Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘Now’s the time to panic.’ She uttered the words in the weeniest whisper, and even that seemed too intrusive in this strange jungle hidden on an English estate.

  Was it hidden? If so, why?

  Backtracking was on autopilot. She could have turned round. Going forwards was always quicker than going backwards. But she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head and she needed to see what was behind her. Just in case …

  ‘Halt!’

  Her breath stopped!

  Her heart stopped!

  Her feet certainly did. It was as though she’d backed into a barn door – one made of oak – big, hard and locked!

  It took a big scoop of courage to make her turn round.

  Facing this human barrier was worse than not doing so. Chiselled features, chiselled body, as though welded from sheets of steel and thus having no rounded corners. Being eye to eye with his pecs was disconcerting. Raising her eyes failed to improve matters.

  ‘You’re trespassing.’ His voice was higher than she’d expected, like a voice is when the larynx has suffered a severe blow. The two didn’t go well together. If her legs hadn’t been shaking she might have laughed. Instead she played the trump card, the acceptable excuse.

  ‘I’m working with the police with regard to the disappearance of an American tourist.’ She chanced a grin and a casual shake. ‘Just thought he might have wandered in here – you know how these Americans can be.’

  She hoped he didn’t detect the trace of the accent she’d inherited from her father years ago.

  ‘What’s happening here?’

  A draught of fresh air heralded the arrival of Sir Andrew. Alarm flashed in his eyes then was gone. His smile was controlled.

  ‘I thought you’d gone, Mrs Driver.’

  Her heart stopped racing. Somehow she had no wish to tell the truth. A suitable excuse tripped from her tongue.

  ‘Mr St John Gervais wished to take one last look at your clock. He’s pretty upset about losing it. I said I would ask your permission. No one came to the door when I knocked, so I came around here. I thought I saw someone here …’ She threw a tight smile in the direction of metal man. ‘And I did.’

  ‘Trevor is my gardener, as well as my butler.’ He turned to the man. ‘That will be all, Trevor. Mrs Driver is just leaving.’

  Sir Andrew took a firm grip on her arm. It wasn’t quite frogmarching, but not far off. She took a last look over her shoulder at the gardener. Did jungles need gardeners?

  The question was suddenly of no consequence. She’d been aware that Trevor was carrying something, but hadn’t stirred up enough courage to look and see what it was. Now she saw him toss a small sack onto a pile of other sacks. It rolled off and something rolled out.

  Trevor cussed.

  Honey gasped.

  Glassy eyes starred up at her from a severed head.

  Her legs wobbled. Her head swam. She needed air. Fresh air. Right now!

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Andrew Charlborough couldn’t help chuckling at the woman’s reaction to one of the many props they used in their war games.

  Longleat had its wild beasts and extensive grounds in which to keep them. Most of the estate surrounding Charlborough Grange had been sold off years ago. War games complete with a pretend jungle and pretend bodies provided a decent income, besides which, he enjoyed them. It took him back to other times and other places. He’d explained all this to Hannah Driver. He’d seen her recover, seen her blush and then seen her off the premises.

  Amateur sleuths were the least of his worries. His features hardened as he watched her car pull away. Once it had gone, he went back along the corridor to the study. From his pocket he took a neatly folded cotton handkerchief, the initials LTC embroidered in dark red at its corner. Gently he wiped the handkerchief over Lance’s photograph before straightening it. He fingered its frame.

  ‘I miss you, Lance,’ he said his voice trembling with emotion.

  Suddenly he became aware that he was no longer alone.

  ‘You’re an obsessive! Do you know that?’

  Pamela’s strident voice pierced through his sorrow and his skull. She sashayed toward him, hips rolling, blonde hair clipped tightly around her pronounced cheekbones.

  Anger flushed his face. ‘Get out of here!’

  She dragged fiercely on the cigarette she was smoking.

  ‘It’s your own fault he stays away from here, you know. You’re too overbearing. The boy wants to lead his own life. And why shouldn’t he? What’s it to you, darling? Eh? If you really, really think about it, what’s it to you?’

