Murder on Skiathos Page 20

Mr Kettering raised his eyebrows above his horn-rimmed spectacles but refrained from comment. It is possible that he was at a loss for words to describe his opinion of the state of the room. Rose, meanwhile, acted as if she did not see the disorder and instead focused her attention on exploring every item. With a practised hand, she searched the pockets of Mr Vickers’ rather dubious clothes, opened drawers, tore the sheets and pillow case from the bed and even looked under the mattress. She remembered her words to the hotel proprietor about putting everything back neatly; fortunately, in Mr Vickers’ case, the place was in such a state of disarray that she thought it unlikely he would realise that a particularly extensive search had been made of his room. However, despite the jumble, Mr Vickers’ room was regrettably devoid of personal items.

  It was not until Rose looked under the bed that she found the old, faded leather attaché case. With Mr Kettering’s help, she pulled it out and discovered firstly that it was surprisingly heavy, and secondly, to her dismay, that it was locked. An anxious look crossed the hotel proprietor’s face. She wondered if he was worried she might insist that they force the lock. It was not her intention, however, to do damage. Instead, she turned the case over and found a shallow pocket on the outside of the case. She put her hand inside and withdrew from it a photograph.

  Mr Kettering, standing behind her shoulder, let out a gasp.

  ‘It’s the duchess and Mr Dewhurst,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rose. ‘By the looks of it, this photograph was taken in Athens for, unless I am very much mistaken, that’s the Acropolis in the distance.’ She laid the photograph down on the bed. ‘It seems we were right to suspect Mr Vickers of being a reporter.’ She slipped her hand inside the pocket again and felt right down to the bottom. She had not expected to find anything else, yet her fingers came across another piece of thin card about half the size of a picture postcard. She withdrew her hand. It was another photograph, and of the duchess again, but this time she was standing beside a much older man, whom Rose assumed must be the Duke of Grismere. This impression was confirmed by the informal nature of the photograph. There was nothing very posed about the way the two people were positioned. Indeed, the duchess had half turned to face her husband. There was a broad smile on her face, as if she were laughing at something that he had said. In addition to this, she seemed to be in the act of half bending down to stroke a fox terrier that played at her feet. It was an intimate picture, and a natural one. Staring at the photograph, Rose felt she was intruding on something that had been meant for only the duke and duchess’ eyes. Even so, she found it difficult to avert her gaze, for the woman pictured was a very different creature to the cold and anxious one that haunted the rooms of Hotel Hemera. She stared more closely at the background featured in the photograph. It appeared that the husband and wife were standing in a walled garden, abundant with flowers. Behind them loomed a large stone-brick building complete with turrets. They were evidently standing in one of the gardens at Grismere Castle.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Mr Kettering, echoing her own thoughts, ‘where Vickers got hold of this photograph?’

  After a final glance at Mr Vickers’ room, they went to search the other guest rooms. These were also to reveal various mysteries of their own, or at least questions which required answers. Only Ron Thurlow’s room aroused little interest, being as it was full of the various memorabilia associated with a representative of a travelling agency. There was a work journal of sorts which detailed the young man’s impressions of the island. These included the various sights of interest that might be visited by the customers of the travel company which employed him. The names of local fishermen from which seaworthy boats might be chartered had also been jotted down, as well as the names of tavernas which might be persuaded to cater for the British palate. Yet again, there seemed very few personal items in Ron Thurlow’s rooms, though what there was appeared to be of a surprisingly good quality for a man of his profession, from the silver-backed brushes to one or two fine tailored suits that hung in the wardrobe.

  Rose opened the door to the Trimble sisters’ room and found that it was almost excessive in its tidiness, which made a welcome change to Mr Vickers’ disordered room. Due to its neatness, it was a particularly quick room to search, much to Rose’s relief as she was ever conscious of the hotel residents waiting in the dining room. While she searched, Mr Kettering stood watching, delicately averting his eyes when Rose saw fit to rummage in the drawer that contained the siblings’ undergarments. She had not unearthed anything of particular interest, and was just about to leave the room, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of something that looked out of place given the orderliness of the chamber.

