Unfortunately, she wasn’t widowed. For better or worse – mostly worse – she was still tied firmly to Andrew.
She breathed deeply as the aftertaste of the wine tantalized her taste buds and fumed upwards into her brain. She opened and closed her eyes as she took deep breaths. Each time she opened them her gaze alighted on things in the room she would keep and things she would throw out once he was dead. It was something she’d done a thousand times, her mind changing as things were added or taken away from the house according to how Andrew’s dabbling in antiques – more notably clocks – was going.
The stuff from the Far East would be first to go, though she really couldn’t see anyone bidding much for those dreadful bits of bamboo that fell over if you brushed too close. There was a table made of it, a coat stand and a matching umbrella stand complete with bamboo handled umbrellas and walking sticks.
She sighed. It was really all too much. The only flimsy things she adored were made of silk, edged with lace and extremely expensive. She still looked good in silky underwear. She smirked to herself. She looked pretty good out of it too.
The pristine white porcelain clock on the sideboard struck eight. Both her eyes and those of her husband went to it before looking at each other. A slow smile crossed her husband’s face that made her glower. He was laughing at her, crowing because he’d got it back and grabbed the money she’d been paid for it from her luggage.
Simmering with rage, Pamela raised her wineglass in a mock toast. ‘All right darling! You’ve got it back. Well bully for you!’
Andrew was drinking brandy. He swilled the amber liquid around his glass as he regarded her. His smile was contemptuous.
‘Really Pamela. You have no taste and your propensity for seeking out the seedier side of society is really phenomenal. Fancy selling it to a second-rate clock dealer like Simon Tye. The man’s a crook.’
‘Necessity!’ she snapped. ‘I needed the money.’
‘You spend too much.’
‘You give me too little!’
‘My dear, I must have been mistaken. I thought it was cheap to live in Spain. That’s why it suits cheap people.’
Pamela sprang up from her chair sending it toppling backwards.
‘I’m not cheap, Andrew! I’m normal!’
Her husband raised his eyebrows and glanced at her over the day’s headlines. He read the newspaper in preference to conversing with his wife. Conversation was confined to necessary subjects. Like money.
‘Now don’t lose your temper darling. It emphasises your wrinkles.’
The lead crystal wineglass flew down the table. Andrew ducked.
‘You bitch!’ Andrew sprang to his feet.
Pamela stood her ground on four-inch mules, the soles of cork, the uppers made of interwoven pink and blue silk.
Andrew was on her before she could run. The back of his hand hit her face and sent her flying across the table. Hair tousled, eyes blazing and blood trickling from her lip, she glared up at him, her fingers gripping the table edge.
Her look was full of hate. ‘Why did I marry you?’
Andrew was no less disdainful. ‘Hah! Why did I marry you is more to the point?’
Her lips curled into a sneer as she pushed her hair back from her eyes.
‘But I know why you married me. I was the barrier between your first wife’s family and you and Lance. If they probed too close they’d find out the truth. As a widower you would still have attracted their attention and occasional visits. Marrying again put them at a distance. And I know, Andrew. He told me. Elmer Maxted told me!’
She laughed at his sudden pallor, knowing she’d hit the mark.
Clinging to the table edge, she struggled up from the floor her eyes shining.
‘I know what you did. I know about Lance and who he is – who he really is.’
Andrew’s jaw tightened. ‘Shut your mouth. Or I shall shut it for you!’
Blood trickled into Pamela’s mouth when she smiled.
‘I can ruin you any time I like. But it won’t cost you much to keep my mouth shut. I like Lance. I wouldn’t want to ruin his life.’
Andrew said nothing, his pale eyes darting between her, the drinks cabinet and Mark Conway. Unheard by his wife, Mark was standing in the doorway, listening and waiting. Andrew threw him an unspoken message to stay. Pamela, the worse for drink, carried on with her tirade.
‘Lance, the real Lance bled to death. Haemophilia. He had haemophilia. Only men suffer from it you know. Yet it’s passed on to them by their mothers. The American told me Lance had it – or at least the Lance he knew. But our big, grown-up Lance doesn’t have it does he? Oh no, most certainly he does not. In fact, he’s an extremely healthy young man. I wonder what his DNA would prove if they took swabs from you and him? But then, you already know the answer to that, don’t you?’
‘You’re drunk.’
Pamela laughed. With half a bottle of Chateau Talbot sloshing around inside her, she staggered to the door, pausing to throw him a mocking wave.
‘Spain here I come! And I don’t give a hoot if I’ve got to crawl there!’
Gripping the banister, she dragged herself up to her room.
‘Spain, sun, sea and sex! Here I come!’
She turned round when she got to the top, her eyes hovering over the scene beneath, the lush carpeting, the antiques, the smell of wealth and centuries of arrogance.
‘The sex especially,’ she shouted, her voice echoing over the pale cream walls where paintings of long-dead ancestors looked down on her and what the family had become.
Nothing could stop her now from saying what she wanted to say and would say even more. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to pay him back for making her feel cheap. More than that; a marriage of convenience to someone he thought to control. And all she wanted to do now was to hurt him.
