‘I’ll look into it.’
Lindsey made a big show of straightening her skirt and fluffing up her hair.
‘Right. That’s the laundry list completed. Time I was going. I’ve got time to change into trousers and boots. It’s cold outside.’
Lindsey was challenging her, daring her to say what she couldn’t help but say.
‘Before meeting him?’ There! It was out.
‘That’s right. Before meeting him.’ Her tone was defensive, her look challenging.
‘Linds, I’m not prying …’
‘And I’m not fourteen years old.’
‘It’s just that there’s something about him …’
‘Leave Jake Truebody to me, Mother. I can take care of myself.’
Chapter Thirteen
Concentrating her mind on what was happening in the bar helped Honey control, if not forget, her concerns about her daughter. Murder didn’t sit well with the season of ‘good will to all men’. She wondered if Mr Scrimshaw had figured on anyone’s present list. Had he bought presents for friends and relatives? Did he have any friends and relatives?
The questions came thick and fast. Leaving the placing of more baubles on the tree to one side, she scribbled them down.
1. Where did Clarence Scrimshaw usually spend Christmas and who with?
2. Did he send Christmas cards, and if so, to whom did he send them?
3. Did he receive Christmas cards, and if so, from whom?
4. Did he give or receive Christmas presents?
5. Did old friends drop by to wish extend the season’s greetings?
She ran her pen down the list she’d made and decided there was a sixth question to be added, a very important question. Why had he booked into the Green River Hotel this year for both the office party and Christmas Day lunch? His employees had categorically stated that it was out of character; that he was tight with money; in truth, that his surname should be Scrooge!
She looked over to the bar door. Jeesh, if Doherty didn’t come out soon she was liable to wet herself with excitement.
The bar door was still closed and willing it to open by psychic willpower – a feat much praised by Mary Jane – did no good whatsoever.
This was just a preliminary thing. The main questioning would go on down at the station but there was no point in having everyone down there. The interview rooms couldn’t take the strain. The prime suspects – if there were any – would be cherry picked out from the rest of them.
Her ongoing concentration was broken when her mother arrived, dressed in a brown suede jacket with fur trim around the collar and cuffs. Hopefully it was fake fur, but there was a price to pay for top class fashion – and farmed mink were likely to be paying the price. Her entrance was reminiscent of a movie star treading the red carpet between hordes of loyal fans.
The reception carpet was blue, and Honey was hardly a fan; purely a blood relative.
‘What gives?’ asked her mother. She jerked her impeccably exfoliated chin towards the policeman guarding the closed bar door.
Honey explained about the murder.
‘Clarence Scrimshaw was a publisher.’
‘Clarence Scrimshaw? I knew him. Short little man with even shorter arms and very deep pockets.’
‘Ah,’ said Honey in response. She knew what her mother was getting at. Clarence Scrimshaw had been a miserly cuss. ‘You didn’t date him, did you?’
‘Certainly not. I’ve just told you. He was as tight as …’
‘A duck’s arse. And that’s watertight,’ said Honey with good humour.
‘There’s no need for vulgarity, Hannah.’
Use of her real name took Honey back in time. Her mother went through phases, depending on the man she was currently dating. A while back she’d been involved with a gentleman of Methodist leanings. Drink was of the devil according to that man, and any hint of vulgarity was to be purged from the vocabulary. His views on sex had never been made too clear, but the relationship had lasted for less time than most of her mother’s liaisons. The writing was on the wall; Honey guessed that he hadn’t indulged in that pastime either.
Her mother was telling her about Scrimshaw. ‘I had a writer friend who went along to Mallory and Scrimshaw with a book to publish. That mean old cuss offered to print it on a fifty-fifty basis. Imagine! He wanted my friend Alfred to pay half of the price of publishing his own book!’
Honey breathed a sigh of relief. For one dreadful moment she thought her mother was going to say that Clarence Scrimshaw had enrolled on her dating site for the over-sixties. What a can of worms that could have turned out to be!
