‘Courgettes stuffed with prawns and chicken marinated in red wine with prosciutto lardons and garnished with miniature tomatoes, onions, garlic and mushrooms. Summer pudding to follow.’
He positively beamed. ‘Brilliant.’
‘I’m glad you think so. I’ve been slaving over the cooker ever since I arrived.’
He looked at his watch and frowned. ‘At high speed I should think. Is that the truth?’
Honey grinned. ‘No. I popped into Marks and Spencers. They were doing their dinner for two deal including wine. Who needs to spend the time on cooking when we can spend it on each other? Though Mrs Cromer, the lady who looks after this place, brought steaks. We’ll have to have them for breakfast or tomorrow night.’
‘I thought we might go to the pub tomorrow night.’
‘Okay. We can take them home with us. Steve, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. We’re going to a funeral tomorrow.’
The wine glass stopped halfway to his mouth. She waited for him to protest, but instead a slow smile gradually lit his face.
‘I didn’t think Caspar was doing this purely out of the kindness of his heart.’
‘You knew? Why didn’t you say?’
‘I like it when you feel sorry. Making up is so damned good!’
The food was good and they further discussed what they expected with regard to Caspar’s brother, though without it putting a damper on the evening.
Honey was feeling mellow and replete. ‘I really am sorry I wasn’t brave enough to tell you about the funeral before and, anyway, Caspar is right. There will be people there who might know something.’
Doherty lowered his eyes and fingered his glass.
‘I have to say this here and now. I think it best you back off. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
Honey leaned forward, her hand on his knee, her face upturned to his.
‘I know where you’re coming from, Steve, but you have to understand how obliged I am to Caspar. He’s been good to me, filling my rooms and all that. Even though he can be overbearing, sniffy and downright selfish.
Doherty agreed though listlessly. She presumed he was feeling tired.
She drained her glass and threw him a suggestive look.
‘Ready for bed?’
They both regarded the dishes as they might a killjoy about to burst their bubble.
‘The dishes can wait until the morning,’ said Honey.
She hadn’t needed to read his mind and he didn’t need to read hers. Suggestion was written all over her face and the sofa looked inviting. So did the thick rug spread before the fire to which she gave a pointed look.
‘Shall we?’
To her surprise he opened the door that led to the spiral staircase.
She laughed. ‘How very formal.’
‘It was a long drive.’
It wasn’t really that long a drive, but he looked tired and the bed looked comfortable.
Whilst he visited the bathroom, she opened the bedroom casement and sniffed the evening air.
The smell of the last summer flowering of old-fashioned roses was tinged with the scent of dung. Luckily it wasn’t too overpowering.
The trees fringing the grounds were black against an indigo sky and their shadows moved with the breeze. The sky was full of stars. Apart from that, the darkness was total, black shadows falling across the lane.
She was about to turn away but something caught her eye. Something moved.
She leaned further out of the window.
‘Something interesting out there?’
Doherty had returned.
‘I thought I saw something or someone move among the trees.’
She felt the heat of his naked arm and torso as he squeezed into the small gap beside her and the dormer window frame and looked out. His eyes narrowed.
‘Mammal or man?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. Probably nothing. A deer? A stray cow?’
Doherty reached for the window latch. ‘Everything’s locked and bolted downstairs. Let’s close this.’
Honey stepped back from the window. It wasn’t a cold night, but all the same she couldn’t help rubbing her arms.
‘You need warming up,’ he said at the same time as wrapping his arms around her. ‘That was a lovely supper. I need to express my gratitude.’
The chill nervousness left her body. She smiled and did the same to him.
‘There are many ways you can show your gratitude. Anything particular in mind?’
She slid her hands down his back until her fingers were inside his waistband.
‘Actions speak louder than words. Are you too tired?’
He shook his head. ‘Are you kidding? I’ve been looking forward to this. Good old Caspar. I’ll never slight him again.’
Caspar’s cottage. She hadn’t realised he owned a cottage and his offer had come right out of the blue. Most uncharacteristic. Caspar usually planned things way ahead. On this occasion he’d sprung the surprise on her. The invitation to the funeral service was an unwelcome addition to their weekend away, but Caspar need her support and was right about observing the people there.
The case, Caspar, and what to wear to a funeral were overruled by lovemaking. It was as good as ever and as night follows day Doherty, being tired, turned onto his side afterwards and began to snore.
Eyelids heavy and half dozing, Honey lay there on her back looking up at patches of light on the ceiling. Was she falling asleep or were the patterns changing?
It’s just your imagination. She rolled over onto her side and tugged the bedclothes over her head blotting out the ceiling.
Chapter Eight
The Tarot Man imagined her undressing. Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths, smiling at the visions he could see in his mind. He could smell the subtle sweat of her body, breathing it in until he could almost taste her essence, the smells and the feel of her that made her who she was.
Cloaked by darkness, he reached out a hand, his fingers folding gently inwards as though tracing the shape of a bra cup.