‘Good sex happens with young men, not old has-beens like you!’
Trevor, her husband’s butler and part-time gardener was also at the top of the stairs.
Pamela glared at him. ‘What the hell are you staring at?’
‘Nothing, madam.’
‘Nothing, madam,’ she mimicked. ‘Nothing, madam!’ God, but she hated these old retainers of his. Even they looked down at her, treated her with deference but also disdain.
She saw Andrew standing at the bottom of the stairs and swayed slightly.
‘I bet you want me to fall down the stairs,’ she shouted at him.
He said nothing. He didn’t need to. She knew that was what he wanted.
‘Be a good little husband, Andrew, and transfer some money into my account. Fifty thousand to start with.’
‘I don’t know that I can. Not that quickly.’
‘Then sell a few things. Especially that clock! Yes! I insist you sell that clock in order to buy my silence. Now! Immediately.’
Although her vision was blurred, she saw the hatred on her husband’s face. So what?
She began to laugh then tapped Trevor on the shoulder.
‘Your master awaits you – Fido!’
She swayed again before staggering off to her bedroom.
The sound of the door slamming ricocheted around the landing.
Sir Andrew beckoned Trevor to follow him. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘A rare example of a late eighteenth-century mantle clock. Can we start the bidding at one thousand pounds?’
Eleven-thirty in the middle of an auction room was not the best place for asking questions and getting answers. Honey assumed Casper had done it on purpose, especially when their meeting coincided with lot 75.
To her eyes the clock looked incredibly plain, but the tense atmosphere in the saleroom confirmed its importance.
‘Its provenance is indisputable,’ whispered Casper as though he were in pain.
‘It’s plain.’
The auctioneer’s voice filled the room. ‘One thousand three, one thousand four, one thousand five …’
Casper was bidding.
He did it casually, as though he didn’t really care whether he bought it or not. But anyone who knew him would not have been easily deceived.
‘It is said to have belonged to Jane Austen’s father, sold to pay for his burial.’
‘I didn’t know Walcot Street church charged that much, seeing as he’s buried next to the road.’
It was a joke. The graveyard had been peaceful back then. Now visitors could almost do a drive past, it was that close to the main A4.
Casper hissed at her to be quiet.
‘Sorry. I’ll wait for you outside.’
She slipped into the store opposite and purchased a chocolate muffin. Casper wasn’t into eating in company so it was a case of grabbing what she could and eating it before he came out.
The traffic was heavy around Queens Square . The bin hanging from a lamppost received her food wrappers. She had time to brush the crumbs from her chest before Casper came strolling out of the auction house looking mighty pleased with himself.
‘I take it you were successful?’
He nodded. ‘Did you doubt that I would be?’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Now, my dear girl. This fellow Herbert. He is, or rather was, very friendly with a clock and watch dealer named Simon Tye.’
‘You never met him yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. But if anyone knew him and his collection, it would be Simon Tye. Indeed, I do believe he referred to him once or twice.’
Honey thought of the watches and described them to him.
‘They sound quite exemplary.’
‘Do you think they could be stolen?’
‘Ask the police.’
‘That’s him,’ Casper said, pointing to where two men were manhandling a grandfather clock into the back of a dark blue Volvo estate. ‘I’ll introduce you.’
Chapter Twenty-six
A Volvo estate. She just couldn’t take her eyes off it.
‘Is this your car?’ she asked the man pointed out as Simon Tye.
Simon answered her a split second before Casper was about to butt in that he thought she was going to ask about watches.
‘As matter of fact, no. It belongs to a friend.’
‘Mervyn Herbert?’
He grinned. ‘I know, I know. I should ’ave give it over to the coppers, but I was after this clock and me own jalopy is off the road.’
His blatant honesty astounded her.
‘I wanted this clock,’ he said on seeing her expression. ‘The price was right, and for the mo I had the transport. OK?’
It sounded a reasonable excuse, but clues were stacking up. He’d known Mervyn. He’d known he’d collected watches. He also knew that his body had been found and here he was loading his latest purchase into the back of the deceased’s missing car.
He caught her eyeing him with curiosity. ‘Tell them I’ll drop it round.’
His cheek amazed her. Her first priority had been to ask Doherty about the watches. Now she would first tell him about finding Mervyn’s car.
‘He lent me it prior to me buying it off him. He was off on one of his train trips and didn’t want the car and said I could borrow it until I could scrape the money up together. You knew he liked trains, didn’t you?’
She could hardly deny the fact, so nodded in agreement.
‘If they want a look at it, they can. No prob.’
‘No prob,’ said Honey, flicking open her phone. ‘I’ll tell them you’ve got it.’
The desk sergeant showed her into an interview room. He also provided her with tea and biscuits.
Honey sucked on a chocolate digestive that she’d just dipped into her tea. Chocolate muffin followed by a chocolate digestive; not the healthiest diet in the world, but snatched on the hoof. That meant it didn’t count towards consumed calories.
