Honey was heading for the door and the man across the street.
‘I want a word with you,’ she called out as she ran across the road, weaving in and out of the cars.
A bevy of car horns blew in quick succession. Brakes screeched and a truck driver let loose with a whole host of expletives that did nothing for Bath’s cultural heritage.
Her attention was fixed on the man in the trainers. She’d half expected him to leg it, but he didn’t. Instead he hesitated, shifting his stance and drawing his hands from his pockets.
Flight or fight, that was the choice he was facing. Flight meant darting off through the evening rush-hour traffic. Fight was facing a middle-aged woman who was wide enough to keep him pinned behind a wheelie bin.
‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded.
He had chocolate brown eyes and corn-coloured hair. Mid-twenties and made to be admired. She’d seen him before. But where? It would come to her, but first the explanation.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘So! Apologise!’
‘I … I … apologise.’
Shifting from one foot to the other, he looked preoccupied, gazing into the distance.
Suddenly she was back in Charlborough Grange, studying the family photographs hung in a line on one wall.
‘You’re Lance Charlborough.’
‘I found out,’ he said, as though those three little words answered everything she might wish to know. ‘I found out that my real mother died in a fire.’
The fuzzy photographs in a copy of the Irish Times sprang into her mind.
Suddenly the articles in the old newspapers pointed in the right direction. One in the Irish Times. One in the Bath newspaper.
‘How?’ she asked.
‘Mark had always tried to keep the truth from me. He’s older than me. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me. No one.’
‘Mark Conway?’
He nodded.
‘We’re brothers. He’s older than me. When our mother died, he ended up in an orphanage. I disappeared, fostered out so he was told. But I wasn’t. Not really. Money changed hands. I become Lance Charlborough. Mark ended up in London and went looking for me. He saw my photo in a newspaper with my father at one of his military things.’
There was an intense sadness in his eyes.
‘So! What happened?’
Lance swallowed as though he were having trouble coming to terms with what he’d learned and what he wanted to say.
‘Our father couldn’t cope when our mother died. He abandoned us. Sir Andrew took me in. He’d lost his son. He wanted another. A lot of money was involved, but it wasn’t only that. He was devastated. His real son was a haemophiliac. He died in a road accident miles from anywhere. Mark was fostered with some people Sir Andrew knew. It was them that got him the job with Sir Andrew after he came out of the army.’
Initially, she had been going to berate him for following her, but not now.
‘How did you find out?’
‘She told me. My stepmother. She got it from the American. Apparently the first Lady Charlborough was his sister-in-law.’
‘And your father? Sir Andrew? Does he know that you know?’
He nodded. ‘He does now. When I left home a few weeks ago, my father – Sir Andrew – cried out after me that he’d make everything right. That there was no need to worry about my inheritance.’
He shook his head, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
‘But it isn’t my inheritance, is it? Not really.’
Honey felt a compunction to cuddle him, pat him on the back as though he were a little boy again, a little boy who had lost his mother.
‘I don’t know the details. I can’t comment.’
‘I never knew anything about it until she told me. Mark knew, but he’d kept it from me. He’d protected me. He’s always protected me.’
Despite his age, Lance Charlborough had a waif-like quality about him.
‘Come and have a coffee.’
Over coffee he told her that he’d got a job as a voluntary prison visitor. That was when he’d met Robert Davies – Bob the Job. It was him that did the tracing and came up with Elmer Maxted, related by marriage to Sir Andrew’s first wife. Lance had contacted him. He’d insisted on coming over right away. Lance had begged him not to use his real name, just in case his adoptive father sussed what was going on.
‘I wish I hadn’t started this. I feel so guilty about Elmer getting killed.’
‘Do you think your father did it?’
The chocolate pools looked into hers before he nodded. ‘But I couldn’t turn him in. I love him as a father, so I couldn’t do that no matter what he’s done.’
She thought of her mother and nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘I wanted to know what was going on, so I followed you.’
‘Why not follow the cops?’
He shrugged. ‘They’re the professionals. They might have noticed me.’
It hurt. But never mind, she told herself. You’re proving them all wrong. The professionals adhered to strict guidelines. Her enquiries were less stringent and carried out between the shenanigans of a domineering mother and a dozy dishwasher.
They parted company once she’d promised she would let him know when someone was actually arrested. He gave her his phone number, but no address.
‘Just in case you cave in under torture. I don’t want my father – my adoptive father – to know where I am.’
Your father’s liable to torture me?
She didn’t voice the comment, just in case he confirmed it was true and she gave up sleuthing to take up line dancing instead. You couldn’t line dance if your legs had turned to jelly or your toenails had been pulled out one by one.
After he’d gone, she felt a need to talk to someone about the nuances of the case, but not the police. They were busily looking for Mark Conway, Lance’s brother.
She phoned Casper. He answered within seconds.
‘What now?’
‘I thought you’d like to know what’s going on in the world of crime fighting.’
‘Not really, my dear. I just want things tidied up for the sake of next year’s profit ratio. I trust you are swiftly putting this problem to bed. Are you doing that, Hannah?’
