So that was it. Cat haters and foreigners were one and the same thing as far as the resident of Lobelia Cottage was concerned. She’d killed them for being what they were while her mind was unhinged. Probably she wouldn’t even go to prison – merely a high-security hospital. It wouldn’t hurt to reassure her of that.
‘Cybil, you won’t go to prison for this because you’re not well, dear.’
Cybil blinked. ‘Of course I won’t go to prison. I was acting on orders.’
Whoops. It was not wise to continue. There had to be another way to get out of this.
Honey went over the facts in her mind. Somehow or other Cybil Camper-Young had got into the hotel opposite without the security guards seeing her. She’d been heading for the Russian. Philippe had got in the way. Mrs Olsen’s death was self-explanatory.
It amazed Honey that an elderly woman had managed to evade the broad-shouldered guards.
‘The guards are stupid,’ said Miss Camper-Young in response to her unasked question.
‘How many times have you managed to get into the hotel?’
‘Not enough. That man Olsen kept a look out for me. He had to be got rid of. He was a Russian agent. A sleeper. He was there all the time.’
Honey could see it was useless pointing out that Olsen, for all his faults, had been only an architect.
‘And the waiter?’
‘He saw me coming from the bathroom and followed me out. He asked me if the black man was all right; said he’d been drinking too much booze. Not that I needed to be told that. He was easy to overpower. Very easy.’
Honey nodded. Alcohol and belladonna; not that Cybil would know about either his or Deidre Olsen’s use of the poison as a health additive.
Cybil seemed keen to tell all. ‘I was nearer to the tourist bus than to the hotel so I thought a little ride might do me some good. His ride of course. Not mine.’
All this explanation was making Honey’s head spin and her mouth dry. Somehow she had to cut through all this and get the gun-toting octogenarian back down to earth.
‘What about the poison? Did you know that they took poison?’
Cybil blinked. ‘I never used poison. I always liked to be inventive with my obliterations.’
Obliterations! Well that was a good word for murder.
Honey was stunned. This old lady was totally confident in her killing skills. It was scary. She nodded as though they were discussing something mundane, like how many times the grandchildren came to visit. That’s what most women of her age would be fond of discussing, wouldn’t they?
‘It certainly sounds as though you know what you’re doing.’
Of course I do! I can kill anyone I like if I’ve a mind to. And I’m not afraid to kill. That, my dear is the first requisite of a professional killer; not being afraid to kill.
Honey gulped.
‘I think we should get help,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t help doing what you did. You’re not very well.’
Outwardly she sounded calm and totally under control. Inside she was screaming for help.
A slow, crazy smile spread across the wrinkled lips.
‘You don’t fool me, Mrs Driver. I know you’re working for them. I know they’re trying to take me aboard their spaceship and away from my darling cats.’
Right! Cybil’s mind was back with the Martians. If she hadn’t believed that the woman was crazy before, Honey certainly did now. Anyone would!
‘Now look …’ she began hesitantly. It crossed her mind that being the representative of little green men was a capital offence in Cybil’s eyes. ‘You know who I am. I’m Gloria’s daughter. You’ve known my mother for years.’
‘She’s one of them!’ Cybil snapped, now steadying the gun with both hands.
‘No,’ Honey said, adamantly. ‘I can categorically state here and now that my mother is not of Russian descent.’
‘Not Russian! Of course she’s not Russian! She’s from another planet.’
‘The only planet my mother takes an interest in is spelt with a capital ‘P’ and is a designer label sold in Bath’s largest department store.’
‘Don’t be facetious! Put up your hands!’
Up shot Honey’s hands.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
Cybil swung the length of rope off her shoulder.
‘Tie you up.’
Honey eyed the rope. The tying-up she could cope with. It was what might come after that worried her.
Chapter Forty-two
Doherty sat on the corner of the hotel manager’s desk. Reginald Parrot was pretending not to be rattled. A tic beneath his right eye indicated otherwise.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
The man glared.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t play smart. I know your beef. Come clean and I’ll make it easy on you.’
The man looked amused. ‘I take it you watched last night’s late movie. Philip Marlowe?’
Doherty was admitting nothing, but it was true that he’d been watching late-night television. He distinctly remembered falling asleep halfway through The Big Sleep. Kind of apt in a way; the film and the viewer immersed in the same subject.
‘I want names,’ Doherty persisted.
The man shrugged and stayed silent.
Doherty persisted. ‘We’ve got the Russian driver. He’s pointed the finger at you. Now let’s see, stealing and smuggling priceless artefacts …’
He wasn’t at all sure how valuable the contents of the truck had been, but Honey had assured him she’d had a few thousand invested in some of it. That was good enough for him.
‘I’m not taking the blame all by myself,’ the manager blurted.
‘Who else do I blame?’
The man’s mouth hung open. His coal black eyes stayed fixed on Doherty’s face. They both knew that this was the chink Doherty had been waiting for.
‘So tell me,’ urged Doherty, walking round the desk, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t throw the book at you.’