Through the window she could see the Georgian buildings at the back of Manvers Street . Her eyes travelled slowly over the back yards where weeds grew and stray moggies mated and fought. Down under the houses were deep cellars. Some stretched out under the road, with rough workshops behind iron grills. Some were damp, dark and musty. Others had been transformed into very nice basement apartments, or workshops and studios. The best, abutting the main thoroughfares, had become trendy wine bars and up-market restaurants.
Doherty looked as though he hadn’t slept all night. ‘Complicated,’ he said in answer to her enquiring look.
‘I left a message on your phone. I saw Mervyn’s car this morning.’
He suddenly seemed to wake up. ‘Where?’
She told him. ‘A chap called Simon Tye said that Mervyn had lent him it prior to him raising the cash to buy it. He also said that Mervyn was going off travelling again.’
‘You’re kidding!’
She shook her head. ‘You’ll catch him unloading a clock on the double yellow lines on the road closest to his shop if you want to give it the once-over.’
‘You bet I do!’
She waited as he opened the door and shouted instructions to have both the car and Simon Tye picked up.
After he’d slammed the door shut, he scraped the chair back from the table, and sat astride, arms resting on the chair back.
‘I take it from your lack of excitability that he wasn’t too nervous about the murder.’
‘No, he wasn’t. You can never tell, though, can you?’
‘Simon Tye is hardly whiter than white – call him pure as the driven slush. That would be about right.’
He went on to tell her that forensic were adamant that the number six ingrained on the rotten wood must refer to a house close to the river. But which house? Which street? There were a lot of houses and streets with access to the river.
‘Does Simon Tye have a house close to the river?’
‘I don’t think so, but we’ll check.’ He eyed her as though not quite sure of what to say next. ‘Tea OK?’ He took a slurp of his own.
‘Mmm,’ she muttered, unable to get rid of the feeling that something was going on here. ‘You sound as though you know where he lives.’
They both fell to comfortable silence.
Doherty suddenly surprised her. ‘Are you free next Wednesday evening?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’ve been invited to an open evening at a bookshop.’
‘Please yourself.’
Tiredness. She could see all the signs.
‘I will.’
She sensed that he wanted to ask her if she was going alone, but had curbed himself.
However, something was brewing, and it wasn’t just tea. He was fidgeting, rubbing his hands together, and his eyes were unblinking when he looked at her. It struck her as odd that he wasn’t showing that much enthusiasm for pursuing enquiries regarding Simon Tye and the Volvo estate.
‘OK,’ she said, sensing he wanted her to ask what was afoot. ‘You look as though you scored with a supermodel last night. What’s up?’
‘We’ve got him,’ he blurted.
‘And this is a celebratory tea?’
She raised her mug. It had a motif on the side saying I Love Bath. She flashed that side at him.
‘Nice to see that the police are promoting tourism, if only in a small way.’
‘I’m being serious. Robert Davies is in custody. We found him living with a girlfriend on a narrow boat at Bathampton.’
‘I’m pretty serious too. Why do you think the Hotels Association are getting involved in police work? It’s not because we’ve got nothing better to do.’
‘We can’t celebrate just yet, not until I’ve got a full confession.’
‘You haven’t got any evidence have you?’
His cheeks did a funny sucking in and out, as though she’d slapped him.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘As though I’m not doing enough.’
‘Are you being persuasive enough?’
‘You mean, slap him around a bit, burn him with lighted c
igarette ends or attach electrodes to his meat and two veg?’
‘Is that what you do?’
‘Nah! The Bill of Human Rights put a stop to all that. Anyway, I don’t smoke so the cigarettes are out. And I’m not a qualified electrician. You know how it is with Health and Safety these days.’
‘I see your point. You act within given guidelines. But I don’t. You’re the professional. I’m the amateur.’
‘You Jane, me Tarzan.’
‘Let’s not be silly. Now. Important question. We can understand why Robert Davies would kill Mervyn.’
‘Loretta’s confirmed that she told him.’
‘Right. But why would he kill an American he didn’t know?’
‘There is another possibility. Mervyn Herbert and Elmer Maxted were about the same build, same height. It’s possible that the first killing was a case of mistaken identity.
Honey sniffed. ‘A bit overdramatic in my book!’
‘Look,’ he said, mimicking her stance, knuckles on the desk and facing each other so that their noses were only inches apart. ‘Trust me on this. Davies did both murders. I guarantee it.’
One look into those baby blue eyes, and her thoughts hit the buffers. It took some effort to get the wheels back on the line, but eventually she got everything – including her pole dancing hormones – back on track.
‘What about the watches? Were they stolen?’
‘Mrs Herbert provided receipts.’
Honey eyed the backs of Georgian houses through the window behind him. The view verged on the ugly. The crescents and squares were beautifully symmetric at the front. The backs of the properties were a different matter, carbuncles of varying shapes and sizes added in Victorian times.
‘Steve, it doesn’t make sense. How could one be so easily mistaken for the other? OK, I know they were the same height and build, but their features were so different. Their hair colour for a start.’
She’d only seen a passport photograph of Elmer Maxted, but she’d seen Mervyn Herbert. There were more differences than similarities.
‘Clothes could make them look similar.’
Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) Page 17