‘So,’ Henry said, ‘quite apart from the Ranganthan debacle, we’ve been concerned. It’s been noticed that you’re spending a lot of time downstairs. In a bathroom.’
‘I … em.’
‘Time when you should be at the front desk,’ Patience clarified. ‘Are you ill?’
Before Cara could answer, Henry said, ‘Because if you’re ill, Cara, ill enough to impact your work, you should see a doctor.’
God, no. ‘I’m not ill. Not like that.’
‘Have you a drinking problem?’ Henry asked.
‘No!’
‘Drugs? Cara. We value you. You’re an exceptional member of staff. If you’re in some sort of trouble, we want to help.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘If you won’t trust us,’ Henry said gently, ‘how can we help you?’
‘I don’t need help. Honestly. It was just … I was only … But I’ll do better.’
She would.
‘Can you explain what happened over the Ranganthan booking?’ Patience asked.
Shame flooded her. ‘They emailed that they wanted to come a day earlier. There was availability. I replied and told them so. But I didn’t amend the room grid. I’m so sorry.’
‘You’ve never messed up like this before,’ Patience said. ‘And this is a biggie. Taken in conjunction with your frequent absences downstairs, we’re understandably worried.’
‘I don’t know how I missed it.’ Cara felt close to tears. ‘But I promise it won’t happen again.’
FIFTY-SEVEN
Johnny drove the car through the gates of Gulban Manor and – oh, Jesus Christ: this was worse than he had feared. Way, way worse. Only now did he see how gullible he’d been – he’d let himself be fooled by the old photo-from-a-flattering-angle trick: basically Gulban Manor had a nice front door.
His heart was pumping out neat adrenalin: based on a photo of that Regency-style door, fourteen people were driving one hundred and fifty kilometres, to celebrate Jessie’s fiftieth birthday.
His panic was so bad, his heart felt trapped in his throat.
In his defence, it really was a very handsome door, a leaded fanlight curving elegantly above it, set in a portico of slender columns.
The house itself might once have been a small period gatehouse. Directly on either side of the entrance were graceful sash windows, but from there on, the look was pure seventies suburbia.
For one mad, mindless moment, he sincerely thought about doing a U-turn and driving out of there – heading for anywhere and doing it fast. Instead, he meekly parked the car. Sliding his eyes sideways, he saw that Jessie was coolly taking it all in. ‘Jessie, babes.’ His voice was low and urgent. ‘If this is a disaster, I’ll make it up to you.’
‘It’ll be fine.’ She sounded uncharacteristically quiet.
God, no. She was giving him the I’m-not-angry-I’m-disappointed treatment. Feeling sick, he got out, Jessie, Saoirse and Ferdia trailing after him.
In the photo, the front door had been a clean creamy colour but in real life it looked as if it had been cured in nicotine. The paint was flaking, the knocker was loose … and a short, solid man, laden with shopping bags, hurtled past him, shouldering it open.
They landed into a gloomy hallway.
The man, a round-faced, apple-cheeked individual, surveyed Johnny and his crew. ‘Are you …?’
‘Hoping to check in,’ Johnny said faintly.
‘Oh. Aye. No bother. I’ll just stick these in the freezer.’ He indicated the overflowing bags. ‘Tomorrow night’s canapés. Can’t have them going bad. Then we really would have a murder on our hands. MICAH!’ he yelled up the stairs, making Johnny jump. ‘MUIRIA! Come down, the first ones are here!’
He turned back to Johnny. ‘Welcome to the Gulban Manor Murder-Mystery Weekend. I’m Clifford McStitt, the proprietor, with my wife Muiria. Here’s Micah now.’
A teenage boy descended the stairs, with the same round, apple-cheeked face as Clifford, obviously his son. ‘Mammy’ll be here in a second,’ he said. ‘She knows about the bookings.’
And here came Mammy, who looked surprisingly similar to her husband. Her hair was even cut in the same pudding-bowl style. The three McStitts could have been triplets.
‘Welcome.’ Her smile was warm and Johnny clung to the small bit of hope this gave him. Maybe it wouldn’t be a total disaster.
‘Johnny Casey. Right. You’re booked into our Empress Suite.’ She turned a few pages in her notebook. ‘For the weekend, you will be Dr Basil Theobald-Montague, once-eminent heart surgeon, now with –’
‘– a stain on my reputation. Yes.’
‘Your wife, Jessie? You are Rosamund Childers, secretary to MP Timothy Narracott-Blatt and a –’
‘Yeah, “thoroughly good sport”.’
Muiria was pleased. ‘You’ve read your potted histories? Good. And you’ve brought suitable clothing? Very good. I’d say you’ll