The Devil's Cut by Andrew James Greig

Author:Andrew James Greig [Greig, Andrew James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912280490
Published: 2021-10-02T13:14:41+00:00

Chapter 25

Cognitive Dissonance

The Royal Hotel was a cherished institution in the town, cherished in the same way a maiden aunt, smelling of lavender with an undernote of urine, might be regarded within a family. In its heyday, over a hundred years ago, it had provided a comfortable stay for the new breed of tourists brought this far north by the novelty of the steam train. Now, overtaken by brash new hotels featuring swimming pools, gyms and wi-fi it just managed to cling onto its elevated position with an air of increasing desperation. The Covid-19 pandemic hadn’t helped of course. Edwardian hotels such as this were reliant on a steady stream of older tourists arriving on coach tours, eyes too weak to see the faded grandeur, palates incapable of differentiating local fresh produce from the defrosted gloop they were served. The absence of any tourist trade for the best part of a year had turned the hotel from an ailing geriatric to a barely functioning zombie. Why Sharmila had chosen this place over the more modern chain hotels was a mystery.

Corstorphine exchanged a greeting with the manager at reception, passed through into the resident’s lounge and spotted her immediately. Sharmila sat near the fireplace, a glass of white wine on a table beside her chair and her attention focussed on the book she held. She looked up as he approached, placing the book down next to her glass.

“James. Glad you could make it.” She stood, holding a hand ready for his.

“Please, don’t get up.” Corstorphine protested. He took her proffered hand, the grip as firm as he remembered. He looked around as she returned to her seat, catching the eye of a young waiter. “Can I order a pint of IPA?”

“Room 27.” Sharmila held up a key fob, the overlarge wooden label imprinted with black digits that could easily be read from the other side of the lounge. She ignored Corstorphine’s protestations, watching him with barely disguised amusement as he sank so deeply into his seat that he grabbed the arms to avoid hitting the floor.

“My seat did the same to me.” Sharmila’s smile was infectious. “I think the springs gave out last century.” She retrieved a bag from the side of her chair and extracted the photograph Corstorphine had taken of the artwork, before laying it on the intervening table.

“You said you’d found something in the drawing?” Corstorphine prompted.

The young waiter returned, Corstorphine’s pint presented on a cloth-covered tray with a flourish worthy of the finest champagne.

“Thanks.” Corstorphine took a long sip from the glass, trying not to notice the beer was warm and flat. The table surface offered no resting place, his glass hovering over the photograph ineffectually before Sharmila removed her book to create a space.

“Thanks,” he repeated, somewhat inanely. She slid the book back into her bag, giving him the opportunity to surreptitiously wipe his mouth clear of any froth that might have adhered to his upper lip.

“There are a few salient images in the painting that I only noticed after giving it quite a bit of study.

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