Hidden in Plain Sight (Detective William Warwick 2)

“At least it will give us something to tell your son,” she said.

“My son?”

“Or daughter perhaps, Mr. Warwick. I’m pregnant.”

10

“Mr. and Mrs. Warwick?”

William wondered how long it would take him to get used to that. He blinked and looked up, to see a stewardess he recognized from the plane.

“Yes?”

“Would you and your wife be kind enough to follow me?”

“What’s happening?” asked a sleepy voice, as William gently woke Beth. “I’d just fallen asleep.”

“I have no idea, but I imagine that if we follow this lady from the airline, all will be revealed.”

Beth stood up, stretched her arms and yawned like an animal emerging from hibernation before reluctantly accompanying her husband.

“Maybe she’s taking us to the first-class lounge,” whispered William.

“A better class of sofa not to sleep on.”

“Plus free food and drink.”

“Wrong again, oh great detective,” said Beth, as they walked straight past the first-class lounge and out of the terminal.

A driver opened the back door of a waiting courtesy car displaying the airline’s livery.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said William, as they climbed into the back.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” asked Beth.

“Not Rome, that’s for sure,” said William, as the car moved off.

“Nor London,” said Beth, as the driver ignored the signs for the motorway and turned left down a country lane.

They drove for a couple more miles, before the car slowed and passed through a set of wrought-iron gates onto an even smaller road that had been carved through a dense forest. They must have traveled for about another mile before a beautifully proportioned Georgian mansion of honey-colored stone clad in ivy loomed up in front of them. When they came to a halt outside the entrance, a young man dressed in a smart green uniform rushed forward and opened the back door of the car.

“Welcome to the Lakeside Arms Hotel, Mr. and Mrs. Warwick,” he said, as they stepped out onto the gravel drive. “Would you be kind enough to follow me?”

The vast oak door opened while they were still several paces away, and a tall, elegantly dressed man wearing a dark jacket, striped trousers and a silver-gray tie awaited them. He looked as if he’d just come from their wedding.

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Warwick,” he said. “My name is Bryan Morris, and I am the manager of the hotel.”

Without another word he led them up a wide, thickly carpeted staircase to the first floor before stopping outside a set of double doors with the words NELL GWYNNE SUITE painted in gold leaf on a panel. He took out his passkey, opened the door, and led them into a suite of spacious rooms that was bigger than their flat in Fulham.

“This is the bridal suite, which overlooks the lake,” the manager said, as he walked across to a large bay window. “I do hope the peacocks won’t disturb you.” He paused for a moment by a dining table that was laid for two, and straightened a napkin before leading them through to the master bedroom, which boasted a vast bed that could have comfortably slept four without any of them meeting. He still hadn’t finished his guided tour; the next room he took them into was a bathroom that boasted a Jacuzzi as well as a walk-in shower that could have accommodated a football team.

Speechless, they followed him back into the bedroom to find that their suitcases had mysteriously appeared, and their nightwear had been unpacked and laid out on the bed. A bottle of champagne was standing in an ice bucket. The manager uncorked it, poured two glasses and handed them to his guests.

“Please pick up the phone and order dinner whenever it suits you,” he said. “You’ll find the menus on the dining table.”

“Can I stay here for the rest of my life?” asked Beth.

“Not if you’re still hoping to fly to Rome in the morning, madam,” said the manager. He bowed, retreated, and closed the double doors quietly behind him.