  Her husband’s eyes followed her as she walked around the room purposely tapping the corner of each framed photograph so it no longer hung straight.

  She laughed as she did it.

  ‘You don’t answer!’ she said. ‘I’ve heard how you talk to him, insisting that he tow the line, or else … and the dear boy … he so loves his father … his father!’

  She laughed like a gurgling drain.

  If eyes could be knives, Sir Andrew’s would have stabbed her twice.

  She came closer and deliberately blew smoke into his face, then rested her hand on his chest. ‘What if he knew the truth? I wonder how much he would love you then? Because I know you know. I met Mary’s brother-in-law. He told me what you did. Now,’ she said, a red-painted fingernail tapping the matching colour on her lips. ‘Perhaps I should tell the police about this before I tell Lance. Or should I phone that woman and tell her?’ Her expression hardened. ‘What’s it worth not to tell either of them, Andrew? Eh? Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand?’ She shook her head. ‘Chicken feed. And this chicken deserves more than that, I think.’

  Andrew clenched his jaw as he gazed down into his wife’s face.

  ‘Marriage to you has been torture, Pamela.’

  Her eyes opened wide with feigned surprise. ‘What else did you expect? I didn’t marry you because I loved you. It was all for money. For your beautiful, beautiful money! What else! And when we divorce, I’ll take half of it with me.’

  ‘Over my dead body you will!’

  ‘Your dead body! Wonderful. Could you possibly arrange your death and I’ll forego a divorce. After all, I would much rather be a seriously rich widow, darling, than a moderately rich divorcee.’ She patted his chest. ‘How’s your heart darling?’ She laughed. ‘Silly me. You don’t have one. At least, not as far as your wife is concerned. You only love your son … if he was your son.’

  ‘Pamela, have pity …’

  She stopped and pouted. ‘Pity has a price, darling. Think about it.’

  She was still laughing when she left the room. Her husband stared after her, thoughts of what he’d like to do to her roaring through his mind.

  Mark Conway looked up at the ceiling and tried not to breathe in her perfume. There was the smell of her and the smell of perfume. He preferred the smell of her. The perfume was too overpowering.

  The room held only this bed, a chair and a low table. The rest of the house was divided up into flats. This was where they always met, where he would sate his physical desires and she would tell him of her contempt for her husband, his employer. He would listen but not comment.

  Her fingers continued to trace circles over his chest. Her voice was low and huskily enticing. He knew the sex had been good for her. She’d told him so. Now she was saying other things, things that filled him with dread.

  ‘I wish he was dead. How easy would it be to kill him? You could kill him, Mark. Just think …’

  Her lips were full, but cold upon his. Strange he hadn’t noticed that before.

  ‘If he were dead, we could spend all day in bed. All day. Every day. How easy would it be to kill him do you think?’

  ‘Easy,’ he said, because he knew it was the truth. ‘Very easy. But then, why should I? He’s very good to me. He’s always been very good to me.’

  Her tongue flicked at his ear. ‘Because, my darling, if he was dead you’d have me
.’

  ‘And you would have all his money.’

  ‘That’s right. Just me.’

  ‘What about Lance?’

  ‘What about Lance? No doubt he’d get something, but nowhere near what he’s been used to. I’d get the lion’s share.’

  ‘You sound very sure of that.’

  She smiled like a cat as her hand slid down over his loins and did delicious things between his thighs.

  ‘Because I know something that you don’t. I know that all Andrew’s money could easily become mine.’

  Chapter Twenty-two

  First she dropped Casper off. He’d thrown his head back and laughed like a drain when she’d told him about the plastic head and the war games in the greenhouse.

  ‘My dear, never have I seen you so pale.’

  She swore him to secrecy.

  Placing his right hand on his heart, he adopted a suitably serious expression and promised from the depths of his soul. ‘And in the interests of our continuing harmony,’ he added.

