‘I don’t actually remember that,’ Jane admitted.
‘The second series was cancelled. The first one didn’t go down well, particularly in Holmes circles. The orthodox version’s sacrosanct to those people. They want the same stories done over and over again, as if it’s history, not fiction. And they don’t like people taking the piss.’
‘He wasn’t taking the piss this weekend, though, was he? OK, the story was invented, but you can’t have a murder weekend where everybody already knows who’s done it, can you?’
‘Murder weekends.’ Amber sighed.
‘No, but it worked, Amber. I was trying to be cynical, because, you know... But it was all beautifully done, given the—’
‘Tiny budget,’ Amber said.
‘I mean, he really dominated it. He was Holmes.’
‘Gave up acting when he was twenty-six,’ Amber said. ‘He didn’t think he was good enough to be one of the greats. It’s the way he is.’
‘He needs to be great?’
‘He needs to... succeed against the odds, I suppose.’ Amber dipped a wooden spoon into the chocolate and tasted it. ‘Anyway, the most important guest this weekend is Dr Kennedy, because he’s the Secretary of The Baker Street League, and we need their conference. They’re not the biggest or the oldest of the Holmes societies, but Ben knows a few members already, and obviously it would help for us to be linked with a group like that.’
Jane sniffed at the hot chocolate. You could pass out with longing.
‘Amber...’
‘What?’
‘Do you really need this Holmes connection to make the hotel work?’
Amber blew out her cheeks, the closest she ever came to scowling. Jane knew that Ben had spotted this place in a copy of Country Life at the dentist’s, making an impulse call and discovering that it was still on the market after five months. So there was Ben with what seemed like a decent amount of money to invest in a future out of TV... Ben who didn’t want to go crawling to any more witless tossers who couldn’t see further than cops and hospitals. Who didn’t want to have to watch any more projects crash after months of hassle. Who wanted something he was completely in control of. He kept saying that.
And here it was, in a beautiful, atmospheric and unspoiled area less than half a day from central London. A structurally sound country house – kind of – with the possibility of twenty bedrooms if you developed outbuildings. A house with a history that, although not extensive, included a literary connection of curious significance to Ben Foley. Surely this was some kind of—
‘I mean, I know he said it was an omen...’ Jane said.
‘Now he’s finding out that the concept of total independence is a myth, especially with limited funds, and he’s still having to crawl to people like Kennedy. And put on murder weekends, which he claims he does for fun, but which really are all we’ve got. Which isn’t good, is it, Jane?’
‘But this Conan Doyle thing...’ Jane looked around the vast kitchen, imagining a grandfatherly figure with a heavy moustache waiting politely for his mug of chocolate. The face she saw was very distinct. It was the face from a blown-up photograph framed above the fireplace in the lounge.
‘We don’t actually know if he stayed here regularly – or even once. But rumour and legend have always been enough for Ben. What he doesn’t know he’ll invent. Life’s like television – if it’s on the screen it must have happened. And that’s enough to build a business image around.’
‘Maybe he was just afraid you wouldn’t come if you thought he had an agenda.’
‘No,’ Amber said sadly, ‘I always go along with things.’ She began to pour the chocolate into a big earthenware jug. ‘I just wish it wasn’t so... Victorian. There’s something cold and... ungiving about Victorian houses. Everything’s bigger than it needs to be. Too many passageways.’
‘Mmm,’ Jane said. Ben had shown her the ‘secret passage’ under the stairs, where Lady Hartland, played by Natalie Craven, had waited to die.
‘Not so bad in the summer, but now I realize I don’t like the forestry, and those gnarled old rocks. The way they seem to be watching you. Watching everything crumbling around you, while they’ve been here for ever.’
‘Mmm,’ Jane said again, in two minds. As a weird person, she really liked Stanner Rocks, naturally. But this seemed like a good opportunity to bring up the thing that had been bothering her a little. ‘Er, while we’re on the subject of everything being bigger than it needs to be, my room certainly is.’
‘Sorry, Jane?’
‘The tower room – I mean it’s fantastic to have a room that size, but I feel a bit... Like, I’m not used to a room that big, that’s all.’
‘Oh, we thought—’
‘And I keep waking up in the night. Stupid, really. So like, I... just wondered if I could have my old room back.’
Jane felt deceitful and a bit ashamed. She’d been switched around twice over the past couple of weekends, as the Foleys continued their winter programme of refurbishing the bedrooms one by one. Amber looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Just... too big?’
‘Stupid, really,’ Jane said.
‘Well, if you don’t like that room, Jane—’
‘It’s not that I don’t like it—’
‘Then you can move your stuff back to the old one tonight if you like.’
Jane nodded, trying not to show her relief, which was kind of despicable, frankly. ‘Thanks, Amber.’
Back in the lounge, Ben helped her serve the chocolate. ‘Thanks, sweetheart, you’ve been terrific.’ His hair was wisping out of the Holmes grease-slick, the curls re-forming. He bent down to her ear and whispered, ‘Some of these old guys, seeing a little maid around the place in a starchy uniform, it gives them a delicious little frisson, you know?’
‘I don’t do frissons,’ Jane said primly, and Ben laughed and went to play Holmes again for two elderly ladies, the kind that it was nice to think still existed outside of old Agatha Christie films. A few of the people here were regulars at murder weekends all over the country. There was a network of them now.
The Major came over for his chocolate. ‘Terribly sorry, my dear, but I’ve been assuming you were Ben’s daughter.’
‘Just paid help... Major.’ It felt – this was stupid – a little weird talking to a guy who’d just been exposed as having beaten a woman’s brains out. It was surprising how the scenario crawled into some area of your mind and lodged there. Maybe something to do with the house. She shook herself. The maid’s headband fell off, and she caught it and laughed. ‘Are you really a major?’
He pushed his tongue into a cheek. He was stocky, sixtyish, and his tufty white moustache looked genuine. ‘Frank Sampson, AVAD.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Arrow Valley Amateur Dramatics.’
Jane grinned. ‘Had me fooled. Not like this area isn’t full of retired soldiers.’
‘Except the real ones tend to be ex-Regiment. Younger. Fitter. Not how you imagine them any more.’ Frank Sampson nodded towards Ben. ‘Fun, though, working with a pro. I’d like to see them make the place work. I remember the first time it was a hotel.’
‘Bad?’
‘Well, that was back in the sixties, when walking holidays were for the hard-up, so I suppose it was more of a hostel. After that, an old folks’ home, then some sort of specialist language school, then an old folks’ home again. Not for long, though. Elderly people hate to be dumped this far out. They want life around them, not dripping trees.’