by Amy Myers
At least Tim was talking about it now, which was a good sign. ‘Or more likely,’ I said, ‘someone sitting there cranking while Mike was looking at the engine.’ The whole terrible picture began to form. ‘No,’ I corrected myself. ‘He was hit first with the axe, and if he was still conscious after that he wouldn’t be in any position to stop his killer if he saw him climb up again into the Crossley driving seat.’ That meant it wasn’t necessarily a spur of the moment crime; it could have been at least partly premeditated.
Tim swallowed. ‘Police asked me I ever drove it. I said yes, but not at the chap I’d worked with for forty years.’
He sounded truculent but it was obvious how heavy a toll this was taking on him. Nevertheless, I had to carry on. ‘Would there have been people around?’ The concert began at five and most people were already seated by four thirty, but surely not everyone would go to the concert. ‘Was Mike killed during the concert or before, do you think?’
‘Before,’ Tim barked at me. ‘Told the police that. He wanted to see the concert himself so he was going to bring the Crossley to the track before that and leave it with me. I was down there with Arthur.’
‘In which case, how could his murderer be sure that people weren’t milling around here?’
‘Visitor door was bolted at four o’clock,’ Tim said briefly. ‘Mike wouldn’t have people around when he took the Crossley out. Health and safety, Mike said, so he always closed the doors and cleared Thunderbolts at least half an hour before he intended to set off. If staff came in, we used the double doors.’
Once again it looked as if the killer knew Old Herne’s, though that might apply to Doubler’s men too.
Tim was looking round despairingly. ‘I’ll not feel the same about this place again, Jack.’
My reply was inadequate but the best I could produce. ‘It will still mean a lot to Arthur and other veterans and aviation lovers.’
‘It’ll close now, that’s for sure.’ His gruff voice did its best to hide emotion.
‘That depends on Arthur,’ I pointed out. ‘He’d decided to reprieve it, but even if Mike’s death changes the situation, Old Herne’s might still stay open.’
‘Reprieve it?’ Tim’s face was a study in shock.
I belatedly realized that the news had not percolated through to him. That made me uneasy because theoretically Tim would have had some kind of motive, in that with Mike still running the place Old Herne’s would go bust. I rejected it outright even as a theory.
‘It wouldn’t be the same place without Mike,’ Tim continued gloomily, ‘even though he wasn’t good at organizing things. Let things slip, he did, but he gave the old place its magic.’
‘That could still happen with your help,’ I urged. ‘If Jessica Hart takes over, she will make a go of it from the business point of view but it will be up to you to keep the magic going.’
I’d had enough of this place, and Tim must have felt the same because he hastily followed me out. ‘Not yet,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t stay here yet.’
The clubhouse door was now open, so I hoped I might find Jessica for a private chat both on the personal level and for my job. I didn’t envy her own position at Old Herne’s; she was an outsider caught between two families.
The bar was deserted and so were the other downstairs rooms, so I went upstairs – only to hear the sound of raised voices. I stood where I was, undecided whether to breeze in. Although I’d hoped to find Jessica alone, this was the sort of situation where I might pick up crumbs that both Brandon and Arthur would like to hear. So I breezed in.
Poor Jessica. It wasn’t just one family engaged in the row but both of them, with her looking lost in the middle. Peter Nelson and Boadicea (in regal purple) represented the Nelsons, while Fenella and, presumably, her father Glenn were waving the Howell flag. Glenn, portly even for his sixty-odd years, looked like an affable W.C. Fields, an image that didn’t quite fit with Fenella who still resembled an inscrutable if beautiful Egyptian cat. I wasn’t sure which side I would back if push came to shove, and from the atmosphere that hit me that seemed likely.
Boadicea did not look well for all her regal pomp. She seemed heavier, greyer in the face, which was natural enough after the shock of Mike’s death. It hadn’t affected her fighting spirit, however, because it was she doing most of the shouting as I barged in.
‘The whole idea is nonsense. You’ve no experience. There is only one person who has the experience to run this place and that is myself. I need money and I am Mike’s successor!’
Run Old Herne’s? Her? I must surely have misunderstood.
