Murder at Midsummer: PROLOGUE

His body was pulled from the water late in the day by police divers, and identified by his grieving widow, who had seen the boat capsize from where she stood on the shore. The autopsy showed that a blow to his head, probably from the boom of the sailboat, had knocked him into the water where he drowned. She had his body cremated and returned with the ashes to their native England, overcome by the tragic loss of her husband on their honeymoon trip. The hotel issued a statement which expressed sympathy for his family and friends, but also pointed out that the accident had occurred on a boat rented from the village marina. The owner of the marina made his own statement, saying bluntly and profanely that if the man hadn’t enough sense to follow simple safety precautions and wear a life jacket, well, he’d been told, and he was an adult capable of making his own decisions. Eventually the inquest would return a verdict of accidental death. In other words, it was the perfect crime.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter One

Later in the year, when I had a new job, a new home, new friends, and even a new vehicle, I would look back over the events of that May and June and try to figure out when everything changed. After all, for as long as I could remember I had been a city girl, with academic ambitions. Yet by the end of June, I was living in the country and staying there, and although there were events that lay between the beginning and end that I would not willingly endure again, there is no doubt that the life that I ended up with was more deeply satisfying for me than the one I’d originally envisioned. Sometimes you just need to have your horizons broadened.

At the time that my life started to take an interesting turn, I was sitting in the club car of a train, sipping at a gin and tonic (with lime) and gazing disconsolately at the scenery of northern Ontario. I had been watching it for the past hour and a half, and I was getting more than a tad bored. I had finished the last of the six books that I had provided myself with for my journey. Lady Clarissa was in the arms of Lord Stanhope – or had Elkan finally wrested control of the Star Empire from the evil Hedron? Go ahead and laugh, but you try to find deathless prose in a train station variety store five minutes before boarding the train. I'd grabbed six of the most promising, and they'd all turned out to be duds. Of course, I had still read them, but there were none left, and Nell Bannister without a book is a woman at a loose end. And there was something else preying on my mind.

I was on the train back from Victoria, where I had been enjoying a vacation after writing final exams and before starting the summer job which was to tide me over until I started grad school in the fall. I had stayed with my father’s sister, Colleen, who had loaned me her car so that I could go around the island. The scenery had been fabulous, and the break from work relaxing, but it was time that I got home and got to work. My last indulgence before getting serious was the trip back by train: I’d flown out, but wanted to be able to sit back and enjoy crossing the entire country, mountains, prairies, and everything, before I started my job. It was my Uncle Robert’s graduation present to me. It was nice having an aunt and uncle with no children of their own, and just me for a niece, because they spoiled me shamelessly.

I was sort of looking forward to my summer job. I had been hired as a chambermaid at a resort hotel on the north shore of Lake Erie. It was hardly a prestigious position, but one with no responsibility and lots of time working by myself. My idea of heaven was a job where I could work all alone all day and let my mind wander where it would, and this one filled the bill. I even had previous experience working in a hotel, so I knew that I could do it. In the meantime I was on the train, headed back for Toronto.

So here I was, nursing a gin and tonic in the bar car, and bored stiff. Northern Ontario lacks the visual interest of the Rockies, so there was little to hold my attention outside. Then he entered, and my body temperature started to rise. Damn.

I need to digress at this point, to a time three years earlier, before I had obtained my precious B.A .(Hons) in English History. It was the end of my first year at York, and like any college kid I had wanted to travel. Looking for something a little different from the standard backpacking vacation, I ended up working at a London hotel as a chambermaid. I had a wonderful time seeing all the sights, going to as many plays as my limited budget would allow, and walking in the rain in Hyde Park. Somehow, with all this and work too, I still found time to fall in love with Jack Mitchell, the hotel bartender.

English. Gorgeous Newcastle accent. Lazy smile and steel blue eyes. Sooty black hair. In fact, the perfect tall, dark and handsome. Three years ago I had spent an entire summer madly in love with him and yet we had exchanged perhaps half a dozen words. I had been very young for my age, with little "guy" experience, so I had yearned after him from afar, hoping for a miracle to bring me to his attention, while he enjoyed the more "forward" attentions of a variety of maids, waitresses, and cooking staff.

The miracle had never happened then, but it was somewhere in the Fraser Canyon that I had realized that he was, in fact, a fellow passenger. Perhaps a more assertive woman would have taken the opportunity thus presented to herself to do something about it. I was not assertive. I was terrified. I had spent the rest of British Columbia, and all of Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, and finally Northern Ontario being as indecisive as hell. I vacillated between the desire to throw myself at him and the fear that he wouldn’t respond in a manner that I would like.

Now, well into the last day of the trip, it was now or never. There he was, sitting all by himself a few seats down from me, and ordering a beer. I took myself firmly in hand, staring all the while out at the coniferous forest punctuated by the occasional river. I reminded myself that I was no longer a mere nineteen years of age and inexperienced in the ways of love. I recalled that I had two relationships with the opposite sex under my belt, so to speak. I drew for myself a moving picture of me at the advanced age of forty-five, alone and depressed, remembering the golden opportunity for happiness that I so foolishly threw away at the young and careless age of twenty-two. I assured myself that I was strong, liberated, and self-reliant. I ordered myself to lose no time in going over there and striking up a conversation.

I stood. The train stopped, grinding to a halt with a long-drawn-out squealing of its brakes. I was thrown back onto my seat, from whence I continued down to the floor, spilling my drink and generally making a mess of things.

It’s at times like this that I can’t help but feel responsible for chaos. After all, there was no reason for the train to choose that moment of all others to stop. No matter what the cause, I was not the only one who had to deal with spillage and falling down and other such problems. There was a poor woman who was trying to console her two preschool aged boys who had bonked their heads and were wailing loudly. Some of the elderly passengers were complaining to anyone who would listen about their spilled drinks. However, in this air of general confusion, someone noticed my predicament. He helped me to my feet, asking me if I was all right. I knew that I would soon have bruises in some very interesting places, but I denied all discomfort as he eased me back onto my seat and gave me a fresh drink that he obtained from a still-frazzled bartender.
An equally harried conductor burst through the car, loudly proclaiming that nothing was wrong, the train would start again and he was sorry for any inconvenience to the passengers. I heard something about a moose on the tracks. Well, train travel isn’t perfect, but it has its compensations.

I smiled at my rescuer, and thanked him for his help. Inwardly I cursed. Nice as it was to have him rescue me, I would have liked to have come to his attention in a more graceful and seemly manner. But then, grace has never been one of my strong points. I smoothed my hair with a still shaking hand. He smiled, and shrugged off my thanks. Somehow, I’d forgotten that his shoulders were one of those wonders of London that rated right up there with Westminster Abbey and Hamlet at the Old Vic. "Forget it. Glad to be of help. Drink up there, and don’t worry about your hair. It looks fine."

Trying to figure out what to say to him, I took his advice, and took a slug of my drink. Meanwhile he looked at me curiously, his brow slightly wrinkled. "I can’t help but think that you and I have met before, but I’ve only been in Canada a week. Have you ever been to England?"

Okay, Nell. Let’s be nonchalant. "Well," I started in an offhand manner, "I did spend a summer at the St Charles Hotel in London working as a chambermaid – wait – weren’t you – ?" Perhaps I was overdoing it, but I had no desire to give myself away.

"I was a bartender." He smiled. "We have a bond, then."

"The awful food in the Minster Pantry! Did you ever have the stewed oxtail?"

"The manager – what was his name – the Kenneth More clone?"

"Or how about the head housekeeper, Mrs Striker? Keep away!"

"Daniel the sex fiend from Toulouse? I understand he was once found making out with a chambermaid in a laundry trolley."

"That horrible Snoopy club in the basement, with one video game!"

"Ah yes, the old St Charles had its moments." Jack took a reflective pull at his beer. Then he looked at me again, smiling. "I’m sorry, but although I recall your face I’ve completely forgotten your name."

"I doubt that you ever knew it," I responded, a hopeful flutter barely under control in my chest. "I’m Nell Bannister."

"Jack Mitchell, at your service," he said, and smiled. It was borne in upon me with dizzying certainty that his fatal fascination had not waned with the passage of time. The keen analytical part of my brain was barely functioning, but managed to warn me that he was just bored. I ignored this warning and tuned into what Jack was saying. "Why don’t we have lunch together?"

Over the meal, we discussed all sorts of things, including books and movies, music and television. It’s always encouraging when one can agree with the object of one’s lust on one’s likes and dislikes. In other words, we got along very well. I kept wanting to pinch myself to make sure that this was reality, but I decided that it wouldn’t fit the cool image that I was trying to project.