‘Now! Fred says that I’ve put too many details on Snow on the Roof, but I think people like to know people’s marital and relationship history before committing, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never used one.’
‘Well you’ll be pleased with mine. It’s bound to get a lot of hits. Fred is certain of that. You won’t regret participating. Honestly you won’t.’
Honey shook her head vehemently. ‘Mother. Your dating site is for the over-sixties, and I don’t think …’
Her protests fell on deaf ears. Her mother was racing away with her plans.
‘Photographs are all very well, but I do think a video would work even better. Of course before, we start filming, you’ll have to sort out something decent to wear for the promo. And have your hair done,’ she said with a cursory glance at yet another all-encompassing hat Honey had found in the lost property closet.
‘You can’t wear that hat, that’s for sure. Men are likely to mistake you for a garden gnome.’
‘Mother, I’m the best judge of that! I will not fall in with this. Haven’t you heard that the internet and dating sites in particular are targeted by conmen and perverts, all preying on gullible females?’
‘Perverts?’ Gloria gasped and grabbed her handbag. ‘I won’t stay to listen to such language! I’m going shopping.’
Her mother held her head high, as though something smelly was wafting under her nose. With great deliberation, she readjusted a pair of pale gold leather gloves, totally deaf to Honey’s protests.
Honey counted to ten, telling herself not to get hot under the collar, not to forget the time of year, or that this woman was her mother and should be treated with respect.
‘Have you got all your presents?’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded surprisingly calm.
‘Everyone’s! Except for him!’ Her mother’s apricot coloured lips clamped into a tight line. ‘Your boyfriend is very difficult to buy for. And before you say just get him a bottle of whisky, the answer is no. I will not encourage a man to drink to excess. Now I have to rush.’ She took a step in the direction of the main entrance then turned suddenly. ‘However, I will do my utmost to rescue your policeman from his total lack of fashion sense, and I’m exactly the right person to do that. By the way, Fred is the right man to dress up as Santa Claus this year.’
‘Doherty’s offered.’
‘He’s too thin,’ her mother said. ‘So that’s that. And Fred has his own white beard. Anyway, your beau is too busy to play Santa Claus. He has a murder to investigate on top of this vandalism of the Reindeer for Bath display. He should have caught the culprit by now.’
‘Reindeer aren’t his department,’ Honey murmured.
Her mother wasn’t listening. ‘Now you mustn’t keep me chatting here any longer. I’ve got shopping to do.’
Honey had no chance to advise her mother on what Doherty was likely to wear or not to wear. It was a vain hope, but maybe she’d simply buy him a pair of socks or perhaps a necktie or a plain cashmere sweater from Marks and Spencer. She raised her eyes in prayer like plea to heaven.
‘Please, God, anything but garish socks with reindeer on the side.’
She hoped that God would take the prayer from his in-tray and act on it. He’d have an uphill task. Her mother was single-minded. She would do as she pleased. She always did.
&nb
sp; Mention of Doherty playing Santa Claus set her to daydreaming. In her mind Doherty was wearing that Santa outfit – him the trousers, and her the tunic and nifty little hat. Her legs were good. So was his six-pack.
Doherty arrived looking deadly serious, nothing like a guy likely to don the red and white outfit of the Green River Hotel’s very own Jolly Saint Nick – alias Father Christmas.
Brow furrowed in thought, he settled in a chair on which Honey had set a tray and crockery. He sat leaning forward, flipping over the pages of his notebook.
Honey sat opposite him with her own list. But she’d let him go first.
Whilst she waited for him to speak, she plied him with coffee and two chocolate chip cookies. Not saying a word, he dipped each one before eating them.
Honey sipped a hot chocolate.
