But this particular weekend was far from relaxing. This weekend, it turned out, was full of terror and nerve-shattering decisions.
When Margaret returned from her walk early on Saturday morning, she was alarmed to find the body of a woman lying in the hotel lobby. It was covered in blood, and it wasn't alone.
The murderer - a young man in his twenties - was crouched down next to the body. There was a knife in his hands which dripped blood onto the carpet.
Margaret gasped out loud before she could stop herself. The murderer immediately looked up and saw her.
'Don't tell anyone,' he hissed fiercely. 'If you tell anyone you saw me, you'll ruin everything.'
The young man then leapt to his feet and ran up the stairs, disappearing down the first floor landing. Margaret remained, stunned and shocked, in the lobby with the body. She had just witnessed a murder!
Her first thought was that she ought to alert someone, inform the police or call an ambulance. But the murderer had warned her not to say anything. What would he do to her if she did? Kill her, too?
Frightened, Margaret quickly scuttled off to her room before anyone had a chance to see her at the scene of the crime.
When she mustered up the courage to go back downstairs for breakfast later, she found a crowd around the body in the lobby. The murderer was amongst them. She walked passed briskly, avoiding his dark, menacing eyes.
She couldn't eat breakfast, couldn't swallow a thing, not with him watching her the whole time. He had followed her into the dining room and now sat two tables away. Whenever she dared to glance up, he caught her eye and gave a conspiratorial wink.
They shared a terrible secret, and now he knew that she wouldn't tell anyone what he had done. Did that make her an accomplice?
On the verge of tears, Margaret rushed to her room and locked the door. She didn't go back downstairs again until late afternoon. They lobby had, by then, been cleaned up, the body removed. Margaret went into the bar for a much needed drink.
And there he was. The murderer. In the hotel bar with a group of people sitting at a table by the window. He looked up when she entered, and smiled. It was a sinister smile. It acknowledged their secret. Margaret wasn't sure if she could keep it a secret for much longer.
She considered going back to her room, considered checking out of the hotel and going home, but the thought of the murderer following her made her stay where she was. She ordered a double whisky to calm her nerves, and drank it with unsteady hands.
The group by the window grew rowdy, the murderer the rowdiest of them all. Margaret overheard them talking about the murder. They suspected everyone, even the hotel manager, a kind and gentle Scotsman who wouldn't hurt a fly.
But he would, Margaret thought, turning in her seat to challenge the murderer with her eyes. He winked at her again and her courage instantly evaporated. She fled the hotel bar and ran up the stairs to her room, the thought of the murderer chasing after her, knife in hand, quickening her pace. He wasn't, but Margaret spent a sleepless night imagining him outside her door, just waiting for her to come out.
The following morning, Margaret Mahey didn't go out for her usual morning walk. She was afraid the murderer would follow her and try to murder her, too. The surrounding moors had lots of remote places where a killer could carry out his evil deed without being seen, and a body could lie for weeks, perhaps months, before being discovered.
She didn't know what to do. She just knew that she had to do something. Finally, Margaret decided that she had to tell someone. She couldn't keep this terrible secret any longer. She needed help, needed protection. She didn't want to be the only person in the world who knew the murderer's identity.
She went down to reception, relieved that there were lots of people milling around. The murderer wouldn't do anything in front of witnesses - she hoped.
The hotel manager, she discovered, was out. And the telephones didn't work because, the receptionist said, they were having new lines installed. Margaret didn't believe a word of it. The murderer had cut the telephone lines so that she couldn't call the police. The receptionist must be in on it, too.
Desperate now to tell someone, Margaret braced herself and strode purposely into the dining room. The murderer was in there with the same group of people, and they were still discussing the murder.
'I have something to say,' Margaret said, trembling in her shoes as she confronted them all. 'I saw what happened. I know who did it.'
Everyone stared up at her, including the murderer, who glared at her with his dark eyes, warning her to stay silent. She could not.
'It was him,' Margaret said, pointing straight at him. 'He killed that poor woman in the hotel lobby yesterday.'
Everyone turned in their seats to look at the murderer. Then the group at his table all groaned out loud.
'I told you not to say anything,' the murderer hissed.
Margaret, petrified, wondered what he was going to do. Murder her? Murder everyone now that everyone knew?
'You've ruined everything,' he said.
Slowly, the murderer stood up. The whole group stood up with him and, together, they began to walk passed Margaret Mahey and out of the dining room.
'Don't you understand?' Margaret called after them. 'He killed that woman in the lobby.'
'Don't you understand?' the murderer said, turning in the doorway to face her. 'You shouldn't have told them. They were supposed to find out on their own.'
'On their own?' Margaret repeated, confused.
'It wasn't a real murder,' the murderer said. 'It wasn't a real body. It was a local girl acting for us.'
'Acting?'
'We're the Agatha Christie fan club, and you,' he tutted, rolling his eyes in exasperation, 'You have just ruined the first Maldock Murder Mystery Weekend.'
