Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘It’s been warm this month and neither would have been bundled up in coats. People can disguise themselves if they’re dressed for winter wearing scarves and mufflers, and thick padded jackets, but hi there, just in case you didn’t notice, it’s summer.’

  ‘An English summer, though I’ll grant you it’s been fairly warm, but I still believe that he did it. The first victim was a case of mistaken identity. The second – well – I think we all know the reason for that. The bloke had it coming to him.’

  ‘And the piece of wood? And the spice sacks? The wood had to come from somewhere, a house close to the river. And why spice sacks? Whoever killed these men had to have had access to a source. Otherwise, why not coal sacks or hay sacks, or even plastic bags?’

  Honey glanced at her watch. ‘Got to go. I’ve still got a hotel to run.’

  And maybe that delicious John Rees might have dropped by.

  ‘I’d really like to see you again,’ he shouted after her as she headed for the door.

  Her footsteps slowed then she thought of John Rees and they quickened again.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Back at the Green River Hotel, things only appeared to be running smoothly.

  Honey walked into the dining room and instantly felt an undercurrent of something askew.

  Her mother was standing in front of a table, taking linen squares from one side of the table and folding them into table napkins.

  Straight from the laundry and stiff with starch, they usually stood crisply upright. Today the folds were haphazard and the fan shapes they were supposed to represent flopped this way and that.

  Normally meticulous about presentation, it was obvious to Honey that her mother’s mind was elsewhere.

  ‘Lindsey didn’t come home last night. I don’t think it’s right.’

  Lindsey’s movements and behaviour continued to be a bone of contention between them. Honey thought Lindsey should be allowed free rein to make her own mistakes. Her mother thought she should have more boyfriends and even be thinking of getting engaged.

  Honey had got into the habit of playing the problem down – because really there was no problem.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she was that late. She was out with friends and told me she would be late coming in. It’s no big deal.’

  Her mother threw her an accusing look. ‘Hannah, I may be on the downhill run to the time when I receive the centenary birthday card from the Queen, but I am not gaga. I still have all my marbles and I know that my granddaughter did not come home last night. I know this because I went in to make her bed this morning, but didn’t need to. It hadn’t been slept in.’

  ‘She slept at Sam’s,’ said Honey.

  ‘Sam? Who’s he?’

  ‘She. Samantha.’

  She wasn’t too sure whether Lindsey had a friend named Samantha, but it was as good an excuse as any.

  A friend made up is a friend indeed.

  The truth was that Lindsey had phoned and left a message on the answer phone saying she was sleeping at Sam’s place. She didn’t know of a female friend named Sam. No way was she telling her mother that.

  The pinched lips straightened. ‘That’s all right then.’

  Her mother’s next subject was that Mary Jane was organising a séance in the hope that Sir Cedric would manifest himself on a more visual plain.

  ‘I think she’s nuts,’ said her mother. ‘But there. What can you expect from a woman of her age who dresses like a refugee from a Cindy doll factory?’

  The phone burbled against her hip. She eyed the caller’s number, didn’t recognise it, but pressed receive anyway.

  ‘Hi. This is John Rees.’

  Flip went her heart. The day was turning brighter. What was it Lindsey had said? Better to be desired by two men rather than one.

  ‘Just a minute.’ She turned her back, her feet heading for the far corner of the restaurant.

  ‘Who’s that?’ her mother called after her.

  She took the phone outside where sun-dappled leaves rustled against a powder blue sky.

  ‘I thought we needed to finalise things regarding the Victorian evening.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Swooning time. His voice reminded her of the southern guys in Elvis Presley’s backing group – the sort of huskiness that comes down the nose rather than out of the mouth. Her legs turned to jelly.

  ‘How about we meet up this evening. Have some dinner. Talk about all things Victorian?’

  ‘Especially underwear. And foundation garments in general. The historical perspective.’

  ‘Yes. The historical perspective. Nice angle.’