‘Everyone confirms what you’ve already told me,’ he said at last. He sat back resignedly as he slapped his hands together to dislodge the crumbs. ‘Nobody can recall actually seeing Mr Scrimshaw either beforehand, at the party, or afterwards. And you say he definitely had a room booked?’
Honey confirmed that he had. ‘It was part of the deal. They’re also booked in for Christmas Day lunch and the ghost story session afterwards.’
‘So what was he like?’ he asked her.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him. Everything was done by telephone and I wasn’t here when he arrived – if he arrived. I never saw him. I only heard him.’
‘What did he sound like?’
She turned her mind back to the day she’d received the phone call. ‘There was nothing special about it. He was curt but courteous. Every so often he cleared his throat – you know a prolonged cough – as though his throat was dry.’
Doherty nodded. ‘Did he collect his key?’
‘I would think so. I checked in most of the party from Mallory and Scrimshaw, then Anna took over.’
‘Is she here now?’
‘No. She’s at home. I’ll check if she remembers anything. She’s got a pretty good memory.’
Except when it came to naming the father of her children; Anna had always been very reticent about her private life. Dumpy Doris, the breakfast cook, had once overstepped the mark, insinuating that Anna opened her legs for anything in tight jeans with a well-stocked lunch box. Once Doris’s back was turned, Anna shoved the end of the vacuum cleaner between her large buttocks when it was turned on full-power. Doris had been shocked. Anna had been angry and told her in no uncertain terms to mind her own bloody business.
Honey relayed the details Anna had given her.
‘She recalls giving him his key, but can’t recall that much about him because she had a sudden stomach cramp and had to rush to the loo. She’s getting near her time.’
Too bloody near! Hopefully Anna would hold off giving birth until the second of January, though she still insisted that it wasn’t due for two months yet. Honey had told her to take the leave she was entitled to, but Anna was very sensitive to accusations of milking the system.
‘I will work until I drop, Mrs Driver,’ she’d resolutely declared.
Honey had responded that dropping from overwork was one thing. Dropping a newborn infant before the ambulance arrived was far more worrying.
‘Did he return the key?’ Doherty asked.
‘It’s here, so he must have.’
‘You mean you didn’t see him return it?’
She shook her head and pointed to the slot in the counter and the notice asking that keys be posted into it. ‘It was in here. He didn’t need to present it personally.’
Honey felt a need to explain further. ‘Scrimshaw paid his bill in advance, including drinks at the bar, the meal, and the rooms. All he had to do was return the key following the office party, which is what he did. So what’s with that lot in there – any suspicions?’ She clutched her notebook to her chest, waiting for the right moment.
Doherty shook his head. ‘Scrimshaw died between six and eight last evening. Six of that lot in there were in the bar at the time. One got called to the car park to shut off his car alarm, one went shopping, one had to go to the hairdressers, and one popped home to see her mother who was having trouble with her toddler son. Three of those in the bar popped out for a smoke – not really long enough to nip back to the office and stab a letter opener into someone’s ear.’
Honey pulled a face. ‘Nasty.’
Stroking a finger up and down his cheek as he thought things through made a rasping sound; Doherty wasn’t keen on shaving, especially in cold weather.
‘I’ve made a list,’ Honey declared. She passed him the notebook.
Doherty perused it.
‘What do you think?’
‘All very relevant. Let’s give it a try.’
She followed him back into the bar where the party from publishers Mallory and Scrimshaw were getting ready to leave.
They looked resigned to their fate when Doherty re-entered the room.
‘Just before you go, folks, there are a few questions my colleague here wishes to ask.’
David Longborough looked pissed off. ‘Hey! Not more questions. What the hell’s this about?’
‘Just a few questions,’ said Honey.
‘You’re not a policeman.’
It was left to Doherty to explain. ‘Mrs Driver is Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of Bath Hotels Association. This city thrives on its tourism. Those who employ people and entice tourists to Bath take an active role when a crime is committed – especially such a serious crime as this. Now sit down.’
