Wednesday, 1st November—Early morning.
Veronica cringed when the factory whistles and hooters sounded their mournful summons to work.
Claire pulled up in front of the hotel and glanced at the Bentley’s dashboard clock. “We’re in plenty of time.”
Veronica yawned. “Oh, that was a terrific party.” She looked up at the imposing frontage of Chesterton Hotel, and some of her good humour slipped. “I’ll go in the back way. Monsieur Durand will be on duty at the desk. He won’t care what time I roll in, but it’s not unheard of for Fielding to be up early. I’d rather not face him, the way I feel.” She wrapped an arm around Claire’s shoulders and pressed cheeks with her. “Thanks for the lovely time, darling. See you during the day—if I can stay awake.”
The pavement felt slippery underfoot as she made her way to the staff entrance. The cold air didn’t quite dispel the remaining buzz of alcohol and after-effects of Roddy’s cocaine in her blood. Veronica took extra care in her movements.
Sounds of cooking and the greasy smell of frying bacon came from the kitchen as she entered the empty staff room. Veronica’s mouth flooded with saliva, and she suppressed an urge to gag. Holding her nose against the smell of cooking, she glanced at the clock. Mitchell and the other porters and the boot-boy wouldn’t appear for breakfast for another thirty minutes or so. God, I can’t recall being up so late for ages.
The serving hatch between the kitchen and staff room opened, and one of the sous-chefs peered through. “Oh, Mrs. Nash. I thought you were Chef.”
“Is Mr. Robertson not down yet?”
“No, and I was wondering—” The outside door opened, and the chef entered. The sous-chef looked relieved. “Ah, here he is.”
Robertson took off his overcoat and gave Veronica and his assistant a sheepish smile. “Good morning to ye both. Och, I’m sorry I’m late, Jamie. I had to go up to the market, and then my bicycle had a puncture.”
Jamie nodded. “It’s quite all right, Chef. Everything’s in hand here.”
Veronica scrutinised the chef, with his bleary eyes and puffy face. “You look under the weather. Are you feeling quite all right, Archie?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “I’m fine, Mrs. Nash. Just overslept a wee bit, is all.” He eyed her. “You’re up early yourself.”
“I went to a party with my friend. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
Veronica hummed a jazz tune under her breath all the way up to her room, where she took off her coat and changed out of the red devil costume with some relief. A strip-wash in a basin of tepid water and an hour’s nap helped restore some life to limbs made tired through dancing and standing.
Refreshed to some extent, she went downstairs to the reception desk, passing Mitchell on his way down to breakfast. Even his grumpy glare couldn’t dampen her mood.
Felix Durand greeted her with a smile and a glance at the clock. “You’re up early—or did you even go to bed? Another young lady... your friend? She came through ‘ere but minutes ago.” He tapped the side of his nose when she grinned, giving her a knowing look. “Say no more, my dear Madame Nash.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Durand. Have you made arrangements for the newspapers yet?”
“But no. I was going across to the newsagents when I finish ‘ere at the desk.”
“I’ll do it for you. There’s another quarter-hour before I go on duty. The walk will clear my head.”
He smiled and nodded. She grinned, took the list from beneath the counter, and tucked it into her pocket. Durand loaned her his overcoat to save her running back to her room. She passed Claire’s Bentley on her way out, its engine still ticking as it cooled, and she grinned again, remembering the fun they’d had. My God, to have the prospect of a romance again feels wonderful!
As Veronica stepped onto the near-deserted street, something big and crimson hurtled past with an angry blast of a horn. She stumbled back, feeling the wind of the big car sweeping by and away up the street.
Durand ran out to catch her as she leaned against Claire’s Bentley, heart pounding.
“I saw that!” Durand glared at the departing vehicle. “Why, the cretin didn’t even stop to see if you were ‘urt.”
“I’m all right.” She pressed her hand against his chest. “It took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Are you entirely sober, Madame Nash?” He voiced the question in a low voice, with a glance at the hotel.
Veronica managed a smile. “Perhaps I’m not entirely sober, no. That fright certainly woke me up, though.”
“Won’t you come back inside and recover?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine, honestly. Let me make the walk to the newsagents, and I’ll be right with you. And, monsieur... not a word to Mr. Fielding, please.”
“As you wish.” He sketched a bow and returned inside.
