Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Read online

  The sound of dainty footsteps twinkling down the stairs – for, for all his bulk, Jefferson was light on his feet, and a wonderful ballroom dancer – caught her attention, and she wheeled round to see the be-whiskered figure of a veritable Edwardian gentleman tripping his way towards her, a smile on his broad breaming face, a hand extended in greeting.

  ‘Good afternoon. You must be the delightful Ms Meercroft to whom I spoke on the telephone. I am Jefferson Grammaticus, at your service,’ he broadcast in a hearty voice, all the while pumping her hand as if he expected cream to pour lavishly from her mouth.

  ‘Absolutely correct, Mr Grammaticus, and please call me Alison, as we’re to be partners in crime, as it were.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good! Jolly droll that, Alison, and you must call me Jefferson. Have you got the gear with you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all outside in the van, if you can get someone to give me a hand, and show me where to put everything. I’ve brought all my own rails, as agreed, so I just need a room, and somewhere for the guests to try on their costumes, preferably with mirrors on hand – for checking out the effect. Unless they’d rather do that in their rooms,’ she added, remembering that all the costumes would be worn by residents.

  Alison Meercroft was proprietor and manager of the Market Darley fancy dress shop known as ‘DisguiserGuys’, and had been persuaded to dress all the hotel guests in appropriate period costume for this opening weekend. Should this prove to be a success, her services would be retained for any future events, and for guests who may wish to adopt period costume for the duration of their stay.

  Future events were covered by the same deal, and she wholeheartedly hoped it would be an enormous success, for she needed the business. She had had to invest quite heavily in extra rigs for the period, and had taken on an assistant to help as dresser, and to keep the shop going should she, Alison, need to visit The Manse during business hours.

  Meanwhile, Jefferson Grammaticus had put the index finger and thumb of his right hand into his mouth, and produced a piercing whistle, which had both Messrs Freeman arrive at the trot. ‘Yass, Massa?’ queried Jocelyn facetiously, and immediately received, in reply, a stern look from both his business partners. ‘Sorry! Just trying to lighten the mood, dispel a bit of the tension around here. I can’t help it if I sometimes speak in bad taste.’

  ‘Alison, may I introduce you to my co-owners in this venture, Jerome and Jocelyn Freeman. Don’t ask which is which, because I’ve known them for over thirty years, and I still can’t tell. Gentlemen, this is Alison Meercroft of DisguiserGuys, who will be taking care of our costume needs throughout this grand opening weekend, and, I sincerely hope, for some long time after that.’

  After hands had been shaken and ‘howdy-do’s exchanged, the three of them went outside to the large van that was parked just outside the entrance doors and began to gather armfuls of rich clothing from out of its rear doors. On the way back in, Jefferson yelled, a sort of yodelling sound, and Beatrix Ironmonger and Chastity Chamberlain appeared at the head of the staircase at the point where it bifurcated.

  ‘Can you two come down here and give us a hand with the costumes. We need to get the rails into the billiards room and hang them all in there.’

  ‘We’re too busy!’ stated Mrs Ironmonger, preparing to turn on her heel and leave.

  ‘Oh no you’re not,’ shouted Grammaticus. ‘You get yourselves down here and get these clothes hung up this instant. If you’ve got too much to do before opening, we’ll discuss it after everything’s ready in the clothing department. NOW!’

  The two women trotted down the stairs in mute but sullen obedience, their expressions wooden and fixed. They would do as he asked – no, demanded as his right – and, if the rooms weren’t ready when the guests arrived, it would be his business and reputation at stake, not theirs.

  Mrs Ironmonger opened the doors to the billiards room while Chastity received mobile hanging rails from Alison Meercroft, lining them up at the back of the room, where the rich jewel-coloured silks and satins of the ladies’ clothes would catch the light and look their best.

  As Mrs Ironmonger began to hang the garments from the pile under which Chastity seemed to have disappeared, Jefferson’s voice could be heard from just outside the door, addressing the bringer of all this extra work for the two hard-pressed women.

  ‘Alison, you didn’t forget to bring the masks and wigs, did you?’

