Free Death and the Chaste Apprentice by Robert Barnard Page B

cope.”
    â€œYou’ll have Dawn from the kitchen to help you,” said Des, pouring soda into a whiskey in an infuriatingly leisurely manner. “There are three other bars for people to go to, for Chrissake.”
    â€œThe Shakespeare’s the biggest and most popular. There’s only twenty minutes, and people have to have time to drink their drinks. You’ll have to come and help.”
    â€œAll right, little lady,” said Des, leering around at a sea of proffered fivers. “Your wish is my command.”
    â€œNo, I mean it, Des. I need you here.”
    â€œAnd I’ll be here. Am I in the habit of not meaning what I say? . . . I ask you, Mr. Mallory, don’t I usually mean what I say? Now, what can I get you?”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Outside in the main entrance Frank, the commissionaire, was getting bored. There was a steady queue waiting to go through the little door into the courtyard, but nobody was attempting to sneak past him into the body of the hotel to get an illicit view from somewhere or other. This was not surprising, as he was six feet two and built like a barrel. The only residents in the hotel at the moment were the festival people, in the rooms over the Shakespeare. Any other would-be guest who had arrived in Ketterick without a bed was turned away by Frank with a word, courteous but final. In fact, there was nobody manning Reception,because there was no point in it. Des had assigned the girls there to other work for the duration of the festival. Frank thought it very dull, really. Still, soon, when the play started, he could walk along and have a chinwag with Bob, the ticket collector on the gate. They were good friends and usually talked the play away during festival time. Unless, this year, that Australian twerp should take it into his head to put a stop to it.
    The poncy Mr. Mallory—Frank had got his number—had come mincing out of the Shakespeare and now came through Reception, looking pale but not interesting. He nodded to Frank as he came through the main entrance and headed off in the direction of the Town Hall, clutching his cloak around him. A cloak, for God’s sake. . . . Des Capper came out almost immediately after.
    â€œI’ve been helping in the bar,” he announced to Frank, as if it were a newsworthy event. “Helping the little lady. Now they’re all taking their seats. I think I’ll slip in at the back and watch the first few minutes. Mind you, I think I’ve got this play’s number, by seeing the rehearsals. It’s no literary masterpiece, you take my word for it. Still, as a member of the committee, it’s as well to see how the audience is taking it.”
    And he rambled through the little door into the courtyard. Frank gave a meaningful stare, of skepticism verging on contempt, at Bob, standing in the street by the door and taking tickets. So long a stare was it that he nearly missed seeing a young woman going through the main door of the hotel. He hotfooted it back to the door and into the open area around Reception, but by this time the young woman had crossed it and had gone, not to the Shakespeare Bar but to the stairs leading to the bedrooms.
    â€œCan I help you, miss?” Frank called.
    The girl turned round. She was a cool, fresh little thing, in a bright summer frock—and not much else, Frankguessed. Frank was an ex-soldier and experienced in such matters. A tingle stirred his old blood. She looked about fifteen, he thought, but when she spoke her voice was not a schoolgirl’s.
    â€œNo. No, I don’t think so.”
    It was an attempt—and not a bad one—at upper-class impertinence. Frank bristled.
    â€œThe play’s about to start, miss, and the bars and dining rooms are shut, and—”
    â€œBut I’m not going to the bars or dining rooms, am I?”
    â€œWould you mind telling me, miss, where you are going?”
    She left