Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  A look of contentment suffused her gaunt features and her eyes glittered with a far-seeing look – quite suiting a woman who claimed to number ghosts among her friends, Honey thought. The incumbent of her regular room had left and she immediately changed rooms. Once again it was left to her and Sir Cedric.

  Her usual room was spooky; there was no other way to describe it. Honey disliked the high wooden ceiling and the silly closets that were lacking in depth and had no room to hang clothes. She planned to renovate during the off-season. Sensing her plans would not be welcome, she had not yet mentioned it to Mary Jane.

  ‘Sorry I’m a little late coming down,’ said Mary Jane in a lazy Californian drawl.

  Close up, her eyes shone with unworldly brightness. Honey guessed what was coming.

  ‘I have been conversing in the most intimate terms with dearest, darling, Sir Cedric,’ she said, her eyelashes fluttering, and her long fingers resting on her ribcage. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He has confided some really scandalous family secrets.’

  Honey feigned awe struck interest and adopted the same hushed voice.

  ‘Is that so?’ At the same time, she guided the elderly and very tall lady to her usual table where the long legs and torso folded obediently into a chair.

  ‘Indeed. He had three wives you know!’

  She tittered like old ladies are prone to do when salaciously delicious sex is mentioned – though, it had to be said, Mary Jane did not quite fit the image of a comfortable old lady.

  Honey handed her the menu. ‘He didn’t chop off their heads did he – you know – like Henry the Eighth?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ came the adamant reply. Her expression was deadly serious. ‘It was very naughty, and I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Then I won’t pressurise you,’ said Honey smiling.

  ‘But I must tell you,’ said Mary Jane, her fingers locking over Honey’s arm. ‘I’m going on one of these fabulous Ghost Walks this evening. It visits some of the places Sir Cedric has told me about. Would you like to come along?’ she asked, eyes of periwinkle blue youthfully bright in her wrinkled face.

  Honey eyed the steadily filling restaurant and shook her head. ‘I can’t see I’ll have time for that.’

  Mary Jane looked crestfallen. ‘I quite understand, my dear. Now let me see,’ she said, rummaging in her solidly square bag. ‘I have a bus timetable here somewhere …’

  ‘No need for the bus. I can’t come on the walk, but I could spare ten minutes to give you a lift.’

  ‘Oh good.’ The voluminous bag was snapped shut. ‘Your mother said you would.’

  Honey maintained her smile through gritted teeth. It galled to find out she’d already been volunteered before she’d had chance to offer.

  She might have stayed prickly if her eyes hadn’t clapped on to John Rees. He was wearing a smart but casual cream linen shirt with shoulder tabs. It gave him a soft military kind of look.

  ‘How are ya?’ he said, getting to his feet and shaking her hand.

  She wanted to say, ‘All the better for seeing you,’ but she didn’t.

  ‘I’m very well. And you?’

  She held the professional smile. He might be here just to sample the food and not to see her. Once she came back down to earth, her gaze strayed to his dinner partner.

  The woman was slim; not just in a thin way, but glossy, as though a copy of Vogue had fallen open and the model had stepped out fully fleshed.

  She was sipping water and her eyes were downcast. The latter were perfectly made up; dark smudges in all the right places, lashes as thick as furry caterpillars.

  ‘Miriam,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘This is Honey Driver who owns this fantastic place.’

  Miriam nodded, murmured good evening, but didn’t look up.

  Honey resisted clenching her jaw. After all, what did it matter if she’d been fantasising about their assignation at his bookshop? The stuff he’d wanted to adorn his walls beside the artworks and books had already been collected. OK, so although it was by invitation only, it was still basically a public event. Anyone could go in and buy tickets.

  ‘I’m looking forward to the open evening,’ she gushed, keeping her smile trained on gorgeous John.

  ‘So am I.’

  There was something about his manner that was different. He smiled but his features were stiff. She guessed he was coping with tension and Miriam, his glossy, bronzed companion with her black hair and red lips, was the cause of it.