He opened his eyes. The light in the bedroom was still on. Just one more item of underwear and she would be naked. The man nicknamed The Tarot Man sniffed the air. His concentration was total as he breathed in the more distinct aroma of lace edged panties – expensive items bought in up market places in up market cities.
She was blonde, she was beautiful and yet...and yet...she was ugly because her soul was ugly, because the wealth, the power and the prestige of her class made her that way.
Women like her were the epitome of all that was ugly about the western world, the democracies that trumpeted their fairness but were not fair. Hence the reason for his hobby, this presentation of the fact that no matter how rich, how fair, how gifted; these girls and women were no different from anyone else. Fashioned from clay and to clay they would return. This was his homage to what he believed in.
A sound disturbed his revelry. He became aware of another presence, perhaps one of the rangers who worked for the estate on which the cottage was situated. Like a shadow he melted into the undergrowth.
Dominic Christiansen was aware of somebody else being close by. Keeping low and treading stealthily, he crept through the undergrowth. Hearing a rustling of foliage his hand leapt to the bulge beneath his armpit. He would only use it if he had to.
He came to the spot where he thought he’d seen movement. There was no one there but someone had been. The smell of a smoked Russian cigarette lingered, but his prey was gone.
‘Damn.’ He swore under his breath.
He went back to the ruined stump of the ancient elm tree, its interior rotted away and big enough to get inside. From there he had a good view of the cottage. Honey Driver would be safe until morning.
Chapter Nine
‘Hey babe. You didn’t ask if I’d brought a black tie.’
Doherty’s lips brushed her shoulder.
Honey rolled found to face him. His hair was tousled and he was wearing a seduct
ive grin - nothing else.
‘I take it you have.’
‘And you?’
‘Black trousers. Black cowl necked top.’
‘How about afterwards? Do you fancy a country walk or something else?’
‘That depends. What did you have in mind?’
His smile said it all. ‘I was thinking of something else.’
‘We can’t stay in bed all day,’ she exclaimed, squirming away from his exploring hands although not with any outstanding resistance.
Over an hour later Honey was frying bacon while Doherty prepared scrambled eggs. Fresh coffee was brewing and the kitchen window was open to the freshness of the morning. The funeral service was at eleven in the village church, the cremation in private ground owned by the family.
Honey voiced her thoughts. ‘In the grounds. Not at the crematorium. Odd, don’t you think? How do I look?’
He finished fixing his tie and grinned. ‘Sexy without being disrespectful’.
‘I look good in black.’
‘Not exactly funeral dress code.’
Honey shrugged. ‘OK, it’s strayed a little from the traditional, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of any good excuse why I should wear a dress rather than trousers. The cremation is taking place outdoors.’
Doherty took on a pondering expression. ‘I wonder if there’s any significance in that. I mean, why outdoors and why so swiftly? I’ve never known a body be released that quickly before, especially without having found the culprit. It all seems a little rushed to me.’
‘I’m glad for Caspar’s sake that everything’s being finalised. I must say I’m looking forward to it. Torrington Towers. It sounds quite grand. I didn’t realise Caspar came from such a well heeled family.’
‘I didn’t even know he had a brother,’ Doherty added. ‘Or a pile in the country complete with a zoo. What an expense that must be!’
‘A safari park. Not a zoo.’ Honey had to agree about the running costs, though pointed out that it was open to the public.
Doherty shrugged his shoulders into the jacket of his black leather jacket. His shirt was white, his trousers were black and so was his tie. The tie was the only gesture to this being something of a formal occasion. Steve Doherty never wore a tie.
The church was full and not the place one could go asking questions about a man’s lifestyle. That would have to wait until they were at the wake which was being held at the same time as the cremation at Torrington Towers itself.
A lion roared some distance off in the park as the cars of mourners jostled for space around the front of the house, overspill from the private car park at the rear.
‘Quite a pad,’ murmured Honey.
‘So why was Caspar’s brother living like a tramp?’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t. Being eccentric, perhaps he was getting a taste for the life of a down and out.’
Doherty looked at her sceptically. ‘You don’t really believe that?’
Honey pulled a face as she thought about it. ‘No. Not really.’
Doherty made no response but frowned and looked straight ahead.
‘Hello. What’s this?’
Several security men were stopping cars before checking them into a parking place.
‘My word. Are they worried somebody’s going to steal the casket?’
Doherty pulled rank and waved his police ID. The security guard looked unimpressed.
‘I’m sorry. You have to have an official invitation to this funeral.’
Now it was Doherty who was unimpressed. ‘You’re joking!’
The security guard’s face was impassive and there was a hard look in his eyes.
‘Will these do?’
Honey flashed the invitations Caspar had given her.
The guard winced and although he waved them through she got the distinct impression he would have preferred to refuse them entry.
‘He didn’t want to let you in,’ she said to Doherty.
Doherty shook his head while gripping the steering wheel as though it were the guard’s neck.
‘Since when do you need an invitation to a funeral?’
Honey had to admit the same thought had occurred to her.
