Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Wearing sensible shoes and taking raincoats with them, Honey and her mother duly arrived at Torrington Towers.

  They were early so joined the queue of cars at the gate.

  ‘Just a few minutes,’ said Honey glancing at her watch.

  Her mother was not amused. ‘I thought we had a special pass. To my mind, if we have a special pass they should let us straight through without having to queue with the public.’

  ‘I’m not sure of the procedure,’ ventured Honey, turning over the pass with one hand while the other remained on the driving wheel of the car.

  By the time she’d scanned the card to see is anything was mentioned about the queuing arrangements for those with a free pass, the passenger door was left swinging in the breeze.

  ‘Mother!’

  Although of only average height and slim build, her mother cut a determined figure in red (including her wellington boots), charging towards the gate where a uniformed man was eyeing his watch, waiting for that moment when he had to spring into action and open the gates.

  She closed her eyes and moaned. ‘Oh no! Mother, why couldn’t you be just a little patient?’

  Patience was not one of her mother’s virtues. Discerning the catwalk trend for the year ahead was more up her street, despite being well into her seventies.

  She came back beaming.

  ‘He says that seeing we are friends of the owner, we are to go round to the side entrance. There’s a small car park there close to the big cat houses.’

  Once the gates were open her mother lost no time in giving her instructions to jump the queue and head to the right.

  Angry looks and the odd car horn came their way as they swept forward and to the right.

  Directed by first one security guard, then another, they came to a small car park where Land Rovers used to traverse the safari park were parked cheek by jowl with staff cars.

  Honey found a gap and parked up.

  ‘Phew,’ said her mother fanning her face as she stood next to the car. ‘That’s a pretty strong smell.’

  ‘Big cats. Wouldn’t you like to see the house first, mother? It’s probably full of sweet-scented flower arrangements.’

  Her mother decided in a trice that she would prefer that.

  ‘Then after that we can get in our car and drive through the safari park. The lions and tigers roam free here. They’re not kept in cages.’

  ‘Just the sick ones,’ somebody said, ‘and the old ones who can’t be bothered to go out.’

  The speaker was an elderly man pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure, the waste product of the big cats if the smell was anything to go by.

  ‘Are the cat houses worth looking at?’ Honey asked him.

  ‘Not really. Nero’s at home and so is Octavia – separately of course. Can’t put them in together or they’ll kill each other.

  Honey asked her mother if she’d like to see the old lions. Her response took Honey by surprise.

  ‘I think I should. Seeing as we’re esteemed guests with a free pass from the owner, who just happens to be a personal friend of ours, I think a private viewing would be very much appreciated.’

  The statement was for the benefit of the old man who worked here.

  Honey cringed. When it came to putting on airs and graces, her mother was miles ahead of anyone else.

  The big cat houses were stout, long and purpose built. The lions were housed in big cages with stout bars, a thick bedding of sweet smelling straw, water on tap and half a sheep on demand.

  The old man told them his name was Crompton.

  ‘I used to be a ranger here, but only help out part time nowadays. Me knees ‘ave gone,’ he said nonchalantly. He pointed at a black maned lion snoring its head off in amongst a thick bed of straw.

  ‘That’s Nero.’

  After a few tottery steps he pointed at another cage where a lioness was sitting on her haunches, peering at them through half closed eyes.

  ‘She’s a bit short sighted,’ Crompton explained. ‘All the same it’s not wise to get near her, not unless she knows you.’

  ‘I’m thinking of getting a cat,’ said Honey’s mother. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Crompton eyed her speculatively.

  ‘Well bully for you, though I have to warn you owning a big cat isn’t for the faint hearted. What sort of cat are you thinking of?’

  ‘A tortoiseshell,’ Honey interjected. ‘My mother is keen to acquire a tortoiseshell cat, the sort that can cuddle up to her on the sofa and lap milk from a saucer. A pet cat.’

  Crompton looked amused, his bushy eyebrows flapping up and down. ‘Don’t fancy a bobcat or a cheetah then?’

  Gloria held on to her superior veneer. ‘I live in a flat with no outside space.’

  Honey couldn’t resist adding, ‘Think of the litter tray.’

  He grunted. ‘That’s a shame.’

  The lioness opened her jaws in an almighty yawn. Even at this distance Honey could smell the carnivorous breath.

  ‘Have they ever eaten anyone?’

  Crompton jerked his head at the pair of old lions. ‘No record that they have, but I know different!’ He tapped the side of his nose. His eyes were unblinking. ‘They told me so,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Who told you so?’

  ‘The lions. They talk to me. They’ve always talked to me. We talk to each other.’

  Honey exchanged a slightly worried look with her mother. Gloria was frowning deeply, wondering if she’d heard right.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Honey. At the same time she was thinking, right! Here I am talking to a man who thought he was the Torrington Towers version of Doctor Dolittle.

  ‘They don’t talk to many people,’ he said, his voice a drawn out drawl, ‘but they do to me. And I talk right back, don’t I Octavia?’

  The lioness stretched her neck at the sound of his voice, her head turned in the direction of the voice.

  ‘I see.’