  After dropping Casper off she headed home and was surprised to see that Doherty was waiting for her.

  Plastering a smile on her face, she trotted into the small lounge just off the main residents lounge, which she kept for business appointments.

  A tray of coffee, brown sugar and cream sat on a tray in front of him.

  She could tell by the look on his face that this was not entirely a social visit.

  ‘I would have preferred a whisky,’ he said, jerking his chin in the direction of the untouched tea.

  ‘You could have asked for one.’

  ‘I did. Your mother turned me down.’

  ‘Oh! I’ll get you one.’ She vowed to have a word with her mother about making visitors welcome – even if you didn’t approve of that type of man.

  ‘Never mind.’ He rose to go. ‘I haven’t time to hang around.’

  ‘Really,’ she said flippantly. ‘Who’s been murdered?’

  His expression told her that she’d hit the nail on the head.

  ‘Who?’ she asked, ashamed she’d sounded so offhand.

  ‘I told the chief constable I didn’t have time for all this, but he insisted I inform you.’

  His bluntness stung. And just when she was getting into this job.

  She was just as blunt back. ‘So inform me.’

  ‘Mervyn Herbert.’

  ‘In the river?’

  Doherty shook his head. ‘No. In his own garden under the rockery. There’d been a gas leak and the gas company dug up the garden. And before you ask, his head was bashed in and he had a sack over his head. A spice sack, same as before.’

  ‘Do you think Mrs Herbert did it?’

  ‘An obvious conclusion, but the lab boys tell us otherwise. We don’t think he was murdered there, but Mrs Herbert is in a bit of a state. And there is that first husband to think about.’

  ‘Oh yes. Loretta’s father.’ Her stomach rumbled. She’d been thinking of smoked salmon salad all the way back from Limpley Stoke.

  ‘I suppose I’d better go along and see her.’

  Doherty got to his feet. ‘I’m fine with that, but I should warn you that until we’ve done a thorough investigation, we have to treat her as a suspect.’

  ‘Even though the murder was done elsewhere?’

  He shrugged. ‘In the house, in the garage, or even outside in the alley. Who knows?’

  ‘I take it you’ve already questioned her?’

  ‘The doctor wouldn’t let me. Said she was in deep shock.’

  ‘There,’ she said, swinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘All the more reason for taking me with you. It might help calm the poor woman. Even if she is your prime suspect.’

  ‘I didn’t say she was my prime suspect.’

  ‘An accessory with her first husband perhaps? Loretta’s father?’

  Honey had followed him out on to the street. He frowned. ‘Are you by any chance a mind reader?’

  ‘Only as far as men are concerned.’

  ‘You needn’t come with me to see her. You don’t have to.’

  ‘And you don’t want me to.’

  ‘I don’t see the point. I never have.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch.’

  ‘OK.’

  It was all he said. Honey decided it was about the best invitation she was likely to get from him.

  Well just wait until I tell you what I know, she thought as she got in beside him. I’ll surprise you. I’ll make you want me to be with you on this.

  On the drive to the Lower Bristol Road she told him about her visit to the vicar, but not about her snooping in the greenhouse. She’d never live it down.

  ‘Elmer’s wife’s cousin was Sir Andrew’s first wife. I think he went calling at the Grange, though everyone’s denying it. Pamela Charlborough admits to meeting Elmer when he was wandering around the churchyard.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘So says Mrs Quentin. I asked Lady Charlborough, but she’s not the warmest heart I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Useful person, Mrs Quentin.’

  Honey made a sound of agreement and looked out of the window. The early morning rain had disappeared. A rainbow twinkled above the viaduct taking the railway line to London via GreenPark. The air smelled fresh and new.

  Doherty was thoughtful. ‘Do you think he was having an affair with Lady Pamela?’

  ‘Of course not! If he visited Charlborough Grange at all, or if he talked over the church wall to Lady Pamela, it had to be something to do with his family. He was keen on what he was doing. Perhaps found an old family skeleton and got bumped off for it. You know how touchy some relatives can be.’

