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My alarm rang at a quarter to seven the next morning, and I got up straight away, keen to go out and view the Manor’s formal gardens before I became too busy to have much time to myself. My own flat in Sutton had no such green space, the original garden of the converted cottage having been sold off and a pair of ‘bijou’ residences erected over what once had been lawn and flower bed, so that now I looked out on bare brick walls on one side of the flat and a busy main road on the other.
My employer still slumbered in the arms of Morpheus if the faint snores coming from the room next door were anything to go by. I hurried down the stairs and out through the main door. It was a beautiful, soft September morning, full of promise, the sort that lulls you into thinking that summer may linger on when it has no intention of doing so. The air held a tang of ripeness, of fullness and abundance that all too soon would turn to decay and rot as the year approached completion.
The formal gardens lay on a terrace surrounded by a stone balustrade, up a flight of wide stone steps to my right. Self-set hearts-ease and tiny dog-toothed violets sprang up between the gaps and at the sides of the slabs. Whoever had restored the gardens had done so with care; around the central fountain, four square plots filled with sweetly scented dianthus alternated with herb strewn borders. Eglantine roses draped themselves decorously over the wooden obelisk at the centre of each plot, their roots studded with dainty bellis daisies and anemones, while more roses and honeysuckle covered the tall brick wall that backed the garden opposite a balustrade girding the parterre on the other three sides.
An early bird gardener, up and about even before I was, had raked the gravel paths that encircled the beds and ran between them and my footsteps crunched as I wandered over and leaned my forearms on the parapet. Looking out at the pastoral scene spread in front of me, I let out a deep sigh of contentment. The land beneath my gaze had a timeless quality, a sense of having been here forever. Not far from where I stood, Iron Age man built his hill forts, Romans mined for lead, Saxons battled Danes, and then the Normans came, grabbing the land to which they had no right, and sharing it out between them. Lady Eleanor and Sir Henry would have gazed at this same view nearly four centuries ago. Perhaps they stood here in the late afternoon watching the peasants, their peasants, returning from the fields, the day’s work done, wandering homewards with the sun. So many people come and gone. The land alone goes on.
A faint mist hung over the valley shrouding the far banks, veiling them from sight, while somewhere below me a lazy river meandered, chuckling and chortling upon its merry way, accompanied by the sweet trill of a soaring skylark. Higher up the slope, fields full of sheep, ripening crops, and cud-chewing cows made a bucolic picture. There wasn’t a human soul to be seen nor any sign of habitation. It all looked very lazy and peaceful, a wonderful place for a retreat or a holiday. Maybe I would come back some day but, for now, I was a working girl brought here to do my boss’s bidding.
I retraced my way down the stairs and hurried toward the house, looking for breakfast as well as KD when Alex Magee came running around the far corner of the house. He looked red in the face and altogether too flustered for this time in the morning. I was just about to say something when Dara Angel came around the same corner adjusting her clothing. Well, well, well. Just as I thought. Some people feel altogether too randy first thing in the morning. And why had they gone outside to keep their assignation? Why not go creeping around the corridors and into each other’s rooms? That would be far more comfortable. I stayed where I was, unnoticed by either of them, watching them go into the house, when Damien Haynes hove into view from the same direction. What? Three of them? Intrigued, I walked on.
“Are you all right?” I asked Damien, as our paths met in front of the door.
He looked about to say something, but then shook his head, and wiped a thin film of perspiration from his forehead with one hand. He kept the other firmly in his jacket pocket. Finally he said, “Hmm? Yes, yes, fine thanks. I thought I heard the gong. The breakfast gong. Yes that’s it. Mustn’t be late for breakfast, busy day ahead and all that.”
He was almost gabbling and I peered at him closely. There was something wild eyed about him. Dara must be quite a girl.
“I didn’t hear any gong.”
And it seemed odd to be called to breakfast in a hotel. Horslea Manor was not a seaside boarding house.
“Oh, didn’t you?” He averted his gaze and walked ahead of me through the gatehouse door.
I puzzled over the incident but didn’t have long to worry about his queer behaviour for KD, coming out of the lounge, spotted me.
“Good morning, Verity. You’re up early. Couldn’t you sleep?”
I assured her I’d slept well and had simply been out for an early morning walk.
“I went to see the formal gardens,” I said, as we walked towards the dining room. Using the Long Gallery for last night’s dinner had been a one off, specially arranged by and for the Guild.
“Ah, yes. I was thinking of having a look at them myself. Probably this afternoon.” She changed the subject. “Are you all set for today?”
“I think so. You are free until 12 o’clock, when you’re taking part in the Writer’s Panel.”
“Not quite,” she said, as we sat down at a table. “I’ve been asked to be present at the welcome meeting at 10.30.”
I nodded, more concerned with whether to go for a full English or settle for cereal and toast. In the end, I chose the former and so did KD. We lingered over our coffees (my boss does not agree with rushing meals) until interrupted by the sound of raised voices outside the dining room door.
“What’s that commotion all about, do you suppose?”
Taking my cue, I got up. “I’ll go and find out, shall I?”
Out in the corridor Mr Hewitt the hotel manager, a member of the reception staff and Shahleen were all talking at once.