  Out of the extraordinary events had been happening lately, things weren’t getting any better. If she was confused before, she was more confused now.

  Still, the old chap had made the effort to give them a guided tour and she appreciated that, although she was swiftly coming to the conclusion that she’d entered a lunatic asylum.

  ‘How close were you to Mr Tarquin?’ she asked him.

  ‘As close as anyone. A born gentleman he was.’

  ‘I believe he worked for the government in foreign embassies and such like. Did he ever speak of his job with them?’

  Crompton made a strong sucking sound and shook his head.

  ‘Oh no! Well he wouldn’t, would he? He’d signed the Official Secrets Act. He couldn’t say anything, could he?’

  ‘No,’ said Honey, inclined to agree with him, ‘of course not.’

  ‘Your father knew a Tarquin,’ her mother said as they made their way to the main house to peruse its history. ‘A young whippersnapper he said, who fancied himself as an international agent.’

  ‘Father knew him?’

  Honey was doubly surprised. Number one, her mother rarely spoke of her father, and number two it came as something of a surprise to hear her father had known the deceased.

  ‘I know dad worked for the government, but you never said which department or anything.’

  ‘Overseas trade,’ returned her mother. ‘That’s why he was away a lot, negotiating trade deals and such like. It wasn’t good for our marriage being apart so much. Me left alone with you, and him jet- setting from Timbuctoo to goodness knows where.’

  Honey knew they’d divorced and that her father had died some time shortly after that.

  ‘I didn’t want to know about his job and he wasn’t inclined to talk about it. Said it was just boring stuff about contracts and treaties referring to the supply of things made in England that people wanted.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘I’ve just told you, we never discussed
it.’

  ‘Are you sure he wasn’t a spy?’

  Her mother looked at her as though she’d lost her mind.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Why is it ridiculous?’

  ‘Your father wore pin striped suits, a bowler hat and carried a rolled up umbrella!’

  ‘Even when he was abroad?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so! I wasn’t with him.’

  Her mother frowned and fell silent. Honey knew she was rattled and she herself was amazed that her mother had never questioned his job and his travels.

  The house proved a disappointment. The Oriental rugs and carpets were a little threadbare, the furniture in need of some tender loving care and the tour guide a bit listless.

  ‘The vases at the end of the mantelpiece are Wedgewood. The ones on either side of the clock are Ming dynasty...’

  The disinterested voice of the tour guide droned on and on.

  Honey made a conscious effort to fall back from the tour group they were attached to.

  ‘I can’t stand her voice any longer,’ she muttered to her mother. ‘Let’s explore.’

  The tour guide was as disinterested in the group she was leading as she seemed to be in the house. Honey and her mother fell away unnoticed to go wandering from one room to another.

  After a fair amount of wandering, her mother sat down on the soft cushions of a window seat, took off her shoe and rubbed at her toes.

  ‘It’s not that interesting a house. The National Trust own all the more interesting ones.’ She sniffed. ‘This place smells musty. It could do with a good spring clean and redecorating.’

  Honey had to agree with her. ‘Caspar doesn’t want to live here.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. So what are you hoping to find out?’

  ‘What makes you think I’m here to find something out?’ Honey asked, her face a picture of innocence. ‘We came here for a day out. Mother and daughter.’

  Gloria narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re my daughter. I know you. What’s afoot?’

  ‘His lordship was Caspar’s brother. He was killed recently. I came here to the funeral. It was a decidedly odd affair. They cremated him in the walled garden. The funeral pyre was lit by two Hindu gentlemen.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Gloria looked seriously dismayed. ‘You can’t just set light to somebody like that, as if it was November the fifth and you were burning Guy Fawkes. Not the real one of course - just an effigy dressed in old clothes and a turnip for a head.’

  ‘This was a very well organised affair. Totally above board – well as far as I can tell it was. Even with the costumes the whole thing must have worked out a damned sight cheaper than what funeral directors charge. Yet it was still quite dramatic.’

  Honey’s mother looked at her in horror. ‘Promise me here and now that you will never and, I repeat, never consider disposing of my remains in that manner. I want a church. I want flowers. I want to be sent off with the singing of hymns and the sound of an organ.’

  ‘Whatever you want, you only have to ask.’

  ‘An oak coffin with brass handles. And remember to invite your uncle Percy.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Who’s uncle Percy?’

  ‘He’s not strictly your uncle. He’s your father’s cousin. They were very close.’

  Honey leaned back against the window. This was the first she’d ever heard of her father’s cousin.

  A faraway look came to her mother’s eyes. Sighing, she recounted an old memory about the phone not working in their first home which had been out of order for some days.

  ‘Your father got very angry about it. He was constantly getting me to go out and phone the Post Office to get it rectified. When it was fixed, he phoned Percy to tell him about it. I didn’t hear the gist of their conversation but they did arrange to meet in order to get it sorted out permanently.’ Her mother sighed. ‘If he hadn’t gone out to meet Percy, he might still be alive.’

  Honey knew her father’s car had hit a tree. His head had hit the windscreen. She had known nothing about the meeting with Percy. She hadn’t even known Percy existed.