I have no memory of the components of that meal. All I remember is looking at those blue eyes looking at me, smiling at me, talking to me. I was dizzy with exhilaration. After coffee we went down the cars to his compartment, and sat down to watch the not very exciting landscape south of Sudbury pass us by. It seemed quite natural for his arm to be draped casually about my shoulders. It seemed quite normal for his hand to be playing gently with my hair. But he didn’t seem immediately inclined to do anything more, and it was a comfortable position for talking. Our conversation turned to that summer at the St. Charles. At first he didn’t seem to remember anything about me but my face, but all of a sudden, apropos of nothing, he let out a crack of laughter and sat up. "Spaghetti!"

I blushed. I could not believe my bad luck. "Spaghetti?"

"Now I remember you!" He pointed a finger at me in triumph. "You tripped and fell with a full plate of spaghetti in the Minster Pantry one night!"

Shit. "You would remember that," I said bitterly. "One of the most embarrassing moments in my life." I had gone back to my room and cried at what a fool I must have looked like. And here, three years later, he still remembered.

"It’s okay, really. Just one of those things. Happens to all of us." He settled back down, without the arm on my shoulders, but turned to face me, chin propped on one hand and smiled at me warmly. My heart turned over. I was moving past lust into something rapidly approaching love. It never did take me long.
Jack let his hand slip down my side as he leaned over to a cupboard. "Like a drink?"

"Oh, yes!" I gasped. That seemed to be just what I needed.

He pulled out a bottle of Cointreau and poured some into a couple of tumblers. He handed me my glass and sat back down beside me. "Cheers," he said, with that blue-eyed smile of his.

"Cheers," I replied as we clinked glasses gently. I glanced inside the open cupboard and whistled slightly. "Your financial situation has improved somewhat since the St Charles days." If he could remember the spaghetti incident I could remember his money problems. Even among a mostly broke hotel staff, his chronic and spectacular insolvency had occasioned comment. I still recalled vividly the time that he had lain down in the space between the sofa and the wall in the staff clubroom to avoid being found by a former bellhop who had come back to get the ten pounds Jack owed him. However, he was obviously in a different league now. The suitcases piled on top of one another were made of leather, and his toiletries came from Harrods, not Marks and Sparks. Now it was his turn to blush.

"I’ve come into some money since then," he agreed, obviously not wanting to go into details, and changed the subject in the most distracting of ways. Taking my glass from my hand and placing it on the shelf, he pulled me towards him and started to kiss me slowly and leisurely, while his hands moved to the small of my back and pressed me up against him. I responded enthusiastically , and things proceeded in altogether gratifying manner until my eyes fell upon the gun peeking out of his jacket as it hung from the hook on the back of the door.

I pulled back sharply, tearing myself from his arms. He was startled at my sudden change of attitude. "Listen, pet, I’m sorry, but I thought..." he said as his hand slipped under my hair and caressed the nape of my neck.

I shoved it away, staring at him in shock, and reached for the handle of the door as I stood up. "I’ll let myself out."

In a moment he was by my side and trying to hold me again, trying to stop me from leaving. "Nell, please, what’s wrong?"

"Let me go!" I said through gritted teeth. "I don’t want to be here anymore."
His arms fell to his sides, and he looked honestly distressed, but I was too upset myself to stay around and talk about it. I opened the door and ran down the corridor and through the connecting carriages to my own compartment.

Assertiveness is overrated.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Two

I stayed in my compartment for the next three hours, and Jack didn’t come looking for me. I guess that he got the message. I was off that train as soon as it stopped in Toronto that evening. If Jack was watching he didn't try to stop me. That was fine by me. I don't like guns: I never have and I never will. I had no idea what he was mixed up in, but I knew for sure that the handgun had not gotten into the country legally. Few people were allowed to possess them, and certainly Jack would not be one of those people. What was he doing with it? Drugs? Organized crime? It was no doubt something that would account for the drastic change in economic status. As I hailed a cab outside of Union Station I gently shut the book of Jack in my mind.

The taxi driver talked too much. My taxi drivers always do. At least this one didn't try to pick me up, but he did tell me a bizarre story about the time he went to pick up a fare on my street and the woman came to the door naked. He didn't tell me any more and I didn't want to know about it. I had my own problems. I will say this for him: he helped me get my suitcases out when he dropped me in front of my place. I gave him a tip, and he grinned as he sped away. Nice fellow.

I lived in a very attractive place as apartments in Toronto go. Three friends and I shared the top two floors of a three-story row house near downtown, which was good for the other three, attending University of Toronto, but not so good for me going to York. However, I preferred an 1890 row house downtown to a 1960 townhouse in far-off Downsview, so I put up with the daily commute.

I unlocked the front door, picked up my two suitcases and dragged them up the steep flight of stairs to the small landing on the second floor, where I again put down the cases and unlocked that door. Home at last! As I swung open the door the phone started ringing and I froze.

Bannister is not that common a name, and I knew that I was the only N listed in the Toronto phone book. If he wanted to get in touch with me it would not take a rocket scientist to find my number. I had thought that I had no desire to talk to him, but the temptation to pick up the phone and find out who it was almost overwhelmed my reluctance. I mastered it, however, and as I picked up those damned heavy cases and headed for the next flight of stairs the phone stopped ringing. Either Larry or Mike must have forgotten to turn on the answering machine. It was just as well. Probably.

Larry and Mike were two of my apartment mates. They also happened to be roommates. Judy, the other member of our foursome, and I thought it was great. We had built-in escorts, and the four of us often went out together when Judy and I, as we frequently were, were boyfriendless. We always felt safe from the smarmy groks out there with those guys by our side. It helped that Mike looked like a hockey player (which he had been, for two years in Junior A). I wasn't surprised to find him not around, as he was taking an evening course to help him get ahead in his new career as a stockbroker, but I was a bit disappointed not to find Larry . He kept very erratic hours, as he was early in his medical studies and still hadn't figured out how to budget his time between studying and sleeping. He appeared to live in the university library and subsisted on a diet of fig newtons and yoghourt. But as I went past their open door I saw that it was empty. Judy, I knew, was somewhere up north doing botany research on moss, so I was all forlorn.

I stopped in the bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. Despite my earth-shaking experience, nothing had changed. I wasn’t that bad looking, really. My shoulder-length heavy honey-blonde hair, light grey eyes and pale but clear complexion were unspectacular but easy enough on the eyes. I looked like I hadn’t been eating enough through the final exam period, but that wasn’t a problem. Jack hadn’t minded, obviously. Damn. Wrong thing to think about.

When in doubt, do laundry. I took my suitcases up to my room on the third floor, and dumped them all over the floor to sort. For once there was room on my floor, which must have meant that Mike had cleaned up for me while I was gone. The floor had been littered with assorted junk when I left for Victoria. It actually looked rather good, with my old futon rolled up neatly in the corner rather than flopped out haphazardly as I usually left it. I went to the window to open it for some fresh air, and, leaning out, noticed that the tree that had barely been in bud when I left in the first week in May had burst into a full, luxuriant leafy green canopy. I loved my little room, with its white walls and bare wood floor and dozens of bright cushions scattered all over the place. It had been mine for two years now, and so far I had had no desire to move out on my own. For one thing, I liked my friends. It’s not easy to find people to happily co-habit with, and these were people I could get along with and enjoy spending time with. And then, with grad school ahead of me I couldn’t afford as nice a place as this on my own. I didn’t have to go to laundromats, I had more than just a one-room flat to spread out in, and Mike had much better kitchen stuff than the other three of us put together.

I turned my attention to the clothes currently scattered hither and yon, and created three piles, to which I added other things that had been left piled in my closet awaiting my return, and which of course I should have cleaned before I left for the West Coast. I only had that one night to organize my things before heading off to Tintagel the next day, so I had no time to waste. It was at this point that I realised that I had carried upstairs all those clothes that I now had to tote back downstairs to wash in the laundry room off the kitchen. I cursed my stupidity and my mind, which was obviously on something (or someone) else, and grabbing the first load in my arms I headed back down the stairs to get started on my chores.

Three hours later everything was washed and folded, and I had fallen fast asleep on the living room sofa. I had been waiting for the phone to ring again, unsure if I wanted it to or not, all through the laundry. Just to be sure, I had switched the answering machine on so that I could at least screen the calls without having to commit myself to answering. Nobody called. After the laundry was finished, and a light snack inside of me, the big overstuffed couch had just been too inviting, and I sacked out. It was then that Mike came home.

He woke me up by tickling the soles of my bare feet, and I rocketed out of unconsciousness. "What the hell!" I let out as I reared up, my nerves still shot.

"Whoa," said Mike. "Chill, baby. It's just me."

I shook my head, dispersing the lingering images of Jack, who had inexplicably been folding sheet after sheet in some weird laundromat. "Shit," I muttered, "Don't do that to me."

