Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I don’t like your tone, Miss,’ he barked. ‘The law does not take kindly to anyone taking the Mickey, and that, I am afraid, is what I think you are doing.’

  ‘No I was not.’ Honey shook her head as she turned the key. ‘It’s just that I think it more important you apprehend a likely stalker than stop unaccompanied women for speeding.’

  ‘Well, you’re not being followed now, Miss.’

  ‘Perhaps not. If I see the car again, I’ll let you know. In the meantime you’ve seen my licence. Good day to you.’

  Clenching her jaw, she slid the gearstick into first, foot to the floor and the roared off, the car’s deceptively small engine pushing to thirty mph in no time at all.

  Taking one last glance in the rear view mirror, she detected the policeman was standing at the side of his vehicle, speaking into his radio. Perhaps he was reporting her for driving off without his express permission, or for wearing her skirt too short. She thought of Doherty and smiled. He didn’t mind her wearing short skirts. In fact he positively encouraged it.

  Chapter Six

  The sun came out from behind a cloud just after six and although it was too late to hit an unseasonal high it was good enough for a weekend away from it all. She found herself wondering about the use of dark glass in cars. Wasn’t it illegal?

  The satnav took her along the main road running through Wyvern Wendell, the nearest market town to the Torrington Towers estate.

  Trusting the syrupy voiced instructions of the satnav woman were right, she turned at the signpost at a place called Hangman’s Corner. At the base of the signpost was an old milestone saying ninety miles to London. She guessed that as its name implied, there was once a gibbet at Hangman’s Corner.

  She avoided looking up just in case her imagination played tricks and she actually saw a skeleton encased in an iron cage, its flesh torn apart by crows and magpies.

  “Continue for three miles…’

  She wasn’t entirely trusting of satnavs, having seen some unfortunate foreign drivers end up in the middle of a Bath city thoroughfare facing the wrong way. She wanted to be sure where she was going so had taken the precaution of bringing an AA guide with her. At present it lay on the passenger seat open at the right page in case she needed to do a quick referral.

  Although the trees on either side were shedding their leaves, enough were left to keep the road in perpetual shade. The fact that the branches met overhead only added to the encircling gloom. It was like driving through a tunnel.

  On the way to the estate where the cottage was situated she passed a few hamlets and the odd cottage. It struck her that these outlying places seemed devoid of people, almost as though their only purpose was to pretty up the landscape.

  The river dissected town and village, the road dropping from a great height into the valley. The only noticeable change was some bald patches on the highest slopes where the forestry commission had harvested a series of tall conifers.

  A single road ran through the village of Upper Stanley, a place mentioned in the Doomsday Book as having a tithe barn, a church, twenty sheep, forty pigs and a ‘goodly duck pond and diverse roach and perch..

  She saw a few sheep and cows in the surrounding fields confirming that in a thousand years things hadn’t changed much. How the ducks, roach and perch were nowadays she didn’t have a clue.

  The buildings varied in age, those dating from medieval times of half timbered construction, twisted and bent with time and needful to lean against the later structures for support. Colours varied from white to cream, pink and mustard. Some were thatched. Some had slate or tiled roofs.

  At the end of the street was the church hiding behind a thick hedge of yew. The village store housed the post office and overlooked the duck pond and the ducks still wandered the village green.

  The garage boasted two antiquated petrol pumps in front of a greasy hole that was the garage workshop. The sign said Fred Cromer, Motor Engineer. There was a man out front presently engaged in filling up a car. Probably Fred Cromer. Because the garage had only a small forecourt, the car being filled was parked halfway into the road.

  Honey did a second take. The car was black with dark windows and shiny chrome wheels.

  The stalker! It had to be Dominic Christiansen, but why had he followed her?

  Honey slowed the car and did a double take. Somehow it had overtaken her, but how was that possible?

  She craned her neck looking for the driver. She couldn’t see anyone, just the attendant pumping gas.

