I doubted it was any of the guests currently at dinner. Surely any decent travel blogger would want to attend a local tourist event like the festival? Also, Dorie, the sisters Olive and Matilda, and Julius Mundey were all – at least – over sixty-five. I couldn’t see them blogging. Although you never knew. I wasn’t trying to be ageist but…no, okay, I had to own up to that one, Iwasbeing ageist, but that was extremely ignorant of me. The baby boomers were some of the best-travelled generation, many could afford the round-the-world cruises and were retired, so they had the time too.
All right, so it could have been any of the older guests but Geoff and Fiona? Geoff was an ex-police officer who took early retirement because of a gammy knee but still volunteered and Fiona was a psychologist. But those could be cover stories – or only half the story. Maybe the blogger called himself the Hotel ‘Hopper’ as a private in-joke because of a dodgy knee?
I’d thought when Noelle told me, it would be fairly easy to figure out who the Hotel Hopper was, but it was turning out to be mind-boggling. Anonymity on the internet, plus a mind that I desperately tried to keep open and non-judgemental meant that I was the worst possible sleuth for this mystery. I was going to have to talk to Noelle again about it. I’d bet anything she was a lot better at working this out than I was. While I’d been on the internet earlier, I’d looked her up quickly too, just in case. She’d written a very successful cosy crime series, so she was sure to have picked up some detective skills.
Although of course, it could be her…
I was going to drive myself insane with this.
The courses turned around quickly, and we cleared up in the dining room a full hour earlier than usual. Just enough time for me to get changed and run down to the village to have one quick drink with Stephen and make my excuses. I let Neeta know I was heading out to the festival and that she was in charge for the next couple of hours. She was still working in the kitchen, prepping for the next day but by the time she was finished, I’d be back. I gave her my mobile number too, in case the guests started returning from the festival early and Marvin needed help in the bar.
Upstairs in my room, I stripped down to my underwear and scurried around trying to find clothes that were clean and warm. There would be a day for dressing up and enjoying the feeling of being sexy for a date but today was not it. Jeans, boots and a jumper were the most practical options. I oiled and combed out my hair and spritzed myself with perfume. I would have dearly loved to shower to remove all the kitchen smells but there wasn’t time. It wouldn’t matter by the time I was down in the village with all the smoke from the contained fires smothering everything anyway; it’s not like I intended to let him get up close and personal.
I was practically running when I exited through the front doors of the hotel and the cold slammed into me. Julius Mundey had not been kidding about the minus figures and it didn’t help that I’d been inside the hotel all day, which always had the heating cranked up to retirement home standards.
I buried my hands in my pockets before I carried on at a brisk pace. The muted sound of drums was noticeable as soon as I reached the end of the gravel drive – that would be the famous steel percussion company who did all the bonfire parades. There were small solar lamps staked out down the steep grass verge of the single-track road that led down the hill but they didn’t offer a lot of illumination. If I hadn’t made this journey hundreds, if not thousands of times, it probably would’ve spooked me.
At the bottom of the hill it opened out onto the green and the road to the school behind the village high street, where I’d bumped into Nick. Most people only ever drove through the quaint part of the village. It would’ve been easy to think it was nothing more than a bunch of period buildings but tucked behind it was an estate where all the residents who hadn’t had a Grade listed building handed down to them lived (or those who weren’t willing to spend all their wages to live in a house where they would keep banging their head).
I slipped up the nearest side road to the high street and took a deep breath, ready to push myself through the crowd to the Rose and Crown.
People travelled from all over to come to this festival and other than the summer fete, it was pretty much the only event in the village calendar. The roads in and out were closed off to all traffic and a crowd of people reached from one end of the shops to the other. The drumming company was set up just in front of the first traffic block at the far end of the street and still managing to deafen everyone; stalls lined the road and around the memorial cross and the ten-foot Christmas tree, which must have been given some TLC. There were fires in metal bins for people to warm themselves.