Veronica suffered a trembling fit as she walked, and the adrenaline shock wore off. She leaned against a wall to recover her wits and visualised the car clearly in her mind’s eye—a big, shiny crimson saloon of recent make, driven by a chauffeur with a passenger in the back. It offended her to think she was so beneath the notice of whoever owned the car that she wasn’t worth stopping for after a near accident.
She managed to settle the hotel’s order at the newsagents, noting as she did so Sylvester’s request for a copy of The Times. Thinking of him helped settle her nerves, and she returned to the hotel in a calmer frame of mind, taking extra care when crossing the street.
And so the morning went, with the hotel growing busier by the hour. Fielding made his appearance, ensuring all was well at the reception desk before heading into the office to do paperwork. Mrs. Evans made her complaint an hour later, interrupting Veronica’s daydreams about Sylvester Brooke, and leading to her awful discovery.
Alone in her room, Veronica felt as though her dreams of a better life had crashed down about her ears. Exhausted after the terrible events, she finally drifted off to sleep.
It seemed she had just fallen off when she heard a soft tapping on her door. “Ronnie? Are you awake?”
Her fuddled mind registered Claire’s voice. Twisting her head, she looked at her alarm clock and saw it read close to noon. Veronica pushed the bedclothes aside, donned her dressing gown, and answered the door.
Claire stood outside in the passageway, her pretty face a picture of concern. “I hope you don’t mind me seeking you out, darling, but I heard the news when I woke up a little while ago. It’s all over the hotel. How awful for you!”
Veronica stood back to let her in. “It was—is—awful, Claire.”
When she closed the door, Claire pulled her into a hug. After a moment, Veronica responded in kind. No one’s held me so since Harold’s departure by the army train, bound for Dover then Flanders and his death. She leaned into Claire’s embrace, and the tears finally came.
Claire stroked her hair. “Oh, my dear!”
“I was getting to like him.” Veronica snuffled.
Claire fished in her pocket and gave her a handkerchief.
She blew her nose. “I just can’t believe he killed himself.”
Claire gave her a look of deep sympathy. “The rumours flying around are beyond belief. Anyone would think an axe murderer came here during the night. You’d better sit down. I’ll make a pot of tea and then you can tell me everything.”
Her friend made the tea with the brisk efficiency Veronica remembered from their schooldays. Veronica sat with the steaming cup cradled in her hands and recounted the whole story.
Claire listened without asking questions until she finished. At the end, she looked pensive. “You’ve made a convincing case, Ronnie. It does sound suspicious.”
“Yes. I hope the police will treat it as such.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “What if they don’t?”
Veronica blinked slowly. Sleep, grief, and the residue of shock still fuddled her brain. “Why I... I don’t know. Fielding’s all for sweeping everything under the rug as it is. He as good as told me not to make a song and dance about the captain’s death.”
“It sounds like he has a vested interest in ensuring it stays that way.”
“I think he’s trying to protect the hotel’s reputation.” Veronica considered. “He does have money worries. Perhaps fewer worries than most people these days, but they still worry him. He once mentioned he’d like to retire to Hunstanton on the coast to live with his sister. A murder on the hotel premises would reflect badly on him. Perhaps he’s afraid he might be dismissed.”
“It would be an extreme reaction by the hotel owner if he was sacked.” Claire shook her head. “I doubt it’ll happen. So, we come to the thorny question. If Captain Brooke was murdered, who did the deed, and why?”
“I really don’t know a lot about his background to give an opinion.” Veronica sighed. “He was with that fellow in the lobby just before we met yesterday evening. Perhaps there was some business between them that might have led to murder. If so, the police should be able to track the man down and ask some pointed questions.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Claire smiled. “In any case, it’s out of our hands.”
“I think so, although I’m not entirely convinced I’ve seen the last of it.”
Claire made to speak when a knock sounded at the door. Veronica answered it and found a strange man standing in the passageway. He wore a beige trench-coat and a fedora, which he raised to her, exposing slicked-back blond hair. Beady grey eyes ran over her figure.
Veronica stiffened and wrapped her dressing gown tight about her in defence. “Who’re you? What are you doing here?”
“Afternoon. Would I ‘ave the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Nash? Mrs. Veronica Nash?” He spoke in a mild Lancastrian dialect, and his gaze flicked over her again in an assessing fashion.
“Yes. Who’re you?” She became aware of someone else farther along the passageway, but the first man stepped closer, making her instinctively step back.
He peered past her into the room and nodded and grinned toward Claire. “My name’s Docker, Ralph Docker, reporting for the Norwich Evening Standard. I believe you found the body of Captain Brooke.”
