MacGregor fumbled hopefully along the wall for the light switch. ‘It is getting rather late, sir.’
‘Late?’ Dover knocked over a chair which should never have been there in the first place. ‘Nine o’clock isn’t late, even in this superannuated doss house.’
‘Actually, sir, it’s nearly a quarter past eleven.’ MacGregor found the switch and thankfully put the landing light on.
‘Rubbish!’ muttered Dover, propping himself up against the wall to recover his breath.
‘If you’d like to hang on here a second, sir, I’ll just run upstairs and switch the light on up there.’
Dover eyed MacGregor suspiciously. ‘What the hell are you whispering for?’ he demanded.
‘I think everybody’s in bed asleep, sir.’
This educated guess was only half accurate, in the case of Mrs Boyle. In bed – yes – but no longer asleep. Roused now both to wakefulness and blind fury, she seized the shillelagh which she kept by her bed to repel invaders and began to belabour the wall. The violence of her blows woke up everybody who had not already been disturbed by Dover’s return.
MacGregor turned tail and fled upstairs but Dover was made of sterner stuff. ‘I’m going to the bathroom first,’ he shouted after his retreating sergeant. ‘It’ll save me coming down those bloody stairs again.’
For the ensuing ten minutes the Blenheim Towers Private Hotel rocked to the cacophony of a hideous duet. As Dover pulled chains, banged seats and slammed doors, Mrs Boyle retaliated with ever more frenzied whacks with the shillelagh. Honours were about even when Dover emerged with a final crash from the bathroom. He was about to indulge in a subtle change of tactics by initiating a short pause in the proceedings. If all went according to plan Mrs Boyle would drop her guard – and her shillelagh – whereupon Dover would take the final and uncarpeted flight of stairs up to his room con brio.
An unnatural peace descended as Dover stood motionless in the middle of the landing and held his breath. He’d reckoned on maintaining the cease fire for a good five minutes but boredom set in after the first thirty seconds. He glanced around for something to occupy his bird brain, or even a chair to sit on, and saw that there was a chink of light coming from under the door of Miss Kettering’s room. Dover sniggered softly to himself and tiptoed across. Repressing a grunt he bent down and applied his eye to the keyhole. If it hadn’t been for his lumbago he would doubtless have been able to assume an upright and innocent stance before Miss Kettering had got her door completely open.
‘I thought it was you,’ whispered Miss Kettering triumphantly as Dover straightened his back with a wince. ‘I could hear your tummy rumbling.’ She inclined her head. ‘Are you coming in?’
Dover hesitated, not wishing to be compromised by a temptress of such a hoary vintage.
‘Oh, come on!’ urged Miss Kettering. ‘You can’t go on patrolling all night without a bit of a break. Besides, I’ve just treated myself to a box of liqueur chocolates.’
The creak of Dover’s boots as he stepped over the threshold proved that Miss Kettering had found the way to the heart of at least one man. Very sensibly she paved the path with no less than three liqueur chocolates and chatted merrily on while Dover let a stream of orange curagao, kummel and cherry brandy trickle down his gullet.
‘I think it’s so brave of you, dear, keeping guard on us all through the night. And it’s not as though you’re a young man, is it? Oh,’ – she tapped Dover reassuringly on the arm – ‘you needn’t look so taken aback! I realize it’s meant to be a great secret and I haven’t mentioned it to a soul. Well, it was pretty obvious, really – you spending all your days in bed and your nights wandering round the hotel. What else could you be doing? I must confess I did think of telling Mrs Boyle because her attitude is most unreasonable, isn’t it? But then I thought it would only alarm her unnecessarily if she found out the truth. Do you honestly think the murderer is going to strike again?’
‘Ugh,’ said Dover, his dentures cemented together by a wedge of chocolate.
‘Have another!’ cooed Miss Kettering. ‘Take two while you’re at it.’
Dover obliged and got drambuie and green chartreuse this time. The combination was fierce and his head gave an involuntary twist.
Miss Kettering, jumping like a gazelle to false conclusions, thought he was looking round her room. ‘I’m afraid you must think everywhere’s in a terrible mess,’ she simpered.
‘Oohwaagh!’ said Dover and accepted another chocolate to take the taste of the last lot away.
‘I call it my little museum of the occult,’ twittered Miss Kettering proudly. ‘It may not look like it, you know, but I can lay my hands on anything I want at a moment’s notice. My tarot cards, a unique collection of love philtres in those bottles, coffin nails, my astrological charts on the wall, my voodoo drums over there in the comer.’ Miss Kettering waved her hands expressively round the room. ‘My goodness, you certainly need some equipment these days!’
‘Gurawuff!’ said Dover, mopping his forehead.
‘Have another!’ Miss Kettering urged him. ‘Go on, dear – force yourself! Now, over there in that other comer,’ – she pointed to where the edge of the carpet had been turned back – ‘that’s where I’m practising my magic circles. Of course, you can’t even start summoning devils before midnight but I thought I’d better have a quick run through first. You get absolutely no protection if you make a mistake, you know, and all these signs and things are terribly complicated. Do you like my stuffed raven? I really ought to have a black cat, too, but Mrs Boyle made such a fuss when I