  It was quite impossible to see him. Whoever he was, he’d gone into the garage.

  In an effort to calm her nerves she turned up the volume on the radio. Bob Dylan was singing Blowin’ in the Wind. Normally she would have sung along to the old time classic, but on this occasion she gave it a miss. She motored on, her throat dry and a feeling of apprehension chilling her blood.

  Dominic Christiansen stayed in the shadows until he was sure she’d driven past.

  The garage owner, Fred Cromer had been brewing a cup of tea when he’d arrived at the garage, his glasses misted by the steam rising from the kettle.

  ‘D’you fancy a cuppa?’ asked Fred.

  Dominic shook his head. He’d seen the mugs, thickly coated with tannin.

  ‘Then I’ll leave it to stand for a bit,’ said Fred. ‘I don’t like none of that fortnight tea – too week,’ he said, laughing at his own joke. ‘Cash or credit card?’

  Dominic handed him a credit card chosen from a suite of cards nestled in his leather wallet. A present from a past girlfriend via Harrods.

  Cromer curled his bottom lip before rummaging for the mobile payment terminal. Dominic didn’t need to be told that Cromer preferred cash.

  Dominic slid into the driver’s seat. He never tired of appreciating the comfort of the soft leather upholstery. The contours of the seat moulded to his back.

  He gave the garage owner a quick wave before making off down the High Street. A glance in his rear view mirror confirmed that Fred had foregone the tea he’d just made and was watering his plant pots. Red and white geraniums made a splash of colour, still flowering despite the advent of mid-autumn, positioned as they were between the two old-fashioned fuel pumps, one for petrol and one for diesel. The flowers prettied things up but did nothing to veil the stink of old oil and grease.

  Once out of the village, he pushed a button on the dashboard and made a call. The person he was calling answered quickly.

  ‘Has she arrived safely?’

  ‘Yes. I followed her until she got stopped by the police. She and the copper are staying at a cottage. She’s gone to it the long way round. I’ve noted there’s a shorter route. It leads to a copse. I can keep an eye on them from there.’

  He heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. ‘The sooner this is over the better. It shouldn’t be any great shakes for you, Dominic old son. She’s just a bloody amateur and won’t have a clue as to what’s going on.’

  ‘The Tarot man will be pleased. He likes to surprise people.’

  ‘I must say her boyfriend’s been something of a surprise. He’s forced us to show our hand. It would have been better if the dead man had never been identified.’

  ‘The Tarot man would have known. The girls he’s killed don’t matter. But he wanted confirmation that he’d killed the man he wanted to kill. We’ve given him that confirmation – in a roundabout way.’

  ‘Exactly as planned. As for Mrs Honey Driver, I think it’s a little too early for the Tarot Man to show his hand, but we live in hope.’

  ‘We do indeed. Full marks for your finding out about this weekend retreat, Christiansen.’

  ‘I was lucky.’

  The man on the other end of the phone had a dry humourless laugh.

  ‘You’re manipulative, Christiansen, not lucky.’

  It had proved too easy to ask questions at the police station and even easier at the Green River Hotel – until the woman’s daughter had intervened.

&
nbsp; ‘She’s already left for a weekend away.’ Like Doherty, she knew nothing about the funeral.

  ‘Can you tell me where?’

  He’d winced under the directness of her gaze, but pulled himself together quickly.

  ‘You’re the man she met out at Bradford on Avon.’

  ‘I wanted to see her again.’

  Her voice had softened a little, but she still hadn’t been forthcoming.‘I think that’s her business unless she wanted to tell you herself.’

  She was a sharp cookie, not easily fooled. He’d decided to back off.

  Straight after that, he’d bumped into Honey Driver’s mother who was leaving the hotel at the same time as he was. He heard the daughter behind reception calling her Gran in response to which the older woman’s expression turned thunderous.

  ‘Lindsey. You know how I feel about you calling me that.’

  ‘Okay. Gloria. Gloria my grandmother.’

  There was a hint of contempt in the granddaughter’s voice.

