A Bitter Feast(45)

So only a short time before Nell had run into him on the A429. How long had the drive from the village to the intersection taken Ivan that morning? Ten minutes? So, however O’Reilly had ended up in Nell’s car, it had to have happened very shortly after she left the pub. “Were they even sitting near each other?” he asked.

“Not according to the barman. If I had the resources, I’d track down the other customers in the bar.”

As they crossed the road and entered the manor drive, Kincaid gazed across a broad sweep of green lawn to the house itself. Lights had begun to wink on in all three stories. Above the roofline, dark clouds were massing, and the golden facade of the house seemed to glow against the looming backdrop. This was the place Kincaid had glimpsed when Tracey Woodman had driven him to the Talbots’, the place he had thought was Beck House.

This house, unlike the Talbots’ comfortable Arts and Crafts home, he guessed to be at least seventeenth century. “If O’Reilly was staying here, he certainly went for posh,” he said as they walked up the curving drive, their feet crunching on the manicured gravel.

A flight of steps on the left of the covered porch took them up to the elevated ground floor and a glassed-in entry. “Airlock,” Kincaid murmured as they stepped through the second set of doors into reception, and Booth’s lips twitched in a smile.

The house might be Tudor, but there was nothing fussy about the large central hall that greeted them. The cream walls and gleaming white woodwork were anchored by a chevron-patterned blond wood floor and a long, sleek reception desk. The young woman behind the desk was sleek as well, with bobbed dark hair and a crisp white blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked with professional courtesy, but her brow creased as she inspected them.

Kincaid realized they must look an odd couple, Booth with his expensive suit, he in his slightly rumpled sports jacket—not to mention his bruises and bandages and a few drips of pistachio ice cream on his shirtfront. Booth stepped up to the desk and flashed a blinding smile along with his warrant card.

Pulling up an online photo of Fergus O’Reilly on his mobile phone, Booth inquired if he was a guest of the hotel.

“Mr. O’Reilly?” The woman’s frown deepened. “Is there some sort of problem?”

“I’m afraid Mr. O’Reilly has been in an accident. And this is an official inquiry. Can you confirm that he was a guest here?”

“Well, yes, but— What’s happened to him?”

“Mr. O’Reilly was killed in an automobile crash yesterday evening,” Booth said.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “That’s awful. I can’t believe it.” She paused for a moment, her brow puckering again. “Although I did wonder . . .”

“You wondered what? Miss”—Booth glanced at her name tag— “Jane.”

“Mr. O’Reilly never picked up his key last night. He’d left it at the desk. He didn’t come in the night before, either, but he used his room yesterday morning. Housekeeping said nothing had been touched today.”

“O’Reilly didn’t sleep in his room night before last?” Kincaid asked.

“Well, I can’t be certain,” said Jane. “But he didn’t pick up his key before I went off duty at eleven, and housekeeping said his bed hadn’t been slept in.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We pride ourselves on our attention to our guests.”

“Of course,” Booth said. “I take it Mr. O’Reilly had booked through tonight?”

Jane checked her computer. “Yes, the booking was for three nights.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to sound insensitive, but what are we to do about his room? We have guests booked into it tomorrow. Will someone be coming for his things?”

“I’d suggest that you have your manager pack his things and hold them until further notice. In the meantime, my colleague and I need to have a look at his room.”

“Oh.” The young woman hesitated again. “I’m not sure— Maybe I should contact my manager—”

“I promise this won’t take long and that we’ll be very discreet. I certainly don’t think you’d want uniformed officers here.”

The idea of such disruption to the hotel did the trick. “Well, if you’re certain . . .” Jane reached into a cabinet under the reception desk.

When she’d retrieved the keys, Kincaid took the opportunity to ask, “Did you talk with Mr. O’Reilly at all during his stay?”

“Not more than the usual chitchat. I think I asked about his journey, and if he would be needing to park a car. He said he’d come by train and had got a taxi from the Moreton station.”

“Did he say why he was visiting Lower Slaughter?”

Jane shook her head. “No. He was nice enough—quite the charmer, I’d say—but it was a bit perfunctory. He seemed . . . distracted.”

“Did he meet anyone here at the hotel?”

“I don’t think so. He had a drink in the bar the first night.” She nodded to the right of reception. Kincaid had noticed the bar when they’d come in, a stunning room with a freestanding horseshoe-shaped bar and blush velvet–covered bar stools. Gemma would love it.

“He was alone?” Booth put in.

“As far as I know. I was on duty that evening and I pretty much see anyone coming or going.” She thought for a moment. “There was something, though. It was not long after he’d given me his keys. I went out to help some late arrivals with their luggage. Mr. O’Reilly was talking to someone in the garden, over near the churchyard entrance. A woman. Blond, I think.”