‘There was something decidedly shady about Caspar’s brother, this whole thing hinting that he was a vagrant when he obviously was not. He’d have to be the direct opposite of his brother to be like that and I don’t believe he could be. All siblings have some likeness to each other however small.’
They were locking the car door when a familiar voice called to them.
Caspar looked dapper and almost other worldly, head to toe the epitome of the lord of the manor.
After the initial greetings, Caspar held onto her hands. ‘I am so glad you could come, my dear. Your attendance is much appreciated. Yours too, Doherty. I see you’re wearing a tie.’
‘Hired just for the occasion,’ returned Doherty.
‘There’s champagne and canapés in the drawing room. Do help yourselves,’ said Caspar, his expression as grey as November.
He wandered off. Honey was tempted to go after him, but Doherty stopped her, his hand landing on her arm.
‘This is weird. None of it makes sense. Honey I would prefer that you do not get involved.’
‘What if I want to get involved?’
‘Don’t!’
He sounded adamant. However, it wasn’t in Honey’s nature to follow orders and she resented his attitude.
‘They’ve got lions here. Did you know that? Once the cremation’s done and dusted I’m going to look for them.’
Doherty eyed her suspiciously. ‘You’re saying you’re going to wander around this place looking for lions?’
She looked up at him with innocent looking eyes. ‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
They were directed to where the event was to take place. Caspar’s brother was being cremated in a walled garden, a place of peaty ground, long grass and late season vegetables. The rain was holding off. White clouds suffused with hidden sunlight slid like sailing ships across a sea of sky.
Caspar had set himself up at the arched entrance into the walled garden, accepting condolences and sympathy with a wry expression.
Honey did the same as everyone else although she’d already expressed her condolences back in Bath.
Doherty dawdled behind, seemingly uninterested, but in truth observing everything that was going on.
Honey felt a strange ticklish sensation, like feathers floating inside.
The man who had passed her smelled good. Straightaway she knew it was him; Dominic Christiansen. He was wearing a navy blue suit, white shirt and black tie.
For a brief moment our eyes met. Before she had chance to speak to him, other people had crowded through the archway blocking her view.
By the time the crowd had cleared he was gone. But she knew it was him. She looked for Doherty. He saw her serious expression and asked what the problem was.
‘He’s here. That man, the one who said he was a policeman. Dominic Christiansen.’ She pointed to where she’d seen him. ‘Oh. He’s not there now.’
To his credit Doherty did not accuse her of hallucinating. The fact was Christiansen had melted into the crowd.
Things were crowded in the walled garden. The earth had been left fallow and was soft with rotting vegetation. Great for vegetables. Hell for high heels. Female guests were sticking to the narrow gravel paths that ran in a loosely oblong arrangement around where carrots and potatoes were usually planted. Honey was no exception.
Doherty held her elbow as her heels picked up mud.
‘Trousers are practical. High heels are not,’ Doherty rebuked.
It did enter her head to ‘accidentally’ tread on his toe, but the scene at this place was just too mad for words.
The funeral pyre had been erected in the central square area. The guests milled around it, slowly inching along like a column of black crows. The pyre was a neat construction of interlocked logs.
&n
bsp; Doherty leaned close and whispered in her ear. ‘The gardener told me the logs were mainly pine though a few from a recently felled apple tree have been included.’
‘Is there some significance to that?’
‘Of course there is. Apple logs give a nice perfume to the wood smoke.’
‘Oh. They could kill two birds with one stone and cook a few jacket potatoes in the embers. Should prove quite delicious.’
‘That wouldn’t be respectful.’
Honey reminded herself that this was the funeral of Caspar’s brother and conceded he might be right.
‘I think it’s time we split up.’
Doherty’s eye brows arched in pretend surprise. ‘I’ve done something to offend you?’
‘Stop playing the fool. We can cover more ground if we circulate separately. You ask your questions and I’ll ask mine.’
Doherty grumbled something that sounded like agreement then added. ‘I thought we were going on a weekend away.’
‘Oh come on. Don’t be such an old grouch. We are away. The cottage is lovely isn’t it?’
‘I am not being a grouch,’ he said sulkily.
She threw him a disapproving look to which he responded.
‘Honey, my idea of a weekend break is walking in the countryside and perhaps – no – most definitely ending up eating and drinking at a lovely little wayside inn. Funerals do not come high on my list of things to do on a weekend away.’
‘There’ll be food and drink after the fire’s lit.’
Doherty shook his head. ‘Sometimes I don’t quite know what planet you’re on.’
‘Shoo,’ she said, waving him off to mingle, meet and ask questions of the mourners.
As she watched him go it came to her that he was less than willing about getting involved in this case and couldn’t quite work out why.
Suddenly she spotted Dominic Christiansen again, standing head and shoulders above everyone else.
Before she had chance to filter through the crowd to speak to him, a soft hand touched her arm.
‘He lived as he wished and died doing what he loved doing.’
The speaker was a fine looking woman with white hair and high cheekbones. She wore sadness in her eyes and affection on her lips. Honey couldn’t think why she’d picked her to speak to, but sensed it might be something of a bonus.
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