Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Page 8

  Jefferson stood by the doors of the room, surveying the little kingdom in which he owned thirty-three and a third per cent, and pondered his plans for prosperity. The physical nearness of Percy had reminded him of his hopes for an alliance between them, stretching well into the future, and of course he had a fabulous chef, to whom he had also proposed in-house cookery courses, with an additional bonus in salary to accompany this extra work.

  Of course, the extra remuneration could not be too generous, as he might lose him to a rival establishment, but if he kept his wings clipped sufficiently, he could hang on to him for a long time to come, and thus enhance the culinary success of his own establishment. This was an ‘I’ll scratch your back …’ agreement, and he would remind Chef of that, should it become necessary and he became a little too big for his boots.

  With his best Edwardian country house squire smile spread across his face, he surveyed with pleasure the sight of Steve mixing drinks and clearing away as he worked, the Freeman brothers circulating in their best upper-servant manner, each with a silver tray, to keep the guests happily oiling themselves. It was time to call the proceedings to a halt and make his announcement about the setting for their little dramatic exercise.

  Clearing his throat loudly, he called for their attention. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have the pleasure of your ears? I know you are probably eager to hear when and where our murder mystery is set, so let me apprise you of the details.

  ‘Imagine you are in Venice. It is the pre-war era,’ (sneaky, avoiding an exact date like that, so no one could challenge with the legitimacy of Bellinis being served), ‘and it is the time of the Carnevale. You are all moneyed people, staying in one of the grander hotels, and tomorrow evening, you will be attending a grand ball.

  ‘During the evening, you will all retire to a private dining room for the finest of Italian cuisine. During the meal, you will have the opportunity to get to know your companions – a necessity, as at the commencement of the meal, it is announced that there has been a murder.

  ‘The meal is your opportunity to uncover that murderer, with the aid of your character booklets for your own personality, and your investigative and interview skills to uncover the villain. Between courses the narrator, I, in suitable Carnevale costume, will relate to you additional information, and you will be allowed to turn a page of your character booklet to learn more about the person you are playing.

  ‘At this moment in time, I beg you not to look forward in your character booklets ahead of any given signal. It may not ruin the game, but it will mar its playing out, and I want everyone to get maximum enjoyment from our play-acting time together.

  ‘I have decided that tonight, only character leaflets will be issued.’ At this point Percy looked at her husband with fear in her eyes, but Lloyd merely nodded and smiled at her, letting her know that this had all been sorted out when she was having her fit of heebie-jeebies, earlier.

  ‘Quite quick and simple, my dear. Don’t worry your little head about it.’

  ‘Tomorrow night the full booklets will be available to you, to embellish your characterisation. And now, if you would be so good, please adjourn to the billiards room where my ‘ladies of the wardrobe’ are waiting to provide you with your ball costumes, wigs, and masks. Let us be gone!’

  He was rather pleased with his ‘ladies of the wardrobe’ and his ‘let us be gone’, and trotted on ahead of them, leading the way, his mouth almost watering with the taste of success, sweet and nourishing as it was for both the bank balance and the soul.

  II

  While cocktails were commencing in the library, the ladies from DisguiserGuys were making last-minute checks on their stock and display, both in a state of twittering nerves about the success of the venture, Alison Meercroft in particular, as it was her business, Céline Treny on a little side-road, as she had business of a rather different sort to conduct during their time at The Manse.

  II1/2

  In the kitchen, Antoine de la Robe, amidst the clatter and chatter of his working environment, whirled round in surprise as he was tapped on the shoulder. ‘Sacre bleu!’ he ejaculated. ‘My ’eart, it have nearly ceased to beat!’ he cried but, on whirling round, he became silent as the grave, and stared at the figure behind him with wide and frightened eyes.

  ‘’ow deed you fahnd me?’ he asked, in a voice hoarse with apprehension. ‘’ow in ze name of ze bon Dieu did you know Ah was ’ere? You devil! Weel you dog me to mah grave?’

