Francis PendletonMelissa’s husband

Phyllis ChandlerCook/housekeeper at Melissa’s home

Eric ChandlerChauffeur/handyman – Phyllis’s son

Lance GardnerManager of the Moonflower Hotel

Maureen GardnerLance’s wife, also running the hotel

Algernon MarshA property developer and businessman

Samantha CollinsAlgernon’s sister, Leonard’s wife

Dr Leonard CollinsThe local GP, married to Samantha

Joyce CampionAlgernon and Samantha’s aunt

Harlan GoodisAn American millionaire, married to Joyce

Nancy MitchellReceptionist at the Moonflower Hotel

Brenda MitchellHer mother

Bill MitchellHer father

Simon Cox(aka Sīmanis ?aks), a film producer

Charles PargeterOwner of the Ludendorff Diamond

Elaine PargeterHis wife

Detective Inspector GilbertInvestigating the Ludendorff Diamond

Detective Sergeant DickinsonWorking with Gilbert

Atticus PündWorld-famous detective

Madeline CainHis secretary

DCI Edward HareInvestigating the Moonflower murders

ONE

CLARENCE KEEP

‘Are you just going to sit there, Eric? Or are you going to give me a hand with the washing-up?’

Eric Chandler looked up from the racing pages of the Cornish & Devon Post, biting back the answer that had been on the tip of his tongue. He had spent the last two hours cleaning and polishing the Bentley, a complete waste of time as once again the weather was on the turn. This had been a horrible April so far, with squalls of rain driving in across the sea. When Eric had finally come into the kitchen he had been cold and damp and definitely in no mood to help his mother with the dishes or anything else.

Phyllis Chandler had been bending over the oven, but now as she straightened up she was holding a tray of freshly baked florentines, each one a perfect golden brown disc. She took them over to the counter and, reaching for a spatula, began to transfer them onto a plate. Sometimes Eric wondered how she did it, especially with eggs and sugar still rationed almost eight years after the end of the war, but somehow she never let such things get in her way. The first time white bread had reappeared it had been in two shopping bags she had carried up from the village, and she had always managed to stretch her one-and-eightpence meat ration much further than it had any right to go.

Eric’s mother reminded him of a hedgehog as she busied herself around the kitchen. What was that story she had read him as a child? Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. That was the one. The so-called adventures of a hedgehog washerwoman living in the Lake District … not that anything very much ever happened. His mother certainly looked the part: small and round, even wearing the same clothes, a printed gown with a white apron across her ample stomach. And prickly. That was definitely the right word to describe her.

He glanced at the sink. His mother had been busy for the last few days, preparing for the weekend. Devilled eggs, split-pea soup, chicken à la King … Melissa James was expecting guests and had, as always, been very precise about what they were going to eat. It was definitely the weather for soups and casseroles, although there were also a pair of capons and a leg of lamb in the larder. Kippers and porridge for breakfast. Tom Collins cocktails at six. He felt his stomach rumbling, which reminded him that he hadn’t put anything in it since lunch. His mother had turned back to the oven and he reached out and helped himself to one of the florentines. It was still hot. He had to transfer it quickly from hand to hand.

‘I saw that!’ his mother exclaimed.

How was that even possible? She’d had her back to him, her bottom in the air. ‘You’ve got plenty to spare,’ he said. The smell of dried fruit and golden syrup rose into his nostrils. Why did she have to be such a good cook?

‘Those aren’t for you! They’re for Miss James’s guests.’

‘Miss James’s guests won’t notice one missing.’

It often seemed to Eric that he was trapped and that he had been from the moment of his birth. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been attached to his mother, not as part of her family but as a sort of appendage, tied to her apron strings. His father had been a captain in the army and he had actually been excited when the Great War kicked off, dreaming of medals and glory and putting one over on the Boche. In fact, all he’d got was a bullet in the head in some faraway place that Eric couldn’t even spell. He had been seven years old when the telegram came and he still remembered his feelings … or lack of them. He had been unable to mourn a man he hardly knew.

He and his mother were already living in Tawleigh-on-the-Water, in a cottage so small they were always having to step aside to allow one another to pass. Eric hadn’t done well at school and did odd jobs in the village, working at the pub, the butcher’s shop, the harbour … but never for long. Although he was the right age for conscription when the Second World War began, there was never any chance of that. He had been born with a club foot. When he was growing up, the boys had called him Lumpy and the girls had ignored him, sniggering when they saw him limping up the street. He had joined the Local Defence Volunteers, but even they had been reluctant to have him in their company.

The war had ended. Melissa James had come to Tawleigh and Phyllis had gone into service. Given no real choice in the matter, Eric had gone with her. She was the housekeeper and cook. He was the butler, the chauffeur, the gardener, the general handyman. But not the washer-up. That had never been part of the deal.

He was forty-three years old now and he was beginning to see that this was his life. These were the cards that he had been dealt. He would clean the car and polish the silver and ‘Yes, Miss James’ and ‘No, Miss James’, and even in the best suit that she had bought him and which she insisted he must wear when he drove her into town, he was still Lumpy. He always would be.

He took a bite out of the florentine, which had cooled a little, and tasted the butter as it oozed over his tongue. That was also part of the trap. She cooked. He got fat.

‘If you’re hungry, there are coconut biscuits in the tin,’ Phyllis said, adopting a kinder tone of voice.

‘They’re stale.’

‘I can put them in the oven for a few minutes and they’ll be fine.’

Even when she was being nice to him, she managed to humiliate him. Was he supposed to be grateful to her because she was offering him the leftovers that Melissa James and her friends didn’t want? Sitting at the table, Eric felt the anger rise up inside him. He had noticed that recently it had become darker and much more difficult to control; not just the anger but other emotions too. He wondered if he should talk to Dr Collins, who had treated him on several occasions for minor infections and callouses. Dr Collins always seemed friendly enough.

But he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell anyone what he was feeling because at the end of the day it wasn’t his fault and there was nothing he could do about it. It was better kept locked up inside him, his secret.

Unless Phyllis knew. Sometimes, the way she looked at him, he wondered.

There was a movement at the door. Melissa James appeared, walking into the kitchen wearing high-waisted trousers, a silk shirt and a page-boy jacket with gold-coloured buttons. Eric got quickly to his feet, leaving the half-eaten florentine on the table. Phyllis turned round, wiping her hands on her apron as if to signal how busy she had been.

‘No need to get up, Eric,’ Melissa said. She had been born in England but had spent so long working in Hollywood that some of her words had a distinct American twang. ‘I’m just going into Tawleigh … ’

‘Can I drive you, Miss James?’

‘No. I’ll take the Bentley.’

‘I’ve just finished cleaning it.’

‘Thank you. That’s great!’

‘What time would you like dinner this evening?’ Phyllis asked.

‘That’s what I came in to say. Francis is going into Barnstaple tonight. I’ve got a slight headache so I’m going to take an early night.’

There it was again, Eric thought. An Englishwoman would have ‘had’ an early night, not ‘taken’ it. Melissa wore her Americanisms like cheap jewellery.

‘I can warm up some soup if you like.’ Phyllis sounded concerned. To her way of thinking, soup was the equivalent of medicine, only more effective.

‘Actually, I thought you might like to see your sister. Eric can drive you over in the Bentley.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Miss James.’

Phyllis’s sister – Eric’s aunt – lived in Bude, further down the coast. She hadn’t been well recently and it was possible she might have to have an operation.