‘You wouldn’t!’ Jeremiah’s hand splayed across his mouth. He looked horrified.
She nodded. ‘I would.’
He glanced nervously towards his partner, then back at Honey. His eyelashes fluttered darkly over his cheeks. Honey was sure they were made of nylon. As he leaned closer, the smell of his perfume obliterated that of the spices. ‘I was out two-timing my boyfriend,’ he said softly. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’
Honey fixed her eyes on Jeremiah’s partner who was still serving. ‘Who were you with?’
His tongue swept along his bottom lip. ‘I really couldn’t …’
‘Perhaps I should ask your friend.’ She made a sideways move. Jeremiah followed her like a mirror image.
‘No! There’s no need to.’ He glanced over his shoulder.
Ade was now talking with the young man from the coffee stall.
‘Andrew Charlborough. I was with him.’ The name came out in a rush of breath.
Honey asked him to repeat what he’d just said, and he did.
She wasn’t often amazed at what people with status and money got up to in their spare time. She’d seen Sir Andrew Charlborough at a number of auctions. They were hardly on nodding acquaintance, but she’d judged him as an upright, respectable citizen, the sort that’s in bed by eleven with a good book and a long-term wife.
‘You mean the antiques dealer?’
Jeremiah nodded. ‘And before you jump to the wrong conclusion about the man, I was invited to give a quote for some plants he wanted. A bloke who works for him and sometimes delivers for us asked if I’d be interested. He introduced us, said he was interested in very big tropical plants.’
‘So why wouldn’t you want your partner to know?’
Jeremiah chewed at his lip. ‘I kept the deal to myself. And the money.’
Honey’s mind was already darting elsewhere. It kept coming back to her that Elmer’s head had been covered with a small sack smelling of spices. ‘So what happens to the sacks once they’re empty?’
Jeremiah shrugged. ‘Mostly I give them away. Or chuck them. Some people buy by the sack – the big customers that is.’
She eyed him speculatively.
He wasn’t long interpreting her look.
‘I have not a killing bone in my body!’
She shook her head. You couldn’t detect a murderer just by the looks of him. Just because he denied the fact didn’t mean anything either. She’d hedge her bets.
‘Can you provide me with a list of regular customers? The bigger buyers?’
Jeremiah shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘There’s only a few. Shipping orders ain’t our style. Half a pound here, a pound there. That’s what I call big, honey.’
Honey kept her gaze fixed on Jeremiah’s face. ‘Please. It would be a great help.’
Recognising he had to put himself out, Jeremiah sighed and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
Her jovial mood had turned greyer, just like the weather. Elmer had found his way to Charlborough Grange. So had Jeremiah.
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning, before doing anything else, she phoned Doherty and asked if there had been any developments.
‘No.’
Not very forthcoming. Well two could play at that game.
‘OK. So I won’t tell you what I know. See you.’
‘Hang on there!’
Schooldays came to mind. I won’t show you mine unless you show me yours.
‘We’re tracing his movements. We’ve spoken to the taxi driver who ferried him around.’
‘I guessed you would. I hear Elmer was interested in the Charlborough family. Do you know them?’
‘I’m only a common copper, but I have heard of them. What’s the connection?’
‘I think they figure somewhere in Elmer’s family tree. It’s possible that’s why Elmer went to the church. He was checking out the parish register.’
‘Whoa right there. That line of enquiry is a dead end. Elmer was taken there and back by the taxi driver. It’s not a case that he went missing in the grounds or thereabouts. We found him in the river, which means he must have been killed somewhere in the city. Mrs Herbert did say he went sightseeing there and on the night he disappeared, he went out quite late.’
She had to concede that he had a point.
‘So there you are,’ he crowed. ‘That’s the way it was. We have a witness who overheard Elmer arguing with Mervyn Herbert. She also gave us a very good description of his car.’
‘So Mervyn Herbert is the chief suspect. You’re still looking for him?’
‘Yes.’
