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She drove through sleepy Lyndgarth, with its village green like a handkerchief flapping in the wind, its chapel, church and three pubs. Smoke drifted from the chimneys and lost itself in the clouds like her thoughts when she meditated. She passed through the remote hamlet of Longbridge, a name most found fu
Scarlea House loomed ahead, a huge, dark Gothic limestone pile. None of the windows seemed to have any curtains. It stood on a slight rise at the end of a broad gravel drive, and in the weak light, against the backdrop of the rising, dull-green daleside, it looked like a vampire’s castle from an old horror film. All that was needed to complete the effect was a few flickers of lightning and the distant rumble of thunder. But when A
Christ, A
The ceiling in the hall was taller than her entire cottage, and if it wasn’t quite the Sistine Chapel it was certainly ornate, complete with gilded panels and a chandelier. The walls were all dark wood wainscoting, and here and there hung overlarge oil paintings of men with bulbous noses wearing their collars too tight, faces the color and texture of rare roast beef, like Jim Hatchley’s – the kind of paintings that Ray, her father, called “optical egotism.” They paid the rent, though. If a local artist got one of those self-styled bigwigs to commission such a portrait, it would probably keep him in paint and canvas for a few years. Even Ray knew the value of that.
“Can I help you, miss?”
An elegant silver-haired man in a black suit came forward to greet her. A
“Actually,” she said, feeling a bit snotty and more than a trifle intimidated by her surroundings, “it’s not Miss, it’s Detective Sergeant Cabbot.”
“Ah, yes, Sergeant, we’ve been expecting you. My name’s Lacey. George Lacey. General Manager. Please, come this way.”
He gestured toward a door with his name on it, and when they went inside A
A
“I’m just here to confirm that it really was the man in the photograph who stayed here.” She laid her copy of Clough’s photo on the desk in front of him. “This man.”
Lacey nodded. “Mr. Clough. Yes. That was, indeed, him.”
“Has he been here before?”
“Mr. Clough is a frequent guest during the season.”
“Can you tell me the dates he was here?”
“Just a moment.” Lacey tapped a few keys on the computer and frowned at the screen. “He stayed here from Saturday, the fifth of December, until Thursday the tenth.”
“It’s a bit late in the year for a holiday in the Dales, isn’t it?”
“This is a shooting lodge, Sergeant. People do not come here for holidays. They come here to shoot grouse. This was the last weekend of the season and we were full to capacity.”
“What about now?”
“Not quite so busy. It comes and goes.”
“But you stay open all winter, even though the grouse season is over?”
“Oh, yes. We’re generally booked up over Christmas and New Year, of course. The rest of the time it’s… well, quieter, though we get a number of foreign guests. Our restaurant has an international reputation. One often has to make di
“It must be an expensive operation to run.”
“Quite.” Lacey looked at her as if the mere mention of money were vulgar.
“Was Mr. Clough alone while he was here?”
“Mr. Clough, as usual, came with his personal assistant and a small group of colleagues. The season is very much a social event.”
“His personal assistant?”
“A Mr. Gilbert. Jamie Gilbert.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Banks had told her, when she had forced his confession about the lunch with Emily, that Emily had imagined she saw Jamie Gilbert in Eastvale the Monday of the week she died. Maybe she hadn’t imagined it after all. It was also interesting that Clough had arrived in Yorkshire only a day or two before Charlie Courage’s murder and left the day of Emily’s, which meant that he had certainly been in a position to supply her with the strychnine-laced cocaine.
“Do you know what time Mr. Clough left on the tenth?” she asked.
“Not exactly. Usually our guests depart after breakfast. I’d say between nine and ten o’clock, perhaps.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about his stay, his comings and goings?”
“I’m afraid not. I am not employed to spy on our guests.”
“Is there anyone who might be able to tell me?”
Lacey looked at his watch and curled his lip. “Mr. Ferguson, perhaps. He’s the bartender. As such, he spends far more time close to the guests in social situations. He might be able to tell you more.”
“Okay,” said A
“He won’t be in until later this afternoon. Around five o’clock. If you’d care to come back then…?”
“Fine.” A
The news about Clough was exciting, though. It was the only positive lead they had on him since Gregory Ma
Banks had first met Granville Baird two years ago, when North Yorkshire Trading Standards had asked for police assistance after one of their investigators had been threatened with violence. Since then, they had worked together when their duties overlapped and had even met socially now and then for a game of darts in the Queen’s Arms. They weren’t close friends, but they were about the same age, and Granville, like Banks, was a jazz fan and a keen operagoer.