Maxwell's Island by M.J. Trow Page B

Thingie Three. ‘Can you help me? Do you have a night porter or receptionist here?’
    She looked at her watch, somewhat ostentatiously. ‘It’s eight-forty-nine, Mr … Maxwell.’
    He was impressed and annoyed in almost equal amounts. ‘Yes, I know. But
before
it gets to be eight-forty-nine, or,’ he pre-empted her as she drew in her breath to speak, ‘any time classed as day in this hotel, do you have a night porter or receptionist?’
    â€˜Yes, we do.’
    â€˜Thank you. Do they keep records?’ he asked.
    She looked at him in the way that reception staff are specially trained to do, mixing polite subservience with total contempt. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We have a complete record of everything that goes on on night shift here, on the computer.’
    â€˜Well then,’ Maxwell leant closer, aware thatTom Medlicott might come back at any minute. ‘Can you have a quick look and tell me if Mrs Medlicott changed rooms last night?’
    She smiled up at him. ‘I don’t have to,’ she said. ‘We are completely full. Thanks to
you
and your school party,’ she added, with a twinkle. The staff of the hotel had a book going as to when the first window would get broken. The chef had had ‘in the first hour’ and was sulking. She had ‘hours of darkness, Wednesday’ and so still lived in hope. ‘Delightful children,’ she added.
    â€˜Indeed,’ Maxwell said, keeping the surprise in his voice to a minimum. He’d have to see whether he could get that in writing. ‘Well then, in that case, could she possibly have gone out for a jog or anything? Early, before you came on duty.’
    â€˜This isn’t a prison, Mr Maxwell,’ she admonished him. ‘Guests can come and go as they please. The doors are locked, of course, at night and into the early morning, but the push-button to the left of the door opens it from the inside, so she might have gone out and not necessarily been seen.’
    â€˜I see. Well, thank you, Lorraine. You’ve been most helpful.’
    â€˜Do I understand that you have lost Mrs Medlicott?’ she asked.
    â€˜We do seem to have temporarily mislaid her, yes. But I’m sure she will turn up soon.’
    â€˜I don’t want to alarm anyone,’ the receptionistsaid, in an alarming way, ‘but the cliff paths are a little treacherous sometimes and if she went for a jog … well, I think it would be wise to go and have a look, perhaps. Is Barton here?’
    Maxwell had forgotten that the supply teacher had come highly recommended. ‘Yes, he has joined us for breakfast.’
    The receptionist made a note on a pad and smiled. Maxwell read it upside down. It said ‘Breakfast x 6 @
£
12’. Maxwell chuckled when he pictured Bernard Ryan’s expression when the bill came in. ‘Well, you couldn’t do better than send him to look. He knows all the paths around here like the back of his hand.’
    â€˜What a useful chap,’ Maxwell murmured and, smiling, turned away back towards the dining room. As he reached the door, Tom Medlicott came down the stairs, dressed but still looking strangely unkempt and confused.
    â€˜Her jogging things are still in the room,’ he said. ‘In fact, I can’t find anything missing at all.’
    Maxwell forebore to say what he was thinking –
except your wife.
    â€˜Except for Izzy, of course.’ Medlicott tried a weak smile.
    â€˜I shouldn’t worry about it too much,’ Maxwell said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Did she do her own packing?’
    â€˜No, I packed. That’s how I know what we brought. She had been away a lot, sorting outsome family stuff, so I have been doing all the laundry, that kind of thing. She just trusted me to bring what she needed.’ He was looking puzzled. ‘Where is she, Max?’ He grabbed the Head of Sixth Form and stared into