Murder at the Manor Hotel Read online

  ‘Yes, that’s it. May I see?’ Forgetting for the moment the evening’s tragedy and the possibility of illicit activity at Heyshill Manor, Melissa turned the pages to admire the reproductions, some in colour, others in black and white. Many were of internationally famous paintings, others less well known. After a minute or two she recognised a second picture, which showed a couple in an armchair. ‘She had that one too – I guessed that to be the sitting-room. Let’s see if I can find the others. Yes, here’s the Degas nude …’

  ‘Renoir, actually,’ interrupted Iris with a grin.

  ‘Er, so it is.’ Melissa grinned back. As usual, Iris’s company, along with the herbal tea, had restored her to something like her normal frame of mind.

  ‘And this is the still-life,’ she went on. ‘At least I was right about that being a Van Gogh so I’m not a complete ignoramus. And they had this one of a maid making a bed … I suppose Vic and Kim went to the exhibition too and bought some reproductions.’

  ‘So maybe Kim isn’t quite so uncultured as you thought?’ said Iris slyly.

  ‘Iris, don’t exaggerate. I never said she was uncultured,’ protested Melissa, who was beginning to wish she had never voiced her impressions. ‘But I ask you, if you had reproductions of old masters, would you use them as door-signs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, but like I said, everyone to their own taste.’ Iris closed the catalogue and put it aside, looking thoughtful.

  Melissa yawned and stood up. ‘I’m off home to bed. Many thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I said, thanks for the tea, and I’m going home.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Six

  When Melissa came into her kitchen the following morning, the first thing she saw was the Dizzy Heights carrier containing her soiled clothes. She kept her head averted as she tipped the garments into the sink, turned on the cold tap and left them to soak. She doubted if she could ever bring herself to wear them again; the blood might wash away but the horror would be indelible.

  Thanks to Iris’s herbal tea she had slept reasonably well, but she had no appetite for breakfast. She brewed coffee, took it up to her study and made an effort to work. As usual, she began by reading the chapter she had finished the previous day. At the time, she had been pleased with it, but this morning it seemed flat and lifeless. The emotions experienced by her fictitious sleuth, Nathan Latimer, on finding a dismembered corpse, disgusted her with their facile shallowness. She closed her eyes and tried to relive her own thoughts and feelings as she knelt beside the dying Will Foley, but to exploit them for the sake of giving her readers a vicarious thrill seemed almost indecent, no better than the relentless pursuit of the recently bereaved by sensation-hungry journalists. She switched off the word processor and went downstairs.

  There was a ring at the bell; Iris was at the door, asking how she felt, how she had slept. Chloe telephoned a few minutes later with a similar enquiry. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m all right,’ she heard herself saying repeatedly. Will’s family were the ones who needed support and comfort, wherever they were. Mitch had said something about a daughter. And Mitch himself … he and Will had been old friends. She wondered if she would ever learn the true reason for his presence at Heyshill Manor. The thought was enough to kick her natural curiosity, never more than half asleep, into action.

  Dittany might know. She had obviously been seeing quite a bit of Mitch lately; perhaps she had picked up something. It was worth a try. Melissa reached for the telephone directory to check the number of Stowbridge Public Library.

  When Melissa reached the library she found Dittany busy stamping books for a small queue of borrowers. She was paler than usual and there were smudges under her eyes, her movements inclined to be jerky as she opened each volume and ran the electronic sensor along the bar code.

  Last in the line was an elderly woman in a shapeless tweed coat and a felt hat like a pudding-basin, who scrutinised her with beady eyes as she dumped a stack of romantic novels on the counter. ‘You’re looking peaky this morning, my dear,’ she said, in the conspiratorial manner of one hungry for confidences. ‘Is anything wrong?’ Dittany shook her head and said she was fine, thank you, but the woman was not to be discouraged. ‘Having trouble with the boyfriend, perhaps?’ she asked hopefully.