Honey failed to suppress a surprising shiver. Only a man like Casper could sound like her mother.
She bounced back, her mood was reflected in her tone. ‘Well you know what they say, Casper. If you want a man to do a good job, get a woman to do it.’
He made a snorting sound. Disdain was Casper’s middle name.
She carried on, wanting to tell someone involved – even if only on a moderate level – all that was going on.
‘The police arrested the wrong man. His name’s Trevor Spiteri.’
‘That’s a foreign name.’
‘Being foreign isn’t an indication of guilt.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’
‘They’ll have to let him go. And by the way, I think I should tell you I’m being followed.’
‘A psycho?’
‘No. Just sad.’
She explained about the basement flat and the expensive perfume. She also explained about the newspapers the watches were wrapped in being the clue and reminded him of the photos she’d sent to him.
‘At least the newspapers were of some value,’ he said sniffily. By that Honey presumed he meant that the watches were not.
She stuck to the subject in hand.
‘It all ties in. Lance wrote to Elmer who was murdered because he knew it was virtually impossible that his nephew was still alive. The real Lance died in a road accident way out in the Spanish interior, far from any city. Drugs to speed blood clotting in haemophiliacs weren’t so widely available then. Mervyn was showing Elmer his watch collection, but Elmer’s attention was drawn to the old newspapers. First the report of a fire, and then the photograph of father and son at a social event, plus Mark Conway. The two b
oys were doubles for the two boys whose mother had died in the fire. Both Elmer and Mervyn put two and two together. I think Mervyn tried a touch of blackmail.’
‘And now?’ Casper’s tone was only slightly less disdainful than it had been.
‘I’m going to try and speak to Lady Pamela. She’s a cow but I think she’s willing to drop her husband in it.’
‘Not a happy marriage?’
‘Far from it.’
Casper taken care of. Doherty was next.
‘Are you now ready to hear more?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The next door neighbour kept a diary of the comings and goings in Rathbone Terrace.’
‘And?’
‘I think I know where Mark Conway is.’
‘I want that diary.’
‘I’ll bring it to you, but not yet. Not until I’m satisfied that every stone’s been turned.’
Chapter Thirty-five
It might have been sheer instinct that made her swerve into the car park in front of the church. On the other hand, it could have been fear. Confronting Charlborough filled her with dread.
She watched as two women armed with bunches of gladioli, roses, lupins and delphiniums disappeared through the arched doorway. Keeping the church clean and placing flower displays in dark little alcoves took on a sudden – and safe – attraction.
Why do you suddenly want jam and Jerusalem? she asked herself. Surely you knew before you started this that being a detective isn’t like doing a crossword puzzle?
Summer was in full swing, the trees groaning in the breeze under the weight of dark green leaves, the grass bowing in waves.
Once the coast was clear, she got out of the car, locked it and followed the path through the churchyard.
Passing along the side of the church and around the back, the grass was longer and the earth lumpy. She stopped and kicked at a mound.
‘Moles,’ said a voice.
The muddy face of a gravedigger was regarding her from an empty grave.
‘Well I didn’t think it was somebody trying to sit up.’
He bent back to his job. Honey went back to hers.
Wispy heads of uncut grass tickled her legs as marble headstones gave way to pock-marked stone from centuries before. The names of the departed had flaked away. Lichen blemished the faces of granite angels and ivy smothered the last breath from a rose bush planted on a child’s grave.
In the distance sunlight flashed on the windows of Charlborough Grange.
Swiftly, before she could change her mind, she followed the overgrown path to the stone stile and climbed over.
The footpath on the other side of the stile led her beside the canal before veering off towards Charlborough Grange.
The smell of wood smoke curled lazily up from a well-stacked bonfire. There was no one in sight.
The huge greenhouse lured her onwards. She remembered the heads, the very ones Mark Conway made from wax, clay and latex.
The sandbags were still piled around the entrance and because of their height would hide her from anyone.
The door made a sucking sound when she opened it and the humidity gushed out like a warm wave.
Leaving daylight and fresh air behind, it took time for her eyes to adjust to the gloom and her nose to the smell of rotting vegetation. Worse was the humidity. Within seconds her clothes were stuck to her back and the silence was oppressive.
‘Anyone here?’ she called. Her voice was lost in the greenery.
There was no neat path down the middle, no trays of seedlings waiting to be planted. Huge leaves fanned out from plants whose more natural habitat was Borneo or Sumatra; somewhere further south and east than North Somerset.
Jungle was the only word to adequately describe it. Just as she thought it, the sound of insects, monkeys, and all the other strange noises associated with a tropical rain forest burst into being.
Don’t be scared. It’s no different from being in KewGardens. Though clammier .
And there wasn’t the possibility of latex heads being scattered around at Kew.
Her hair clung stubbornly to her face.
‘Is anyone there?’ she shouted again. The sound of insects and monkeys drowned her out.
A tape. It was only a tape.
All the same she kept her eyes open.