Mike sat down beside me and gave me a hug. "Sorry. It was those dirty feet hanging over the edge of the sofa. I couldn't resist. How was your trip?"

I groaned. "Don't ask."

Mike is easily persuaded. "Okay," he said, strolling off towards his room, loosening his tie, his grey suit jacket slung over his shoulder. Mike is a very disappointing confidant. He never forces the other to talk.

I bounded off of the sofa, following him. "Damn you, Mike, ask me!"

Mike sighed. Mike sighs very often when I'm around. He perched on the stairs, running his hands through his short brown hair. "Fine, Nell. Oh, Nell, Please, oh please, what happened on your trip. Oooh, didja meet someone? Didja? Didja?"

I smacked him gently, and sat down on the step below him. "Mike, you are a jerk."

"Yes, but I have a boyfriend, and you're still looking. Who is he?"

"Mike, how much have I told you about London?"

Mike laughed. "Oh, God, do you mean Jack?"

I wilted. "Have I really talked about him that much?"

He shrugged. "For about a year, every time you were drunk, his name would come up under the topic of missed opportunities. It could have been worse. That friend Tracey of mine from back home in Chatham starts spouting German whenever she's pissed. Less resilient types than me have even been tempted to stop the car and throw her out. But continue," he said, propping his chin in his hand. "I assume that this story is leading somewhere."

"Well, Jack was on the train, and he talked to me. Actually, he did more than talk to me..."

"If he didn't this would be a very boring story indeed and I would be better off getting a shower and a cold beer."

"Shut up. But I'll get you the beer."

"Don't bother," he said, rising and stepping over me down the stairs to the kitchen. I trailed after him and accepted a cold frosty one myself, and we sat down at the kitchen table.

"So did you get some action?" he asked with a modified leer.

I took a gulp of beer before proceeding. "It depends on what you call action. First , the train stopped abruptly right after he came into the club car, and I fell down and spilled gin and tonic all over myself."

Mike's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter, and he shook his head in disbelief. "It must have been disappointing for you."

"But Mike," I wailed, "he even remembers me falling down and spilling spaghetti at the hotel three years ago! He remembered me, but for the wrong reason! And he laughed!"

Mike grinned as he drank some beer. "I would have too, honey. I do it all the time, every time you fall over those feet of yours."

"Well, things did look up when we spent the afternoon together, but took a definite turn for the worst when I saw the revolver in his coat pocket when we were making out."

He spluttered and choked on his beer. "A gun?"

"You got it."

"Shit!"

"My sentiments exactly."

"So what did you do?"

"I fled from his presence immediately."

"You just left."

"Yup."

"Did he know why?"

"Probably not."

"Good Lord, Nell, who the hell is this guy?"

"I wish I knew. Spy, drug courier, hired assassin? Who knows? However, since I cannot think of a single situation which would make me comfortable with him being in possession of a gun, I left rather than stick around and discuss it with him."

Mike rose from the table, collected the empty bottles, deposited them by the sink, and then, shaking his head, opened the freezer and got the tequila bottle out. Grabbing a glass from the shelf above the sink, he poured me a shot. He is a thoughtful and caring man, my friend Mike. "You need this."

"I need about ten hours of sleep, but I won’t get them before I leave for Tintagel."

He snorted. "I still think that name is killingly inappropriate for a place on Lake Erie, for God's sake."

"I can't help if the original owners harboured romantic dreams of Camelot or whatever. Besides, it's very attractive."

"Oh, don't tell me again. Maybe we'll get down and visit you this summer sometime. Do you have to leave tomorrow?"

I glanced at the clock. "Today, you mean." It was well after midnight. "Oh, yes. Miss Potter was very definite on that point. Their bookings increase immediately after the Victoria Day weekend. So they'll need a week to train me before the busy season starts."

From there we started discussing some new chairs we were going to buy with Mike's next pay cheque, and by the time we'd ordered in pizza and finished off the few beers in the fridge I was ready for bed, and hadn't even mentioned Jack more than once, although that had sometimes required me biting my tongue.

As we went off to our respective beds, Mike draped his arm around my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "Cheer up, Nell," he said. "It could be worse."

"How?"

"At least you don't have to see him again."

The perceptive reader will, of course, recognize those as famous last words, and treat them with the scorn that they deserve.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Three Conclusion

It was a good thing that I set my alarm for three thirty before I laid down for a brief sleep, because the hours from twelve thirty until then were spent in a deep and profoundly unsatisfying sleep. There is nothing worse, as far as I’m concerned, than waking up from an afternoon nap. I moaned hollowly as I stumbled around the room looking for what I needed before meeting with Miss Potter: clothes, a hairbrush, my purse, in that order. With a brief stop at the bathroom two doors down from my room, I was on my way along that white corridor towards the service stairs, and after wandering past some seminar rooms and one of the dining rooms, I soon found myself in the main lobby of Tintagel.

Nice place. There’s an understatement. The original owner had envisioned a great hall in the tradition of British stately homes, and he ended up with an amazing space. The ceiling soared twenty-five feet, with graceful gothic arches. The entrance door on the west wall was an old-fashioned wooden beauty set between tall windows. An impressively wide staircase rose along the east wall to the second floor landing. It was built of native black walnut, polished to a soft, black-brown gleam with intricately turned banisters of the same wood. The stairs had a runner of a subtly patterned mulberry carpet which echoed the tones of the richly patterned late-Victorian floral wallpaper. It was the perfect setting for grand entrances in billowing ball gowns and white ties and tails.

The great hall itself was floored with slate, again polished and softly gleaming, with oriental carpets in a few places, surrounded by big comfy sofas. Light poured in through the windows which spanned the height of the room on the south, west and north walls , many-paned and softened by simple, heavy dark green draperies hung at their sides. This was on a grand scale indeed. I could see how on a winter’s evening, with the curtains pulled and fires burning in the large fireplaces centred between the windows on the south and north walls, it could be a warm and inviting place, but on this lovely spring day, with views out across the blue lake to the south, and woods and fields to the north and west, it was a light-filled and airy space.

The reception desk ran along the wall under the staircase. It too was built of panelled walnut, its computers tucked discreetly behind so as not to distract from the period ambience. Jim was there, looking unoccupied for the moment. He caught sight of me and popped out from behind. "Looking for Miss Potter’s office?" he asked.

"That would be correct," I said. "Time to head for the salt mines."

"Salt mines is right, if you ask me," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "That woman is a slave-driver. I don’t envy you. You sure you wouldn’t like to be in reception?"

"I’ll survive," I assured him as he accompanied me to the door tucked at the north end of the east wall. "She couldn’t be worse than the housekeeper I worked for in England."

"England? Cool! When was that?"

But I had no time to answer, for as we entered the narrow white office corridor with windows to one side, Miss Potter herself emerged from a door at the far end. "Nell, isn’t it? Glad you made it here safely," she continued briskly. Jim faded away, back to his post, and I responded cordially, although to be honest, when I first saw this woman I had not liked her, and I had no hopes of changing my opinion in future.

Glenda Potter was between forty-five and fifty, a solid woman of medium height. She was very much a management type, dressed in professional suits and moderate heels in subdued tones of beige and brown. Her hair was short and greying, simply styled, and her makeup was equally nondescript. So far so good. But she had an annoying air of superiority, perhaps acquired through years of supervising women who tended to have little education and social status. She was used to being in charge, and of being the superior intellect. She had made a point of telling me at my initial interview that she did have a B.A., just so that I would know that she was not my intellectual inferior. Not that she was insecure, not our Miss Potter. Rather, she knew that she knew more and did things better than anyone else, at least in her own mind. And she was my boss for the next three and a half months. Lord help me.

"Now, Nell," she said smoothly, leading me down to a corridor which intersected with the first, and into her claustrophobic little office, "I have here your uniforms. There are two," she continued, gesturing at the clothes on their hangers, "so that you will have a spare, but you are expected to care for them yourself. There is a washing machine and dryer available for your use in the basement, so there should be no problem."

She seemed to expect a response at this point. "Thank you," I said. "No problem."

This satisfied her, and she continued. "You will be expected to report to the third floor housekeeping room at six thirty tomorrow morning. Susan will already be there and she will show you which rooms you have been assigned." Again a pause.

"Okay," I said.

"These rooms will be yours for the rest of the summer. They will be your responsibility, as are the guests who occupy them." Pause.

"Uh-huh."

"Of course, as I explained when I hired you, you will be taking light breakfast to their rooms if they so desire, which is the reason for the early start. Many of our guests like to arise early to golf."

"Sure."

"Once that is done, you will commence cleaning the rooms, only when the guests are not there so as not to interfere with them."

"Absolutely." The less contact with people the better.