  A faint glow lit up Dittany’s grave face, as if a dying fire had suddenly shown signs of life. ‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ she replied. ‘I just … had a bit of a shock last night, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh dear! Nothing too serious, I hope,’ said the woman, in a tone that belied the words. She kept her eyes on the girl’s face as she took her time about stowing the books in her shopping bag, plainly eager to hear more, but Dittany had caught sight of Melissa. After a brief word to a colleague, she escaped from behind the counter with both hands outstretched.

  ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ she said fervently. ‘I hardly slept a wink last night.’

  The inquisitive woman was still hovering; over Dittany’s shoulder, Melissa could almost see her ears stretching. ‘Why don’t we go and have something to eat during your lunch break?’ she suggested. ‘I couldn’t face breakfast this morning and I’m beginning to feel empty.’

  ‘Me too.’ Dittany glanced at her watch. ‘I’m free now, actually.’

  They found a corner table in a nearby café, which was quiet enough to make conversation possible but sufficiently busy to prevent their being overheard. During the short drive from Upper Benbury to Stowbridge, Melissa had been considering possible ways of raising the question that had been in her mind for most of the morning, but in the event she had no need of any of them. Dittany, too, had been giving the matter much thought.

  ‘Mitch is so upset about Will … he keeps saying it’s all his fault he’s dead … have you any idea what he could mean?’

  ‘None at all. I thought you might know … That is, I thought you might know what Will was doing at Heyshill Manor in the first place. As well as taking part in the show, which we all know he hated doing anyway.’

  Dittany stopped her pretence of eating a mushroom omelette and began fiddling with her paper napkin. ‘That’s been puzzling me ever since we began rehearsals,’ she said. ‘The others thought it was a bit of a joke – poor Will, he was quite hopeless at acting – but it really wasn’t funny. He went through agonies of nerves. He confided in me once, when I went to fetch him from the bar to play one of his scenes, that the thought of going on the stage – “making a prat of himself in front of everyone” he called it – quite turned his stomach.’

  ‘So why was he doing it?’

  ‘I asked him that, and all I could get out of him was “I owe Mitch one.”’

  ‘Have you asked Mitch?’

  Dittany coloured slightly, and made another effort to eat the congealing omelette. ‘I mentioned it once, and he just turned it aside. I … don’t feel I know him well enough yet to ask too many questions.’

  ‘But you’ve been seeing him – apart from rehearsals, I mean?’ As she spoke, it occurred to Melissa that her own acquaintance with Dittany was even more slight than Dittany’s with Mitch, but the question was received without resentment.

  ‘We’ve been spending some time together, yes – when he can get away from his business commitments. I’ve never met anybody quite like him.’ Dittany’s oval face, with its delicate bones and large eyes, took on a dreamy expression. ‘He’s got so many sides to his character.’ She smiled down at the tablecloth, as if remembering something that pleased her. Melissa ate her cheese salad and waited.

  ‘Under that jokey Cockney exterior there’s a very tough, quick-witted businessman,’ Dittany continued after a pause.

  ‘Well, there has to be, hasn’t there?’ remarked Melissa, as Dittany still appeared absorbed in her reflections. ‘He’d never have built up that huge business empire without a hard nose and a lot of financial nous.’

  ‘Of course, but he’s got a soft centre – he’s a devoted son to his old Mum
and Dad.’

  Melissa smothered a grin. ‘So were the Kray twins, I believe.’ Dittany bit her lip and Melissa touched her gently on the hand. ‘Sorry – just my warped sense of humour. Please go on.’

  ‘He really is a very sensitive, caring person … he supports a lot of good causes … and he’s concerned about the environment … and he’s keen on the arts, but he never learned much about them at school. I’ve been sort of helping him … We’ve had some lovely talks about books and things and he’s really got a very fine mind, but …’ Dittany broke off and stared down at her plate; the hand that held her fork was unsteady.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Melissa, after a further pause, during which her companion seemed to be making up her mind whether to continue or not.