The crowd was full of all different ages, from families with tiny children, to couples and friends, to old-age pensioners. The warmth of the light and the enclosure of the small buildings gave a surreal quality to it, so it felt almost like we were on a film set. Other than the freezing cold of course. Some people were even milling around in costume, to add to the weirdness of it all, but it was a good vibe. People were happy. With Christmas only a few days away there was a definite sense of celebration and I let it dissolve some of the lingering tension from the day.
It didn’t do much for my nerves about going on a date though.
I darted and dodged and ‘excuse me’d’ until I reached the doorstep of the pub and pulled open the small wooden door. The Rose and Crown was one of the oldest public houses in Britain. Victor, the landlord, had done his best to renovate it but with the protections put on it because of its historical status, walking inside was like entering a fun house. The floors and beamed ceilings sloped at odd angles, and although the bar was central on the left-hand side, all the seating was up and down steps and round corners where extensions had been added on years and years ago, before any authorities bothered to get involved with that kind of thing. Between that and the crowd of tourists and locals packed wall to wall, I’d be lucky if I found Stephen at all.
It was just occurring to me that I could use that as my excuse, give a half-hearted look around the room and then leave again when a hand touched my arm.
‘Hi.’ Stephen smiled at me and leaned closer. He smelt of mint and lager and was dressed less formally than before, in dark jeans and a navy pullover on top of a white shirt, but he still looked very cool and immaculate. ‘I’ve got us a table over there.’ He pointed to the far corner by the window. I couldn’t see the table, there were too many people standing between us and it, but I knew where he meant. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘Oh, that’s okay. I’ll get my own and join you in a moment,’ I replied, raising my voice over the din. There was no music playing. It was the sheer number of voices contained inside the small space making it so noisy. And hot. Already I was starting to overheat in my puffy jacket and thick jumper.
‘No. It’s on me. I insist. Beer, wine or spirits?’
I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that a) he was just being polite – it wasn’t his fault my ex had been overbearing and old-fashioned when we first started dating and b) this date was probably going nowhere so there was no reason to prove I was Miss Independent.
‘Whisky please, no ice.’
His eyebrows quirked slightly, and he put his hand on my arm again as he sidestepped towards the bar. ‘Right, I’ll be with you in a minute. You go ahead and sit down.’
Since I had my orders I began squeezing through the crowd. The spot he’d picked was perfect for a date: the chairs in the Rose and Crown were either high-backed armchairs or benches that created an olde-worlde atmosphere and also turned each little nook into a private booth. At the table in the far corner it felt like you were separate from the other patrons and there was the added benefit of being right by the window. It was a pretty little view normally, but tonight with everyone bustling past, the fires surrounding the Christmas tree by the memorial and all the strings of twinkly lights decorating the high street, there was an extra special bit of magic.
As I approached, I saw a few other people sidling towards the empty armchair and every so often a hand would reach out from the neighbouring bench seat to casually bar the way, followed by a brief conversation and the opportunistic punter would back off. Stephen had obviously been putting his charm to work and asked whoever was sitting next to us to make sure our table stayed free.
As I reached the armchair and stripped out of my jacket to hang it on the back, the table neighbours leaned out again and I nearly groaned. Ben and Rachel, my old schoolmates afflicted with perfect-couplitis. Fantastic.
‘Beth.’ Ben grinned up at me and retracted the arm he’d been about to use to block my access. ‘Hello, stranger. How are you? Listen, that table’s taken I’m afraid. Some London chap gone off to find his date. You can join us though.’
‘Oh yes, please do. It’d be lovely to catch up,’ Rachel added so genuinely I felt like an utter cow for avoiding them yesterday.
‘Thank you, thatwouldbe lovely but I’m actually the date.’ Ben and Rachel exchanged almost exactly the same confused expression, so I found myself with a horrifying need to elaborate: ‘He’s my date, the London chap and I. Stephen. We’re on a date. He’s just getting the drinks.’
‘Oooh, that’s wonderful.’ Rachel actually clapped her hands. ‘Good for you. Time to get back on the horse. He’s quite the dish.’
‘Hey.’ Ben looked over at her with feigned indignation.