  ‘So have you learned anything about this case?’ her mother asked her.

  ‘Only that I have an uncle Percy – strictly a second cousin.’

  ‘I mean about the case.’

  ‘Caspar suggested I stay here for a while. His brother was here the day before he died. Nobody saw him leave. Not that the police have been asking too many questions, so Caspar thought if I stayed here I could ask questions at my leisure.’

  ‘That seems a good idea. What does your policeman boyfriend think?’

  Honey thought about lying.

  ‘I take it your silence speaks volumes. He doesn’t like the idea. I call it kind of selfish myself. I’ll come with you. Stewart won’t mind.’

  Stewart wouldn’t dare mind, thought Honey. Her mother, although only recently married, was of independent mind – and means come to that - a factor resulting from having had four husbands.

  ‘Anything else while you’re here?’ her mother added.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind visiting the walled garden on our way back to the car.’

  ‘Then let’s get going.’

  Because they’d peeled off from the official guided tour, they found themselves outside and passing a row of cottages they hadn’t seen on the way in.

  ‘Very pretty,’ remarked Gloria.

  Honey had to concede that she was right. They were like something out of Hansel and Gretel; honeycomb-coloured rather than gingerbread, with small square windows one either side of a plain green door. Leafy green foliage curled up around the door, swamping the stonework all the way up to the eaves. They bore a similarity to the one she’d stayed in with Doherty, though much closer to the house.

  It occurred to Honey that these simple dwellings had been loved and lived in over the centuries. People must have loved them to plant roses round the door and the flowers in the garden were mature and old fashioned.

  The heavy heads of cabbage roses long past their best hung over the narrow path, their scent still pungent despite the dying season.

  One of the windows was open and music was coming out.

  ‘I’ll just take a peek,’ whispered her mother.

  Before Honey could stop her she was tip toeing up the garden path to the open window.

  Honey prepared to run or at least make an excuse as to why her mother was being so nosy. She might tell them that her mother was on a day out from a nursing home specialising in dementia. It seemed the most fitting excuse, though her mother would be furious. Perhaps it might be better to run.

  Honey didn’t breathe easy or discard her excuses until her mother was picking her way back along the garden path.

  ‘It’s a very pretty sitting room. If anyone had been at home I might have asked them for a guided tour.’

  Honey uplifted her eyes to heaven and thanked God that nobody had been at home.

  ‘Strange though,’ her mother said as they resumed their walk to where they’d left the car. ‘One does not leave a window open and music blaring when one is not at home.’

  ‘One would not,’ Honey agreed.

  ‘I think he was at home,’ said Gloria once they were in the car and half way back to the main gate.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘There was a wallet on the table and a pack of cards spread out face down. I think somebody was playing Solitaire.’

  Honey was not convinced.

  ‘I’d like to meet uncle Percy some time. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Of course he is, dear.’

  ‘You have an address?’

  ‘I can get it. Now about this cat you told me about. I’ve made enquiries. Tortoiseshell cats are very rare, males rarer than females. Do you happen to know if this cat is male or female?’

  The Tarot Man slid silently from behind the open door. Peering from the upstairs window, he’d seen them walking past, the old lady stopping and having the temerit
y to walk up the path and peer in the window. He didn’t expect her to make anything of the items he’d left on the coffee table. He had the use of the cottage for a month and he was here for a purpose. He’d had it on good authority that Honey Driver would shortly also be staying here.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Following their excursion to Torrington Towers, Honey’s mother accepted the offer of a cup of tea and followed her daughter into the coach house.

  Honey did a quick look around the place, opening her bedroom door, the bathroom even the odd kitchen cupboard. There was no sign of the cat and Honey’s first priority was to kick off her shoes and put the kettle on. The sighting of the cat, let alone the sexing of it, could wait.

  ‘That cat gets in here from somewhere. It has to be a stray.’

  ‘Poor thing. Here kitty, kitty.’ Her mother made tweeting sounds.

  Honey set down the tea tray and left her mother to select sugar, milk or lemon. She opted for sugar and lemon.

  ‘Do you have a phone number for Percy?’

  Gloria eyed her over the rim of her teacup. ‘Why this obsession?’

  ‘I want to know more about my father’s death. I want to know the exact details.

  For a moment their eyes locked. That in itself seemed to unsettle her mother.

  ‘Why resurrect the past?’

  Honey frowned. Why indeed. Her father only came to mind in the middle of the night when she wondered how it might have been if he’d lived. She remembered so little about him.

  Her mother sighed. ‘You’re thinking that there’s more to your father’s death than meets the eye.’

  Honey nodded. ‘Yes.’

  She could almost hear her mother’s internal anguish, but now she’d started, she couldn’t let it go.

  ‘I can’t help thinking that there’s a history to all this.’

  The whole truth and nothing but the truth would not bring the colour back to her face.

  ‘I’m not that stupid,’ Gloria muttered. ‘I always thought there was something but put it down to affairs with other women. That’s why I was planning to divorce him.’

  ‘You were?’

  This was the first Honey had heard of it.

  Her mother sipped thoughtfully at her tea. ‘Anyway, I was lonely, him being away all the time.’