“Yes, but—”
The lurker suddenly appeared behind and to the right of Docker and raised a camera. A blinding flash made her flinch. The man grinned. “Got it, Ralph.”
The photographer walked away, working busily on his camera. Annoyed, Veronica made to call after him, but Docker pressed in again.
“Was it suicide, like the police are saying? Or murder?” He spoke the last word with relish.
“I don’t think he killed himself. I mean, I don’t know... Who let you in here? You’ve no business...”
“He hanged himself, yes?”
Claire took Veronica’s arm from behind and eased her aside. She fixed the reporter with a steely gaze backed by great wealth and solid schooling. “Now look here, my good man, Mrs. Nash has had a horrible experience and does not wish to comment. I suggest you direct all future inquiries to the hotel manager, Mr. Fielding.”
“Oi!” Mitchell came striding up the passageway, his expression grim. “You shouldn’t be back here, mate!”
Docker grinned and doffed his hat to the women. “That’s all I need to know. Thank you, ladies.”
He trotted off. Mitchell came close behind, pausing at Veronica’s door. He blinked, and after a second, averted his eyes from her robed body. “Are you all right, Mrs. Nash? He didn’t come the cheeky beggar with you?”
Veronica scowled at him. “He’s cheeky enough! Who let them in?”
Mitchell glowered at the retreating journalists. “I dunno, but I’ll see them off, don’t you worry.”
He set off in pursuit of the fast-disappearing Docker.
Claire pulled Veronica back into the room and bolted the door. “Oh, those devils of the press! Someone will pay for this intrusion. I’ll complain to Fielding.”
“I don’t think it’ll do any good.” Veronica sighed. “God knows what that little hound will write.”
“The press will write whatever they want to write.” Claire looked annoyed. “Daddy had a run-in with them a few years ago during the war. Luckily, the censorship put paid to a potentially nasty scandal, but it was unpleasant at the time.”
Veronica glanced at her friend. What was Lord Sibfield-Murray up to that posed a potential scandal? Distracted, she shrugged. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.” She glanced down. “Really, taking photographs of a woman wearing her dressing gown. Whatever next?” The encounter replayed itself in her mind, and she gasped. “Oh, Claire, I didn’t actually say I think Captain Brooke was murdered, did I?”
“No, indeed.” Claire gazed at her then hugged her tight. “Oh darling, I really think I should stay here for a few days’ longer. You’d be perfectly welcome to come stay at Auntie Bea’s now the party’s over, but it would be an awful bore to keep driving back and forth if you insist on working here. At least with me staying, I’ll be able to help you out and support you and whatnot. What do you think?”
Veronica smiled. It’s nice to have a loyal friend in my hour of need. “I think it’s a smashing idea.”
Veronica felt her appetite return enough to manage lunch. Claire took her down to the restaurant even though Veronica mentioned the hotel’s rules stating she should eat in the staff room. Claire’s determined expression and the maître d’s tacit words of sympathy to Veronica saw them gain entrance.
They found Roddy Bascombe already ensconced at one of the tables, and he rose to greet them. “Good morning, ladies.”
Veronica hardly recognised him out of his fancy-dress costume. Today he wore a neat ensemble of dark herringbone over a white club-collar shirt with fine blue stripes, and black shoes in need of a polish. On closer inspection, the actor’s face behind his smile had the pallor of the truly hungover.
“Roddy! What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I booked in Monday evening.” He blinked at them as if marshalling his thoughts. “Are you staying here too?”
“I am,” Claire responded. “Ronnie works here.”
“Oh, ah...” Roddy waved to his table, where the remains of his meal were being cleared by a waitress. “Won’t you join me?” They accepted his invitation, and he resumed his seat. “I thought I’d have to dine alone, but you’ve saved me from that.”
Veronica looked at the used plates. “Haven’t you eaten already?”
Roddy patted his stomach. “Oh, I think I can manage a little more.”
Claire examined Roddy’s features and grinned as the waitress put the used crockery on her trolley and handed them menus.
After the waitress left, she leaned in. “I don’t know how you managed even that first serving. You’ve got an awful hangover, haven’t you, Roddy darling? It’s your fault, you know. You did get fearfully blotto last night.”
“So I did. I’ve only just got back from your auntie’s.” He swept his hand through his thick black hair and gave them a rueful smile. “It was quite a smashing party, though.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” Claire shot Veronica a glance. “A shame the morning after was so awful.”
