Night Service

Afterword

ONE

DURRANT’S HOTEL

Durrant’s Hotel accommodated its guests in a towering building of imposing mass, the exterior walls of which had been crafted from stone. The hotel was designed by a leading local architect whose creation gave full expression to the Edwardian Baroque style of architecture. It first opened for business in the year 1906.

Its well-proportioned elevations were adorned with artful arrangements of fluted columns, pilasters and other architectural embellishments. This dramatic and splendid structure rose from the pavement through six floors to the roof upon which twin domes and many dormer windows featured.

Durrants had long been recognised as an establishment of the highest quality. Situated a few hundred yards to the north and east of the central railway-station, it was favoured by a discerning clientele who were offered luxurious accommodation and exclusivity. To us in the police force, however, its reputation had been tainted by several incidents that had occurred in the years that immediately followed the end of the Great War. During those years we had been called to the service entrance on five occasions.

Two of those attendances were in response to the grievous bodily harm inflicted by chefs upon kitchen porters and the other three visits related to the thefts, by waiters, of substantial quantities of wines and spirits. We also knew that prostitutes were entering the hotel by their illicit use of the service entrance.

Before the war Durrants attracted the patronage of ladies and gentlemen drawn from an established hierarchy of social classes. The most esteemed of these guests were members of the aristocracy and the landed gentry. There then followed, in an intricate order of precedence, those other guests of the hotel whose wealth and social standing were considered acceptable to the management of Durrants.

Many of these guests had not returned from the war and their diminished presence in the hotel was quickly counterbalanced by others. These new post-war guests included recently established businessmen who had done well out of the war, and other equally affluent persons who were clearly doing very well out of was generally understood to be the promotion of speculative investment schemes. Most recently, wealthy, young and noisy socialites would arrive at the hotel in cavalcades of motor cars and remain for a few days. For the duration of their visits they would show a feverish determination to pursue recreations and amusements of their own making.

All these observations, when applied to a large hotel situated in the central part of a city would be considered evident signs of changing times. For Durrants, they marked a change in the character of the hotel: a change for the worse. Outwardly, and to most of its old-established clientele, however, it still represented an institution that was determined to perpetuate the impeccable standards of hospitality, cuisine and elegance that were expected of the Grand Edwardian Hotel.

The summer of 1921 was one of such torrid heat that even Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England’s most northerly city, did not escape its effects. At just after eight o’clock on the morning of Tuesday in the last week of August of that year I was on foot beneath a cloudless blue sky and intent on getting to Durrants for what was to be my first official visit to that establishment. It was another day for which the weather was forecasted to be hot and sunny.

As I came close to the south facing façade of the hotel, I looked up to the first-floor windows, some of which had been partially opened. From behind these opened windows white net curtains were being disturbed by a very light movement of air. The reason for my interest was that one of those rooms now contained a dead guest who had passed the last night of his life alone in the hotel. This death, unexpected, and its cause unknown, was the reason for my visit.

At the entrance, standing by the opened doors was the liveried hall porter. He was a tall grey-whiskered man of soldiery bearing.

‘Good morning Inspector, Mr. Bannister is expecting you.’

He spoke these words with assurance. Although we were unknown to each other he evidently had no doubt as to my identity. Having completed this brief salutation, he then looked towards the other end of the foyer.

The floor and lower parts of the walls of this oblong shaped foyer were clad in marble that was the colour of golden sand, and its far end was dominated by a grand stairway. This stairway was divided into two flights of white marbled steps that rose to a balcony on the first floor. Beneath the balcony, encased in mahogany timber, was the reception office. This structure featured a long deep counter in front of which stood Bannister.

I had served as an artillery officer from 1916 to 1918, and I recognised that I was now part of an efficient military manoeuvre. With disciplined courtesy, I had been welcomed into the hotel and identified to Bannister who was now observing my approach.

Bannister was a tall, well-built man; I estimated him to be in his early thirties. He was dressed in a black morning coat, a black waist coat and a pair of dark striped trousers. His snow-white winged collar was starched to rigid perfection. These garments provided the distinctive formal attire expected of the manager in charge of a hotel of this size and quality. Now close to him, I saw that his coat was tailored from fine alpaca, and the choice of a coat of this light material appeared to be the only visible concession to the summer heat. Contrasting sharply with these dark clothes were his tanned complexion and his brushed back glossy flaxen hair. The man was impassive, and he exhibited the commanding presence and bearing expected of one occupying his position. I was acknowledged with the slightest inclination of the head. His grey eyes were alert and observant.

Within the hotel all exterior noise had been eliminated and the ticking of the large long-cased clock that stood within the reception office could be clearly heard. The atmosphere was fragrant: a combination of the scents of furniture polish, fresh flowers and roasted coffee beans. The walls displayed oil paintings, prints and looking glasses, all of which were contained within ornate gilded frames. I felt enclosed within an environment of secured privilege and sensed the delightful ambience that the hotel offered its rich patrons.

‘Inspector Connors,’ he murmured.

‘This way please.’