"We are very particular here at Tintagel. I inspect rooms on an ongoing random basis, and slipshod methods will not be tolerated. I don’t know what standards you had to meet in your previous job."

She really did piss me off. "Oh, I learned how to clean, don’t worry. I even vacuum under beds."

"Well, we shall see. I shall see. Your hours are six thirty am until you finish. I assume that you will be finished between two and three, and then you are free to come and go as you wish. All meals are provided for live-in staff, of course."

"Yes."

"And we enforce a strict policy of non-fraternization at this hotel."

"I see."

"You are not to socialize with the guests."

"Understood." Why argue? It wouldn’t get me anywhere, even if I felt like it.

"Very well," said Miss Potter, rising to her feet, "welcome to the staff of Tintagel."

"Thank you," I responded, likewise standing and taking my uniforms.

The interview was at an end. She walked with me the three feet to the door, and pointed down the corridor in the opposite direction to the great hall. "You will find it more convenient to use the staff entrance," she said, indicating a stairway at the far end. " That will take you back downstairs."

Well, I didn’t need that spelled out in black and white, did I? Servants stay out of the great hall unless you’re cleaning it. "Thank you," I said again, and left her there. What a delightful woman. I could tell that we would be the best of friends.

Back in my little basement room, I tried on one of the uniforms. Remember, Tintagel had a style all its own. This would be no tacky polyester gingham shapeless bag like I wore at the St Charles, oh no. This was cotton/polyester to begin with, cotton to look good and polyester for ease of care. It was designed to complement the prevailing decor, which I had already ascertained consisted of mulberry and sage, relieved by tasteful touches of gold. This outfit had a simple underdress in a warm beige, with a flowered apron over top. The bodice was cut a bit loose, with short sleeves and a collarless neckline. The skirt was slightly gathered and about knee length. Not too bad. It had no frills, wasn’t too tight, and actually looked okay with my colouring. So I hung them up until the next morning.

By now it was after five, and just as my stomach started to remind me about dinner, there was a knock on the door. Of course it was Jim, leaning in the doorway. "Hello, fellow peon," he said.

"Hey there. What’s happening?" I asked, standing aside as he entered the room.

"Dinner. It may not be good but it’s free. How was Miss Potter?"

I pulled a face. "I’m glad that I’ll be cleaning rooms and not talking to her all day."

"Dream on. She’s always popping in to see how you gals are doing. They all hate her."

"Thanks for telling me."

"And the manager’s not much better," he continued, looking over my CD’s stacked on top of the dresser. "Nice discs, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Phillip Twinett’s a pain. He’s very ambitious and takes it out on us beneath."

"Nice."

"No doubt he’ll have you in a couple of days from now to give you a pep talk. Oh, and he also sucks up to especially rich guests. Makes me want to throw up sometimes. Come on," he said, as though inspired by his last comment. "Let’s go eat!"

Dinner consisted of hot hamburger sandwiches and overcooked peas. Jim suggested a run into Port Burwell afterwards to get an ice cream cone to make us feel better, and I didn’t say no. I even let him drive Red Emma.

As I said earlier, Port Burwell is basically a fishing village with a few frills. Jim and I parked by the ice cream place and bought double cones. Mine was pistachio, his chocolate. Then we wandered around the streets. There were some beautiful houses close to two hundred years old, for this was one of the original loyalist settlements in the years following the American Revolution. Of course, one was likely to find a tacky cottage right next to a Georgian gem, but that’s par for the course in small-town Ontario.

As the sun set we headed down to the beach and sat on a picnic table, talking of this and that. Around nine o’clock we headed back to the hotel, me driving this time, and went to the staff lounge to watch TV.

As we walked in the two bodies entwined on the sofa moved apart. For their sake, I hoped that they weren’t twins, but holy, they looked alike. The young man sat up, disposing his tall, lanky frame in such a way that he could maintain maximum physical contact with the girl, who was shorter, more curvaceous, and with longer hair, but otherwise a pretty close match. Both had blonde hair, blue eyes, and deep tans. She smiled. He smiled. They acknowledged our existence, but aside from that didn’t seem to care much that we’d walked in.

"Hi, guys," said Jim with a grin. "How you keeping?"

The guy’s voice was surprisingly deep. "Hey, Jim," he said.

"Nell," said Jim. "This is Tim from Windsor. He folds laundry. Alison is from London. She works in the pool area."

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," they said in unison. They just sat there absorbing each other’s sweat.

"We only met two days ago," confessed Alison with a giggle.

They reminded me of new couples their first week at university. Neither of them could have been more than eighteen, and they were obnoxiously in love. Jim and I came in and sat down for a few minutes, but they showed no sign of ceasing to paw at each other just because others were there. Me at twenty-two and Jim at twenty-five felt positively ancient, and if he felt like emulating their mating behaviour it didn’t show. The only decent thing to do was go to bed (separately). We said good night in the hallway and I tried to get a good night’s sleep. So why the hell did I think about Jack all night?

Murder at Midsummer: Chapter Four

The next morning came way too soon, but I dragged myself out of bed and dressed in one of my lovely new uniforms. I made my way down the corridor to the service elevator that Jim had shown me the night before, and went up to the third floor where Sue was awaiting me.

The housekeeping room was right across from the service elevator and stairs, at the end of the north corridor. Its uncurtained window let in lots of early morning light. Sue was sitting by the window drinking a cup of coffee as if her life depended on it. She was around thirty years of age, and was too thin and needed a haircut. She had compromised on the latter by tying her light brown hair back into a ponytail. We’d met when I had come down the month before.

"Hi, Nell," she said. "Welcome to the third floor."

"Thanks, Sue," I answered. "Where’s the coffee?"

She poured me a cup from where she sat, and I came over and perched on the table near the window. "It’s a beautiful morning," I said, looking out at the mist curling lazily over the fields in the rising sun.

"The drive in was nice," she agreed, and we sipped our coffee for a minute or two before talking again. I knew that I was going to like working with her: she appreciated both the beauty of nature and caffeine. "Let’s get this show on the road," she said after putting her cup down with a bang, and getting out of the chair. I gulped down the rest of my coffee and followed her out the door.

The carpets were mulberry and the walls were sage, where there wasn’t floral wallpaper reminiscent of William Morris. The panelled doors were of a dark wood, as was the trim. Some of the brass knobs had slips of paper hanging from them; Sue grabbed them, glanced at them, and kept on going. Sometimes she’d pull out a pencil and write something on a slip and then add it to the sheaf in her hand. "Some guests forget their room number," she explained. "There’s nothing as useless as a breakfast order with no number on it when you’re back in the service room. And then guests get mad and so does Potter. And if a guest complains to Twinett, you’re cooked, baby. Believe me, it will always be your fault." By the time we’d covered the whole floor, we had about fifteen of those slips, and we headed back to the service room.

"Okay," said Sue, "These on the south corridor are yours, and the north ones are mine." She divided them into two piles, and pushed one across the table to me. "First, put them in order by time." I looked quickly through my six. The first one was for seven am, and the last eight forty-five; the rest were scattered in between. "Now, set up trays on the counter." She waved towards the ten-foot counter with a sink at one end. "I’ll go down and get the food we need," she said, and while she left on a quick trip to the kitchen in the basement I got out trays, and looking at the orders started to assemble the coffee and tea things. When Sue returned with the croissants and fresh fruit, it was time to deliver the first one. Off I went with my seven am tray, all the way around to the south corridor, knocked on the door, entered in response to a muffled command, and left it on the table by the door. The guest yelled his thanks through the bathroom door as I left. Variations on that theme occurred five more times, and then it was nine am and time to start cleaning rooms.

The south corridor was mine, as Sue had told me; she showed me my cart in the corner of the service room, and the fresh towels and sheets on the shelves on the wall opposite the sink and window, and sent me off. It was the middle of the week so I had no departures, but most guests were out and about, golfing or whatever. I knew who was up already because of the breakfast deliveries, so I targeted those rooms first.

The bedrooms were a tasteful balance between resort hotel standard and Victorian charm. They were not filled with antiques, but with adequate reproductions. The difference between them and standard issue hotel furniture was the total absence of plastic veneer. The wood was real, and so of course it needed a bit of polishing. That meant more work for me. The beds were four-posters or sleighs or , in dark luxurious finishes, and the bedding was cotton, not polyester. The quilts were solid-coloured, not patchwork, to reflect the more sophisticated look. Most rooms had a little table with chairs by the window for sitting at and looking over the lake while sipping coffee, and the windows opened. Brocade curtains in deep colours hung at either side. There were also nice comfy chairs and a sofa in each room, and all were in those subdued late-Victorian botanical colours, with lovely floral patterns.