Bravely she made her way beneath huge leaves, stepped over thick roots. A flash of colour to the right caught her attention. An orchid. Just one. For some stupid reason she was curious to know whether it was in a pot. She stepped closer, the thick foliage closing behind her.
Looking everywhere except down at her feet, she suddenly fell over.
‘Damn!’ she muttered, then checked her ankles, then her knees. Nothing broken. Just caked with mud.
But who had turned on the tape? It hadn’t been running when she’d first entered – had it?
With trembling fingers, she parted the leaves and peered out.
At first she saw no one, and then there he was.
His face was blackened. He wore fatigues, carried what looked like an AK47 under one arm, not that she knew much about guns, only that they scared her.
His hand rested on a long leather sheath hanging from his belt.
Her nerves jangled. Suddenly, she wanted to pee.
In the bushes? Hardly ladylike and in this heat she could probably sweat it out.
Putting her trust in her metabolism, she melted into the undergrowth.
The soil she slid into was soft and damp. She inwardly groaned at the obvious. Footsteps would be seen.
She sank back as far as she could without making a noise. What would Charlborough – if it was Charlborough – do if he caught her?
Swallowing fear was like swallowing cornflakes without milk. It stuck and was sharp in her throat.
More rustling ensued around her. Another figure joined the first one.
She heard someone sigh. ‘Christ, I’ve had enough of this.’
Peering cautiously through the undergrowth, she saw the recent arrival take off his balaclava.
‘Still, it has been quite a team-forming weekend,’ said the other man.
She didn’t recognize either of them. Peeing was still a priority. She just had to break cover.
‘Gentlemen!’
They looked taken aback to see her emerging from the bushes.
‘Are you with us?’ asked the Johnny-come-lately.
‘No. I’m with the Tourist Board. We’re doing a survey on customer satisfaction. Are you totally satisfied with your weekend here?’
She dragged Mrs Patel’s notebook out of her bag just to make the lie look a little more authentic. Her hand wasn’t really big enough to hide the pink plastic cover and the bright red lips; only King Kong could do that.
‘I’ll just make a few notes,’ she said as more weekend soldiers tumbled out of the bushes. ‘How do you rate the course on a scale of one to ten?’
She pretended to note down the series of numbers called to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said, shoving everything back into her bag. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
All thoughts of confronting Charlborough went out of her head. Hot and sweaty, she ran all the way back to the canal.
The sobbing branches of a willow tree dipped into the water on one side and on the bank the grass beneath it looked soft and green.
Her legs protesting that they hadn’t done cross country running since she was fifteen, she flung herself beneath its shade.
Her bag flopped open and Mrs Patel’s notebook fell out. The red plastic lips looked incongruous amongst the greenness.
Birdsong and the sound of a brightly painted narrow boat heading towards Bath made her want to linger.
Castles, roses and impossibly blue birds decorated the vessel’s full length. The bright colours even outdid the cover of Mrs Patel’s diary. But the cover made her smile.
‘Nice day,’ she called out. ‘Lovely boat.’
‘Thank you.’
; She looked along the canal in the direction the narrow boat had come from. There was a white boat moored fifty yards away. The sign fastened to it said, PRIVATE MOORING. CHARLBOROUGH GRANGE.
So! Sir Andrew owned a luxury river boat made of shiny fibreglass and stainless steel. It must surely have a large engine, another mechanical device for Mark Conway to look after.
She picked up the diary and began to read. It was strong stuff – at least as far as the case was concerned.
Mrs Patel reported Mr Conway coming in but not going out. She also mentioned activity at the river’s edge; someone clearing out their cellar and boats coming and going.
The dates were clear. Mrs Patel was very observant. She described what looked like a rolled-up carpet or a piece of furniture being turned out into the river. The phraseology reflected her obvious indignation. It looked to come from number nine, she had added.
‘But number nine’s empty,’ murmured Honey.
She lay back in the grass. The peace of the old canal was disturbed by yet another boat. Opening her eyes, she raised herself on to one elbow and looked.
The river cruiser was white and long. Its owner/captain stood proudly at the wheel with a blonde woman beside him. They were both in their fifties, just about the right age for indulging their dreams.
Suddenly she sat upright. Sir Andrew Charlborough could afford to indulge himself. The canal, not the river ran through the grounds of Charlborough Grange. Via a series of lock gates, the canal led into the river …
As one piece of jigsaw fitted into another – and all based around the canal – she dialled Steve Doherty’s number.
‘Have you interviewed Mrs Patel?’
‘Honey!’
He sounded pleased to hear her.
‘Yes, I have. Very interesting, but we need a bit more. Best of all would be finding Mark Conway.’
‘He’s our man. I told you. He killed both men.’
‘We confirmed with Sir Andrew that his wife had been having an affair with Mark Conway. He didn’t seem unduly worried about it.’
‘Did she deny it?’
‘She wasn’t there. Her husband says she’s gone back to Spain.’
‘And I don’t suppose he’s worried about that either.’
Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) Page 24