He asked her out. She said she’d take a rain check. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attracted to him; she was. It was nerves. Plain and simple.
As if there wasn’t enough to do in running the hotel, her mother had stopped over and was hounding her about having carpet laid over a truly lovely stone floor. ‘Look, Allied Carpets are doing a great deal …’
She was in the middle of checking the new menus – Smudger liked to change them every three months – and having her mother breathing fire over her shoulder did nothing to help her concentration.
Lindsey saved her bacon.
‘That nice bookseller is here to see you again,’ she said as she flounced past, a litre of Gordon’s gin in one hand and a bottle of Glenfiddich in the other.
Honey stopped what she was doing.
Lindsey’s footsteps went into reverse. ‘I know you’re fancying this policeman, but so what? Two guys are better than one.’
‘Lindsey! That’s two-timing – even though neither have quite started yet.’ She tried to look shocked.
Her daughter shook her head.
‘Even if you dump both of them in the end, play around a bit first. It’ll make you feel good about yourself.’
Honey’s jaw dropped.
Lindsey made a clicking sound, gave her customary wink and resumed her trek to replenish the bar.
Honey shoved the menus into a folder until later.
‘Lead me to him. Mother, this is the sort of man you should have found for me in the first place.’
Her mother frowned. ‘A bookseller? Do you think I would introduce you to a bookseller? You know there’s no money in selling books. It’s a mug’s game. Besides, he’s American.’
Honey’s mouth dropped. ‘Dad was an American.’
Her mother made one of those sounds a senior citizen makes when she’s been caught out and is reluctant to face the consequences.
Mary Jane waylaid her on her way to greet John Rees.
‘I need to make arrangements to hold a séance,’ she said. ‘Do you know of anyone whose loved ones have passed over who might be interested in attending? Older people in particular take great comfort from it.’
Honey turned round just in time to see her mother beating a fast pace across reception.
‘Mother! Mary Jane would like a word with you.’
Her mother came to a giddy halt. It wasn’t often she got trapped into doing something she didn’t want to do. She was usually the trapper.
Mary Jane’s lucid voice rang across reception. ‘Gloria, my dear …’
Honey exchanged a secretive smile with her daughter who had just emerged from the bar.
Lindsey shook her head. ‘Granny won’t be pleased.’
‘Never mind. It’ll keep her occupied for an hour. Now, where have you put my visitor?’
‘Prince Charming awaits you in the lounge with a cup of coffee,’ said Lindsey then smiled as Honey unconsciously tidied her hair as she passed an ornate French mirror.
‘I wonder, is he really Prince Charming or a frog in disguise?’
‘You won’t find out until you kiss him.’
Nothing was going to stand in the way of her plan to drive out to the church at Limpley Stoke. She’d phone the vicar first to make an appointment. John Rees had delayed her plans, but even a girl pushing forty has to have fun.
His hair was sandy
, his face slim and warm hazel eyes danced with humour behind frameless spectacles. He removed them when she entered and stood to greet her. It was old-fashioned and oddly touching. She half expected to look down and see that her sensible skirt had turned into a crinoline.
‘Mr Rees. I’m so sorry I missed speaking to you when you last called. There was a misunderstanding. I thought your being here was my mother’s doing.’
One side of his face seemed to rise in amusement, his eyes twinkling as though he’d read her mother just like – well – a book.
Standing in front of him like this made her nervous. She rubbed her hands down over her hips and offered to pour another coffee.
‘No. Thank you,’ he said.
Making the effort to sound the professional hotelier, she tucked her skirt beneath her as they both sat back down.
‘So! What can I do for you?’
‘I want to hold a book fair.’
Green River had a very handsome conference room overlooking the park at the rear. Conferences and wedding fairs brought in good revenue. Why not a book fair?