  Honey excused herself. Waltzing around the restaurant, she was a picture of solicitous charm. Waltzing around in her head was the same recurring thought. Why were all the best guys already spoken for?

  Lindsey was supervising the bar. As usual she dispensed drinks and opened bottles of wine swiftly and efficiently. She never mixed up orders and neither did she panic.

  She was tipping a measure of Harvey’s Bristol Cream into a schooner, the largest of the sherry measures. Honey knew without being told that it was for Mary Jane. She’d developed a passion for the very English drink. No doubt a little spirit inside would prepare her for the spirits she might encounter on her Ghost Walk.

  ‘I see that your friend the bookseller has company,’ said Lindsey.

  Honey resisted the urge to grit her teeth, rested her elbow on the bar and sighed. ‘And there was I thinking I might get the opportunity to eat him alive.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. Personally, my preference is for the rugged, silent type. I like the cop.’

  ‘Don’t let Gran hear you say that.’

  ‘The fact that I’m giving my mother the benefit of my experience?’ Lindsey leaned forward, arms resting on the bar. ‘You need youth on your side, mother. Grandma’s talking marriage; I’m talking about having fun.’

  ‘Your grandma’s old-fashioned.’

  ‘No she’s not. She’s a control freak. She doesn’t really want you to remarry. I’ve seen how she works it. Take that businessman who used to come in here. First she pushed you in his direction, and when you did take an interest she told you he was like a sailor; a girl in every port.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘I think she lied.’

  Lindsey was telling the truth. It was strange, it was annoying and it was also plain bloody-mindedness. The kind of scenario Lindsey referred to had happened more than once. But not now. She was now Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels Association and had acquired street cred; and a policeman friend.

  Honey asked, ‘So who’s the supermodel dining with out bookseller friend?’

  Lindsey checked the reservation register, running her finger down the page until she found the right time and name. ‘Mr and Mrs Rees.’

  The restaurant was full and compliments to the chef were coming thick and fast. Honey knew she should have felt supremely smug that things were going so well tonight, but John Rees had punctured her balloon. Steve Doherty was still a contender, but that ego … John Rees didn’t have one. Or baggage. At least she hadn’t thought so; until tonight.

  She was almost glad when the customers thinned out and Mary Jane came tottering over to claim her lift to the Ghost Walk.

  ‘I hope I’m not inconveniencing you,’ she said, her bony fingers light as swan’s feathers on Honey’s arm.

  ‘Of course not,’ Honey lied, her eyes sliding sidelong to Mr and Mrs Rees. Their heads were almost touching across the table. Their expressions were intense, not with desire, but with something else. They could have been talking about their marriage; they could just as easily be disagreeing over the colour scheme for a new kitchen.

  Mary Jane folded herself into the car in much the same way as she had her seat in the restaurant; basically in three parts; lower legs, upper legs and torso.

  A finely crocheted grey cape was draped around her shoulders and fastened with a pin at the front.

  Mary Jane chatted all the way, recounting how often she’d contacted Sir Cedric in the privacy of her room. By the time they’d reached Queens Square
and the FrancisHotel, Honey knew all about Sir Cedric’s wives and which one Mary Jane was related to.

  ‘Fanny,’ she pronounced emphatically. ‘Fanny Millington. Bob the Job actually located a picture of her; just a sketch but enough to tell me she was a handsome woman. She bore Sir Cedric six children. His first wife didn’t have any. Apparently she was fragile. I suppose we’d say that Fanny had good genes.’

  Honey couldn’t argue with that. She knew Mary Jane was at least seventy-five and still looking good.

  ‘What about the third wife?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about her genes. Apparently she ran off with the coachman and the marriage was annulled.’

  Beaming broadly, she shrugged her square, bony shoulders. ‘ Isn’t family history just wonderful!’

  Quite a crowd had gathered at the bottom end of Queens Square , just along from the FrancisHotel.