  ‘Of course not, Jefferson! They’re the real fun of the whole thing, aren’t they? I mean, the clothes make you feel completely different, but you still basically look like you. But add a wig and a mask, and you can be anyone you feel like being. I’ve done my best to make your guests look like they’re attending the Carnevale – have you ever been to Venice for Carnevale?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she swept on, regardless. ‘I went one year, just to get a look at the costumes. Oh God, they were to die for! But the things people got up to when they were masked! You might get a bit of that going on here, if they swill enough wine,’ she said disapprovingly

  Jefferson smiled a success-anticipating smile, and said he didn’t mind if they decided to go in for a full-blooded orgy and stripped naked to go midnight bathing in the river, so long as they paid for breakages and collateral damage, refrained from swinging from his French chandeliers, and didn’t frighten the horses.

  ‘What horses?’ Alison asked, momentarily puzzled at how animals had suddenly entered the conversation.

  ‘Just a figure of speech, my dear: no real horses to worry about – unless any of the male guests fancies himself as a bit of a stallion, eh?’ Jefferson was feeling very high-spirited in his excitement, and had totally forgotten about the high standards, both of service and behaviour, that he expected from his establishment, which would put it up there with the most exclusive boutique hotels, in the perception of future guests.

  Alison could feel herself blushing as she reached into the van for the great bag of wigs, and the other, of masks. She hoped he had been kidding with his suggestion of the possibility of events at this hotel bearing any resemblance to the Bacchanalian rompings in the Pearl of the Adriatic. Surely he was only pulling her leg. If not, it didn’t sound like her sort of weekend at all.

  She didn’t mind the thought of beautiful surroundings, fine food and wine, coupled with superb service: it was the other sort of service that now played on her mind, and she dismissed it as fanciful on her part. Not in this quiet part of the English countryside, at any rate, but the man’s eyes had been full of silken sheets and sex, and she gave a reluctant little shiver in response.

  At this point in the shouted discussion, Beatrix Ironmonger appeared through the door of the billiards room with her hands on her hips and a sour expression, clearing her throat to attract attention. Turning, Jefferson took one look at her and burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, Mr Grammaticus, and you know it!’ she spat.

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Mrs Ironmonger.’ At this point, he was moved to a further gale of laughter, eventually continuing, ‘You won’t be required to do any wenching. Your duties are strictly those of a housekeeper in this establishment.’

  ‘And glad I am to hear it,’ she replied. ‘And I hope that pertains for young Chastity, too.’

  ‘It does, indeed, my dear Beatrix, if I may so address you. Now, come and take these bags of wigs and masks from Alison, and get Chastity to help you set them out on the cover of the billiard table. And then, would the two of you be so kind as to go up to the attic floor, to the room where I store surplus props, and see how many hand mirrors you can rustle up. If the women are going to be wearing wigs, we’d better be prepared for them to be able to examine their rear view, as well as their front.’

  ‘If you give me a bucket of sand, I’ll sing you a desert song,’ was her parting shot, as she disappeared back into the room, to alert Chastity to the next task on their list of chores. ‘And get someone else on to the bed-making, or you’l
l have nowhere for your swanky guests to sleep tonight, unless they fancy a bare mattress.’

  As Alison Meercroft took her final leave of The Manse, promising to return that evening with her new assistant to help guests choose their outfits, she found said new assistant standing just inside the foyer, reading the staff list (for the convenience of absent-minded guests who hadn’t brought their information brochures downstairs with them.

  ‘What are you doing, Céline? Thinking of doing a bit of moonlighting?’

  ‘Ze sought nevair crossed ma mind. No, Ah am jost ’aving a look at ’oo works ’ere. I see zey ’ave a French chef.’

  ‘But of course, Céline. Nothing but the best for Mr Grammaticus, or so I’ve heard.’ She still found it difficult to think of him as Jefferson. He was definitely a ‘Mr’ to her, with his imposing presence and slightly intimidating personality.

  ‘Ah should sink so too. Ze best chefs in ze whole world are French, n’est-ce-pas?’

  ‘Anything you say. Now, let’s get back and see if we can’t get a bit of work done in the shop before we have to come back here again, later.’

  ‘Can’t Ah jost go ’ome for a leedle rest?’ pleaded the Frenchwoman.