  The figure merely nodded. It stood stock still in absolute silence for what was, in fact only about twenty seconds, but what seemed to Antoine like hours, then smiled and nodded, still without speaking, and disappeared out through the kitchen door as suddenly as it had appeared behind him.

  ‘Deed you see zat?’ shouted Antoine, thoroughly rattled.

  ‘See what, Chef?’ asked Dwayne Mortte.

  Chastity Chamberlain looked up from her vegetable preparation, as if emerging from underwater. ‘What was that, Chef?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. What were we supposed to have seen?’ asked Beatrix Ironmonger, who was stirring the contents of a large saucepan.

  ‘Never mahnd!’ said Antoine. ‘Ah theenk Ah am seein' theengs. Eet eez ze fahnly-tuned artistic temperament of mah culinary calling. Eet is nossing!’

  With a little more mental effort, he would be able to convince himself that he had just experienced a crisis of nerves, a hallucinatory return to his past, and that nothing of moment had happened.

  III

  The guests thronged into the billiards room like a flock of excited starlings, eagerly anticipating the next part of their ‘out of time’ adventure in this beautiful building, but as they crossed the threshold, they were effectively silenced by the bright rainbow colours and fine, rich fabrics of the garments that hung before their eyes, before falling on them as if to devour them in their richness.

  As Jefferson departed, he was aware of Fruity Newberry arguing furiously against wearing a wig, no doubt worried that he would be far too hot under a double helping of hirsute assistance. And he had noted for the first time that some of his guests wore glasses – an absolute no-no where full-face masks were concerned.

  Whether they had arrived in contact lenses and changed to something a little more brain-friendly where drinking was concerned, he did not know, but concluding that they would all have to remove their facial coverings to eat, he let it drop from his concerns, and just wondered at the choice of frames by some of those foregathered in the billiards room.

  It was the spectacles worn by Teddy Newberry that had first caught his attention. Her nose was adorned with a ghastly concoction in bright red plastic, with winged corners and inset diamante. Zut alors! – as Chef would no doubt have remarked.

  It took a lot longer than he thought to recapture his birds, and he stroked his beard meditatively as he surveyed the squiffy crowd that assembled at the dining table, a full half hour after he had planned. Bonhomie and alcohol rolled off them in waves, and he could only imagine the state of hysteria that his chef was no doubt currently enjoying, at the thought of his beautiful creation spoiling, his reputation curdling before his very eyes.

  He really would have to speak to Steve about the strength of in-house cocktails, He could see how inhibitions had been shed, and a fair amount of twinkling and furtive eye contact was going on between guests who had not arrived together. In fact, he was left in no doubt that, had the table been made of glass, he would have been able to see rather a lot of hand-stroking and footsie being played.

  The drinks needed to be more carefully monitored, if he didn’t want this weekend to end up resembling a teenagers’ school trip. He had no personal objections to people forming extra-marital alliances, so long as it did not interfere with the smooth running of the business, nor include any unpleasant, embarrassing scenes of the ‘coitus interruptus’ sort. There must be nothing of that sort to mar this launch, as word would get out, and he would be lampooned in the bu
siness.

  Food, however, seemed to calm everyone down, as bodies accepted fuel to mop up the alcohol and, although the first course was bolted with greedy enthusiasm, as the meal progressed, a slightly less rowdy atmosphere prevailed for a while. The Freemans served with their normal gravitas, and Chastity cleared away in silence, but with a quiet servility (even if feigned) that won her his silent praise.

  Table talk was all of the evening to come tomorrow, and of the fabulous creations they would be wearing, and it was not until everyone retired to the drawing room for coffee, allowing the staff to clear away the detritus of the meal, that things hotted up again. An indiscriminate amount of cognac was ordered, to ease the coffee down their throats, and the mischief in people’s faces began, once again, to assert itself.