The bathrooms were a treat if you were a guest. This was not a hotel where guests were asked to conserve precious resources by reusing towels: each guest got a fresh big fluffy white towel each day. The tubs were oversized with jacuzzis, showers were separate and big enough for two, the floors were quarry tile, the walls were ceramic tile, the mirrors were large. Do you know how easily mirrors and ceramic tile show smudges? You would if you cleaned fourteen bathrooms full of them a day.

That first day was a tad overwhelming, not helped by the sudden appearance of two men in the third room I tackled. One unsettling thing about them was how similar they were: same height, same types of dark grey suits, same discreet but snazzy ties, same wire-rimmed glasses, same fuzzy but short hair, same pointy noses. It was like Tweedledum and Tweedledee after a year at a fat farm and a clothing make-over.

"Hello," said the one with froggy eyes, as I stood hesitatingly in the middle of the room after they barged in. "I am Mr. Twinett, the manager here. You must be Nell."

"Yes," I replied warily. I remembered Jim’s warning.

"I always make a point of greeting each new employee on their first day on the job. And this," he continued, gesturing at his sidekick (whose eyes were not froggy at all), "is Mr Pinkerton, the assistant manager."

"Hello," I said.

"Hello," Pinkerton said, coming forward and shaking my hand, which is more than Twinett had done. "Pleased to have you here, Nell. Welcome to our little family. Where are you from?"

Pinkerton and I chatted together while Twinett was cruising the room, checking things out. He took especial notice of how the mirror looked – or was it how he looked in the mirror? He seemed to preen as he stopped there, so I guess he liked what he saw. As he continued around the room after that pause to refresh himself, he ran a finger along the windowsill, and it came up with a line of grey dust on his pink fingertip. "Nell, I am very disappointed in this," he said.

This was a bit much, even for management. "Mr Twinett, I have spent approximately five minutes of my life in this room. Unfortunately, I have been unable to deal with the windowsill yet."

Twinett was not impressed. "You’re a college girl, right, Nell?"

"College woman, actually, Mr Twinett. But yes."

"I don’t usually find that your type make the best employees because of the temporary nature of your commitment. We’ll have to see whether things work out." And off they went, but Pinkerton actually winked at me from behind his buddy’s back. He wasn’t so bad a guy, but that was all I needed to do: piss off the manager on my first day on the job.

I told Sue about it later as we ate lunch together in the basement canteen. She assured me that Twinett just liked to scare the new employees, but she shook her head a bit when she heard how I had responded to him. "He doesn’t appreciate people talking back to him, Nell," she warned me. "You might want to keep out of his way for a while."

"So how do I do that if he and that buddy of his keep popping into our rooms?"

"Oh, that was just the first day intimidation. He has more important fish to fry than harassing the menials. However, we are easy prey. From now on, just make sure that none of the guests complain to him about you, and you should be safe. But watch out if someone does. He’ll have you in the office and give you the ‘professionalism’ lecture. It’s a doozy"

The canteen was busy at lunchtime, with both the day and live-in workers bustling around. I had waved at Jim, who ran in and out, and Alison and Tim were too wrapped up in each other’s wonderfulness to share their precious lunchtime with mere mortals before returning to their pool and laundry exiles. Sue said hi to several people, but she didn’t seem to have any special friends amongst the throng. "What are the people here like to work with?" I asked curiously. She’d been here for years, so she must have known the place and the people pretty well.

She shrugged. "Okay, I guess. We get a fairly high turnover. It’s not the best job. People tend to find that the factories up in Tillsonburg pay better."

"But you stayed."

Another shrug. "I don’t mind it. Straight days, which doesn’t happen with factory work. And with my two little guys that’s important. Especially since their dad’s not around anymore – which is a good thing, believe me." A young, dark-haired woman with her hair done up in netting came by with her tray at that moment, and Sue said, "Hey, Vicky, sit down, why don’t you?"

Vicky did just that, depositing herself and her tray with a thump. "Thanks, Sue. It was you or Steve."

"Anything but that," said Sue enigmatically. "This is Nell. She’s working on my floor."

"Hi, Nell," said Vicky, digging into a plate of salad. "I’m a kitchen worker."

"Don’t be fooled by that," said Sue. "She’s actually an apprentice chef. She’s just graduated from college."

Vicky grimaced. "Today, according to Andy, my diploma is fit only to wrap fish entrails in." Andy was the temperamental but talented head chef I’d heard the day before. He accounted for the high turnover rate in the kitchens – and the steady stream of visitors to the dining rooms. From what I’d already heard, someone who got a job with Andy must have had talent herself. He did not suffer fools gladly.

Sue reinforced that impression when she said encouragingly, "Vicky, he’s hired you back two summers running, and now it’s a permanent position. You’ve got it made."

Vicky sighed. "Well, yes, I know that, but it’s much harder to put up with his tantrums when I know that I can’t escape back to Toronto at the end of August. I’ve got to look around for something somewhere else."

Someone else came up to our table just then. "Well, helloo, Ladies," said a mid-thirties smarm bucket. Or at least that was my first, overwhelming impression. I looked away from him in Sue’s direction, imploring her silently for help.

"Hello, Steve," said Sue repressively.

"Who’s our new friend? Hi, I’m Steve," he said, holding out his hand, smeared with oil. I reluctantly took it. He squeezed my fingers.

"This is Nell, Steve," said Vicky.

"The outfit says maid. Which floor?" he asked, with a hint of a leer.

"Mine," said Sue. "Which reminds me, Steve, room 325 has a leaky tap in the bathroom. Can you come up after lunch and see to it?"

He backed away a bit, pointing both forefingers at us. "Sure thing, Susie. See ya in thirty." And off he went.

"God, he’s a nasty piece of work," said Vicky. "Why encourage him?"

"Believe me," sighed Sue, "I would much rather not have to deal with him. Unfortunately, he is the maintenance guy. Being called Susie is the price I pay for having my guests not complain about a leaky tap." She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was large. No one would have an excuse for being late. "Damn. Five minutes. Come on, Nell, more bathrooms to clean." She gathered up our dishes and took the tray over to the kitchen pass-through.

"Right," I said, getting to my feet with a groan. "Ouch! I’m discovering muscles I didn’t have to use writing essays and studying for exams."

"Enjoy," said Vicky. "Nice meeting you, Nell."

Vicky did seem okay, which was certainly more than I could say for Steve. He turned up outside room 315 as I as I vacuumed. Since I couldn’t hear him, he took me by surprise when I turned around, seeing him lounging in the doorway. I literally jumped.

"Hey, babe," he said.

"Hello," I said briefly, closing the door behind me as I pulled the vacuum cleaner out into the hallway. I felt much safer in the corridor than in a room with this specimen.

"Any taps that need fixing? Anything at all that needs fixing?"

I had to actually look at him now. Steve had short dark hair, mud brown eyes, and an attitude that I wanted to hit up the side of his head with a two by four.

"No, thanks."

"I took care of Susie’s problem. You sure there isn’t anything that I can do for you?"

I knew that "Susie’s Problem" was that leaky tap, but Oh Lord, anyone else who heard the way that this man spoke would leap to wholly inappropriate conclusions. He seemed to be incapable of uttering a sentence which wasn’t a come-on: his voice dripped with innuendo. Luckily, at that moment, without hearing what he said, but in time to forestall any further conversation (if an interchange consisting of his clumsy double entendres and my repressive replies could be classed as such), Glenda Potter came charging down the hall at full steam, no doubt to check up on me. Steve took one look at her, muttered "that bitch" out of the corner of his mouth, and was gone down the stairs to his left. I hated to think that there was something that Steve and I could agree about, but there it was. I wished that I could have disappeared as well.

Potter saw him, and of course she had to start off with that. "Nell, I am displeased to find you lingering in the hallway with another employee when you have duties to attend to. That is not the way that we do things at Tintagel. What would our guests think if they were to see you?"

"Don’t worry, Miss Potter," I said, trying hard not to get mad. I really didn’t think that she could help talking like that. "Steve had just fixed a leaky tap for Sue and wanted to see if there was anything else that needed fixing before he left."

That stopped her. It sounded way too reasonable to cavil at. "Well," she said. "Just watch out for Steve, that’s all. He has been here since the hotel opened, and tends to think that he can do whatever he wants, as a result. I am sorry to say that his work ethic is not all that it should be, but he is not under my supervision."

That sounded almost reasonable, coming from her. Then she turned right back into the Potter that I knew and already didn’t love. "Have you completed all your rooms, Nell? Yes? Then I shall be inspecting them now. Please return to the housekeeping room to prepare for tomorrow morning’s breakfasts. Sue will show you what is required. I will see you there when I have completed my inspection."

Is it necessary to confirm that she found a myriad of minor infractions of the Tintagel Way in my rooms? Or that she continued to do so over the next week? However, by the end of that period even she had to concede that I knew what I was doing, and mercifully left me almost alone.