‘I think we have exactly what you are looking for. Our conference room holds sixty people …’
‘No,’ he said. He raised his hand, his palm facing her like a halt sign. ‘You misunderstand. I’m holding a book fair at the shop. I run themed evenings complete with wine and cheese and whatever – and sometimes the books are about wine and cheese. I pick a theme you see, select the books covering that particular subject, and objects featured in those books. For instance, I’ve done a modern art theme. The books were on modern art – the wine and cheese were the same – but I asked local artists to lend me their paintings for the evening – price tags included.’
Honey wasn’t quite sure where this was going, but hazarded a guess.
‘You’re going to use hotels as a theme? Haute cuisine perhaps?’
The thought of the inclusion of the latter sent a shiver down her spine. What if the Epicureans attending were niggardly with praise and slated whatever dishes the Green River produced? Smudger didn’t take criticism. He got huffy very easily and it was her that had to contend with his moods.
‘I favour a Victorian theme for my next event and that, of course, will include the clothes of the era. Not the big crinolines and stuff like that. I don’t have the room, but smaller things; gloves, mittens, hats …’
‘Underwear?’ said Honey as the Queen’s voluminous undergarments, already displayed behind glass, came to mind.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Just enough to set the scene. I understand from Alistair at the auction rooms that you own a very famous pair. I’d like you to display them if you don’t mind. And then I’ll select the books to go with it.’
Honey nodded. ‘Victoria’s pantaloons are yours for the asking.’
The fact that she wasn’t going to earn anything out of his fair wasn’t important. But something else was.
‘Am I invited?’ she added.
He smiled. ‘Would you come?’
She smiled back. ‘Of course I will.’
Chapter Seventeen
Casper St John Gervais enjoyed the good things in life. He took pride in running a superbly furnished and well-run hotel. He adored cashmere sweaters, tailor made jackets and trousers, and felt nothing could compete with a pure cotton shirt made by a skilled Indian gentleman in Saville Row, London.
His exquisite taste extended to his surroundings. His hotel had graced in-flight brochures and Hidden Hotels of the World magazine, and was frequented by the rich and famous, confident they would receive excellent service and absolute discretion.
He didn’t live there himself. He lived in a beautiful house, one of the impressive twenty-four that made up The Circus, that ring of mathematically produced elegance from the fevered brain of John Wood.
As with many Georgian houses, the ceilings were high and the windows large. The Georgians had excelled in letting in as much light as possible in the days before Edison lit up and invented the electricity bill.
The paintwork was finished in traditional colours; the furniture was even more elegant than in his hotel. Gilded mirrors reflected the star bright quality of the chandeliers, prisms of light flashing outwards.
Thick Turkish rugs hushed his footsteps. The only other sound, besides the beating of Casper’s heart, was the incessant ticking of his clocks. He had more in his home than at his hotel.
He was sitting admiring his latest purchase when the front door bell rang. Sighing, he put his single malt onto a silver coaster to avoid marking the small piecrust table near his chair, then walked along the passage to the front door. He opened it to find Simon Tye standing there.
‘Did you smell the cork out of the whisky bottle?’ he said casually.
‘If you’re offering, I’m accepting,’ said Simon and, without being asked swept past him, striding through the hallway purposefully as though bad news had come with him.
Simon was oddly quiet as Casper poured.
‘Enough?’ he asked raising the glass so Simon could inspect its contents.
Simon’s eyes were fixed on the porcelain clock, his brows furrowed as if he could see some flaw in it that he had not seen before.
‘Don’t say the woman who sold you it wants it back,’ said Casper as he handed him the drink.
‘No,’ said Simon. ‘But her husband does.’
Casper raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘It appears she never had permission to sell it.’ Simon clutched his glass with both hands and looked totally embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry mate, but Charlborough wants it back.’
Casper was all attention. ‘Charlborough? Do you mean who I think you mean?’
Simon nodded. ‘Yes, the same bloke who bid against you for the Chepstow long case up at Marlborough in the summer.’
Casper took a slug of whisky. So did Simon.
‘He reckons he’s goin’ to sue if he don’t get it back.’