  Fruity Newberry cast frequent longing looks, charged with middle-aged fire, in the direction of Sue Veede. His wife Teddy, however, noticed nothing, as she had her eye firmly on Mark Berkeley-Lewis who responded with little lowerings of his eye lashes, making what Jefferson had always referred to as ‘come-to-bed’ eyes at her.

  His wife Madge had sat herself down on a sofa beside Enoch Arkwright (why?), and was clearly flirting, although it was difficult to say what could have been in the least attractive about the man. She must have been wearing her Bellini-goggles, and Jefferson had to admit that, if the man kept his mouth shut, it was vaguely possible that someone could have taken a shine to him, but it was still difficult to swallow. Perhaps Madge took a genuine interest in the intricacies of the scrap-metal trade?

  Thank goodness Aylsa was ignoring the whole thing, probably glad to get out of the man’s company for a short while, during which she didn’t have to listen to his constant carping. It was only Lew Veede who seemed at all put out, and he eyed his wife with slitted eyes, which carried a look that said that he would mark her card before the night was out.

  ‘May I get you a refill for your cognac, sir?’ Jefferson asked, swooping over to the frowning form that was Lew with the motive of distraction, and it worked. As the host congratulated himself on his speedy interjection, Mark Berkeley-Lewis strolled over and began to quiz Jefferson about the price of the hotel venture, going into great detail about the purchase price – a steal – and the cost of the refitting. Even if not in a senior position within his branch of banking, Mark knew his stuff, and Jefferson was soon bored enough that he resorted to the old ‘freshen your drinks?’ trick again.

  By this time, Lew Veede had been supplied with yet another immoderately generous cognac, and was sitting back in his chair, thoroughly relaxed and with a silly smile on his face, seemingly completely recovered from his earlier fit of the sulks.

  Only a short while later, and after consulting his watch to assess the lateness of the hour, Jefferson’s ascension to an upright position was like a cue, and some of the guests began to gather their things together and announce their intentions of turning in for the night. After all, tomorrow was the highlight of their stay, and they didn’t want it to pass while they were still in the throes of gargantuan hangovers.

  It was gone two o’clock before he had managed to shepherd the last of them up the stairs, and he sent Jocelyn and Jerome up with the final two stragglers, conscious that he had no wish whatsoever to have to summon an ambulance at this hour of the morning, because a drunken guest had taken a tumble down the stairs.

  After a final check of the premises, a large brandy (not cognac) for Chef, who had seemed more distracted than furious at the delay of the meal, and the locking down procedure, Jefferson sat down on his bed in the green bedroom, utterly exhausted, both mentally and physically. This was all much harder than he had thought it would be, and the wearing of his squire’s uniform had proved an uncomfortable and restricting practice, after his usual casual attire of jeans, T-shirt, and trainers, which he had lived in for the duration of the refurbishment.

  If he had arrived at his own hotel in the gear he normally wore, he would not have allowed himself admission, and was overcome by a sudden wave of sympathy for the squires of the past. They knew no different in the clothing department, to what he had worn tonight, and must have spent their entire lives in a sort of sartorial prison. The corseting of the women he didn’t dare envisage, as it was far too horrible to even contemplate, but he understood just a tiny bit more why they had wanted emancipation, if only to earn the right to let it all hang out!

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday 19th June – morning

  I

  The first full day of the hotel’s business started on a quiet note. A few guests requested breakfast in their rooms – continental, not full English – others asked for only tea or coffee and juice to be delivered. The dining room, therefore, held only Percy and Lloyd, who were not great imbibers of spirituous liquors, and who had retired first the evening before, refusing any other after dinner drinks, and sneaking off to the kitchen where they knew they could make themselves a nice cup of cocoa to send them off to sleep.

  Percy was in a strange mood, which consisted of a storm of self-doubt that her story would work, and a belligerence that harked back to her more normal self. She constantly upbraided Lloyd for his table manners, his lack of conversation, and his general belief that he should be allowed to exist; but as far as food was concerned, she merely crumbled a slice of toast into small pieces, few of which were consumed.