‘It’s Arthur’s decision and he has made it,’ Fenella contributed coolly.
Boadicea shot back a poisonous arrow. ‘Under pressure.’
Jessica looked too stunned to reply but Glenn wasn’t. ‘It’s Arthur’s decision, Anna.’
‘Not without help.’ Boadicea’s chariot then swiftly changed direction as she took in my presence. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to see Jessica.’
‘What about that car?’ Peter Nelson threw at me. He’d been keeping a low profile, albeit with the supercilious grin on his face that I now associated with him. ‘Are we going to get that insurance money or not?’
‘We’ve a positive lead on it,’ I replied with great pleasure, noting his ‘we’ in connection with insurance money.
‘What is it?’ Boadicea barked.
‘I’ll tell you more when there’s any news.’
Boadicea seemed about to shoot her next arrow but decided she had more important victims than me, and turned back to Glenn. ‘You know nothing about Old Herne’s, Mr Howell,’ she declared.
‘I know a lot about my dad. That’s enough.’
I was floundering. This sounded as if Glenn might be in charge, either temporarily or even permanently. Whichever, why hadn’t Arthur mentioned this to me when we met? Or had it happened afterwards? Why on earth would Arthur have made such a controversial decision when he seemed to want to calm the situation down?
Jessica rallied. ‘You may know Arthur, Glenn, but I know Old Herne’s.’
‘Right, Jess,’ Glenn said smartly. ‘That’s why we’re keeping you on.’
Not exactly diplomatic, I thought, but it certainly suggested that Glenn was accustomed to getting his own way by affably steamrolling over any opposition.
‘I am Mike’s successor and she’s nothing to do with the family,’ Boadicea pontificated.
Followed by Peter. ‘Right, Aunt Anna. But Jessica won’t be running Old Herne’s and nor will you. You’re the wrong generation and Jessica’s an outsider. I’m the right person to take over, and Miranda Pryde was my grandmother just as well as Jason’s.’
An interesting swerve of focus, I thought. With Old Herne’s power struggle between the Nelsons and Howells, where had Mike fitted in? Was he the victim of somebody’s ambition?
‘And incidentally,’ Peter continued, ‘Jason is so concerned about Old Herne’s that he isn’t even here.’
‘Perhaps he has more taste,’ Jessica snapped back.
‘Not clever, Jessica,’ Fenella observed. She sounded bored, as perhaps an inscrutable cat would.
‘I’m sorry.’ Jessica climbed down immediately. ‘We’re all overwrought. It’s too soon after Mike’s death for any of us to discuss this properly.’
‘No discussion needed,’ Glenn put in calmly. ‘My father has decided what he wants. But I guess you’re right, Jess. We’ll get no further today. What with strangers poking their butts in,’ he added with a jolly laugh.
‘Merely here to offer my help,’ I said airily.
‘Yeah,’ Glenn said – a trifle sourly, I thought. ‘Dad told me he’d hired you as some kind of consultant on cars.’
So that was my official role. ‘Anything I can do for you, Jessica?’ I asked. Like rescue her from the lions’ den?
‘Thanks, Jack,’ Jessica picked up quickly. ‘I’ll join you in the bar in a few minutes. OK?�
�
I nodded and made my way back downstairs, perturbed as to what on earth was going on. Arthur, was giving Glenn some kind of job at Old Herne’s, while keeping my role quiet from him; Boadicea was assuming she would be next in line for running the place; and Peter also seemed to be making a claim. So where did that leave Jessica – and who might have wanted the job so much that Mike had to be removed from the picture? Another theory I dismissed.
When I reached the bar, I saw to my surprise that instead of the usual barman there was a girl of about twenty in charge. And what a sparky looking girl she was. Curls piled on top of her head, huge earrings, short frilly crimson skirt over high black boots and tights, all topped with a generous smile of welcome.
‘Looks like I’m your only customer for the day,’ I said cheerfully.
‘We’ve had to close the place to the public. There were trillions of ghouls yesterday, and we couldn’t cope.’