  They arranged to meet at the George at Norton St Phillip, an ancient hostelry a few miles outside the city.

  Both a brewery and inn for close on a thousand years, the place was a living museum. Leather harnesses, old flintlocks, rusty farm implements and bright brass lanterns hung from every beam, every spare bit of ceiling space. A pile of leaflets stating that the hostelry had been brewing since the fourteenth century steadily dwindled. A Japanese group were in, cameras strung around their necks, faces full of enthusiasm. One after another they went to the bar, scrutinised the leaflets and took what they wanted.

  North American accents blended easily with those from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. French, Italian, German and Dutch gabbled alongside Japanese and Spanish. The place was busy – as usual.

  ‘Wow! Can you beat this!’ John exclaimed, head back and eyes wide with wonder. ‘Everything is so … old! Don’t you just love it?’

  ‘England’s like that. Old, I mean.

  ‘No point in visiting England if you don’t like old,’ he said, his smile warming parts some people’s smiles couldn’t possibly reach.

  ‘Are you interested in history …?’ she asked, then felt stupid. ‘Sorry. Of course you are. That’s the whole point of the exhibition, isn’t it?’

  If she’d been younger she would have blushed. The thought was whimsical and fluttered around her mind pushing aside the remaining impetus to go knocking on doors bearing the numbers six and nine, at least for now. It wouldn’t go away completely. She felt an affinity with Elmer Maxted. He’d come looking for his roots. She understood that. Daughter of an American father and an English mother, she’d floated between the two worlds not knowing quite where she belonged. Once he’d blotted his copybook her mother had blocked out her father’s memory.

  Like Carl and me. Could behaviour towards men be hereditary?

  John was ordering food. She’d been running on automatic when she’d told him what she wanted – King Prawn salad in Cajun spices.

  They were both driving so they stayed with soft drinks. Once that was done they got down to serious conversation – or as serious as it needed to be.

  ‘So how long have you been running the hotel?’

  She fingered her glass then took a sip.

  ‘Two years now.’

  ‘You must enjoy it.’

  ‘Sometimes I enjoy meeting people. Sometimes I want to hide away from them.’

  He made a so-so kind of face.

  ‘Understandable. I suppose you don’t get too much time off.’

  ‘Not nearly enough. At least this police thing gets me out of the place. It’s an interesting other dimension to the hospitality trade. She surprised herself by burbling on about the murder case and what Steve had said, and what she had said. She stopped herself when she thought she was giving too much away.

  ‘I met your mother and your daughter.’

  Honey smiled. ‘The sugar and spice in my life – though don’t ask me which is which.’

  ‘Your daughter looks like you. Your mother …’

  She held up a warning finger. ‘Please don’t mention anything about broomsticks! OK?’

  He grinned. ‘I was going to say that she’s quite a character.’

  ‘That’s a thought-provoking descri
ption.’

  ‘Hey! You make her sound like Cruella de Ville.’

  ‘No, my mother would never make a coat of puppies, though she might make a stew.’

  He eyed her speculatively. Speculation and truth-seeking about her family was the last thing she needed.

  ‘Only joking. She’s just getting old and cantankerous,’ she said lightly lowering her eyes as she sipped her drink.

  Heaven help her if she ever found out she’d said that.

  Over plates of magnificently pink prawns speckled with spice, their conversation turned to the exhibition. She watched his lips move as he told her about the guest list. They were strong lips, supple with words. And kissing, she thought. I bet they’re good at kissing.

  He told her the names of the wines he’d chosen and the fact that his sister-in-law had taken charge of the catering. She wanted to ask why his wife, the ice queen he’d brought into the restaurant, wasn’t doing it, but it was none of her business. Keep to the facts, she thought to herself.

  Be a pleasant girl, Hannah! Her mother’s voice again. On this occasion she decided to take her advice.

  ‘So what other historical artefacts have you managed to get hold of?’