  Dominic had taken full advantage of the situation, opening the hotel door for the older woman, playing the charm card for all he was worth.

  ‘Perhaps I could buy you coffee?’

  It had worked swimmingly and over two frothy cappuccinos she had made it obvious that she did not approve of the copper with whom her daughter was having a relationship.

  ‘Neither do I approve of unmarried people going away for the weekend. And not even a hotel! A cottage in the middle of nowhere. Now, who in their right mind wants to be that isolated?’

  He had the sort of mind used to dealing with more than one problem at a time, so was ready to explain his findings.

  ‘Honey Driver is no fool. Very observant. She saw me, or rather she gave every sign that she knew somebody was following her.’

  ‘Did she now!’

  The man on the other end of the phone sounded displeased.

  ‘It’s not like you to be so careless.’

  ‘I try not to be.’

  ‘This is what I want from you.’

  Dominic found himself almost yawning at the sound of the voice. Its coldness was not affiliated to snow or frost but rather to the empty chill of a sepulchre. Basically he found it boring and in order to bear it better he took a card out of his pocket – a Tarot card.

  The voice droned on. ‘I would have halved your load and put a separate tail on him, but I don’t have the manpower. This weekend at least you’ll have to keep an eye on them both.’

  Once the connection was severed, Dominic sighed. A rough weekend was in store. He’d found an old tin shed in which to hide the car whilst he prowled outside, keeping an eye on the cottage from within the copse surrounding it.

  Within the tin shed he stripped off his smart casual clothes and donned field fatigues, took out his binoculars and long-range sound recording equipment that James Bond would have been proud to make use of.

  He’d thought his days of roughing it in combat gear were over.

  ‘Getting too old for this,’ he muttered to himself.

  He took one last item from a box hidden beneath the floor in the boot of the car. A small firearm. The pair about to move into the cottage was innocent of what they’d stumbled into. At some point he might have to enlighten them, but for now it made sense to be prepared.

  Chapter Seven

  The cottage was surrounded by trees and approached along a single track road. The sign had been half hidden by overhanging foliage, but with the aid of ‘Ada’ as she’d nicknamed the satnav, she arrived at her destination.

  She found herself in a clearing, the cottage – suitably measuring up to the description of chocolate box - was right ahead. There was an old Mini Clubman parked outside. It looked in pretty decent condition. A woman appeared in the cottage door. This, Honey knew, was the woman who looked after the cottage. The old car obviously belonged to her.

  ‘Here you are, me dear,’ said the cheery faced woman. ‘My name’s Mrs Cromer. I look after this place for the owner. I think everything will be to your satisfaction. There’s two steaks cut thick as your finger in the fridge, plus milk and basics. If there’s anything else you need, give me a call. I’ve left my number,’ she added with a cheery smile. ‘I’m off now on account that Mr Cromer will be wanting his dinner.’

  ‘Can I ask you something before you go?’

  Mrs Cromer looked only slightly perturbed at being delayed.

  ‘As long as it’s short and sweet, dear.’

  ‘Did you know Lord Torrington?’

  ‘Everybody did.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘Oh yes. A gentleman, but a bit of a lad – even at his age.’

  She chuckled.

  ‘The stories I could tell...’

  ‘Do you think...?’

  Mrs Cromer waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh you don’t want any second hand tales from me. I take it you’re attending the funeral.’

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘Then you’ll no doubt get some firsthand information there.’ Her voice dropped and her eyes widened as she imparted a little local knowledge.

  ‘They used to call him the Thoroughbred Stud!’

  She laughed at that, waved her hand again and was gone.

  A cool breeze rustled the trees as she stood watching Mrs Cromer drive away. Once the car had disappeared the sun hid behind a cloud. The trees rustled more ominously and she shivered.