We chatted for a few minutes as she produced me a cappuccino with a car marked out on the white foam – her speciality, she told me. I learned her name was Hedda, she lived nearby in Harrietsham, at first with a part-time partner to whom she’d given the boot, and now on her own. She loved it.
‘Nice name, Hedda. Norwegian parents?’ Ibsen’s play Hedda Gabler was the only connection with the name that I’d ever come across, so it was worth a shot, even though the young Hedda here didn’t seem much like her namesake.
‘Parent, not parents. Mum’s Norwegian. I’m Jason’s daughter.’
‘Jason Pryde?’ This was a day of surprised indeed. I blinked. I had not associated Jason with marriage and children; nor, indeed, had I given much thought to whether he was heterosexual or gay. He was just – well – Jason. ‘Were you and your mother here on Sunday for the concert?’ I asked curiously. ‘It must have been tough for you.’
‘Yeah, it was. Mike was a great bloke, but Mum wasn’t here. She split with Jason centuries ago. I see the old guy a lot though.’
I interpreted the ‘old guy’ as being her father, who was hardly in this category to me or his fans.
‘He’s got a house here though, out on the Downs,’ she continued, ‘so he drops in here when he feels like it. And yeah, it was tough on Sunday.’
‘Were you at the bar all day?’ Brandon would no doubt be following up who was where during Sunday afternoon but Hedda could be useful too. ‘Who was around?’
A sharp look. ‘Me – till just before the concert. Got my kicks in the last fifteen minutes or so before I ran over to the bandstand. Ray arrived with Peter, groaning on about Mike letting the place run down, then there was a panic about where Arthur was when Glenn and Fenella marched in five minutes later, then Mike’s wife Anna blew in too looking for him – always time to leave, so I handed over to the relief to go and listen to Dad.’ Hedda looked faintly amused. ‘So, Mr Detective, what brings you here?’
‘Cars,’ I said promptly.
She looked me up and down. ‘You’re the one Dad told me about.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Right.’ She eyed me thoughtfully and I wondered what else ‘Dad’ had said. I still couldn’t think of Jason as a father.
I tossed out another feeler. ‘Wonder what will happen to Old Herne’s now?’
‘Dunno. Perhaps Dad’ll buy it.’
That rocked me, remembering that it was Jason who told Liz it was going to close. ‘Seriously? What about the band?’
‘Oh, Dad wouldn’t run it. But he’s kind of fond of the old place.’
At this interesting moment, Jessica arrived, looking stressed out to say the least. Hedda produced a coffee for her but Jessica left it untouched.
‘Can we walk?’ she asked. ‘I need air not coffee.’
‘Sure.’ I paid up and we duly walked. She meant it – this was no mere stroll round the block just for a breath of fresh air. She walked so quickly it seemed as if she was trying to put as much space between Old Herne’s and herself as she could, even if her smart trousers, light jacket and flimsy shoes made her an incongruous figure once we were outside Old Herne’s gates. She turned off down a trodden but still fairly muddy footpath and it was only when we were in the middle of a huge cultivated field that she halted and took several deep breaths.
‘Sorry,’ she said at last. ‘It’s all getting to me.’
‘Tell me.’ I was uncomfortably aware that I was here in dual roles, and that at any moment they might clash.
‘Tense situation?’ I prompted her when she stayed silent.
Then she began. ‘Not one I expected. After what happened to Mike, I thought Arthur would close the place down as soon as he could, having been presented with the perfect opportunity.’
‘And?’ I prompted her again.
‘There were a few conditions and changes. He had told me on Saturday afternoon when I showed him the figures that it was unlikely that Old Herne’s would be going on but if it did I would probably take over as CEO when Mike retired from active management. So I didn’t hold out much hope for it, because even if Mike did continue I could see it going bankrupt before I got my hands on it. Nevertheless, it was great when Arthur announced the reprieve. It gave me time.’
‘But all that changed with Mike’s death.’
‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘When Arthur told us at the lunch, I saw everyone’s reactions and not all of them looked happy, so I thought there might be repercussions when the lunch ended. And there were – Mike’s death.’
‘If connected,’ I said. ‘Not proven but possible. Arthur must have been fond of Mike for he’s determined to find out what happened.’