  He finished chewing a particularly fat prawn before he answered.

  ‘A suit of armour, a sedan chair and a clock. Each represents a certain aspect of history. The suit of armour represents military history, the sedan chair represents the history of transport and the clock represents industrial history – the crowning glory of the industrial revolution.’

  Her hair tickled her shoulder as she tilted her head to one side.

  ‘So where do Queen Victoria’s unmentionables fit in?’

  ‘Simple. They represent women’s rights, the march towards emancipation.’

  Honey coughed into her drink.

  John looked surprised. ‘Have I said something funny?’

  Regurgitating her drink and in danger of having it come down her nose, Honey pinched her nostrils quite fiercely. It took a few seconds before she could answer.

  ‘I can’t quite see the connection between a massive pair of crutch-less bloomers and the onward march of women’s emancipation.’

  ‘Big underwear. Big skirts. Women’s movement was restricted by their clothes. Then came the twentieth century and – WHAM – everything changed.’

  ‘Though not very quickly.’

  ‘OK, no. Not very quickly, well not until the twenties, the Charleston and the flappers. But it happened. Women finally escaped big skirts, tight corsets and big underwear.’

  ‘So my pair of bloomers are the before part of the equation.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Imagine all the things you wouldn’t be able to do if you wore a big skirt.’

  She was thoughtful as she watched him mop up the remains of his meal with a piece of granary bread.

  As she raised her glass to finish off the last of the wine, she caught sight of a familiar face. Loretta Davies saw her, pushed back her chair and marched over.

  Loretta was drunk. The smell of wine fell from her mouth and her eyes were bright with too much of it.

  She was wearing an embroidered tunic and green leggings. Rings still adorned her fingers and dangled from her ears. Honey gave silent thanks that her pasty belly was covered.

  ‘You know they’ve arrested my father.’

  Honey half rose. ‘Yes, I’m so sorry, Loretta.’

  ‘He didn’t do it.’ She shook her head slowly as she said it, each individual movement coinciding with each spoken word. ‘He didn’t,’ she added defiantly, as though those two last words confirmed everything not contained in the evidence.

  Other diners cast looks in their direction.

  Honey looked across in the direction Loretta had come from to check who she was with. Cora had kicked back her chair and was on her way over.

  ‘Come away, girl. You’re making a scene. No point in doing that, and anyway, Mrs Driver can’t help you. She’s not police. She don’t carry any weight at all.’

  Loretta calmed down. Cora took hold of her hand and began to guide her away.

  She paused suddenly and eyed Honey over her shoulder.

  ‘They’ve told me not to touch any of Mervyn’s stuff until you lot take another look at things. Robert didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.’

  Honey couldn’t think of a single solitary thing to say that would help. But somehow she felt Cora deserved some help; she deserved it, married to the likes of Mervyn.

  She sipped at a glass of water as she thought it through. What piece of evidence was there that could possibly let Robert Davies off the hook?

  The only thing that sprang to mind was the impression of a number in a piece of wood.

  John’s voice suddenly invaded her thoughts.

  ‘Judging by the look on your face, I guess we’d better call it a day,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her gaze strayed to the heavy oak door shutting behind Cora and her daughter.

  ‘They need support as much as sympathy.’

  And I have plans to make, she told herself.

  First she had to go back to Charlborough Grange and ask if Elmer Maxted had visited the house itself, not just the church or talking to Pamela Charlborough over the wall.

  She sighed. Not this afternoon. She still had a business to run. Tomorrow would do, and she didn’t need to go alone.

  She was aware that John Rees was studying her closely, a slight frown feathering his brows.

  ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow?’ she asked him.

  A lock of fair hair fell over his eyes as John shook his head.

  ‘Fancy a drive in the country?’

  He grinned. ‘Sure. Where to?’