Casper caught the caginess in the sidelong expression Simon threw him.
‘I told him I sold it to you.’
Casper groaned as he slouched back in his chair.
Simon shook his head mournfully. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He began to dig in his pocket. ‘Here’s your money.’
Casper eyed the bundle of fifties Simon placed on the table. They looked grubby, beneath his fastidious cleanliness. He would get Neville to gather them up, or otherwise use the pink washing-up gloves kept in the kitchen drawer.
‘I’ll take it now if you like, though you’ll have to help me.’
‘I don’t do lifting,’ said Casper with a shrewish pout. He gazed blankly into space. The thought of letting the clock go too quickly gave him great pain. Perhaps he could persuade Charlborough to let him keep it, offer him more, double what he’d paid Simon Tye. It was certainly worth a try.
He put it to him.
Simon shook his head. ‘No,’ he said resolutely. ‘It has to go back.’
Casper sighed and although there was still plenty in his glass, he set it dumbly down on the table. He nodded in tacit agreement. ‘You can count on me to make arrangements.’
His second visitor that night helped the situation along.
‘I’ve come to make my report,’ she said, breezing in more joyfully than Simon Tye had done.
She told him what the taxi driver had told her.
‘Couldn’t you get in trouble for withholding information from the police?’
Honey shrugged. ‘Doherty, the cop they’ve assigned to me, has his own theories. He’s adamant that the victim was murdered close to the river because that’s where they found him. I must admit, he does have a point. And he’s quite amiable about it.’
‘He’s trying to hit on you?’
‘Something like that. Anyway I thought I’d go along and ask the vicar what our American friend had found out about his family tree.’
She looked surprised when Casper stated he would go with her, though he didn’t look too pleased about it.
‘Two birds with one stone, my dear girl. We both have quests to perform at Charlborough Grange.’
Chapter Eighteen
The Warminster Road winds up a hill out of Bath passing substantial Victorian villas with far reaching views over the meadows dipping down into the AvonValley. Like a blueprint from history, a canal and a railway line run alongside the river. Together they span the centuries.
Further out, the villas are replaced by modern detached houses, and further out still the sunlight twinkles through battalions of tall dark trees standing sentinel at the roadside.
The road to Trowbridge branches off to the left, under a railway arch and into the village of Limpley Stoke. Some way up the hill, in the older part of the village, the church nestles amongst houses of its own age, built in the years of the Stewart kings.
Casper insisted they first return the clock before she made her enquiries of the vicar. He’d explained the situation to her and how he’d phoned Charlborough and offered more money, but had been refused. His mood was sullen and it was a fairly silent drive.
It was no trouble for Honey to alter her appointment. As she drove she rehearsed mentally the questions she thought relevant.
Casper was a picture of sullen resentment. He was brooding on the fact that he had to travel at all. That woman! That bloody Charlborough woman had upset his equanimity. He wished her ill. No, he thought, changing his mind. He wished her dead.
Pamela Charlborough had come back from Spain under duress and she was dead pissy about it.
If her husband Sir Andrew hadn’t discovered she’d sold the clock she would still be out there lunching in one of the smaller but more select quayside restaurants in Puerto Buenos, rubbing shoulders with the owners of luxury yachts. As it was, her personal bank account was sadly lacking so she was here in England and bored stiff.
‘I needed that money. You’re such a skinflint.’ Her comment and request for more money had been ignored. ‘You care more for that clock than you do for me.’
Annoyingly he’d agreed with her.
She paced the conservatory, which was an old and elegant structure erected by some Victorian antecedent of her husband’s. The man should have been named Midas but was more formally named Reginald. He’d spared no expense on this particular monstrosity. The place was filled with tropical plants from all over the world. It was lush, almost beautiful, but there was a wild carelessness about it. The plants were huge, thick-leaved affairs. Rather than the place being somewhere pleasant to sit among palms dotted around, it was the chairs that were dotted, the foliage that was over-abundant.
Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) Page 11