“Haven’t you got another key?” Shahleen demanded.
“Are we sure the door is locked?” the manager responded.
“Yes, we bleedin’ well is. I’m going to fetch Mr Usborne.”
Shahleen turned to come towards the dining room door but was saved the trouble of barging past me by the timely arrival of the Guild Chairman himself.
“Simon,” she began, and I saw him blanch at being so informally addressed. “You’ve got to help. Digby’s gone and locked himself in the library and this jerk here won’t fetch another key.”
Really, if she wants help she’s going totally the wrong way about it, I thought.
“What on earth has he done that for?”
“I dunno, do I?” She flicked at her magnificent mane, but there was a decidedly shifty look on her face. I reckoned they’d had a row and Digby had left for some peace and quiet.
“If the key is still in the lock then a spare one won’t help us.” Usborne pointed out.
That had been my first thought but Shahleen was clearly in no mood to be reasonable.
“Well then, break the bloody door down. The old fool’s got no business shuttin’ himself away like that.”
“Certainly not!” The manager looked appalled. Shahleen changed tack.
“Well then, can’t you go and talk to him, Simon?” Her voice was now a whine as she tried to wheedle him into doing what she wanted.
“Come on.” Usborne heaved a sigh, turned, and marched off in the direction of the Peverell room. He flung open the door and they all trooped through with me tagging quietly on the end.
“Oh, I hadn’t realised you were in here, John.” The manager spoke to a barman replenishing the stock depleted by last night’s thirsty crowd. “Has Mr Gervaise gone into the library?”
“Yes, sir, he has. He bought a Scotch and took it in with him.”
“Is the door locked?”
“I believe I did hear the key turn, yes, sir.”
“Damn.”
Shahleen slapped the door with a well-manicured hand. “Come out, Digby. You can’t hide from me in there.”
“Gervaise! Are you in there?” Usborne’s hammered the solid oak.
“Of course he’s bleedin’ in there.” Shahleen lifted her eyes heavenward.
“Is there any other way out of the library?” Usborne asked the manager.
“Only the windows. It’s possible Mr Gervaise has gone out that way but he’d have to climb on the sill. It’s not a French window.”
“Right. I’ll sort him out, the bastard.”
Shahleen turned on one heel, barged her way between the two men and strode back to the front door. Only then did Usborne notice my presence. He raised an eyebrow as if to question what I was doing there.
“Did you want me, Miss Long?”
I ignored the question, merely shaking my head, and asked one of my own. “Is the key actually in the lock?” It seemed as well to ascertain that point.
The manager bent and put his eye to the keyhole.
“Yes, unfortunately, it is.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be able to turn a key from the opposite side with thin pliers?”
Before anyone could answer, a piercing shriek came from outside. To a man (and a woman, obviously) we all raced from the room, letting the hotel manager take the lead. At the main door, we were joined by other guests, all wondering where the yell had come from and anxious to know what the hell was going off. The manager didn’t stop to offer explanations but ran out of the building, turning left along the manor’s front. Shahleen stood at the corner, still screaming. As we approached she put a hand to her throat, flung out the other in a dramatic gesture towards the window — and promptly fainted.
Nice one, Shahleen, I thought as I bent over her, leaving the men to peer through the window at whatever had caused her fit of the vapours.
“Is he dead?” I heard someone ask.
“Looks like it,” replied Usborne.
Making sure that the unconscious girl was all right and not in any danger from being trampled on by the seeming hordes of people pouring out of the hotel, I left her to come round in her own time.
“Is it Digby?” I asked. It seemed as well to get that clear from the start. For all I knew a total stranger lay lifeless in the library, which would be no real concern of ours and a relief to most.
“Yes, it’s Digby all right,” said Usborne. “Can’t we open a window and get in to him?”
“I don’t see how,” said the manager. “There’s no catch on the outside.”
I walked closer to the window and peered through one of the small leaded lights.
“Well, you’re going to have find a way, somehow. Digby Gervaise has been murdered.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Oh yes. Unless he’s committed suicide by smashing his own head in with a candlestick. Look.”
I stood back and Usborne took my place, cupping his hands around his eyes as he peered through the glass, the better to see.
“Not the Georgian candlesticks, surely.”
The manager stood wringing his hands behind us, more concerned about the damage inflicted on his property than that on Digby Gervaise’s head. Then, struck by another thought, his face lit up.
“Perhaps it’s some sort of publicity stunt,” he suggested.
“My dear man! Not even our members bash their own brains out for publicity.” Usborne reproved him sternly, leaving me wondering who he thought would go to such lengths to attract media attention.
“You’d better phone the police,” I told the manager, “and get some staff sorted to keep everyone away. Then we’ve got to get in to him.” I jerked my head towards the window behind me.
“Good idea,” said Usborne, as the manager spoke to the barman, and sent him off about these tasks.
“Oh, oh.” A moan from the grass reminded me that Shahleen still lay there. I knelt beside her.
“Digby? Is he...?”
“Yes, dear. He’s still dead,” said Usborne, callously. At which point she passed out again. I scowled at him and got to my feet.
