Free Whitby Vampyrrhic by Simon Clark Page A

‘Oh yes, absolutely.’
    Beth nodded.
This is an unusual woman
, she decided.
She’s got a wacky sense of humour, but she seems to be wearing a mask. The real Eleanor is concealed underneath. I’m sure of it.
Allowing herself a smile, also, Beth decided she must remain on guard. Something didn’t ring true about Eleanor Charnwood. Beth glanced around the basement. ‘So – this is where you dispose of the bodies?’ A joke with a serious question in the centre. Not that Beth suspected Eleanor to be a murderer, but that macabre quip might help dislodge the mask.
    â€˜Oh, definitely.’ She picked up the coffee pot. ‘At night I hoist up the big iron trap-door and drop them into the tunnel below. All those men who told me they loved me, but had every intention of sneaking out of the back door, never to return. No coffee, alas, but I have made hot chocolate.’ She poured steaming liquid into the mugs.
    â€˜Eleanor.’ Sally beamed. ‘You’ve got a devilish sense of humour.’
    â€˜Indeed I have, my dear. It keeps me sane in this insane world. Well, this insane hotel, really. Every night I say a little prayer to the patron saint of bomber pilots to drop a five-hundred-pounder on the bloody roof. Then freedom, delicious freedom.’
    â€˜But you said you lived here as a child?’
    â€˜Indeed. Born here, I was. Along with my brother. Hotels are in the Charnwood blood. My cousin runs one in Leppington, just a few miles from here. My brother and I inherited when Mother died.’ She tilted her head, listening. The cool flow of air from the iron grate toyed with her hair. ‘The bombers must have got tired of Whitby and gone home. Anyway, we should be safe here. The masonry’s awful thick. Thicker than a tomb, no doubt.’
    Sally accepted the hot chocolate with a grateful sigh. ‘So where does the tunnel go? The one you chuck your lovers into?’
    â€˜Beneath the grate is a pit that goes down seven feet, or so. It connects to a tunnel that runs about twenty yards in that direction.’ She pointed at a wall. ‘It opens out under one of the harbour quays. In years gone by, boatmen used it to deliver French brandy into the vaults of the hotel. Whitby was a haven for smugglers way back when. At high tide the sea comes rushing in to fill the tunnel – don’t worry, it doesn’t come up the shaft very far. You won’t wake up to find your beds floating, or sharks biting your toes.’ Beneath the ironwork, those liquid shadows filled the pit. ‘My grandfather used to joke that you could dangle a baited line down there and catch a fish for your supper. Come on, drink your chocolate while it’s hot. Brrr, cold as the grave down here, isn’t it?’
    â€˜It must be lonely living in a hotel when it’s not in use,’ Beth said.
    â€˜Oh, I’m not on my lonesome, dear. Theo, my brother, lives here, too.’
    Sally’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Then why isn’t he down here? We don’t know for sure if the bombing has stopped.’
    â€˜Wild horses won’t drag him down here.’ Her smile became artificial.
    Ah ha, Eleanor, the mask is starting to slip.
    The woman covered her change in expression by topping up their mugs again, while telling them it was difficult to get drinking chocolate, now the rationing of groceries was becoming severe. She added it was also near impossible to buy timber, because she wanted to lay stout boards over the iron grate in the floor. ‘It’s badly rusted. I don’t want my guests falling through.’
    â€˜And joining your old lovers.’
    â€˜Sally, my thoughts exactly.’ The easy smile returned. ‘And you’re to star in a film? And my hotel will be home for an entire troupe of actors? How exciting. Have you learnt your lines yet?’
    Beth said, ‘We’ve got the scripts, but Sally and I also have the task of