“Why?” Roddy followed Claire’s gaze to Veronica. “Are you unwell?” He lowered his voice. “I hope it wasn’t my little dose of powder...”
Veronica shook her head. “No, no. A friend of mine died here last night.”
“Oh, good heavens!”
Roddy reached over to clasp her hand. His touch felt warm but slightly clammy.
She allowed him a few seconds of contact before withdrawing her hand. “I found his body this morning. It was... it was quite a shock.”
“Oh, dear me, yes, I should think it was!” Roddy shook his head, his expression mournful. “If there’s anything I can do, please say the word.”
“Thank you.”
The waitress returned and took their orders, giving Veronica a sympathetic look and nod.
Once the waitress had departed, Claire filled the awkward silence that followed. “Perhaps we should chat about other things. What brings you to the fine city of Norwich, Roddy? It can’t have been my auntie’s party.”
“Oh, not entirely, old thing, although I know Bea from London. No, I’m here visiting my uncle. The old boy’s a bit of a stuffed shirt, but he’s the only relative I have left who’ll deign to speak to me.” He grinned. “Becoming an actor is simply not done in my family. I rather think my parents hope I’ll grow out of it.”
Claire gave him a knowing look. “I thought you’d become close to Auntie. Is there any danger of you becoming my uncle?”
“Oh, I think not.” He gave Claire a beatific smile. “She was generous enough to lend me a few quid this morning to tide me over, but there’s no chance of romance. No, I have to shift for myself, I’m afraid.” His tone held a hint of annoyance.
Veronica wondered at his words. “Are you not acting? I thought you were in Hamlet.”
Roddy looked pained. “The director and I had a parting of the ways, so I’m officially resting, my dear. There is an opening in the production of The Cabaret Girl coming up next week, but I’ll be expected to audition. If that doesn’t work out...” He shrugged. “There’s always the movies.”
Claire grimaced. “That’d be fun.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
Veronica wasn’t sure how to interpret Roddy’s smile, nor the gleam in his eyes as he said this.
With lunch over, Claire went off to rendezvous with her auntie on a shopping trip. Although Claire invited Veronica along, she’d declined. She felt well enough to resume her duties—a welcome distraction from her thoughts. Roddy pleaded a prior engagement and departed, driving off in the sky-blue Citroën she’d noticed the night of the party. Veronica reported her return to work to Fielding and went about her business.
Trouble reared its head later that afternoon when the evening papers arrived. Veronica happened to be in the lobby when Mitchell took charge of the bundle of newspapers as usual.
He cut the string with a deft flick of his penknife and glanced at the top sheet. There, in bold print, the Norwich Evening Standard flashed the headline Murder at City Hotel.
Veronica saw it and felt her stomach sink in dread.
It wasn’t long before Fielding emerged from the office to peruse the news of the day. When he saw the Standard headline, his face turned pink, and he summoned her into the office.
“Murder, Mrs. Nash? Did I not warn you against entertaining such thoughts?” Fielding slapped the back of his hand against the newspaper. “Now, here it is, splashed all over the yellow press for the world to see!”
Veronica raised her chin. “I said nothing of the kind, Mr. Fielding. The press make things up to boost newspaper sales, you know. In any case, that journalist shouldn’t have been in the staff quarters. I’m relieved the editor decided not to publish the photograph they took.”
“Indeed, but the fact remains they gained entry and this... this Docker fellow managed to fool you into giving him a story of sorts.” He folded his hands and leaned forward on his desk and glared up at her where she stood. “I’m most disappointed in you, Mrs. Nash.”
Before Veronica could respond, a knock came at the door.
Fielding tutted. “Come!”
The receptionist stuck her head around the door. “Detective Inspector Forester is here and wishes to see you, Mr. Fielding.”
Fielding stiffened and shot Veronica a glance. “Indeed? Show him in at once.”
Inspector Forester entered the room and greeted them. As he removed his hat, his gaze fixed on the newspaper on Fielding’s desk. “Good morning, sir, madam. I see you’ve become acquainted with the press idea of what occurred here last night.”
Fielding bridled. “We have, Inspector, and I’m not pleased!”
Veronica closed her eyes briefly. She opened them in time to see Forester give her a sympathetic glance.
His attention returned to Fielding. “I can set your mind at rest, sir. We’re not looking for any outside influence in Captain Brooke’s death, and that’s official.”