  ‘Too melodramatic. OK, so he’d planned an activity holiday – if you can call it that. Believe me the root of the problem is at Ferny Down Guest House. Mervyn Herbert was a sleazebag – too fond of his stepdaughter from what I can gather. I want to know where her real father is. He’s got something to do with this. I can smell it.’

  Honey chewed at her lip rather than say outright that she thought he was talking out of the top of his head.

  Doherty noticed. ‘Are you worried or hungry?’

  ‘I didn’t have breakfast. Or lunch.’ Pathetic excuse.

  Doherty tutted. ‘The most important meal of the day!’

  Honey’s head turned sharply. ‘Did my mother ask you whether you were married?’

  ‘No. She asked me whether I prefer carpet or hard wooden floors.’

  Honey groaned. ‘It amounts to the same thing.’

  He was intrigued enough to take his eyes from the road. ‘What?’

  A blue double-glazing van veered away into the nearside lane. The driver gave a two-fingered salutation and shouted something about getting a driving license. Doherty’s driving frequently attracted rude comments.

  They reached their destination too quickly. Feeling as though her heart was somewhere behind her belly button, Honey held back, waiting for Doherty to get out of his car and ring the doorbell.

  Two uniformed policemen were standing guard outside. They nodded in Doherty’s direction as he got out of the car.

  Honey took a deep breath.

  ‘Nervous?’ asked Doherty.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  That was rubbish. The truth was that she’d never visited a scene of crime. She hoped the body had already been taken to the morgue. One fright per day was more than enough. She had to say something trivial to steady her nerves.

  ‘That doorbell’s been well polished,’ she said.

  Doherty looked at her as though her comment was just another cross to bear.

  Loretta answered the door. Her clothes were basically as before; no sign of a black armband even and she had colour in her cheeks. The numerous rings she wore glinted as she shut the front door.

  ‘Ma’s out back,’ she said brusquely. ‘Straight down there.’

  A single solitaire diamond flashed on her index finger as she pointed. Nice, thought Honey, and wondered why she
hadn’t noticed it before.

  ‘Nice ring. Is it new?’

  Loretta blushed. ‘A present. From a mate.’

  A male mate, Honey decided, and intimate. Only intimacy brought that bright a red to a girl’s cheeks.

  Cora Herbert was sitting in her favourite spot in the conservatory. A mug of tea and an ashtray sat on the table in front of her. Beyond the door men in jump suits methodically moved earth from one part of the garden to another.

  The thick black lashes left traces of mascara on her damp cheeks. A pall of cigarette smoke rose and circled in the air. The cigarette trembled as she flicked the length of ash into the tray. She looked grim, tired, her eyes outlined in a red that almost matched her lipstick. Black roots ran like a basalt valley through her hair parting. The rest was dry, blonde and in need of a wash.

  Honey’s throat was like sandpaper. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Herbert.’

  Both she and Doherty took a seat. Tea wasn’t offered. The room was stuffy and filled with smoke. The door was shut, the smoke seeking escape through a fanlight set in the plastic roof.

  Cora nodded an acknowledgement.

  Doherty went over the details again. ‘When did you last see your husband, Mrs Herbert?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that,’ Cora snapped.

  ‘Tell me again,’ Doherty said slowly.

  Listening to his line of questioning decided her. She nudged his arm. ‘Can I have a word in private?’

  Doherty pursed his lips. Yet again this was a different Steve to the one who let loose in a local bar. This was his profession. He’d trained for it, started at the bottom and worked his way up. Whereas she …

  His hostility was mild, but definitely existed. He looked as though he were about to refuse. What made him change his mind might have been the thought that two heads are better than one. Or did he really think he was in with a good chance of going to bed with her? Either way, they made their excuses and went out into the garden shutting the door behind them.

  Not that Cora seemed to care. Smoking, staring at the floor, flicking ash and barking orders at Loretta. She didn’t seem actually upset, just anxious, as though she wanted this to be over, and the quicker the better.