  Rose advanced to the fireplace and stared at the empty bow fronted grate, Baroque in style and of a cast iron construction. The fire basket was supported by a pair of columned standards, which in turn were topped by pinnacle finials, and it was these that drew Rose’s attention. For on one of the finials, what appeared to be a piece of material had apparently got caught, giving the odd impression that it had fallen out of the chimney. On closer inspection, the item was revealed to be a small velvet pouch. Rose opened it and felt inside. To her disappointment, it was empty. She turned her attention to the chimney itself and rather gingerly felt up inside, aware all the while that Mr Kettering was regarding her actions with a great deal of curiosity. Her fingers came across a piece of cloth which was bunched up in to a ball. With growing excitement, she withdrew her hand and stared at what appeared to be a folded handkerchief fastened by a length of ribbon. Eagerly she undid the bundle to reveal the contents and let out a small gasp. What was produced was a small silver brooch designed in the fashion of a bow studded with sapphires.

  ‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Mr Kettering, as was his wont when confronted with anything out of the ordinary. So absorbed had Rose been in her task, she had been unaware that he had crossed the room to stand at her side.

  The hotel proprietor lowered his voice slightly, though there was no one present to overhear them. ‘Of course, some of our guests refuse to use the hotel safe in which to place their valuables. They prefer to keep them in their rooms, though, I admit, it is the first time I have heard of anyone stowing them up the chimney. Really, it is a most insecure place. I suppose they wanted to ensure it was well hidden?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose, turning the object over in her hands and staring at it, clearly fascinated. ‘They would want to keep this piece hidden. It would be important to them that they did.’

  ‘Because it is very valuable, do you mean? Really, I must have another word with the Misses Trimble about using the hotel safe. My staff are quite trustworthy, of course; I pride myself on the fact, but even so –’

  ‘They would not want this brooch to be found,’ said Rose, ‘because … it is stolen, you see.’

  ‘Stolen?’ cried Mr Kettering, looking horrified. ‘Good heavens! Are you suggesting the ladies staying in this room are thieves?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘That’s to say, one of them certainly is a thief. They may both be in it together for all we know, but one of them most definitely is a thief.’

  The hotel proprietor looked at her inquiringly. Before he could ask her how she knew, Rose said:

  ‘You see, it’s mine. It’s my brooch.’

  They left the Trimbles’ room in a gloomy and contemplative silence, and proceeded towards the Adlers’ rooms, with Rose wondering whether any more surprises awaited them there. She had slipped the brooch into her pocket, where it nestled with the two photographs taken from Mr Vickers’ room. What a motley collection she was accumulating. She stole a glance at Mr Kettering’s troubled face. She felt rather sorry for him. Hotel Hemera had been open only a few weeks and already it could number a thief and a murder victim among its guests, to say nothing of the murderer.

  She would need to confront the Trimble sisters about the theft, of course. She wondered whether it could have any bearing on the murder, or whether it w
as some isolated, unconnected incident. She rather hoped both siblings were not thieves. Due to Miss Peony’s deafness and tendency to appear dumb, Rose felt that she did not know that woman particularly well. Therefore, if one of the Trimble sisters had to be a thief, she would rather it be Miss Peony than Miss Hyacinth, to whom she had taken rather a liking.

  They hurried to the Adlers’ quarters, which consisted ostensibly of three connecting rooms. Two of the rooms were furnished as bedrooms, the other as a sitting room-cum-study. A quick search of the latter room revealed very little other than a pile of dusty sermons lying on the writing desk and a well-thumbed copy of a guidebook of the island, from which the vicar had derived his facts about Skiathos, and spouted them to a receptive Miss Hyacinth. The room was oddly one of two halves. The study part was in mild disarray, while the area dedicated to the sitting room was tidy and ordered, and had a feminine feel about it from the vase of fresh orchids residing on the bookcase to the silk cushions in pastel hues which lay plumped up on the sofa.

  Rose did not expect the bedrooms to produce anything of particular interest. In this, however, she was to be proved wrong.