The job settled down into a routine after a few days. Every day, every room got straightened up, beds made, bathroom wiped down, towels changed, and general dusting done. Sheets were changed every three days. Departures, of course, got completely done. That’s when we were expected to vacuum under the beds, polish the furniture, clean the windows, etc, etc. They took twice as long as a regular cleaning. No one liked working Sundays, the day on which most guests checked out.

But it was not a case of all work and no play. When I finished at three-ish, I was ready to have a good time, with the boundless energy of youth at my disposal. The older people on staff, with actual homes, families, and other assorted responsibilities, might be ready to call it a day, but we young’uns wanted to enjoy ourselves. We were not allowed to use the hotel facilities, of course, because the guests might be offended by the sight of us, but that did not stop us from developing a lively round of off-duty activity. As well as Tim and Alison, the live-in gang included Jennifer Brown, a phys-ed major at Western who worked in the gym, and Tom Smith, a lifeguard who was undecided about his future but leaning towards chiropracty. Jenn was very enthusiastic about tequila, so her favourite stop in Port Burwell was the bar on the main drag, unless it was the liquor store. Tom preferred the beach, both for watching others and letting them watch him. If you liked the overly-muscled torso and shaved head type of guy, he was worth looking at, I suppose. I find men more attractive if they aren’t quite so aware that they are attractive. Jenn didn’t seem to mind, but then, she probably liked the way that the two of them looked together. After all, she was the sort of tanned blonde who looks great in a bikini. Tim and Alison liked to go somewhere where they could neck. If I never have anything else to say about those two, it’s because, really, aside from being young, in love, and entwined around each other whenever possible, there was nothing else to note about them.

Jim liked to party, anytime, anywhere, with anyone, although he did seem to have a definite thing for Vicky. She didn’t live in, but life out in the middle of the country, back with her family after downtown Toronto, was hardly thrilling, and she often joined us when finished in the kitchens for the day. Alas for Jim, she showed no signs of returning his regard.

Personally, I was willing to go along, as long as I had some time to unwind. We maids got off an hour or two before the other staff, so I always had some time to sit back and relax with a good book. Sometimes I had a nap to prepare myself for the fun.

We soon settled on a routine, the bunch of us. We would go to the beach in town for an hour or two to swim and lie around, then either go back to the hotel for a quick dinner or up to Tillsonburg, a half-hour’s drive to the north, to one of the several fast-food joints which could be found there. After that, well, there were bars to visit and movies to see. Sometimes we’d rent a movie and take it back to our staff lounge to watch there if we were feeling particularly cheap (like just before payday). We went to Tillsonburg’s movie theatre on a few occasions, where we others made a point of sitting as far as possible from young love. One night we even went to see a play at the little theatre there. It’s amazing how one can waste time having fun when you’re not in a home with chores to be done, no homework, no parents , no children, and when the job was over for the day you could just walk away. We were having a good time.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter 4 Conclusion

Occasionally, however, unpleasant things occurred. There was, for instance, the time that we were in the bar in Port Burwell, and a new group of people came in. There were three men and one women, and after looking around they decided, I guess, that our side of the room was preferable, and came and sat down at the next table. Tammy was with us that night, and she took one look at who came in, snorted in derision, and got up to leave. Jim looked up and protested lazily, "You have to go?"

Tammy spat out the words. "I won’t be in the same room as that man," but she didn’t gesture at anyone. She didn’t even look in the direction of the other party.

I tried to look without looking. "Why not?" I hissed.

She shrugged. "Stay here and find out," she said, and stalked off to the bar where she paid her bill and left without a backward glance.

I found out. Before Stan had brought their beer our two parties had combined, and I found myself sitting next to a man whom I would never have chosen to be that close to, if there was a way that I could gracefully avoid it.

Len Montgomery gave me the creeps. That’s the only way to put it: I could almost feel my flesh crawl. He thought that he was pretty hot stuff, however: after all, was he not the Artistic Director (you could hear the capitals in his voice) of the Port Burwell Summer Theatre, now in its third year? Was he not the author of two of the three shows to be presented that summer? He believed that this entitled him to come on to me in no uncertain terms, but I wanted none of it. "So, Nell," he said, leaning over to grab some popcorn from the basket on the other side of me, which gave him a perfect excuse to get way too close to me, "where do you come from?"

"Toronto," I said through gritted teeth, trying to move my chair away from him a millimetre at a time. I shouldn’t have been so worried about offending him. His ego was so overwhelming that he took it as some form of flirtation. And unfortunately, I soon found myself in the corner with nowhere to go, and he took advantage of that to move his chair and himself in on me.

"Toronto, eh?" he smiled, putting his arm along the back of my chair. "Catch many shows there?"

"A few," I admitted, and he started boasting about the ones that he had been featured in, all at the smaller ‘alternative’ theatres. I’d seen some of them and knew from the character names that they were the most minor of roles. He certainly hadn’t made any impression on me; I would never have recognized him. But he went on and on.

"And of course," he continued smoothly, "I used to work at Tintagel sometimes. I’ve been around here for years."

"Really?" I asked sweetly. "As a waiter?"

He frowned, which showed perhaps I’d hit the mark. And then recovered and chuckled condescendingly. He ran the hand that wasn’t trying to achieve contact with my shoulder blade through his shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. "Nothing so mundane, my dear," he said. "I was able to organize and run several successful murder mystery weekends. That was the springboard to forming the theatre company here. Arthur Carruthers was impressed enough to give our group some financial support, and it is true that the theatre adds to the attractions available in the area for his guests."

I thought that I could figure out the real story: while working as a waiter, he weasled his way into presenting some murder mystery things (or maybe just helped out the organizer!) And managed to wangle some sponsorship from Carruthers – an ad in the program, perhaps? There is no ego to match that of an actor without enough talent to back it up. That must have been how Tammy got to know him. I wondered if she had always despised him as she so clearly did now. I knew that he was never going to be one of my favourite people.

But I was still stuck with my back against a wall and this smarmy grok coming on to me. I cursed my usual habit of sitting facing the room. Usually it made me feel more secure, sort of like a gunfighter in a saloon, but on this occasion it had seriously backfired, as it made it impossible for me to make a graceful getaway. "It must be getting late," he murmured, grasping my forearm and running his hand up and down as if to find a (non-existent) watch. "What time is it?"

Jim finally looked up and noticed my dilemma. He glanced at his own watch, and his eyebrows rose dramatically as he whistled. "Nell, it’s almost eleven o’clock! Weren’t you expecting a call from your grandmother tonight?"

I struggled to my feet. "Why yes, Jim, you’re right! Thanks for reminding me. Goodbye – er – Len."

Len protested and tried to detain me by hanging on to my arm. That was a mistake. Jim stood up and leaned over the table. Did I mention Jim used to be a linebacker? And still worked out? And that Len was all of five foot six? And artistically skinny? He’d probably describe himself as lithe, but it was more accurate to call him anti-muscular. "I think," said Jim, "that it would be wise to let the lady leave."

Len had already imbibed two or three beers at this point, but seemed to be a docile drunk. He shrank from the implied threat, and dropped my arm. I smiled gratefully at Jim as I squeezed out from behind the table. "Would you like a lift back, Jim?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. Smiling slightly, he watched me disentangle myself from Len’s arm, and stood aside to let me go ahead of him. What a gentleman. Outside the bar I polluted the air with a few choice swear words, while Jim shrugged.

"Assholes are everywhere, Nell. Why didn’t you knee him in the groin?"

"I’m just too nice," I sighed. "Your precious male egos are so fragile and I didn’t want to endanger his self-esteem. But don’t worry. If he gets within ten feet of me again I’m spraying him with mace. I’m going to have to go back to the hotel and shower now – I feel slimy all over."

That evening was an exception to the rule. For the most part, I found myself in congenial company when I wanted it, and alone when I felt the need for solitude. And of course, I was usually alone while I worked. Occasionally I did have encounters with the guests, although they tended to be out doing something exciting. Most of them were nice.

I had to admit that Pinkerton improved upon further acquaintance, and without the accompaniment of Twinett. He popped in one day when I was polishing the sleigh bed in Room 315, as its finish was sadly dulled. "Hello, Nell," he said cheerfully. "Glad to see you’re keeping the furniture in good shape."

I was a little wary of his sudden appearance. Many of the staff had as low an opinion of him as of Twinett, mostly based on the fact that they were rarely seen apart, and never publically disagreed, and since Twinett was such a manifest jerk, it seemed likely that Pinkerton was, too. "Hello, Mr Pinkerton," I said. "Just doing my job. And furniture like this is a pleasure to keep shining. It’s nice quality."