Crikey! He really did sound like a TV detective. He swallowed the urge to laugh. This was neither the time nor the place.
‘Gilbert! Gilbert Godwin!’
Doherty frowned. ‘I recognize that name. Am I right in thinking I might find his dabs on file?’
Mr Parrot’s boot-button eyes looked at the floor. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Where do I find him?’
It was a matter of minutes after giving the order to look for Gilbert Godwin that a return call followed from another officer.
‘We’ve found a bloke getting drunk and throwing money around. The bloke’s name is Gilbert Godwin and he’s got form. But listen to this. He reckons the money is his and that him and his ma were in business together. Get this! His mother’s name was Deirdre Olsen and he’s been hiding out in the barn on her premises. Apparently he’s her illegitimate son. How’s about that?’
‘Arrest him.’
‘Charges?’
‘Theft and smuggling stolen goods.’
‘Sounds a bit old-fashioned.’
‘I’m an old-fashioned guy.’
He ordered the same for the hotel manager, who was led away by two of his officers.
‘I feel like a celebration,’ he exclaimed, stretching his arms because he felt so good.
A young lady with blonde hair and a sweetheart expression informed him that the owner wished to speak to him. He was taken to a very smart apartment on the first floor. Ivan Sarkov rose from his chair as Doherty entered and offered his thanks.
‘I’ve won a night here in a raffle,’ Doherty explained. ‘How about making it even more special?’
‘Anything you want,’ said the Russian.
Doherty was jubilant as he started his car and headed for the Green River Hotel. He was also full of confidence, certain Honey would not turn him down, not after all this. A little of the old Doherty charm and she’d be hot and panting for an ev
ening of good food, excellent wine and unfettered passion.
Chapter Forty-three
Fetters were what Honey was wearing around her ankles at present. In response to her surprise, Cybil explained that Lobelia Cottage had once been the village lock-up. Little of the original detail remained and the fact that it had ever been anything other than a charming cottage had faded from village memory.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
Cybil patted her purple lips with a skinny finger and rolled her eyes upwards to the arched stone ceiling.
She sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know. You’re not foreign so it wouldn’t really be very fair to kill you outright. I mean, even a secret agent has to have a good reason to kill somebody. And then of course that’s only in response to a specific order. It’s always for a cause. The end justifying the means and all that.’
Great, thought Honey. Here I am with a mad old lady who thinks that anyone who isn’t a cat is an enemy. How to get out of this? Negotiation! That’s the key. Develop a rapport with your captor. Appeal to their better nature.
‘They’re not very comfortable,’ she said, jerking her head at the leg irons.
‘You’ll get used to it, dear,’ said Cybil with a watery smile, the sort grandmothers use when dealing with a grandchild who refuses to eat their greens.
‘Do you like cats?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Oh. Yes! I love them!’ Honey couldn’t have shown more enthusiasm if she’d tried.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Cybil placed the Luger across her lap. Honey gulped. What a choice! Chained to the wall or dead from a bullet. There was no way she was going to court the latter. In her mind she returned to the negotiation lifeline, searching frantically for any little tip she’d picked up about dealing with hostage takers. Number one rule, make friends of them, take the relationship to a very personal basis. Gain their sympathy. Well, she had already tried that, but a second try was most definitely on the cards.
‘Did you kill Ferdinand Olsen?’
‘No. Should I have done?’
‘Or his wife?’
‘I don’t know the woman.’
Honey thought about the warring couple and the money in the safe. Money, not madness was the motive. Two murderers. Two different motives.
‘It’s very cold down here.’
OK, it wasn’t the most original line, but everyone has to start somewhere.
Cybil hadn’t appeared to hear. She sat back in an old Windsor chair that was dusty and the subject of much wear – a bit like Miss Camper-Young herself.
Honey asked herself whether she might be imagining things, but the old face looked paler, and it seemed that, before her eyes, the thin frame that had surely touched five feet ten at least now looked to have shrunk.
‘Miss Camper-Young? Are you OK?’
The old eyes closed. She shook her head. ‘You won’t get away. I’ve locked the door.’
Honey called her again.
‘I’m not feeling very well …’
‘My mother said you weren’t. Perhaps if we went upstairs and made some tea, or better still a cup of hot chocolate each.’
Anything, but don’t shoot me or leave me down here.
She made another attempt. ‘I’m quite hungry. I could do with a sandwich.’
The one she’d eaten in the pub didn’t count. That sandwich had led to the imparting of information; this one was about saving her skin.
Miss Camper-Young was unmoved. Her eyes were still closed. Her jaw hung open and she gave a languorous sigh.
‘I can come with you and make a sandwich if you don’t feel up to it.’ Last ditch attempt.
Honey paused. By the look of her Miss Camper-Young didn’t look very up to it at all.
‘Miss Camper-Young? Cybil?’
There was no response.
Panic began like a swarm of wasps rising in her stomach.
‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe you’ve died on me!’
She shouted at her. ‘Hey!’
A low-pitched death rattle cackled from the throat of Miss Cybil Camper-Young.
‘Shit!’
