just the kind of person to rent Skellin Cottage. She was in many ways quite remarkable.”
He paused, clearly lost in thought.
“She would have made a wonderful mother to a child,” he added finally, his voice so low that it wasn't quite clear whether he was talking to Jo or simply to himself. “Wonderful indeed.”
Before she could reply, Jo heard a faint giggling sound, and she turned to see that Phillip was laughing at something while still staring at his food.
“What's so funny, boy?” Lord Chesleford asked.
Phillip immediately fell silent, although Jo could still see the side of a smile on his lips.
“What's so bloody funny?” Lord Chesleford roared, slamming his fist against the table.
Jo tensed.
“Are you eating or not, boy?” the older man continued. “This is a sophisticated evening, Phillip! I almost told you to eat in your room, but I supposed that perhaps you could behave yourself. Evidently I was wrong, so I think now you should excuse yourself.”
Phillip looked at him.
“That means you should leave the table!” Lord Chesleford said firmly.
“Is that really necessary?” Jo asked.
“Leave the table now!”
Phillip hesitated, before getting to his feet with such suddenness that the legs of his chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. Running around the side of the table, he bumped hard against Jo's chair before stumbling out to the hallway and then disappearing into the depths of the house, and finally he could be heard thudding up the stairs.
Jo looked toward the open doorway for a moment, before hearing the familiar glug of Lord Chesleford's wine glass being refilled. Turning to him, she saw that his hands were trembling now, and he filled the glass almost to the brim before setting the bottle back down.
“That infernal boy,” he muttered darkly, “is good for nothing at all. Not since the accident. He's a complete waste of meat and air. Sometimes I think I should have pulled the plug when he was at the hospital, and let his organs go to more worthy individuals. He might actually have been useful as offal.”
Jo took a deep breath, before figuring that she needed to try a different approach while Lord Chesleford was still just about sober enough to answer questions.
“You seem to have known Deborah very well,” she pointed out. “Did she ever talk to you about her life before Skellin Cottage?”
“How do you mean?”
“Where she came from. What she'd been doing.”
“She'd written a novel.”
“You mentioned that, but do you know what it was called?”
“Oh, I don't remember. I think she'd self-published it.”
“And she was working on a second?”
“She never let me read it. I'm a great reader, you know, and something of a scholar. I've read all the classics. Joyce, Dickens, Tolstoy, Faulkner and the like. I told her several times that I'd be only too happy to give her a critique, but she never took me up on the offer. Perhaps she didn't quite realize that I'm a student of literature. I'm sure I could have helped her out, if only she'd let me take a chapter or two for study. Still, I take solace in the knowledge that she was going to let me read her work eventually.”
“She was?”
He nodded. “Oh yes. Indeed.”
“So she'd offered to give you a copy before she died?”
“Not quite. But she was a sensible girl and she'd have seen the light eventually. Oh yes, I am quite sure that Deborah and I were destined to beco
me a great deal closer. We were becoming more familiar with one another all the time. I might seem like a man of advancing years, Miss Mason, but I am young at heart and Deborah was very perceptive. There are men who appear young on the outside, yet who are old and cold in their hearts. And then there are men such as myself, men who never let their souls become old. Yes, Deborah understood such things. She was a writer, after all. She saw the truth about people.”
“But she never told you the truth about herself?”
“I saw the truth in her eyes,” he muttered, pouring himself another glass of wine but managing to spill as much again on the already-stained tablecloth. “The goodness. The potential. The kindness. Yes, she would have made such a wonderful mother for a child.”
He paused, before letting out a long, slow sigh of regret.
Jo tried a couple more times to ask about specifics, but Lord Chesleford was already off on another speech about the importance of children, and finally Jo realized she had no choice but to wait the rest of the evening out. Already, she was starting to think about places she could look in her continued search for Deborah's laptop, and she had to force herself to pay attention to Lord Chesleford's mumblings. After all, she figured, he might eventually say something of interest, even if only by accident.
On the wall nearby, the grand painting of a previous Lord Chesleford watched proceedings with pained, paint-flecked eyes.
***
By 10pm, Lord Chesleford's loud snores were filling the house as he sat slumped in his chair at the dining table. Having made it through almost two full bottles of wine unaided, he'd finally slipped into unconsciousness without ever fetching the dessert he'd promised, and faint dribbles of pink chicken juice had begun to run down his chin.