  ‘Last night, he said something rather strange and it made me a little … afraid. He phoned me after I got home. It was quite late, after midnight, and he was so apologetic at disturbing me but he said he just had to talk to me.’ Another rush of colour to the face betrayed emotions that Dittany was plainly trying to hide. ‘He was so upset … I was crying too … and he kept repeating that it was his fault Will was dead, and then he calmed down and said, very quietly, “I’ll get the bastards, if it’s the last thing I do.” And you should have heard, Melissa, the … the rasp, the hate in his voice. It was quite horrible.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Melissa. ‘Are you saying that Mitch believes someone else played a part in Will’s death?’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like. He said there’s to be an inquest …’

  ‘That’s normal in a case of sudden death.’

  ‘And a post-mortem. Doesn’t that mean the doctors suspect something?’

  ‘Not necessarily – it just means they haven’t been able to determine the cause of death by external examination. If it wasn’t the head injury that killed him, they’ll be looking for something like a stroke or a heart attack that could account for the fall.’ A thought struck Melissa. ‘I know this isn’t a nice thing to suggest, but you don’t suppose he’d had too much to drink, do you?’

  Dittany shook her head. ‘Oh, no,’ she declared. ‘He never had more than one or two drinks.’

  ‘Those steps are very steep, and quite smooth and worn in places.’ Melissa closed her eyes and shuddered at the memory.

  Dittany pushed the mangled remains of the omelette to one side and took her capsule bottle from her handbag. ‘I think I’ll take one of these, I’m a bit on edge,’ she said apologetically. She up-ended the bottle and shook it; it was empty. ‘Damn, I meant to get some more … oh Lord,’ she whispered, with a catch in her voice. ‘Will was in such a tizzy the evening he died, I gave my last two to him. I’m not sure he ever took them, though. He had a real fixation about any form of drugs.’

  ‘But those aren’t drugs?’

  ‘Of course not – they’re herbal extracts and completely non-addictive. I doubt if I convinced Will, though.’ Dittany gave a sad shake of the head as she put the bottle away.

  ‘Let’s get back to Mitch,’ said Melissa. ‘You say he spoke about “getting” someone. Any idea who he was talking about?’

  ‘None at all. I did ask him but he told me he’d been talking nonsense and I was to forget what he’d said … He sounded really furious for a moment and then he spoke gently again and said he’d call me this evening. You won’t let him know I’ve told you all this, will you, Melissa? I don’t think he’d like it, somehow.’

  ‘No, of course I won’t. But if you get the chance, I’d warn him against settling any private grudges. It could land him in serious trouble. Bad for his business image and all that,’ she added, with an attempt at lightening the atmosphere.

  A smile flickered over Dittany’s wan face as she checked her watch. ‘I’ll have to be getting back to the library. It’s been such a relief, talking to you.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ But I haven’t learned much, thought Melissa as she made her way back to the car park. Except that Chloe was almost certainly right: the show was nothing more than an elaborate subterfuge. Something at Heyshill Manor Hotel was not what it seemed, and Will was there at Mitch’s behest because he ‘owed him one’. But what, exactly, had he been looking for? Why should Mitch adopt such a subterfuge when, as the owner of the hotel, he was in a position to ask any questions or carry out openly any investigation he wanted? And who else, apart from himself, was he trying to blame for Will’s death?

  It’s none of your business, Melissa Craig, she told herself on the way home. It was pure chance that you happened to be there when Will had his fall … if you hadn’t taken that first-aid course you’d never have been involved. Keep out of it and get back to work or you’ll have Joe Martin breathing down your neck and muttering about deadlines.

  As for telling Mitch about the conversation with Dittany, it was unlikely that the occasion would arise. Innocent Blood Avenged was almost certainly a dead duck and there would be no more rehearsals for her to attend. She felt a twinge of disappointment; she had been pleasantly surprised at how slick and funny it was turning out under Chloe’s direction.

  When she reached home, she found Iris sitting in front of her cottage, working at her easel. After putting the car away, she strolled across for a chat.