  ‘Absolutely not! What a lazy lot you French are! If you’re going to live in England, you’re going to have to learn to work like a native, not skive off at every opportunity that presents itself.’

  ‘Espece de vache!’ muttered Céline.

  ‘I heard that!’ retorted Alison.

  ‘Yes, but you don’t know what it means, do you?’ Céline whispered very quietly to herself.

  III

  In the end, everybody had to pitch in to get the rooms ready to be occupied – everybody, with the exception of Chef – and Jefferson had to admit that he had been just a little bit light on the numbers he had thought would be able to manage the day-to-day running of The Manse.

  When he had broached the subject of pitching in with everybody else, he got a very dusty and uncompromising answer.

  ‘Ah am ze great ,ze only, ze magnificent Antoine de la Robe, and Ah do not do ze work of little girlies. Ah am no maid of ze chamber. Ah am an artiste. Ah create flavours that cry on ze tongue and sen’ ze stomach to ’eaven. Ah do not tuck shits.’ His final pronouncement was that he would rather disembowel himself with a melon scoop than stoop to manual work of the traditionally female kind.

  Jefferson’s last task was to gather his staff together to explain the intricacies of the murder mystery dinner to them, for they too had to get in character. They met in the staff sitting room, most of them looking hot and bothered after having to work so hard pitching in with bed-making and the like, but he quickly quelled their protests.

  ‘We’ll have none of that for the moment. I understand your frustrations, and I promise you that I will contact an agency for extra help immediately. I fear, however, that we shall have to manage this weekend on our own, and I realise that the extra work involved will require a little bonus.’

  The angry muttering subsided, and was replaced with various expressions of avarice and greed. ‘You will be required to act your own parts in this little drama, but that is more to do with costume than acting skills.’ Mrs Ironmonger, who had raised her hand in protest at the thought of playing a part, lowered it again.

  ‘The mystery script that Persephone has been kind enough,’ (and been paid enough, he thought) ‘to produce for us is set in nineteen-twenties Venice, at the height of the Carnevale. The exact location is a private dining room in an hotel that is holding a masked ball. The guests, of course, will be in character and costume.

  ‘All I require of you is the impeccable service that I hope will become a trademark of this establishment, with the addition of large white aprons for the ladies, and a long black skirt if you have one. The barman – that’s you, Steve – will wear a white shirt and black bow-tie, but you already have a supply of those for your everyday work.

  ‘Jocelyn and Jerome, I have something a little special for you, which I shall show you forthwith. Steve, do you know when the Bellini was invented – er, scrub that. I’m sure none of the guests is going to quibble about a slightly out-of-era cocktail if it’s free gratis. Now, off you go. We’ve only a short time left before the first of our guests arrive and we’ll be open for business. We’ll meet back here when everything’s locked down for the night, and share a little champagne to celebrate all your hard work, and our first day’s trading. Now, scoot!’

  In the billiards room, Jefferson Grammaticus proudly displayed the special costumes he had actually purchased, rather than hired, for Jocelyn, Jerome, and himself. For the twins, he had chosen jesters’ costumes in gaudy turquoise with a darker blue, to echo the colours of their everyday uniforms. As they would be wearing jesters’ hats, with the addition of a mask, this would make them easier to identify in the heavily disguised party that would populate The Manse tomorrow evening.

  For himself, he had chosen an outrageous outfit, part jester, part something extremely sinister, in red and white, and he felt he would strike just the right note, with Death himself on the prowl within their fantasy. This ensemble, however, was safely secreted in his room, so that everyone would be subject to the same surprise, guests and staff alike, when he made his entrance just before the meal.

  ‘Lawdy, Lawdy, jest look-it all this fahnery. Ain’t we gonna look a coupla han’some peacocks in this get-up?’

  ‘We sure is gonna look a coupla fancy n …’

  ‘Don’t use the ‘n’ word – either of you – and stop messing about with those phoney slaves’ accents. You spent decades being well-spoken, respectable members of the community. I don’t see why you have to degenerate into a comedy duo, just as we’re about to launch our business.’

  ‘We do this because of all the years we had to be sober and serious, Jefferson,’ explained Jocelyn.