  Crocheted cape billowing in the breeze, Mary Jane strode to join the other tourists. The merry band chattered like magpies, full of excitement at the prospect of seeing what few had ever seen, and pleased to pay for the privilege.

  Honey turned the steering wheel meaning to head back to the hotel, when Loretta Davies emerged from Charlotte Street at the top end of the square. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt, regulation uniform for a hotel waitress.

  Honey hit the horn and opened the passenger side window. ‘Do you want a lift?’

  Loretta opened the door and got in. ‘Thanks. I’ve just finished my shift. Working helps keep my mind off things. I’ve made sure our place keeps going, but you just have to get out, don’t you?’

  Honey agreed with her.

  Despite the uniform, three gold earrings dangled from Loretta’s right ear. The white blouse was long enough to cover her belly button.

  It was now nine-thirty. She calculated that Loretta had been on duty since mid-afternoon to be going home this early.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘La Traviata.’

  Honey recognised the name of an up-market Italian restaurant situated behind the world famous Royal Crescent .

  Loretta slid her feet from her shoes.

  ‘Me feet are killing me. I’ve been on since two.’

  ‘Poor you. I didn’t know you worked in the catering trade. I presumed you did a bit for your mother and had something else … you know … like an office job.’

  ‘Not bloody likely. My mum likes things done her way. She gets Marge in to clean and do the laundry and ironing when it’s busy. Especially now. I’ve hung around and looked after things, but it’s only temporary. I had to get out. Honest I did.’

  Her voice seemed to nose dive on the last two words. Honey decided that she was not quite as confident as she made out. She was hurting. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising.

  The smell of trees bathed in darkness drifted into the car. So did the aroma of fast food joints; hamburgers, kebab shops and tacos bars.

  Now was as good a time as any to ask the most difficult question. I might even get an answer, thought Honey. Either that or she’ll tell me to bog off.

  She decided it was worth the effort.

  ‘What did your mother say – you know – about your stepfather … doing what he did? I presume you told her.’

  ‘Fat lot of good it did. She didn’t believe me. Couldn’t live without ’im, but could live without me.’

  Honey bit her lip and kept her eyes on the road ahead. She felt so sorry for this girl, not just because it seemed her mother had not believed her. While being questioned, Doherty had asked Cora Herbert outright about her daughter’s accusation. Her response had been casually indifferent, stating that her daughter could lie for England. In the next breath she’d declared how devastated she was.

  They were fast approaching the Lower Bristol Road .

  ‘I’ll come in with you if I may,’ said Honey. ‘Just to see how your mum is bearing up.’

  ‘Why?’

  Loretta eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘It’s OK, isn’t it?’

  Loretta chewed her bottom lip. ‘I suppose you can.’

  To Honey’s eyes Loretta was no longer the girl with the hard eyes and the blatant attempt to be sluttish. She was a little girl and vulnerable. How must it have felt to be raped by her stepfather and being too afraid to tell her mother, and when she did, not being believed?

  The porch light was still on when they got there. Loretta had a key. Honey followed her along the passage leading to the rear kitchen and the small sitting room adjoining the conservatory.

  Dishes were heaped in the sink. An empty tin of ravioli sat on the draining board. The place smelled of bacon fat, old teabags and Guinness.

  Honey averted her eyes from a frying pan containing rashers of bacon – tomorrow’s breakfast for residents.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I’m in here.’

  The response came from Mervyn Herbert’s ‘den’.

  Cora was on her knees tidying up, repacking what the police had unpacked, and putting it away. Her backside wobbled against her meaty calves as she did it.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

  Cora stopped what she was doing and glared over her shoulder. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I saw Loretta and gave her a lift. I just thought I’d see how you were. It must have been quite an ordeal down at the station. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Well you could start by finding a landscape gardener. My rockery’s a right shambles.’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t help.’

  Cora Herbert threw her a sneer before going back to what she was doing.