We walked through a door that opened into the reception office, then through another door and down a short corridor. Finally, we entered a large room that Bannister identified as ‘my office’. Throughout this brief passage Bannister behaved with professional courtesy, and invited me to precede him, as he opened doors.

His office was panelled in amber-lustred mahogany timber. The large desk and other items of furniture were of a darker shade of mahogany. He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk by way of an implicit invitation to sit. Once seated, I observed Bannister more intently. He was, I thought, completing in the manner of all hotel managers, his appraisal of me. If I was a guest of the hotel that appraisal would determine the precise combination of deference and credit that would be my due. As a visiting official, I felt it would specify to what extent I would be tolerated.

He remained stood behind the desk, and then after about one minute he moved the chair back in a brisk, almost impatient movement. Once seated he began to adjust the position of the ornate silver tray upon which two cut glass ink wells were secured. With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand he moved the ink tray to the right and then to the left until satisfied that the small movements so made put the object in its desired position, which was at the exact centre of the desk and in front of a leather encased blotting pad of brilliant white cleanness.

‘Doctor Booth, the police surgeon will be with us soon, and we can then begin to bring this unfortunate matter to a conclusion.’ After a brief pause, he then continued.

‘The dead guest is Mr. Richard Irving, a London ship owner. Mr and Mrs Irving travelled up to County Durham last week. They were there for a few days of grouse shooting. From there Mr Irving travelled up to Newcastle alone to attend to some business matters in the city, and it was his intention to re-j0in Mrs Irving tomorrow. Mrs Irving has been informed of his death. Now, as to the police interest in this matter, perhaps you can tell me how you foresee matters proceeding from here?’

His hands were now steepled together as if to simulate the act of prayer.

‘It will be the duty of the City Coroner to determine what caused Mr Irving’s death,’ I replied.

‘To do that he will consider the pathologist’s report along with the police report and any other evidence. We, the police, will need to be satisfied that no crime has been committed.’

‘Pathologist?’ He responded.

‘I rather thought with the police surgeon certifying the death, that would conclude matters so far as the hotel is concerned.’

‘No,’ I replied.

‘The police Surgeon’s report will be but part of what has to be considered. The death of Mr Irving was sudden and without, I understand, any obvious cause. He was, I am told, a man who was in his middle years and in apparent good health. The coroner will order a post-mortem examination.’

‘Well, Inspector, I have to confess, my direct experience of this sort of thing is negligible, but you are surely not expecting to find any evidence of foul play? There is absolutely no sign of forced entry into the room. The hotel is secured at all hours of the day and the night.’

‘Whilst there may be no evidence of foul play, a full, thorough and objective investigation is called for,’ I replied.

I then told Bannister what to expect from this investigation. It was possible that yet more policemen would enter the hotel. Once in the hotel these men would be directed to the room in which Irving died. They would question staff and guests of the hotel. Material would be examined. Throughout the day policemen would be leaving and returning to the hotel.

‘Naturally,’ I said, ‘we will take all steps to minimise any inconvenience to guests and staff- we will be as discrete as possible.’

Bannister, unperturbed, then responded.

‘Well I am sure that once the doctor has examined the late Mr Irving, he will be able to tell us the cause of death. More than likely it will be from some natural incident such as a heart attack, stroke or something of that sort. All this is most regrettable, but I am sure you will understand that I have the hotel’s reputation to safeguard. So, do please ensure that any uniformed policemen enter the hotel by the service door, and perhaps you and other detectives will use the service stairs when going to and from the room.’

‘I will ensure your requirements are met,’ I replied, but at the same time thinking that no amount of discretion was going to stop the staff gossiping and the local press becoming interested in the death.

Two light knocks on the door then claimed his attention. The door, which was behind me, opened and a female voice, anxious and just audible, informed him that the doctor had arrived and was now on his way up to the room. He dismissed the messenger with a curt upward wave of his left hand.

‘As you heard Doctor Booth is on his way to room 28. Tanswick, the night manager and your man Musgrave are already there. Let us join them.’

He then rose from the chair in a swift emphatic movement. We left the office and went down a short corridor at the end of which was a door. Once through this door we were in a working area of the hotel that was unseen by its guests. This fact was made evident by the terra-cotta tiled floor and bare walls which were all painted the same shade of grey. From a nearby kitchen came the shouting of quarrelling staff, and the clash and clatter of crockery and cutlery being ordered into service.

Directly ahead of us, coming down the last few steps of the stairway, were two room maids. Both maids were carrying silver trays, and upon seeing the manager of the hotel, they stopped talking to each other and hastened to get off the stairs. Each young woman was uniformly dressed in black. They also wore identically shaped white caps and aprons. They now stood silent and with their heads bowed. Their reverent manner was now suggestive of two novitiates who had unexpectedly encountered their spiritual leader.

Bannister passed by them without even glancing in their direction. We walked up the stairs in silence. All that emanated from Bannister was the faint aroma of cologne. We were soon at the door of room 28 upon which Bannister knocked.

