‘Bedroom’s clear!’ he called. ‘I’m moving on to the living room!’
Still counting out loud the whole time so that Lauren could hear, still petrified and waiting to be attacked, he edged carefully into the living room. Everything looked the same, undisturbed.
‘There’s no one here . . .’ he began, and then he stopped.
‘What the hell’s that?!’ demanded Lauren, shocked, and he saw she’d come in and, like him, was staring at the window.
There, in large letters on the glass, someone had written ‘Malichea’. Underneath was added: ‘Next time you die’.
Jake could feel his heart pounding harder than ever and his throat had gone dry.
‘I’m calling the police,’ said Lauren. ‘When they see this it will prove there’s someone after us!’
Jake shook his head.
‘They might think that we wrote it ourselves. It’s obvious that DI Bullen is suspicious of me.’
Lauren sank down on to the settee. She looked as shaken as Jake felt.
‘I can’t live like this,’ she complained.
‘It’s the price we pay for getting mixed up with the hidden library.’
‘But we haven’t been involved for ages!’ Lauren pointed out.
‘Someone thinks we are,’ said Jake. He pointed at the words on the glass. ‘And now, with this, and me under suspicion of killing Alex Munro, it looks like we’re well and truly involved again.’
‘So, what’s our way out of it?’ asked Lauren.
‘I think our only way out is going to be working with fellow-accused, Guy de Courcey,’ said Jake. ‘If Pierce Randall can get him off, then maybe the case against me will collapse as well.’
‘And maybe, working with him, we might even get our hands on The Index,’ said Lauren.
‘Which is a long shot,’ pointed out Jake. ‘But, if we can, then that will solve everything.’
Chapter 6
They entered the palatial reception area of the Belvedere Hotel as the ornate clock behind the desk was striking twelve. Not loud bongs, but discreet musical chimes fitting to the aura of elegance of a time gone by. There was a distinct air of money here: old money, new money, any money, so long as there was a lot of it. Guy de Courcey claimed he was broke, and his family had always been hard up, but Jake was sure that a hotel like this would have still been the kind of place where they would have stayed when in London.
The furniture, the decor, even the uniforms that the hotel staff wore all looked as if they were from the London of Charles Dickens. As Pierce Randall were picking up the bill, it was definitely the right place for the recently ennobled Earl Guy de Courcey.
Jake and Lauren approached the desk, where the receptionist on duty smiled a greeting at them.
‘May I help you?’ he enquired politely.
‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘We’re here to meet Guy de Courcey. Could you ring his room and let him know we’re here. Jake Wells and Lauren Graham.’
The receptionist gave them an apologetic look.
‘I’m afraid Lord de Courcey checked out,’ he said.
Jake and Lauren exchanged bewildered looks.
‘Checked out?’ repeated Jake. ‘When?’
‘This morning.’
‘But . . . we only saw him a couple of hours ago,’ said Jake, bewildered. ‘And we arranged to see him here at twelve o’clock. Did he leave any message for us?’
The receptionist shook his head.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. He left no messages.’
‘He didn’t say anything when he left about people calling to see him?’
The receptionist hesitated, then said, ‘Actually, Lord de Courcey did not check out himself. He sent an emissary, who paid his bill and collected his belongings.’
‘Did this emissary have a name?’ asked Lauren.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t give out that kind of information,’ said the receptionist.
‘What did this emissary look like?’ asked Jake desperately.
The receptionist looked suspiciously at Jake and Lauren.
‘Are you asking these questions in any kind of official capacity?’ he asked. ‘If so, I would appreciate it if you could show me some documentation, because we make it a practise never to discuss our clients.’
Wary of journalists looking for gossip, thought Jake. He shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just that we’re concerned for his safety and we wanted to make sure that nothing unfortunate had happened to him.’
The receptionist studied them both silently for a while, then said politely but firmly, ‘I’m afraid I have nothing more to add. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’ With that, he turned away from them and went to attend to a couple who had just arrived at the desk.