‘They got on well. Anyway, Arthur doesn’t like his plans being upset.’
‘Was there any chance he would have put more money in?’
‘No. That’s what he told us at the lunch, anyway.’
‘How did Mike take that?’
‘As Mike would. Thrilled to bits about the reprieve and ignoring the finances. Said he’d pay for the refurbishments himself out of the insurance money on the Porsche if it wasn’t found. I knew nothing would work though because, the way he ran it, Old Herne’s could still be bankrupt within a year. Whereas if I could have taken it over right away there was a chance it could survive.’
That was frank enough. ‘How’s Peter taking it? Does he see himself as Mr Successor?’
‘You bet. He never got on with Mike during the time he worked with him. Told him outright he could do better. Mike took umbrage, got rid of him and brought me in to replace him.’ Jessica set off at a brisk pace again, although her eyes were fixed on some distant point of her own – unless the food processing plant in the far distance was of great interest to her. Sheep were peacefully grazing, birds chirping, and there was little but fields to be seen for miles. Murder and company politics made a stark contrast.
‘At least out here I can breathe,’ she continued at last. ‘At present Old Herne’s is a nightmare. I just can’t believe this is all happening.’
‘Define this.’
‘It’s not settled yet, but it looks as if Arthur’s plan is for Glenn to be manager, perhaps even the trustee, with me as deputy until the place gets back on its feet. Then he’ll rethink. So the jackals are out. Glenn thinks his moment of glory has come but recognizes he needs me as a deputy who knows something about the place, Fenella wants me edged out and herself in. Full stop.’
So Glenn was to be manager. It was obvious from the row that he was being given some authority but to be overall manager right away was mind-boggling. No wonder Jessica had looked so stricken. She and everyone else, including me, must have thought she would be number one. Glenn hadn’t even been a contender. Affable though he might appear, there was a toughness there that meant I wouldn’t care to cross him. Nor the inscrutable Fenella either.
‘Is Peter in too?’
‘If Peter has anything to do with it, yes, but Arthur’s said nothing and Fenella plays her cards close to her skinny chest.’
‘What do you think of the Glen
n plan?’ Unwillingly, I noted that Mike’s murder didn’t seem to be the focus for those most affected by it – although they might all be suppressing it because it was too much to cope with. Arguing about the politics of Old Herne’s could be an escape valve. On the other hand, the murder could have been a fuse to set off this political bomb. I braced myself, because that was why Brandon wanted me to ‘stick around’.
‘Glenn’s better than Boadicea as manager, but not much,’ Jessica replied.
‘What does Boadicea think about it? Did she calm down after I left?’
‘No. She got even more vocal and so did Peter. She’s hopping mad, rabbiting on about how she’d been deprived of a childhood through being an orphan and wasn’t going to miss out on her rights as an adult. She really sees herself as number one, believe it or not. And me her deputy? No thanks.’
‘That wouldn’t have lasted five minutes.’
‘Nor would Old Herne’s, so at least that’s spared us.’
‘But Glenn lives in the States, so how is it going to work?’
‘That was the next sock in my face. Dear Glenn has retired early, likes the look of England and has decided to stay on.’
‘With or without the inscrutable Fenella?’
‘With.’ Her tone indicated that discussion was closed.
Too bad. ‘Has the Cat declared her position?’
She managed a brief laugh. ‘No, but do you see me being best mates with Fenella? Dark-haired temptresses make me nervous.’
My turn to laugh. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Thank you.’
She said it so humbly that I was flummoxed. ‘I can see two Jessicas,’ I told her quietly. ‘The public I’m-the-winner and the private I’m-not-so-sure.’
She stared straight ahead. ‘Which one attracts you?’
‘No-brainer. The private Jessica.’
‘Are there two Jack Colbys?’
‘Of course. Everyone has two such faces. Mostly they dovetail but sometimes they don’t. Yours don’t, though.’
I was very aware of her at my side. She was clearly struggling with the events of the past few days, and the anguish showed on her face. Being in the countryside can strip away defences as the fresh air blows through. Sounds pretentious? Maybe, but it still remains true, although it isn’t always for the good. One needs defences.