  Glancing at her watch, she saw it would be at least another hour before Doherty arrived. Time enough to get her single piece of luggage out of the boot plus the ready made meals she’d bought at Marks and Spencer. Dine In for Two complete with a bottle of wine. Who needed anything else? She reminded herself that Mrs Cromer had mentioned buying in two steaks. If they were locally raised they were bound to be good.

  The cottage had flag stone floors, an Aga cooker, and the living room had antique chairs with shiny wooden frames and velvet upholstery. Most of it looked pretty comfortable.

  The bedroom, approached via a spiral staircase, was pretty. A rug scattered with pink roses and green leaves covered the centre of the bedroom floor. The walls were scattered with smaller versions of the flowers on the rug. The bed was of white painted cast iron, quite decorative and about five feet wide. Plenty of space for two.

  Dear Mrs Cromer had placed a bottle of white wine in the fridge. Honey helped herself to a glass while she waited for Doherty to arrive.

  She might have dozed. She certainly drank more than one glass of wine. The sound of a car and headlights flashing into the descending darkness heralded his arrival. He was late.

  Honey opened the front door pleased that the table was laid and they could eat once he’d brought in his things.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he said as he entered the cottage without making comment on how cosy it was and that something smelled good.

  ‘What is it?’

  Doherty frowned and for a moment looked at her as though having second thoughts about telling her anything.

  ‘Well you already know that the deceased was Caspar’s brother.’

  Honey clung tightly to her wine glass.

  ‘And?’

  Doherty flung off his jacket and stood in front of her, hands in pockets.

  ‘Lord Torrington. The family name is St John Gervais. He was actually Caspar’s half brother. There’s no mistake.’

  Honey shook her head. Caspar was one of the smartest dressed men she’d ever met, fastidious with quality and colour of clothes. The man found close to the railway line had been wearing clothes more suited to a vagrant.

  Doherty read her thoughts.

  ‘He’d been in the ground for about a month so his clothes were pretty muddied, but they were pretty grim too.’

  ‘Crustwell?’

  Honey couldn’t believe that Caspar could possibly have a brother named Tarquin Crustwell because that might mean that his own name was Crustwell. But it wasn’t. It was St John Gervais.

  ‘You�
�re right,’ said Doherty before she could ask the question. ‘Our friend Caspar used to be called Bernard Crustwell but changed his name by deed poll. Tarquin was the legitimate heir to Torrington Towers. Caspar was his half brother, his mother being the housekeeper. Caspar confessed.’ He grinned. ‘Fancy old Caspar’s real name being Bernard Crustwell.’

  Doherty went on. ‘He was ten years younger than Caspar and they hadn’t seen each other for years.’

  Honey tilted her head to one side and eyed Doherty quizzically. She still had to tell him that they would be spending part of their time at a funeral. In order to delay the dreaded moment, she asked him if there was something in particular worrying him.

  ‘I thought this was a Devizes case. How come you suddenly know all this?’

  Doherty sat down, his expression thoughtful, his hands clasped in front of him.

  ‘I couldn’t break through. I couldn’t get any details about this case until, with the help of my old friend Goudge in Devizes, we threw a few spanners into the works. Once that happened we couldn’t be ignored and Caspar was dragged in to give a DNA sample. Otherwise it might never have happened.’

  ‘And then it all came out.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘Yes, but only once Caspar was involved.’ His frown persisted. ‘I still don’t think we’re getting everything, but it’s a start. I’ve promised we’ll call in and see Caspar when we get back.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Are you saying he was murdered?’

  Doherty’s eyes met hers.

  ‘He was buried alive.’

  Honey shivered. ‘What a dreadful way to die.’

  Doherty stood up.

  ‘I take it we have wine?’

  Honey willingly took the half-empty bottle of white from the fridge and placed two glasses on the table. Doherty eyed it suspiciously.

  ‘What happened to the first half of this?’

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s another one in the fridge. A lovely bottle of Chardonnay, chilled to just the right temperature. I chose it with you in mind.’ She was not going to admit it came ready chosen along with the professionally prepared food.

  ‘And something smells delicious.’