"I wonder how it got so smeared," he giggled, going in for a closer look at the head of the bed. "These look like hand prints to you?" he asked. For all the world he sounded like a fourteen year old making dirty jokes.

Now, if it had been Steve saying that self-same thing, I would have made an immediate excuse to leave the room in search of cleaning supplies, but Pinkerton didn’t seem threatening at all. "Not at all, Mr Pinkerton," I said primly. Then I found myself telling him about the room I’d been cleaning at the St Charles where I found magazines stuck between the mattress and box spring. They had depicted models fully clothed in school uniforms being spanked with rulers by authority figures, both male and female. He was still giggling over that when he left the room. No, Pinkerton wasn’t a bad guy at all. Too bad he hung around with Twinett.

Some events stood out amongst the room cleaning and swimming and bar-hopping. One day in early June we had the Tintagel Summer Indoor Games when it had rained for three days straight and the guests were getting restless. Swimming was included, since under the Victorian-style iron conservatory roof in the courtyard, the smaller pool was protected from the downpours. Jenn was assisting the recreational organizer, a gung-ho guy called Kevin, and when she mentioned that Tom was really good at swimming, he got roped in to spur the guests on to greater things. Tom apparently spent most of his year in a pool at his university, and although he wasn’t Olympic class he was pretty darn good. I’d seen him out in the lake, and in the pool early in the morning. Of course, the rest of the time, as lifeguard, he was out of the pool.

Kevin did not count on Twinett’s innate sense of competitiveness when he set this up. At the time announced for the swimming competition, Twinett turned up in a very small Speedo with a towel around his shoulders, for all the world like a real competitor, and proceeded to show off his adequate physique to the assembled guests, boasting to anyone who was listening about what a good swimmer and all-round athlete he was. He really should not have chosen a Speedo. Really. Tom didn’t have to strut and preen; he actually did have a good body, and he was at least twenty years younger than Twinett.

No one had told Kevin or Tom that Twinett simply could not stand to lose. I knew this: I had once heard him describe a hot-dog eating contest that he had lost, the reason given that his competitor had cheated. Seriously. Into the pool he and Tom went, and I suppose that the vibes felt wrong because none of the guests joined them, although a fair number sat down to watch what happened. Of course, it’s not as if Tom liked losing, either. He was as driven to win as Twinett, he had twenty years on the old guy, and he swam every morning for an hour. It was inevitable that he would win. What was scary was watching Twinett try so hard to defeat him, to see him slowly ground down and finally forced to pull himself, exhausted and shaking, out of the water. Tom got out at the end of his next lap, and stood there, waiting for at least an acknowledgement from Twinett that he had won.

He didn’t get it. What he did get was a look which said everything. We watched in disbelief as the man who, before the race, had bounded around and made it quite clear that Tom did not have chance against him, just walked out without saying a word. Jenn was next to me then. "Now, that’s pathetic," she muttered. "He could at least have shaken Tom’s hand."

Tom just shrugged, wrapped the towel around himself, and got a bottle of water from the vending machine before we realized that he deserved some applause. Workers and guests alike gave him a hand as he walked away by himself. Maybe he already had an inkling of what would happen next.

Within three days Tom was demoted from lifeguard to grounds crew. He would spend the rest of the summer on a noisy, hot lawnmower covered with grass clippings instead of being poolside in a Speedo. He quit. We took him out for a round of drinks before he headed back to his university to find a job there. And the rest of us kept as far away from Twinett as we could.

About a month after I’d arrived at the hotel, I was cleaning 314 after the departure of the Quarries for Toronto ( leaving behind a much-appreciated ten dollar bill). I was just hanging fresh towels on the brass rail in the bathroom when I heard Phillip Twinett oozing his way down the hall.

This had not been my day. I had already had to put up for most of the morning with Steve, who had been hanging around completing a number of small repair jobs in several rooms. He’d been putting them off for ages, and as a result it took him several hours to complete all the required tasks. He’d managed to find an opportunity to ask me out with his head stuck under the sink in 314. I was making the bed. I’d gotten used enough to Steve that I didn’t flee when I saw him coming. If I did, I never would have gotten my work done. Strangely, he never took any of my rejections as the final word. He’d already received many. "Hey, Nell, baby, is my favourite chambermaid busy tonight?" he’d inquired this time.

I was tempted to respond "I don’t know, Steve, I’ll ask her," but I doubted that he would have gotten the joke. "Sorry, Steve," I said absently as I came into the bathroom to put new towels on the brass rail, stepping over his outstretched legs. "I’m not available." I was beginning to think that if I actually accepted an invitation he wouldn’t know what to do. His ponderous gallantry and leaden flirting seemed to be an automatic reflex with him.

I don’t know if he would have continued to press his suit, but at that moment we both heard Twinett coming down the hall, with what sounded like a guest. "Here we are, sir. We’ll bring your bags up in a moment."

Twinett was notable for his shameless toadying to anyone with money, fame, and especially power. We did get a few of those at Tintagel, since the golf course was starting to gain quite a reputation, even abroad. He liked to escort the big shots to their rooms and make far too much of a fuss over them. On this occasion I closed my eyes and offered up a desperate prayer, but it was to no avail. "Oh!" I heard Twinett say outside the door. "I do hope that the maid is finished in here."

I took a deep breath and walked out into the outer room, leaving Steve on the floor. Twinett was standing there in the doorway looking irresolute, and the object of his obsequious attention lounged just inside the door, looking amused. Maybe he liked it. I ignored him, being a good self-effacing maid. "It’s alright, Mr. Twinett. I was just hanging up the towels."

Luckily he was remarkably obtuse along with his other flaws, and I doubt that he even realized how much I disliked him. "That’s so good – Ellen, isn’t it?. Are you sure that everything’s ready?" he asked. He then caught sight of his reflection in the large mirror that I had polished scrupulously not fifteen minutes earlier, and I swear that he smirked.

"Well, Steve isn’t finished with the sink, but all of my work is done," I replied. "Everything is as it should be, but if there’s a problem, I’ll be in the housekeeping room at the end of the north corridor." With that I walked out of the room.

I didn’t look back, but I could hear the guest skilfully detach himself from Twinett with just a few more words, and Steve go off with a clatter of tools. I heard the door shut as I turned the corner at the end of the corridor. A few minutes later, Jack walked into the housekeeping room to find me hard at work washing up breakfast dishes. He leaned those magnificent shoulders against the wall and looked at me, that damned smile playing around the corners of his mouth. I kept washing. He kept watching. Eventually I spoke. It was either that or scream. "I didn’t tell you I was working here, did I?"

"No, you didn’t. It’s a surprise – a delightful one, of course. We keep running into each other."

I was remembering the last time I’d seen him, as I fled from his berth on the train. I was seeing that gun in his coat pocket. And I was afraid to turn around and face him because it was entirely possible that I would turn into a puddle of goo at his feet. "So, what are you doing here? And where have you been for the last month?"

"Oh around and about – visiting the States, back again, visiting in Toronto. As to why I’m here, that should be obvious, shouldn’t it? It’s a resort, I’m on vacation.... What else could it be?"

"Beats me," I said, taking a deep breath and turning around, wiping my wet hands on a tea towel. "Jack, I feel that I owe you some explanation for...."

But he forestalled me, walking towards me and taking my hands in his. "Nell, please, I understand completely. It was a mistake..."

"You have a gun." I interrupted bluntly, pulling my hands away from him and pushing him away. I retreated next to the window, watching his face as he tried to figure out what to say.

"I’m sorry, Nell, I shouldn’t have left it out like that, but..."

"But nothing, Jack."

"Don’t I get a chance to explain?" He moved towards me, threading his way between the table and counter.

I started to feel trapped. "Jack, get away from me and leave me alone! If you do not leave, I will scream, I promise you that."

He put his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay." He walked towards the door.

"The hotel has strict rules against fraternizing with guests. I don’t like the idea of losing my job, so would you please leave me alone in future?"

He bowed, his hand over his heart. "As you wish," he said, and walked away.

Murder at Midsummer- Chapter Five

I was glad to get away at the end of the day without any more encounters – I think.

Let’s just say that it was easier on my nerves when I no longer tensed every time I heard a door open or someone moving along the hallway, when I could close the door on my room and no longer feel so exposed. Even better, the next two days were my days off, and I felt that it was time to get away.

I spent the evening in the basement TV room. Jim offered me a trip to Tillsonburg to see an action flick of some sort, but I passed on that particular excitement, so he went with Jenn instead. The young lovers were, I supposed, in one or the other’s room doing what young lovers do best. I wondered what Jack was up to. I have no memory of what I watched.