  ‘Mind if I look?’

  ‘Help yourself. Tell me what you think.’ Iris put her brush in a jar of water and sat back.

  It was a simple study of their peaceful Cotswold valley, the foreground a random pattern of trees and pasture divided by low stone walls that curved and undulated along the uneven terrain, the background a checker-board of corn stubble and freshly turned earth. There was a glint of water from the brook, chestnut-brown cattle grazing on the hillside, a cloud of gulls wheeling round a tractor. It was a familiar scene, one they watched through the changing seasons with never-failing pleasure. By sheer skill with the use of colour, Iris had managed to convey the effect of the late September sun, which set the sky aglow and lay over fields and woodland like a haze of golden dust.

  ‘Iris, that is lovely,’ said Melissa warmly.

  ‘You like it?’ Iris gave her a keen look. ‘Not just saying?’

  ‘You know me better than that. The sunlight … it’s got that special autumn quality – terrific.’

  ‘Glad you like it. Been working on it for this “Patterns of Light and Shade” thing, y’know.’

  ‘You mean the course you’re giving in France next month? I’d forgotten about that – it’s going ahead, then?’

  ‘Always was. One or two students from last time signed on straight away.’

  ‘Is Jack Hammond one of them?’ asked Melissa slyly. Jack had taken a shine to Iris during the art course she had tutored the previous July; by coincidence he lived in nearby Somerset. Although Iris was being pretty cagey, Melissa had a shrewd suspicion that they had been seeing one another fairly often, and was glad. A stable relationship was exactly what Iris needed, after a couple of near-disasters.

  Iris’s mouth, which in repose had a certain uncompromising set, widened in a smile that softened her sharp features and brought a sparkle to her eyes. ‘He’s driving me down,’ she said, in a vain effort to sound casual.

  ‘That’s great. How many have enrolled?’

  ‘Eight so far, and several more enquiries.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll all want to know how they can achieve that effect.’ Melissa gestured towards the easel. ‘It almost makes me want to have a go myself.’

  Iris grinned and took up her brush again. ‘Must get on before the light changes. Care to come for supper?’

  ‘Love to.’

  As Melissa entered Hawthorn Cottage, the telephone rang.

  ‘That you, Mel?’ There was no mistaking the staccato London voice that made an unfinished ‘w’ from the final ‘1’ of her name.

  ‘Mitch! How did you get my number?’

  ‘Chris got it, no problem.’

  So much for going ex-directory, thought Melissa resignedly.

>   ‘Mel, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Not on the phone. Have you got time this evening?’

  ‘I’m having supper with a friend …’ she began, but Mitch was quick to interrupt.

  ‘This is urgent – can’t you put him off?’ There was a note of authority in his voice, the tone of a man accustomed to giving orders and getting his own way.

  It seemed a good moment to make it clear that she was not prepared to be hustled. ‘Not without a good reason,’ she replied calmly.

  There was a pause before he repeated, ‘I don’t want to discuss it on the phone.’

  ‘I’m not asking for details … just some idea …’

  ‘Okay then, if you insist. It’s about Will Foley.’ She waited, determined not to help him. ‘I’m not satisfied his death was an accident.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ She hoped her exclamation conveyed genuine surprise. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m suggesting … I’m just not satisfied.’

  ‘Why tell me? If you’ve got suspicions, you should tell the police.’

  ‘I haven’t anything concrete to go on but there’s a few things that don’t add up. I thought you might help me figure them out … you being a crime writer and all that.’

  So that was what he had in mind – picking her brains. Really, of all the …

  ‘Look, are you going to come or not?’ He sounded on edge; under the peremptory, almost hectoring manner was a man desperate for help.

  ‘I’ll think about it and call you back,’ she said. He gave her the number with evident reluctance; she half expected a request not to divulge it to anyone else.

  ‘Shouldn’t do it if I were you,’ said Iris when she reported Mitch’s call. ‘But knowing you, you will. Don’t worry, we’ll sup another time.’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’