  ‘Everything’s a mess,’ she grumbled. ‘Bloody coppers! Mucking my place up like this. I’ve got a business to run. It’s got to be a bit tidy, you know.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  Honey made a snap decision. If she was going to get this woman to trust her, she had to bend. Literally.

  She knelt down beside her on the moss-coloured carpet. ‘Let me help you.’

  ‘Mervyn’s watch collection,’ explained Cora.

  Honey took a look. Each watch was individually wrapped in old newspapers and repacked in a cardboard box.

  ‘They look quite valuable,’ she said.

  ‘I wish,’ muttered Cora. ‘We’ll let Bonhams find that out. The whole lot’s going to auction.’

  ‘I hope you get a good price for them. I’d put a reserve on them if I were you. Just in case.’

  Cora’s response was mumbled and begrudging.

  Honey tried again.

  ‘Honestly, Mrs Herbert, specialist collectors who are looking for certain items might give you quite a bit more than you’d get at auction. I can ask around if you like. In fact, there’s a certain name that springs readily to mind. You might know him. Or perhaps Mervyn knew him. Casper St John Gervais?’

  Cora shook her head in a vague manner as though not only didn’t she know, she didn’t really care.

  ‘Never heard of the bloke.’

  She’d had a similar response from Casper when she’d first seen the watch collection and wondered at the connection.

  ‘I collect clocks, not watches,’ Casper had said imperiously. ‘And I never, ever frequent establishments along the Bristol Road !’

  The flaps of the box were slapped firmly into place.

  ‘Well that’s that,’ said Cora with an air of finality.

  Honey noted that she got no thanks for her pains, but doubted Cora was ever grateful or gracious to anyone.

  Honey got to her feet. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  Loretta was in the porch next to the conservatory swigging Coke from a can and staring out into the garden. There was something vulnerable about the girl. There was also something about Cora’s behaviour that made her ask a further question.

  ‘The police said your mother was surprised that you’d told me about your stepfather raping you. Why was that?’

  The teenage shrug again, the sort o
f shrug that’s meant to signify indifference but in fact conveys deep concern.

  ‘She didn’t want me to tell you. She didn’t want me to tell anybody.’

  It was like a gate closing. Not much of an answer, but she sensed it was the only one Loretta was prepared to give.

  Outside the night sky had blurred to slate grey, it was that time in June and July when darkness never quite takes hold.

  Honey took deep breaths and looked up at the sky as she tried to clarify her thoughts about the clues and the people. Some said that a crime was like a jigsaw puzzle; one bit fitted into another. It was just a case of gathering up the right bits and putting them into the right place. Trouble is, she thought, you have to find the bits in the first place.

  For a start, there was Loretta’s father. His motive for killing Mervyn Herbert was understandable. But Elmer Maxted? Everything began with the lone American here to trace his family tree. Surely Davies could not have had anything to do with killing him? Could he? The watches and clocks situation was also puzzling. Was it just a coincidence that Mervyn collected one and Casper the other?

  She flicked open her phone and selected Casper’s landline number.

  ‘How well did you know Mervyn Herbert?’

  He sounded taken aback at first, but quickly recovered. ‘My dear girl, as I’ve already told you …’

  ‘I don’t believe you. So! Who are you going to speak to? Me or the police?’

  This was all instinct, a long shot. She sensed his unease. She’d asked quickly even before he’d had a chance to say hello.

  There was a pause, a period when she felt she could almost hear his brain ticking over. If she closed her eyes she could even see his throat tightening.

  ‘You’d better come on over.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Pamela Charlborough drank deeply from a lead crystal wine glass while eyeing her husband over its rim. The wine tasted good but did nothing to make him look more appealing.

  Once again she imagined him lying still and white instead of sitting at the same table with her, his hair almost white, his face mottled with broken veins. If he were dead she would get to keep the lifestyle and the wherewithal to maintain it. In her mind she blessed Sun Alliance and Royal Life. What a boon they were to modern living and the plight of the recently widowed.