It might have been Doherty’s no-nonsense tone, or it might equally have been his stance, but David Longborough was the first to sit back down. The rest followed suit. They always did, thought Honey She’d realised from the start that Longborough was a ringleader, and an arrogant one at that. The rest of them followed where he led.
Doherty nodded at Honey. She asked the first question.
‘Can you tell us where Mr Scrimshaw usually spent Christmas and who with?
David looked at Samantha Brown who was fidgeting nervously. ‘You know the answer to that, don’t you, Sam?’
Samantha’s blonde hair had been glossy and bouncy the night before. Today it hung, lank and lazy, around her face.
‘He used to go away to a hotel in Ilfracombe. The Bay View.’
‘Why Ilfracombe? Did he have friends there?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I think he went there because it was cheap.’
Honey didn’t bother to read out her next question. She knew it by heart.
‘Did he send Christmas cards, and if so, to whom did he send them?’
This time more than one person answered, mostly with a short burst of derisive laughter. ‘No. He didn’t send any. Too tight for that.’
‘Did he receive any?’
‘Of course he did,’ snapped Mrs Finchley who was dabbing a tissue at her red rimmed eyes. ‘Some people remembered him.’
Doherty gave her his most piercing look. ‘And who might that be?’
David Longborough sniggered. ‘Her mostly. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sent him the lot herself.’
‘I heard that!’
Mrs Finchley glared at him. ‘You have an attitude problem, David Longborough, and are out for your own ends. You always are.’
‘Stupid bitch!’
‘Less of that!’ Doherty’s voice boomed over them all. ‘We’ll collect the cards that are there and go through them. Next?’
Honey took her cue.
‘Did he give or receive Christmas presents?’
Again David Longborough sniggered in the direction of Mrs Finchley. ‘Only one as far as I know. A little box of handkerchiefs. Is that right, Freda?’ Freda Finchley turned bright red.
‘That’s not true.’ Samantha Brown’s voice was high pitched and doll like. All eyes turned in her direction.
‘Someone did send him a present?’
She nodded. ‘It arrived a week ag
o. He seemed extremely pleased about it.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
She shook her head and lowered her eyes. ‘No. I don’t. He just looked over the moon. It was quite heavy. That’s all. Look, can I go now? My mum’s been looking after my son. I need to see that he’s all right.’
Doherty’s voice turned softer though like a velvet glove, it covered a sharp interior motive. ‘One more question and then you can go.’ He turned to Honey. ‘Next?’
‘Did old friends drop by to extend the season’s greetings?’
Nobody answered. Most people shook their heads. Mrs Reid, another employee, looked uncomfortable. Freda Finchley looked down at her hands as though suddenly she didn’t want to look either Honey or Doherty in the face.
Doherty rolled his gaze over each in turn. ‘Nobody?’
Longborough shook his head. ‘Nobody. Nobody of any consequence that is – unless you count the window cleaner in pursuit of his money.’
Mrs Reid interrupted. ‘Some of his authors dropped in, though not to extend the season’s greetings. He was behind with the royalty payments. They wanted their money too – though the last one dropped in weeks’ ago. Not lately.’
‘OK,’ said Doherty. ‘You can go … Just one thing,’ said Doherty.
Everyone paused in reaching for their coats and overnight bags.
‘As you’ve already intimated, booking this office party and Christmas lunch was totally out of character for the deceased. Any idea what may have triggered a change of heart – if there was one?’
Longborough grinned. ‘Must have been visited by Mallory’s ghost.’
Once everyone had dispersed, Doherty and Honey wandered back into Reception. Carly, the new receptionist was on duty. Honey checked that everything was running smoothly before escorting Doherty to the door.
Out of sight in the vestibule that separated the external doors from the internal ones, he kissed her on the forehead.
‘A fine job you did there. How about you pick up the Christmas cards left at the scene of crime and follow up any that strike you?’
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 9