“You’re not?” The words escaped Veronica’s lips unbidden.
Fielding sighed with obvious relief.
Forester shook his head. “No, madam. The coroner was notified of Captain Brooke’s death, of course, but he’s yet to set a date for an inquiry. I understand he’s rather busy. No doubt you’ll be summoned as a witness should he elect to hold an inquiry, Mrs. Nash. At this juncture, as far as the police are concerned, we’re treating the captain’s death as suicide.”
“Well, that is good news.” Fielding seemed to think better of his words and frowned. “That is to say, suicide is a shocking thing to contemplate. I wish the captain had considered his actions properly. Even so, it’s a relief to know we’re not dealing with a murderer on the loose.”
“I think you can all sleep safely in your beds, sir.” Forester’s tone was dry. “I thought I’d tell you the news in person instead of by telephone, given the press interest in the matter.”
“It’s very kind of you, Inspector.” Fielding’s anger appeared to have evaporated. “What of Captain Brooke’s effects?”
“You’d best pack them up and send them to his next of kin.” Forester brought out his notebook and flipped a couple of pages. “You can address them to a Miss Patricia Brooke, of Ludlow in Shropshire. She’s his sister, I believe.”
Fielding made a note of the address. “Thank you, Inspector. I’ll see that the unfortunate gentleman’s belongings are sent on today.”
“Right, then. I’ll be on my way. Good morning to you.” Forester replaced his hat, touched the brim in salute, and made for the door.
Veronica hastened after him. “I’ll see you out, Inspector.”
“Thank you, madam.”
Fielding called after her. “Return when you’ve done so, Mrs. Nash.”
When they reached the lobby, Veronica touched his arm. “Might I have a word, Inspector?”
“Of course.”
Mitchell cocked an eye in their direction but moved away to give them space when Forester looked pointedly at him.
Once the porter was out of earshot, Forester looked kindly at her. “What may I do for you?”
“I...” Now she had to speak, Veronica felt awkward. “Perhaps I’m being foolish, Inspector, but I really do have my suspicions about Captain Brooke’s death.”
Forester pursed his lips, but she couldn’t read his reaction.
He nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, he and I had supper together a couple of nights ago. Although the captain seemed wary in some respects, overall, he appeared in good spirits. There was nothing to suggest he wanted to kill himself.”
Forester rocked back and forth on his heels a couple of times, his expression guarded. “In my experience, not everybody who tops themselves shows signs beforehand of wanting to do so.”
Veronica looked around the lobby. “But what of Sylvester’s telling me he thought someone was out to kill him?”
If Forester noticed her use of Brooke’s first name, he affected not to mention it.
He shook his head. “It’s not unknown for men who’ve been through the war to get such notions into their head. In many cases, it’s how they survived.”
“Perhaps.” Veronica sought another path to get her point across. “Did you find the gentleman he met here that evening?”
“We did, as it happens. He’s Mr. Robert Chapman, the Conservative candidate for this constituency. He and Brooke were old army pals, it seems.”
Veronica pricked up her ears. “Mr. Chapman didn’t seem at all easy with Captain Brooke that evening. I noticed that in particular.”
Forester’s lips twitched. She could tell he was humouring her, and she resented it.
“Mr. Chapman has a perfectly good alibi for that night. He was away at a meeting up near Kings Lynn and stayed overnight.”
Before Veronica could speak again, Forester held up a hand.
“Mrs. Nash, please. My own inquiries haven’t turned up anything to suggest this sorry affair was anything but suicide. It happens, with military gentlemen, although I have to say the method’s not a common one for them.”
“Is it not?”
“Well, no, but I really wouldn’t like to talk about such thing, madam. In any case, Mr. Chapman told me Brooke was trying to interest him in some business scheme or other. Chapman didn’t think it would be a success and told Brooke as much. Perhaps Brooke had debts and saw no other way of clearing them, so he took the hard way out.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, and to be frank, I can’t spare the time to find out. This election has stood everything on its ear. We have political agitation and demonstrations in the streets. There’s a band of hunger marchers heading down from Glasgow with more joining from all over the country. My men and I are hard-pressed to keep a lid on things in this city as it is. Unless there’s something in the post-mortem report on the captain’s body, I’ll not go looking for more work.”
He spread his hands to emphasize his helplessness in the matter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get on.”
He touched his hat and headed out of the hotel. Veronica watched him go and shook her head. I’m certain there’s more to Brooke’s death than meets the eye.