  Mabel Adler’s bedroom was, in many respects, a mirror of the sitting room with regards to womanly taste. It boasted a canopy bed and a kidney-shaped dressing table complete with a drapery of muslin over chintz. A nursing chair reupholstered in floral cotton and decorated with a contrasting valance of a knife-pleated silk frill finished the picture of a light and pretty room. Rose saw this all at a glance. It did not surprise her in the least. What caused her sharp intake of breath, however, was the fact that this room, like Mr Vickers’, seemed to be in various stages of disarray. A packing case lay on the bed, some of its contents still intact, the rest thrown in piles over the bedcovers and on the floor.

  Rose walked over to the wardrobe and threw open the door. It was empty save for a selection of wooden coat hangers which, without the usual array of gowns and blouses that adorned them, looked strangely bare and forlorn. Rose advanced to the eggshell painted chest of drawers. They were as devoid of possessions as the wardrobe. She glanced at Mr Kettering, who merely frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Were the Adlers planning to leave the island?’ Rose enquired.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said the hotel proprietor. ‘That’s to say, their plans were not very definite, but I expected them to stay for another week at least. I certainly did not expect them to leave today, if that is what you are asking me.’

  They hurried to Father Adler’s room to ascertain if it was in a similar state of transition. The vicar’s bedroom resembled very much the study section of the sitting room in that it was cluttered with various ecclesiastical books and spiritual readings. Indeed, it showed itself to have an occupant who by nature preferred living in a slightly chaotic and muddled environment. What it did not reveal, however, was a person in the throes of packing. There was no sign of a suitcase, and a cursory glance showed that Father Adler’s garments were still hanging up in his wardrobe.

  Rose felt distinctly puzzled. She began to pace the room as if she thought it might help to clear her head. Had Mabel Adler intended to leave the island without her father? Outward appearances would suggest she had, and yet something had made her change her mind. For a reason, as yet unbeknown to Rose, the vicar’s daughter had decided not to finish packing her things. Rose stopped abruptly. Or perhaps that was not it at all. It was quite possible that Mabel Adler hadn’t been packing her possessions in the case. Rather, she had been putting them back and had been disturbed in the act of doing so. Rose found herself standing bedside Father Adler’s bed. She had meant to leave the room when her gaze fell on to the beside table on which there was a stub of a candle in a brass candlestick. The candlestick was of the sort used by Wee Willie Winkie. That is to say, it had a round, curved base to catch wax spills, and it was this base that had caught her eye. For a piece of paper, screwed up tightly into a tiny ball, had been placed on it. It was so small that, had she not been standing next to it, she might easily have overlooked it. As it was, there was nothing about the little ball of paper which suggested that it might have any significance to her investigation. However, almost without thinking, she put out her hand and unfolded the slip of paper.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For those left behind in the dining room, there was the sense that they were existing in some sort of shared, ghastly dream. They sat dumbfounded, a vague recollection of having been informed of Alec Dewhurst’s death on the very edge of their consciousness. If it had not been for the bewildered expressions on their companions’ faces which matched their own, it is quite possible they would have considered the memory no more than a figment of their fanciful imaginations. Gradually, however, as the dust settled and the shock subsided, they became less dazed. It was then that the awful truth hit them as suddenly and completely as a vicious blow. Alec Dewhurst was dead. Alec Dewhurst, a fellow guest, who had dined each evening with them in this very room. His life had been extinguished and, what was more, his end had been a violent and unnatural one. Murder. The word had an awful, sinister ring to it. It didn’t happen to patrons of an exclusive hotel on a remote Greek island. It was something that happened to other people. These were the thoughts that filled their minds. And if that were not bad enough, they were required to remain in the dining room among the remnants of their breakfast, looking over at Mr Dewhurst’s empty seat and picturing his ghost supping there. A shiver went down their collective spines. It really was too beastly for words. What was more, the idea of being summoned in turn and having questions put to them, to have to account for their movements on the previous night … And in the meantime they must wait, with nothing to do but watch the minutes crawl by with excruciating slowness on the face of the Chinoiseries lacquered clock that dominated the mantelpiece.

