Page 33 of Murder Most Haunted
[Pause]
Harold:Yeah, well, what is it they say? Needs must when the devil drives.
Chapter19
The door to Rendell’s room was wide open when Midge and Harold reached it. ‘That was shut earlier,’ said Midge.
Harold held up his hands before letting them drop against his thighs. ‘Good question.’
Harold would have been dreadful as a policeman for a number of reasons, thought Midge as she looked around, not least because of his inability to differentiate a question from a statement. Unaware of his perceived failings as a potential detective, Harold busied himself rummaging through Rendell’s wardrobe, which was a relief to Midge, who had no desire to come face to face with a gentleman’s undergarments. Unsurprisingly, Rendell had chosen the most opulent room for himself, presumably one that had once been the private chamber of Charles Atherton. It was at least twice the size of the other bedrooms, including that of the Mortimers, with an ornate fireplace that Midge could almost stand up in. The air was thick with a pungent musty smell that Midge was unable to determine the origin of – possibly age; possibly Rendell. Standing to attention on the mantelpiece were several leatherbound books, all covered in a thick layer of dust except for a brown one in the middle. She leaned her head closer, reading the gold embossed writing on the spine: the Bible. Midge raised an eyebrow at the idea of Rendell taking up religion after the police.
She turned her attention back to the rest of the room. The wall in front of her was adorned with a large portrait of Charles Atherton, hanging above the immense four-poster bed. To the side, there was an antique desk that faced the en suite shower room.Midge took some time to mentally catalogue all of the items on its surface. There was a notepad which appeared unused, an empty glass and a comb.
‘I wonder what he did after Noah’s interview,’ thought Midge, unaware that she had spoken out loud until Harold popped his head back round the wardrobe door and replied.
‘Technically, Noah was the last one to see him.’
She looked out of the window. ‘But he said that he left him after he got drunk. Noah seemed upset at his behaviour.’
‘To be fair, I don’t think it takes much to hurt our Noah’s feelings,’ said Harold.
Midge blinked at their sudden promotion to owners of Noah, and was about to dispute the designation, but Harold had already disappeared back into the wardrobe. His voice emerged, muffled. ‘Rendell’s clothes are still here. Although, it’s quite hard to tell.’
Midge quietly agreed. Rendell had taken pride in his appearance when in the police and although male clothes were unfamiliar territory to her, his standards had undoubtedly slipped in civilian life. In fact, it appeared his effort at unpacking had been to throw most of his clothes either on to the bed or the floor of the wardrobe. Presumably, this was because there had been no room left on the bed, which was completely cluttered with newspapers. Each one of them was open on the racing section and riddled with circled dog and horse names. All except for a solitary page which featured an exposed pair of bosoms so unnecessarily enormous that Midge was required to cover them with a towel in order to stop them following her around the room.
She noted a half-finished bottle of Scotch next to the lamp on the bedside table, then examined the clothes strewn about the room. Something was bothering her, a missing item of some sort. And then, suddenly, it clicked. The letter opener. She had seen Rendell with it twice since they had arrived, yet it didn’t appearto be on the desk, or anywhere else. She supposed it could be obscured by the mess. ‘It’s hard to tell if someone has ransacked the room or he was just very untidy.’
‘I’m sure there’s no one else involved,’ replied Harold.
Midge frowned. There it was again, the insistence on suicide rather than foul play. ‘Why do you say that?’
Harold clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if deciding something. ‘I don’t think he’s been having much luck with the horses lately.’
‘Are you saying he was in financial trouble?’
Harold nodded. ‘You could say that.’
‘I’m not,’ explained Midge. ‘Why would I? I don’t know him. I’m asking you to say it, if it’s true.’
‘Yes,’ Harold sighed. ‘He’s got... some gambling debts.’
‘Hadsome gambling debts – past tense. Obviously, he’s dead now.’
‘Christ.’ Harold folded his arms. ‘You’re a weird one. Do you always talk to people like this?’
Unsurprisingly, this wasn’t the first time that someone had called her odd. Midge considered his question and reviewed her normal interactions with people. ‘I’m usually sitting down,’ she said. ‘Would you prefer that?’
Harold shook his head, slowly, and moved on to flicking through the newspapers.
‘Do you know where he kept the phones?’ she asked.
‘Ah, yes!’ Harold clicked his fingers together, one of which Midge couldn’t help noticing was now smudged with ink. ‘I saw them when I brought his bag in the other night. He was putting them into the desk drawer, here... oh!’
Harold had pulled open the top drawer of the desk. It was empty. ‘I don’t understand, why would he move them?’
‘Try to find them,’ said Midge. ‘But don’t touch anything else directly.’
‘How are we meant to do that?’ complained Harold.