  ‘And don’t worry: we wouldn’t even think of doing it in front of anybody but the staff here. We’re not going to let you down: we’re just enjoying a little freedom. It’s been a long hard road to today, and we’re naturally excited.’

  ‘Sure are, honey-chil’,’ agreed the other. Even now, Jefferson couldn’t be sure who was who, unless he debagged them, for Jocelyn had a small birthmark on his left buttock.

  ‘Shut up and go try on your costumes,’ ordered Jefferson, smiling as the two of them capered from the room like a couple of women about to try on new party frocks.

  As they raced each other up the stairs, Jefferson heard a commotion from the kitchen, and speeded his steps to see what was afoot; no doubt another Gallic outburst of temperament. Antoine cooked like an angel, but maybe hiring him had been a step too far. He was far too prone to tantrums, and was liable to throw the first thing to hand when he was in one of his furies, and there were a lot of sharp objects in a kitchen.

  The force of the large man’s fury was like a tempest, encompassing everything and everyone with which it made contact. Currently, Dwayne Mortte was in the firing line, receiving yell after yell of contumely as Antoine battered the hell out of a piece of veal on a chopping board. It could not have been more than a millimetre thick, so hard had he laboured at it with his little wooden meat hammer.

  ‘What the hell’s going on in here?’ yelled Grammaticus, in a voice that would not have disgraced a parade ground, and certainly stopped Antoine’s tirade immediately. ‘What is it now, Antoine? A fly in the soup, or something equally world-shattering?’

  Antoine drew himself up to his full five-feet-nine-and-a-half, and glowered at his boss. ‘Whah you bah all zees wop food for me? Why Ah gotta lotta stuff for wop deeshes? Ah am French, an’ Ah cook French food.’

  ‘I ordered, what you refer to as ‘wop’ food, because the murder mystery dinner for tomorrow night is set in Venice, and I rather thought it might be a good idea for our guests to eat Italian food – get them in the mood, as it were. Tonight you cook French. What’s the problem?

  ‘Zut alors! Zees eez incroyable! ’Ow can I
cook wop sheet, when mah reputation is for the fahn deeshes of Paree? Nom d’dun nom d’un nom!’

  ‘Shut up, Antoine, and remember our little arrangement. French tonight, Italian tomorrow. Do I make myself clear, Chef?’

  The Frenchman crumbled, and mumbled, ‘Oui, monsieur!’ then more quietly, ‘Merde!’

  A swoosh from the kitchen doors announced the arrival of Chastity Chamberlain, who broke his mood by gushing about the fabulous costumes that DisguiserGuys had just delivered, a dreamy look in her eyes. She was at that ball in Venice, and she was the belle of it, in her head.

  Successfully distracted from his previous grievance, Chef threw his hands in the air, and declared, ‘DisgeezerGeez? Eet eez Ah oo need a disgeez – Ah, oo am on ze run from a derahnged charactair. Ah am pursued wherever Ah go. Zere eez no peace for me in zis world.’

  ‘Oh, give over, Chef! Your histrionics have got you into trouble more than once in the past, and I’ll have none of it here. Calm down and stop making such a drama out of every little thing. Wear a disguise if you want. I don’t give a rat’s arse if you dress up as Lucrezia Borgia, as long as you turn out your customary fabulous food, and don’t poison the guests. There now! Get on with your job, and let me get on with mine.’

  Grammaticus turned on his heel and smartly exited the kitchen, running into Steve Grieve, who was scuttling off to the bar with an armful of assorted bottles of such delights as angostura bitters and Worcestershire sauce. ‘Bellini, Mr Grammaticus!’ he stated, stopping in his tracks, and setting his burden down on one of the sofas.

  ‘Bellini what, Steve? I’ve got a hundred and one things to do, so make it quick.’

  Steve bunched his eyebrows together in thought, and cast his gaze about a foot above Jefferson’s head, then began to recite as if he had learnt it by rote, ‘The Bellini was invented between nineteen-thirty-four and nineteen forty-eight by Giuseppe Cipriani, founder of Harry’s Bar in Venice. It is a mixture of Prosecco and peach puree. Its unique pink colour reminded Cipriani of the toga of a saint, in a painting by the fifteenth century Venetian artist Giovanni Bellini, hence its name.