Sarah Jonstone.
‘Do you know what’s the first thing they tell you if you go on a course for receptionists?’
‘Oh! It’s you.’
‘They tell you never to say “Can I help you?”’
‘Can I hinder you, Inspector?’
‘Did the Smiths make any telephone calls while they were here?’
‘Not from the bedroom.’
‘You’d have a record of it – on their bill, I mean – if they’d phoned anyone?’
‘Ye-es. Yes we would.’ Her voice sounded oddly hesitant, and Morse waited for her to continue. ‘Any phone call gets recorded automatically.’
‘That’s it then.’
‘Er – Inspector! We’ve – we’ve just been going through accounts and we shall have to check again but – we’re almost sure that Mr and Mrs Smith
didn’t square up their account before they left.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?’ snapped Morse.
‘Because – I – didn’t – know,’ Sarah replied, spacing the four words deliberately and quietly and only just resisting the impulse to slam the receiver down on
him.
‘How much did they owe?’
Again, there was a marked hesitation at the end of the line. ‘They had some champagne taken to their room – expensive stuff—’
‘Nobody’s ever had a
cheap
bottle of champagne – in a hotel – have they?’
‘And they had four bottles—’
‘
Four?
’ Morse whistled softly to himself. ‘What exactly was this irresistible vintage?’
‘It was Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin 1972.’
‘It it good stuff?’
‘As I say, it’s expensive.’
‘How expensive?’
‘£29.75 a bottle.’
‘It’s
what
?’ Again Morse whistled to himself, and his interest in the Smiths was obviously renascent. ‘Four twenty-nines are . . . Phew!’
‘Do you think it’s important?’ she asked.
‘Who’d pick up the empties?’
‘Mandy would – the girl who did the rooms.’
‘And where would she put them?’
‘We’ve got some crates at the back of the kitchen.’
‘Did anyone else raid the champagne cellar?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So you ought to have four empty bottles of ’72 whatever-it-is out there?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘No “suppose” about it, is there?’
‘No.’
‘Well, check up – straight away, will you?’
‘All right.’
Morse walked back into the bathroom, and without picking up the tumblers leaned over and sniffed them one by one. But he wasn’t at all sure if either smelled of champagne, though one
pretty certainly smelled of some peppermint-flavoured toothpaste. Back in the bedroom, he sat down once more on the bed, wondering if there was something
in
the room, or something
about
the room, that he had missed. Yet he could find nothing – not even the vaguest reason for his suspicions; and he was about to go when there was a soft knocking on the door and
Sarah Jonstone came in.
‘Inspector, I—’ Her upper lip was shaking and it was immediately clear that she was on the verge of tears.
‘I’m sorry I was a bit short with you—’ began Morse.
‘It’s not that. It’s just . . .’
He stood up and put his arm lightly round her shoulders. ‘No need to tell me. It’s that penny-pinching Binyon, isn’t it? He’s not only lost the Smiths’ New Year
contributions, he’s an extra one hundred and nineteen pounds short – yes?’
She nodded, and as the eyes behind the large round lenses brimmed with glistening tears Morse lightly lifted off her spectacles and she leaned against his shoulder, the tears coursing freely
down her cheeks. And finally, when she lifted her head and smiled feebly, and rubbed the backs of her hands against her tear-stained face, he took out his only handkerchief, originally white and
now a dirty grey, and pushed it into her grateful hands. She was about to say something, but Morse spoke first.
‘Now don’t you worry, my girl, about Binyon, all right? Or about these Smiths, either! I’ll make sure we catch up with ’em sooner or later.’
Sarah nodded.
‘Do you know what’s the first thing they tell you if you go on a course for receptionists?’
‘Oh! It’s you.’
‘They tell you never to say “Can I help you?”’
‘Can I hinder you, Inspector?’
‘Did the Smiths make any telephone calls while they were here?’
‘Not from the bedroom.’
‘You’d have a record of it – on their bill, I mean – if they’d phoned anyone?’
‘Ye-es. Yes we would.’ Her voice sounded oddly hesitant, and Morse waited for her to continue. ‘Any phone call gets recorded automatically.’
‘That’s it then.’
‘Er – Inspector! We’ve – we’ve just been going through accounts and we shall have to check again but – we’re almost sure that Mr and Mrs Smith
didn’t square up their account before they left.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?’ snapped Morse.
‘Because – I – didn’t – know,’ Sarah replied, spacing the four words deliberately and quietly and only just resisting the impulse to slam the receiver down on
him.
‘How much did they owe?’
Again, there was a marked hesitation at the end of the line. ‘They had some champagne taken to their room – expensive stuff—’
‘Nobody’s ever had a
cheap
bottle of champagne – in a hotel – have they?’
‘And they had four bottles—’
‘
Four?
’ Morse whistled softly to himself. ‘What exactly was this irresistible vintage?’
‘It was Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin 1972.’
‘It it good stuff?’
‘As I say, it’s expensive.’
‘How expensive?’
‘£29.75 a bottle.’
‘It’s
what
?’ Again Morse whistled to himself, and his interest in the Smiths was obviously renascent. ‘Four twenty-nines are . . . Phew!’
‘Do you think it’s important?’ she asked.
‘Who’d pick up the empties?’
‘Mandy would – the girl who did the rooms.’
‘And where would she put them?’
‘We’ve got some crates at the back of the kitchen.’
‘Did anyone else raid the champagne cellar?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So you ought to have four empty bottles of ’72 whatever-it-is out there?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘No “suppose” about it, is there?’
‘No.’
‘Well, check up – straight away, will you?’
‘All right.’
Morse walked back into the bathroom, and without picking up the tumblers leaned over and sniffed them one by one. But he wasn’t at all sure if either smelled of champagne, though one
pretty certainly smelled of some peppermint-flavoured toothpaste. Back in the bedroom, he sat down once more on the bed, wondering if there was something
in
the room, or something
about
the room, that he had missed. Yet he could find nothing – not even the vaguest reason for his suspicions; and he was about to go when there was a soft knocking on the door and
Sarah Jonstone came in.
‘Inspector, I—’ Her upper lip was shaking and it was immediately clear that she was on the verge of tears.
‘I’m sorry I was a bit short with you—’ began Morse.
‘It’s not that. It’s just . . .’
He stood up and put his arm lightly round her shoulders. ‘No need to tell me. It’s that penny-pinching Binyon, isn’t it? He’s not only lost the Smiths’ New Year
contributions, he’s an extra one hundred and nineteen pounds short – yes?’
She nodded, and as the eyes behind the large round lenses brimmed with glistening tears Morse lightly lifted off her spectacles and she leaned against his shoulder, the tears coursing freely
down her cheeks. And finally, when she lifted her head and smiled feebly, and rubbed the backs of her hands against her tear-stained face, he took out his only handkerchief, originally white and
now a dirty grey, and pushed it into her grateful hands. She was about to say something, but Morse spoke first.
‘Now don’t you worry, my girl, about Binyon, all right? Or about these Smiths, either! I’ll make sure we catch up with ’em sooner or later.’
Sarah nodded.
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