  ‘Charlborough Grange. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Sure. Of course I do. That’s where the guy lives who’s loaning me this very clock, one that was first shown at the Paris Exhibition.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  A summer shower had come and gone and the sun had stepped out from behind a pink puffy cloud.

  The main A36 that ranged out of Bath and up through Freshford was as wet and shiny as a docile river. A rainbow stretched from one side of the valley to the other. The road, the valley, the river and canal snaked towards it.

  ‘It’s not really true to say that this is an afternoon drive,’ she said to John Rees.

  To her surprise he agreed with her.

  ‘It’s a great opportunity to finalise arrangements for the loan of the clock. Business and pleasure; what could be better?’

  Her phone rang just as they pulled up outside. It was Steve Doherty.

  ‘Guess where Davies has been living?’

  She didn’t want to guess. From the moment she’d squeezed into the bucket seat in John Rees’s Austin Healey, the real world and her concerns had folded in on itself – a bit like the way she’d folded into the seat, skirt thigh high and knees slightly apart and pressed against the dashboard. Elegant she was not!

  The warmth of John’s thigh was pressing against hers. Who cared that the day was warm? A little more heat of this type was perfectly acceptable.

  She thought about hitting the ‘busy’ button. Doherty pre-empted her action.

  ‘Honey? Are you there?’

  Too late!

  ‘Go on. Hit me.’

  ‘Prior to the narrow boat, Davies was living in a flat in Charlotte Terrace. Right next to the river. Number SIX Charlotte Terrace! We’ve got him!’

  She could imagine his face, the wide-open eyes, the smile fixed like that of a painted clown. No. Clown was wrong. He was a man doing his job in a straitjacket. He had rules and guidelines, the media and a demanding public to deal with. He was also quite dishy, an uninvited thought that had the effect of making her remove her thigh from that of John Rees.

  ‘Did you find any evidence?’

  ‘Circumstantial, but enough. See? I told you he was the right man.’

  Doherty w
as cock-a-hoop that he’d found the culprit. Either he hadn’t latched on to the note of misgiving in her voice, or he’d ignored it. The inclination to tell him she was still unconvinced played second fiddle today. He deserved support.

  Once she’d conceded that he was right, the connection was terminated.

  ‘All set?’ said John.

  Rose petals disturbed by the wind were blowing across the gravel driveway at the front of Charlborough Grange.

  Mark Conway was standing in front of the main door. He looked as though he’d been expecting them.

  There was hostility in his eyes, but, my, he certainly knew how to control it, Honey thought. His mouth smiled independently – almost as though they were long-lost friends.

  He listened attentively as John explained why he was there.

  ‘The clock …’ He expressed himself eloquently and was straight to the point. Mark Conway nodded.

  He nodded. ‘Ah, yes, sir. I am aware of the arrangement. Please come this way.’

  If Mark Conway had recognised her as having visited before, he did not acknowledge it.

  They were shown into the conservatory and invited to sit on Lloyd loom chairs. Gratefully they sank into cushions covered in heavy cotton on which huge roses flourished. Mark went off to alert Sir Andrew.

  ‘It’s pretty hot in here,’ said John, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. He looked around pop-eyed. ‘Hey. Look at this. A genuine Victorian conservatory.’

  With Honey it wasn’t so much the history that made the impression.

  ‘This place gives me the creeps. Don’t you think those plants look like refugees from The Day of the Triffids?’

  He eyed them sceptically. ‘I have to say that this place grows on you. Like moss might grow on you if you were dead. It’s probably just its age.’

  ‘Come on. It’s creepy. Admit it.’

  He gave her a direct look.

  ‘Sure. I think I’m picking up vibes.’

  ‘Please. No paranormal stuff.’ She explained about Mary Jane. ‘One doctor of the paranormal is enough for one day!’

  Charlborough chose that moment to make an impressive entrance.

  Honey could hardly bear the look on his face; the confidence with which he strode towards them, his face a picture of patrician bonhomie.