Strangely enough, I did not sleep well, and despite my natural inclination to sleep in, the next morning I woke up early and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I went down the hallway to the canteen to grab a coffee, and then returned to my room and thought about my plans for the day. I wanted to put as many miles as possible between me and Jack, just for some peace of mind. It was also a good idea to check in with Uncle Robert, although I still dreaded him knowing about my humble job. Although he wouldn’t be able to talk me out of it, he could talk a lot. Still, it was time for a trip to London. Putting on a quilted silk jacket against the early morning chill, I went out to my car, and hopped in. In a minute I was flying along the lakeshore road, heading west.

It was just after seven in the morning, and the world was beautiful There was mist curling along the fields and clinging to the woodlots dotted among them, that early morning golden sun was tinging everything with a warm tone, and to my left, the lake was blue and gold, reflecting the sky and the sun. I stayed on the shore road as long as I could, revelling in the beauty that I shared with surprisingly few cars. Eventually, however, I had to turn north towards London, passing through some small villages. Some were touristy-historical, while others were normal rural places with variety stores and gas pumps rather than tea rooms and antique stores. I skirted the edges of St Thomas and then found myself in increasingly heavy traffic as I approached London, a city of some three hundred thousand people.

It was then that I realised that I was really rather dumb. After all, here I was, arriving early in the morning. If I wanted to lunch with Uncle Robert, which was a reasonable expectation, I had at least three hours to kill before that was likely to occur. However, I figured that it would be nice to give him some warning , so I stopped at a mall outlet with a pay phone and dialled his office. He liked turning up early to get work done before the hired help came into work.

Uncle Robert was delighted to hear my voice, and we arranged to meet at one of his favourite restaurants four hours hence, so I had lots of time. There was a fast food restaurant located conveniently right next to the phone, so I went in to grab some breakfast, read the paper, and contemplate the morning.

I could do some shopping. That was always nice, but it would be at least an hour before the stores opened. However, London boasted an excellent university library, so I decided to take advantage of that and spend some time there. I have always found being in close proximity to thousands of books very soothing, and I had visited the library before with friends who were students there.

Of course, it took me forever to get there through London’s Thursday morning rush hour traffic (which is approximately the same as Toronto at midnight), and once there I had to park in the visitors’ parking lot, which is about as far as it is possible to get from the library, but finally I made my way into the building, and lost myself among the stacks in the literature section. I found something I wanted to read, ensconced myself on a comfy couch looking out over the campus, and prepared to be engrossed in someone else’s life and problems.

Which made it particularly galling to look up after an hour and find Jack sitting on the sofa opposite, sitting back comfortably and smiling.

I opened my mouth to yell, when I remembered that I was in a library and people might notice. As I sat looking stupid, mouth open and wondering what to do, he rose quickly and sat down beside me, not touching but way too close for my liking. I ostentatiously moved away until I was at the far end of the sofa, and, my mouth shut by now, said through gritted teeth , "And I suppose that this is another pleasant coincidence?"

"No, I followed you," Jack easily admitted, moving a little towards me. "I’ve been sitting on the other side of the room peeking at you from behind the stacks." My response was to stand up and try to head for the elevator. I was light-headed with fury, a state which was not helped at all by him grabbing me by the arm and pulling me back towards the couch. "Dammit, Nell, I am NOT trying to murder you!!!" he said in a low but exasperated tone. "Will you please sit down and talk to me like a reasonable human being?"

I looked around. We were in an isolated corner of the floor, with no one to see us. Then I looked again at Jack, who had let go of me and sat down again, at the far end of the sofa. He was obviously being as non-threatening as possible, and I supposed that the least I could do was give him a chance. After all, not much more than a month ago I had leapt at the chance to be alone with him, and he hadn’t sprouted a third arm since then. I sat down, my back against the opposite end, and said nothing.

"Well," said Jack.

"Well," I said. And nothing more, as I crossed my arms.

"You’re not going to help me, are you?" he said, leaning forward and smiling. Good Lord, he was charming.

Still, I didn’t smile back. "As far as I’m concerned, I am not the one who has explaining to do," I replied, and waited.

Jack sighed deeply. "You probably resent me following you this morning," he started.

"Damn right I do!" I hissed back at him, leaning forward so that I didn’t have to raise my voice. "In the first place, you had no right to, and in the second, how the hell were you able to do it? What did you do, watch my room all night?"

He quickly shook his, and reached out to take my hand, which I yanked away from him. "Of course not, Nell. I was getting something from my car when I saw you roaring down the drive, and so I hopped in mine and followed. Stupid, really," he continued, "but I want to explain things to you. This whole thing has upset me."

I glared at him. "Oh, so you’re upset, are you?" I said sarcastically. "And what about me? You scared the you-know-what out of me on the train, you with that... that gun of yours, and then, when I thought that I was safe from you, not even thinking about you anymore, up you turn to give me a hard time again. And then," I went on, getting increasingly incensed with the litany of wrongs that I was reciting, "you go and follow me like some cheap hoodlum when all I’m trying to do is get away from you again! Let me tell you, buster, I’m upset!"

Jack nodded as I went through my list of grievances, and then, as I finished up, he again took my hand and moved closer to me, and for some reason, perhaps paralysed by fury, I didn’t move. Strangely enough, when he lifted my hand to his lips and lightly brushed them against it, I didn’t even flinch. He then spoke again, quietly, breathlessly, so that only I could hear him.

"Nell, I know that I must seem a bloody awful individual to you at this point in time. But I don’t mean to hurt you. You have to believe me."

Something inside was not working right. There was a constant thudding from within that seemed to make Jack’s soft voice even harder to hear. I realized that it was my heart, and wondered why should it be acting so queerly. I nodded slowly, and Jack continued.

"You want to know why I should have a gun, I’m sure." I nodded again, and he squeezed my hand slightly. "I don’t even have it any more, actually. I didn’t feel comfortable with it, and crossing the border into the States and back again is irritating enough without firearms to complicate matters. But I thought that I might need it."

"For what?" I asked, my tone less hostile than before.

He hesitated, and then said, "It’s a long story."

I looked at my watch. "I have one hour before I have to meet my uncle for lunch. Tell."

He actually did look around as if making sure that no one was listening before he moved even closer to me, bending his head over mine so that he could talk in a low tone. "Nell, I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but what I’m about to tell you can’t share with anyone, do you understand?" I nodded silently, looking up into those blue eyes and seeing nothing but sincerity.

"It all began, I suppose, when I moved into a flat three years ago with a couple of friends. Right around the time I was working at the St Charles, actually. None of us had enough cash for anything nice, so we ended up with an adequate but hardly fancy place. It was a typical bachelor arrangement, and when one of us, David, got married two years ago, we missed him very much. But I suppose he would have moved out soon anyway, since an uncle of his died who had made a bundle manufacturing widgets, and he became a millionaire."

"Nice for his wife," I commented.

"Yes, and even better for his widow."

"Widow?"

"He died within six months of his marriage, and four months of inheriting the fortune. Bloody convenient, eh?"

"Very," I said drily. "But why assume anything nasty? How did he die?"

" In a boating accident, at Tintagel," he replied.

"Here?" I said incredulously. "This Tintagel?"

"Yes, this Tintagel. He died in a boating accident on Lake Erie while he and his wife were here on an extended trip to Canada and the US."

"But what makes you think..."

"I’ll tell you what makes me think. First, she hasn’t been conspicuous for her sorrow since his death. In fact, she is very good at spending the money David left her as his sole heir."

"Well, she could be just..."

"In addition," he continued, in an increasingly savage tone which didn’t seem to be directed at me, "she moved in on him in a deliberate attempt to marry him, yet this was before he had any idea that he would be his uncle’s heir. Somehow she knew, I’m sure of it."

"But still..."

"And finally," he interrupted me again, "I know how she was able to have him killed."

"She didn’t do it?"

"Not bloody likely. She’s not the sort to dirty her hands. But that wouldn’t have stopped her. You see, my sister Mary was sitting one night in a pub in Pimlico waiting for someone, when she heard a very bizarre conversation going on in the booth behind her. A man who had had a few too many was explaining as best he could to his companion that he’d been involved with an organization that killed inconveniently living people for a price."

"And she thought of David?"

"No, actually, this fellow was so drunk that he even mentioned David by name." He paused for a moment, and his blue eyes darkened. "Mary and David had been involved with each other for a while before the bitch moved in on him, and she’d been mourning his death more than the widow. When she heard this conversation she was devastated. She wasn’t sure of what to do, so she rang me right away, but by the time I got there he was gone. I have a feeling he’s long been dead. Not a very reliable employee for an organization like that."

"So you came to Tintagel to investigate from this end?"

"Not quite, Nell. You see, Mary and I decided that the best way to deal with this would be to catch them in the act, so to speak."

"In the act? But how do you know that there will be another murder?"

"Because I’m going to be the victim," he said.