“So,” I said, “how are we going to get in?”
“We’ll have to smash the window.” Usborne decided.
“Not the leads!” The manager was aghast. “Have you any idea how much they cost?”
“Well, this is an emergency,” Usborne pointed out. “The Guild will cover your costs.”
“They’re a hundred thousand pounds a window.”
“Right. Is there another way in?” Usborne immediately thought better of being so free with his members’ money.
“Round the corner” said the manager leading the way. “There’s a sash window around here.”
Leaving Shahleen to be tended to by others, I followed the men round the corner of the building. Here, out of sight of anyone approaching the magnificent Elizabethan frontage, the side wall held a row of more modern windows.
“Right,” said Usborne, putting his hands to the nearest frame and lifting. “Ungghh.” He strained and heaved to no visible effect. “Damn. It’s stuck.”
“It shouldn’t be. Let me try.” The manager stood forward, but with no better luck. He stood back and surveyed the window. “But that’s impossible,” he said. “If the door’s locked on the inside and the window can’t be opened...”
The two men exchanged glances.
“Bloody hell!” Usborne shook his head.
Through the large expanse of clear glass, Digby’s battered head upon the blood spattered desk could be plainly seen. There was no one else in the library.
“Here, this should do it.” I said, picking up a nearby stone and hurling it at the window. With a satisfying smash, the glass splintered into large fragments.
“Good shot!” said Usborne.
The manager didn’t seem quite so appreciative of my efforts, I thought, given the horrified look on his face.
“Come on, hop in.” Usborne pulled the few remaining shards out of the bottom of the frame.
Me? Well, why not? It would give me the chance of a closer look at the crime scene before the police arrived and I am the curious sort. I clambered gingerly over the sill, careful of the glass littering the floor, then turned to face them.
“OK. You go round and I’ll unlock the door, but remember to keep everyone out. I wouldn’t imagine the police being happy about us all tramping through the place.”
“You’re probably right.” The Guild’s chairman grabbed hold of Mr Hewitt’s arm and dragged him away from his morbid contemplation of the damage. I hoped he wouldn’t decide to sue.
Once they’d disappeared around the corner, I crossed quickly to the desk. Putting my hands behind my back, to make sure I wasn’t tempted to touch, I peered at the battered head of the late Digby. It wasn’t a pretty sight and, for a moment, I was in imminent danger of losing my full English breakfast, until my gaze was caught by a sheaf of blood spattered papers under his right ear. A manuscript? I bent closer, trying to make out what looked like a title across the top of the uppermost sheet. “The Key to.” The rest disappeared beneath Digby’s hair. I lifted my head, taking in the position of the candlestick, (upright and with a few grey hairs on the base) and the tumbler with barely a finger of amber fluid in it. Both were to the right, just beyond the author’s hand; to the left was the Golden Gun award, a tiny gilt revolver mounted on a polished wooden board. Steeling myself, I looked again at the awful wound just above the left temple, noting the curved edge where, I guessed, the base of the candlestick had hit it.
“Yes, I see. Bring them in here then.”
Raised voices from the bar brought my observations to a sudden halt and I hurried to unlock the door.
“The police have just arrived.” The manager informed me. “All the delegates are in the Hardwick Room. Usborne is explaining what’s happened. I’m assuming they’ll cancel the rest of the weekend.” He wrung his hands, perhaps mourning the loss to his profits — especially from the bar.
“Right, where is it?”
A burly police sergeant strode rapidly down the bar towards us. “In ‘ere, is it?”
“Yes, sergeant,” I said, standing back to let him past.
“Bloody hell! Not pretty, is he?”
The sergeant, so keen to get to the body that he brushed my shoulder as he careered on by, ignored me.
“Hmm, right handed, clearly.” He walked around the desk, peering at everything so closely that I expected him to whip a magnifying glass out of his back pocket any moment.
“Who was right handed?” I asked.
“Eh? The killer, obviously.” He looked at me for the first time. “Say, who are you?”
“I’m—“
“Do you work here?”
“No. I’m—“
“Did you find ‘im?”
“No. I—“
“Married to ‘im, were you?”
“Good heavens, no, sergeant.”
“Then get out. Go on,” he said, taking a step towards me as though intending to physically throw me out of the room. “You’ve no business here. Strewth! Bloody sightseers.”
He turned back to his examination and, thus rudely dismissed, I left him to it. Incensed by his brusqueness, and intrigued by the mystery of a dead man in a locked room, I didn’t immediately join my employer and her companions. Instead, my footsteps took me outside and back along the façade. When I reached the library’s leaded window, I craned my neck to see what was happening inside. Then, staying out of sight of the industrious sergeant, who appeared at that precise moment to be vacuuming the carpet with his nose, I bobbed down and rounded the corner to the broken window. Underneath, between the wall and the flagged path, ran a narrow flower bed. I squatted down and peered at it closely. The imprint of a heel could be clearly seen in the moist soil. Staying crouched, I raised my arm carefully and felt along the sill with my fingertips. Oh! Taking a step backwards, and hidden by the wall, I stood up and let my glance travel the length of the sill. Ah-ha! I thought. So that’s how it was done.