TWO

ROOM 28

The two light taps on the door produced an immediate response; we were admitted by Tanswick. Once in the room Bannister turned to the right and joined Tanswick and Musgrave.

The three men, as if obedient to some command from an unseen master of ceremonies, arranged themselves in a line parallel to the wall that was to the left of the door frame. Once they were in these assumed positions, they remained silent and faced the opposite wall. The respectful manner they had now assumed was fully becoming that of mourners at a funeral.

Through the partially opened curtains a beam of sunlight streamed into the large room. The room’s furniture displayed the deep shaded brown and black patterned veneer of burred walnut. Damask wallpaper, curtains and carpets exhibited designs coloured with various shades of green and gold. The combined effect of the furniture, fittings and expertly blended decorations, radiant in the morning sun, was the creation of accommodation that was restful, secluded and opulent.

At right angles to the opposite wall were two single beds that were both about four feet wide. At the side of the bed nearest the window stood Doctor Booth. He was looking down at the body that lay upon it. He turned towards me.

‘Morning Connors.’

The late Mr Richard Irving looked as if he had been fifty years or so of age, and there was nothing in his appearance to suggest that when alive he had been in imminent danger of suffering from a heart attack or a stroke. He was about six-foot tall, almost completely clothed and lean. His head had a good covering of grey hair.

However, looking more closely I could see his face was now very pale from the onset of decomposition.

Booth was a large and portly middle-aged man. His face was florid in complexion and his large head was topped by a bushy mane of grey hair. He turned away from me and leaned over the corpse and began to examine the face, the nasal cavities and the eyes. He then enunciated his findings.

‘Asphyxiation is indicated clearly enough.’

He then enclosed the left hand of the deceased man with his right hand and raised the stiffened limb. He then manipulated the equally inflexible right hand of the corpse in the same manner. His handling of the two arms was completed slowly and with evident care. He then turned towards me.

‘I think,’ he said ‘that the degree of rigor, and the body temperature which I took a couple of minutes ago indicates that he has been dead for approximately eight hours. As he was lying on the bed and had removed only his jacket, tie and shoes, it appears that he probably died whilst he was awake. At this juncture, there is nothing more I can say about the cause of death. I can’t see any prescribed medicines about him. Did you find any, Sergeant?’

‘No, Doctor, I did not.’

‘Well I think it is now appropriate for us to get him to the mortuary.’

He then pointed to a small flask and tumbler that stood on the bedside table.

‘These will need to go with him to the mortuary. Now, gentlemen, that is all that I can do for the moment.’ He then went over to the dressing table, took out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen from his bag and began to note down what, I presumed, were his findings.

I then turned towards Sergeant Musgrave.

‘Well, Sergeant you have an account for us?’

Musgrave moved slightly forward and extracted a small notebook from his coat pocket. At six feet, he was two inches taller than me, and we were both thirty years of age. He was a dark-haired, strongly built man of few words. He had also served in the army and shared with me the good fortune of having been able to return from that war without damage to body or mind.

Reading from the notebook was, for Musgrave, a matter of form: a way of assuring those present that they were hearing an official and reliable record of his findings. Without having taken written notes he would still be able to provide a clear, correct and detailed report of everything he had investigated. He was also possessed of a very good memory and able to recall, with complete accuracy, the details of cases he had investigated months and years ago.

Musgrave told us that Mr. Irving had asked for an early morning call. Accordingly, at exactly fifteen minutes to seven o’clock this morning Miss Paget, a room maid, joined Mr. Tanswick at the waiters’ pantry on this floor. It was there that the tea was made and taken on a tray to this room. Mr Tanswick and the maid were outside the door of the room at exactly one minute to seven o’clock.

Mr Tanswick knocked on the door. This and further knockings produced no response. Aware of the importance to Mr Irving of the call, Mr Tanswick decided to enter the room, effecting such entry with the use of his duplicate key. At this point I interrupted.

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

‘Mr Tanswick, you entered the room, what happened then?’

I estimated that Tanswick, a stocky man of middle height, was about forty-five years of age. His head was covered by a thin layer of light brown hair. His pale blue eyes were strangely magnified by large wire-rimmed spectacles, and his fat protruding lips created an expression that managed the simultaneous projection of coarse sensuality and smugness. The complexion of his face was sallow.

He was dressed in a black serge coat and striped trousers, and these garments reproduced the colour and style of those worn by Bannister. In the quality of their cloth and cut, however, they were evidently inferior to the standard achieved by Bannister’s tailor.

Tanswick looked enquiringly towards Bannister who acknowledged this request for permission to speak with a nod of assent. This mode of unspoken communication with subordinates appeared to suit the Grand Hotelier. Tanswick spoke quietly, his accent sounded as if it had been acquired. It was purposefully flat and neutral.

‘Well yes, I went into the room knowing that Mr Irving was most particular about being called at seven o’clock prompt. I called his name several times and then went up close to him. Then I knew he was dead, he looked gone, it was a real shock. I locked the room and then went straight up to the manager’s quarters after telling Miss Paget that Mr Irving was unwell. I told