  In complete contrast, Lloyd seemed to have affected political deafness, no doubt used to his wife’s attitude to the revelation of her creations, and ate like a trencherman, devouring cereal, a full plate of all that could be desired at that time of day, and several slices of toast and Oxford-cut marmalade with perfect enjoyment. All washed down with two glasses of orange juice and four cups of tea, he sat back replete, a happy man, who wanted nothing more than to digest his feast in peace, without any GBH of the earhole.

  With this desire in mind, he left the table without a backward glance at his wife, and headed for the library, where he could sit and contemplate the place where his navel was reputed to be without interruption. Percy, suddenly becoming aware of her solitude, went off in search of Jefferson, who represented another ear she could bend with her anxiety. He’d know just what to say to sooth her frayed nerves, and if he didn’t, she’d never write for him again: never!

  The bright sunlight of morning was not welcomed in the five bedrooms that had been paid for, and curtains remained firmly shut against its intrusion.

  In the white and gold room, Sue was the first awake. Her head was thumping, her mouth was like the bottom of a birdcage, so dry was it, and her first move was to the bathroom to gulp down some water and take a couple of paracetamol. It was only while she was swallowing these that she remembered her little flirtation of the night before.

  She should have been more discreet – they both should have been. She knew Lew had noticed, for she had caught a glimpse of his face as she had accepted another – yet another – cognac. Oh, God! Whatever was he going to say when he woke up? He had been silent the night before, but then he had been extremely tiddly, not to say downright drunk, but she was probably ‘for it’ this morning when he remembered this unfinished business from the night before.

  In the event, Lew said precisely nothing. Although he remembered the cocktails, the costumes, and the dinner, of post-prandial activities he had no memory whatsoever. Jefferson’s personal attention, in serving him a lake of spirit, had completely done for any chance he had of remembering any event whatsoever, after he had laid his dessert spoon to rest, and he began to sweat slightly at the thought that he might have misbehaved himself while under the influence. He’d have to gauge Sue’s mood before he could even guess at what had occurred in – where had they been again – was it the drawing room or the library? Even this detail proved elusive, through the post-alcoholic fug that enveloped his thought processes.

  But Sue said nothing, giving him no real idea of whether he had made a fool of himself or not. She was very quiet and introverted, and kept glancing
at him out of the corner of her eye, as if she expected him to say something, and for a while he wondered if she were waiting for an apology.

  However, she was also a little shifty and embarrassed, and after some half an hour of mulling it over, he decided that ‘least said, soonest mended’ was probably the best policy, as they had paid what was in his opinion quite a lot of money for the short break, and he didn’t want to spoil it with arguments and recriminations. If she said nothing, then neither would he, and maybe, whatever it was – if it was anything at all – would all be water under the bridge, eclipsed by tonight’s grand performance.

  It was reassuring to be handed some painkillers and a glass of water, as he hauled himself out of bed, and he decided that, with no obvious indicator to the negative, that his behaviour had at least stayed this side of respectable. What he was unable to observe was his wife’s expression of relief, as she returned to the bathroom to scrape her copper-beech locks into a ponytail on the top of her head, something she only did when she was unsettled and ill-at-ease.

  There was something about the way the waves stroked against her neck and tickled her face that irritated her beyond reason, when she had something on her mind, which at this moment was the fact that she seemed to have got way with her behaviour of the night before, as far as her husband was concerned, but she feared that someone else may comment on it to him. She would just have to hope that they were all as inebriated as he was, and would take no note of her flirtatious glances, or that sneaky little fumble behind the staircase, when she and the object of her current affections both left the drawing room to ‘powder their noses’ at the same time.

  Seeing her emerge from the bathroom with her hair on top of her head caused Lew a temporary setback in his relief, and he worried anew that she had done this as a result of his behaviour, but she exhibited no overt signs of being angry with him, so he let it slide while he coped with the symptoms of his thundering hangover.