Honey rattled her chains. Great! What a situation to be in. She was shackled hand and foot. The other ends of the chains were fixed to the cold stone walls of what had once been the village jail. The exit was up a set of stone steps to her right. The door at the top was locked. No problem of course. Miss Camper-Young had the keys and was in no state to protest if she took them. The problem was getting across to her. Even without trying she could see that the chains wouldn’t stretch that distance. In fact they wouldn’t stretch at all.
Still, they were very old. She tugged on them in the hope that their fixings in the wall might have rusted over the years. Nothing doing. They’d built jails to last in days gone by.
Seeking signs that she might have been wrong and her companion was merely asleep, she shouted. ‘Cybil, you mad old bat! Wake up! I’m hungry. I want to go home!’
Not a whisper. Not the slightest movement. Miss Cybil Camper-Young, a woman who had worked for the secret services and led a quite extraordinary life, was as dead as dead could be.
Honey looked up the stairs to the firmly shut door and shouted for help. One shout for help would not be enough. She had to keep on and on shouting and hope that someone would hear her. If they didn’t she was likely to end up as dead and cold as Miss Cybil Camper-Young.
Chapter Forty-four
Lindsey looked up to see Detective Inspector Steve Doherty breezing through the door looking very pleased with himself.
‘You look as though you’ve found a fifty-pound note.’
‘Better than that,’ he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’ve found the mastermind behind the theft of a large amount of antiques and valuables, including those belonging to the lately deceased Philippe Fabiere.’
‘Good for you,’ said Lindsey, sounding genuinely pleased for him. ‘And the murders?’
‘Ah!’ He frowned. He was finding it perplexing that Gilbert Godwin had a useful alibi for each of the nights in question. He was a scoutmaster and had been at meetings on each occasion. He told Lindsey just that. ‘He said there were complications in his life and his mother was the worst one. He sponged off her something rotten and when he incurred big gambling debts, went to her for money, although this time it was also to hide. Things were pretty grim in his life. His mother was overdosing on belladonna; he reckoned it was her own fault she got killed by a horse. Ferdinand Olsen, his mother’s second husband, was an obstacle to inheriting his mother’s money. Opening a gas tap and waiting for the bang is common knowledge, and Olsen didn’t even notice him under a horse blanket in the back of the car.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘Scout’s honour.’
Lindsey grinned.
‘And where’s your lovely mother?’
‘I’m not sure. She was speaking to the Hoffners earlier, asking them about their abduction. They were trying to recall exactly what happened. She asked them if they could remember anything else apart from what they’d told the police already.’
Doherty nodded as he recalled them saying that whoever it was had smelled of foreign cigarettes.
‘And did they?’
Lindsey shook her head. ‘No. They were a bit traumatized by their ordeal, but Mary Jane has offered to help sort them out.’
Doherty raised his eyebrows. Mary Jane was a doctor of the paranormal, not a psychiatrist. He pointed this out.
‘Hypnotism,’ said Lindsey laughingly in response to his questioning expression. ‘Apparently Frau Hoffner is a natural subject for hypnosis as long as there are no meddling spirits around. By the way, I think by meddling spirits she’s referring to my grandmother. She’s been banned from the premises when this is going on.’
One side of Doherty’s mouth lifted in a grin. ‘I can see that her presence might cause some problems. So when is this taking place?’
‘R
ight now. They’re up in Mary Jane’s room. That’s Mr and Mrs Hoffner and Smudger. Smudger is there to witness the event – and to lean against the door to stop my grandmother barging in.’
In Doherty’s estimation, gleaning any further information from the Hoffners while they were hypnotized was a long shot. Long shots sometimes came romping home, he told himself. Give it a try.
Lindsey gave him the room number. He told himself this was important, more important than asking Honey on this very special date. Actually it wasn’t. He was merely putting off the fateful moment when she said yes, or more worryingly, no.
‘Let me in,’ he said after knocking at the door of Mary Jane’s room.
‘No can do.’
‘Smudger, it’s me. Doherty.’
There was a sound of a bolt being drawn. Smudger’s face appeared, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed. On recognizing Doherty he opened the door wider.
‘All right, mate?’ Smudger had a bouncy way about him. Corn-coloured hair flopped over his brow. Doherty attempted to get through the door. Smudger stopped him. ‘Got to ask you to be quiet, mate. OK?’
‘Sure.’ Doherty nodded and strolled in, apprehensive as to what he would find.
Frau Hoffner was sitting upright in a chair, knitting. Having seen her around the hotel before, knitting away as though her life depended on it, Doherty saw nothing odd about it now – until he saw her eyes. There was a faraway look in them, certainly not the look of a woman concentrating on her knitting. The needles were click-clacking away as though being driven by a piston engine. Like an automaton.
Mary Jane was standing in front of her swinging a silver pocket watch from side to side.
‘That watch used to belong to my grandfather,’ whispered Smudger.
Doherty nodded in acknowledgement. Smudger had a silver watch. That explained why he’d been brought in to witness the event.
‘Now,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I want you to set your mind back …’
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 23