  Without Rose to accompany her, Lavinia had forsaken her feigned attempt at bravado. Instead, she sat staring into the distance, as if the back wall held for her some strange fascination. Ron Thurlow was similarly occupied. Mabel Adler was still sobbing quietly, dabbing at her eyes with one corner of her handkerchief, furtively peering beyond the folds of the cloth to cast a cautious glance at her parent. Father Adler sat in silent contemplation. He had initially expressed the obligatory words of condolence. ‘An appalling business; a most shocking affair. Really, I don’t know what the world is coming to.’ This directed to the Trimble sisters, for it seemed that he had all but forgotten the existence of his own daughter sitting at his table, her head buried in her handkerchief. Miss Hyacinth had for once refrained from responding to his comments. Instead, she had sat hunched and small, a tiny, frightened creature. Certainly, her little black eyes darted with worrying regularity in the direction of her sister, her gaze lingering on her sibling’s face. Miss Peony herself was unresponsive. It was quite impossible to believe that she was unaware of the fact that Miss Hyacinth was staring at her and looking to her for a lead. For some reason, known only to the woman herself, Miss Peony chose to be uncooperative. She sat at an angle with her back stubbornly turned towards her sister. She refused to catch the other’s eye. Indeed, she might have been sitting alone at the table, so little notice did she take of her companion.

  ‘Peony,’ said Miss Hyacinth in a loud whisper. ‘Peony.’ There was no response. Miss Hyacinth began to tug at her sister’s sleeve. At first, she did so tentatively then, when she received no reaction of any sort, she pulled at the fabric more frantically. Her voice rose in volume. ‘Peony.’

  Miss Peony spun around, regarded her sibling, and scowled.

  ‘Ssh! Be quiet. Do you want everyone to look at us?’ Her voice was a rasping whisper. It contained a harsh note which was not lost on Miss Hyacinth, who withdrew her hand and fell silent for a moment. Instead of complying with her sister’s instruction, however, she leaned forward, reminded of the question she had asked her sister in the early hours of the morning when it was still dark.

  ‘Where did you go last night? Y
ou never told me. Where did you go to at half past two in the morning?’

  ‘Never you mind.’ Miss Peony said gruffly. Then, almost as if it were an afterthought, she added: ‘It was never as late as that.’

  ‘It was. I remember looking at the clock on the mantelpiece.’

  This observation was met with a resolute silence.

  ‘Why were you dressed all in black?’ persisted Miss Hyacinth, who proceeded to speak rapidly in the hope that she might receive at least one truthful answer. ‘You never said. You told me you couldn’t sleep, but you didn’t tell me where you went. Where did you go?’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Hyacinth,’ snapped Miss Peony, losing patience, her voice an urgent whisper. ‘It’s better you don’t know. It’s for your own good.’

  Miss Hyacinth’s mouth opened very wide and her hand shot up to her lips. She sank back into her chair, almost as if she were recoiling from her sister. Her mind worked frantically, each image she conjured up in her imagination more frightening than the last.

  ‘Were you there?’ she asked at last in a frightened little voice. ‘By the cliff; were you there? Oh Peony, did you see what happened?’

  Her sister did not answer but a memory came back to Miss Hyacinth of looking at her sister’s hands, which at that moment were clasped tightly together in their owner’s lap. Strong, capable hands; she had always thought them. And last night she had thought they looked stronger and more capable than ever. Indeed, it had struck her then that they did not belong to an invalid, or at least to the fragile and demur person her sister portrayed in public. Miss Hyacinth knew all too well what her sister was. Though she loved her dearly, she knew her sister to have a mean and spiteful streak. She remembered that on Miss Peony’s return from her nocturnal outing she had taken off her wristwatch and, in so doing, her sister had noticed that her hands had trembled.

  Miss Hyacinth started at the recollection. She leaned forward and gingerly put out a hand to grasp her sister’s sleeve. Before her sibling could withdraw her arm, Miss Hyacinth’s grip tightened. Miss Peony turned and glared at her, her eyebrows slightly raised in surprise. She had a good ear, that’s to say one ear that was less deaf than the other. Miss Hyacinth pulled her sister towards her so that she might speak into that ear.