CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Life, within doors, has few pleasanter prospects than a neatly arranged and well-provisioned breakfast table
(Nathaniel Hawthorne,
MORSE STOOD FOR some while on the huge slabs that form the wide pavement stretching along the whole extent of the great 5OO-foot curve of cinnamon-coloured stone, with its identical facades of double Ionic columns, which comprise Bath's Royal Crescent. It seemed to him a breathtaking architectural masterpiece, with the four- star hotel exactly at its centre: Number 16.
He walked between die black spiked railings, through die white double-doors, into die black-and-white floor- tiled, high-ceilinged entrance hall, and then to reception, where he was immediately ushered into die beige- carpeted, pine-furnished office of die Deputy Manager, just beyond.
Sara Hickman was from Leicestershire, a tall, slimly attractive woman in her mid-diirties, widi green eyes (just like Sister McQueen) and dark curly hair. She was dressed in a business-like suit; she spoke in a businesslike manner; and so very clearly was she part of an
extremely business-like hotel, since manifold awards -RAG Blue Ribbons, AA Rosettes, Egon Ronay Stars - vied with each other for space around the walls.
After hesitating, finally capitulating, over the offer of coffee, Morse soon found himself listening very carefully.
Sara had (she told him) been able to re-interview almost all of the service personnel who had been on duty the previous weekend, most of whom, as it happened, were performing similar duties that present weekend. But there seemed little to add, at least in general terms, to the details earlier communicated by the Manager himself to the Thames Valley Police. One minor correction: the room the Storrs had slept in was a Standard Twin, not a Standard Double; and in fact the couple had asked for the same room again, if it was available. Which, by some strange coincidence, it was: the only Standard Twin still available in the hotel that weekend. Registration? She passed to Morse the card dated the previous Saturday, 2.3.96: Guest's Name; Address; Telephone No.; Arrival Date; Departure Date; Nationality; Payment Type; Passport No.; Signature; Car Reg. No. - and more. All filled in with a neat, feminine, slightly forward-leaning script, in black Biro; and signed 'Angela Storrs'. It would be comparatively easy to check, of course; but Morse had litde or no doubt that the signature was genuine.
'The Manager told my sergeant, when he rang about last weekend, that we might be able to see some itemized bills?'
Sara Hickman smiled.
'I thought somehow you might ask for them,' she said, and now read aloud from a small sheaf of bills in front of her.
'Last Saturday night they ate at Table twenty-six, in the far corner of the restaurant. He had the Carpaccio of Beef, Truffled Noodles, and Parmesan, for his starter; for his main course, the Seabass served with Creamed Celeriac and Fennel Liqueur; Passion Fruit Mousse for sweet
'Good low-fat cheese they tell me,' mumbled Morse, recalling his own hard-nosed dietitian's homily in the Geoffrey Harris Ward. And he was smiling vaguely to himself as the Deputy Manager continued:
'Now, Sunday morning. Mr Storrs had ordered breakfasts for the two of them over the phone the previous night - at about eleven, half past - can't be sure. He said he thought he was probably too late with the form, but he obviously had it in front of him - the night-porter remembers that. He said he'd have a Full English for himself, no kidney though, with the tomato well grilled, and two fried eggs. Said his wife would go for a Continental: said she'd like cereal, Ricicles, if we'd got some - Chief Inspector, we've got a bigger selection of cereals than Salisbury's! - some brown toast and honey, the fresh-fruit compote, and orange juice. Oh, yes' (Sara checked the form again) 'and hot chocolate.'
'The time?' asked Morse.
'It would have been between seven-thirty and eight We don't serve Full English until after seven-thirty - and both breakfasts went up together.'
'And last night for dinner?'
'They didn't eat here.'
'This morning?'
'They had breakfast in their room again. This time they filled in the form early, and left it on the door-knob outside the room. Same as before for Mr Storrs-'
'How do you know it wasn't for
'Well, it's exactly what he ordered before. Here, look for yourself.'
She passed the room-service order across the desk; and Morse saw the instructions: 'Well grilled' against 'Tomato'; no tick against 'Kidney'; the figure '2' against 'Eggs (fried)'.
'I see what you mean,' admitted Morse. 'Not even married couples have exactly the same tastes, I suppose/
Morse's eyes continued down the form, to the Continental section, and saw the ticks against 'Weetabix' ('semi-skimmed milk' written beside it), 'Natural Yoghurt', 'Toast (brown)', 'Coffee (decaffeinated)'. The black- Biro'd writing was the same as that on the registration form. Angela Storrs' writing. Certainly.
T shall have to have copies of these forms,' said Morse.
'Of course.' Sara got to her feet Til see that's done straightaway. Shall we go over to the bar?'
The day was brightening.
But for Morse the day had already been wonderfully bright; had been for the past hour or so, ever since the
