Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Adopting a sullen and rather perplexed expression, Casper lingered. ‘Detective Inspector Doherty, I know this terrible occurrence has only just taken place, but can you give me any idea how long it will be before you apprehend the perpetrator?’

  Doherty’s expression gave nothing away. ‘No idea whatsoever.’

  His tone was good, as though he were making a far-reaching announcement. It meant diddly doo da. He was less than pleased at being asked this early in the proceedings. He looked sour, thought Honey. N-o-o he looked hurt. That and the fact that he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the mighty wart that refused to leave her nose.

  ‘I will bid you adieu,’ said Casper, taking the broken hat from his head. He grimaced as he took the corner of his jacket between finger and thumb. ‘These clothes have a life of their own. I believe they are making me itch.’

  He strode off, as imposing as ever despite wearing rags.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Honey asked Doherty once Casper had disappeared into the wardrobe tent.

  ‘Round up the usual suspects.’

  ‘Do you have any?’

  Doherty grinned – a little too sadly to be joking. ‘I wish it were that easy.’

  Honey waited for him to answer the question which was lurking in her mind.

  Doherty caught the look in her eyes. ‘She was stabbed.’

  ‘With a hatpin?’

  ‘No. She was stabbed with a comb.’

  She frowned at him. Was this a joke? ‘A comb?’

  ‘A steel comb with a tail end. Don’t you girls use it to tease your hair to stand up or separate or something?’

  ‘More or less.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll never look at a hatpin or a steel comb ever again without shivering.’

  She noticed that Doherty was regarding her with a puzzled expression, his head held to one side like an inquisitive sparrow.

  ‘You’re thinking hard,’ she said.

  ‘I was just thinking that whoever did it exerted a great deal of force. They had to be strong.’

  ‘Does that mean it’s a man?’

  ‘Or a very angry woman. Fairly strong too.’

  Now it was Honey who looked back at him in the same manner as he’d looked at her.

  ‘So why was she murdered?’

  He shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue – unless … ’ His deep blue eyes narrowed in thought again. ‘Didn’t Miss Cleveley say that Scheherazade was having an affair with Martyna Manderley? Discounting our old friend Brett Coleridge, is it possible that there was a third party involved? I presume lesbians have love triangles too and get jealous.’

  ‘I’m told they do,’ said Honey. She noticed Doherty had that tired look he always got when a caseload was building up. ‘I take it you’re going to be asking our sweet little Candy a few questions.’

  ‘She’s been warned to expect me. She’s staying at the Francis Hotel.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘That might be useful, though there is a proviso. Get rid of the wart. I’m fussy who I get seen with.’

  ‘It’s not permanent. It’s make-up. I’m supposed to be an apple woman – a street vendor flogging apples to rich folk. They had to have their five a day, even back then.’

  ‘If I didn’t know you pretty well,’ Doherty said, ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you.’

  The repartee was no longer getting through to her. Suddenly she felt a jolt in her system.

  ‘The victim was a whizz with make-up!’ she exclaimed. ‘The best so I hear. I wonder if someone used her services but didn’t want her to tell.’

  Doherty was all attention. ‘You mean one of those folk who ventured into Martyna’s trailer that day …’

  ‘Who wasn’t the person our Mr Richard Richards thought it was, just by the addition of a bit of make-up.’

  ‘Who? That is the question, Tonto.’

  ‘To which we need an answer, Kemo Sabe, and the catering truck is a good place to start. Richard Richards. Master of the Meat Pie. Lord of the Rhubarb Crumble!’

  It was logical to return to Richard Richards’s chuck wagon, but when they got there, he wasn’t there.

  ‘We want the owner,’ said Honey.

  A tall, ginger-haired guy with pale eyes and a freckled face grinned down at her. ‘I am the owner.’

  ‘I meant Richard Richards.’

  ‘I am Richard Richards.’

  ‘Then who was …’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The next morning was calm. The atmosphere at the Green River Hotel felt calm after the shock of the day before, even though Mary Jane was sitting on the floor in front of the main entrance droning some ancient Tibetan incantation. She reckoned it was to ward off blue-painted demons with red, blood-covered tongues.

  A good day would be had by all. The staff had reported for duty on time and sober, and it was too early for her mother to put in an appearance. She was doing the important stuff.

  Gloria Cross had a scrupulous beauty regime, starting with a variety of facial and body scrubs, a bath in moisturizing milk, and followed by more after-bath moisturizer. Finally she would decide what to wear and apply co-ordinating make-up.

  Honey was sitting in her office behind reception, musing over rather than dealing with suppliers’ statements. John Rees had promised to phone. Doherty had made comments about bloody American booksellers. Whether it was the American bit or the bookselling bit that stuck in his craw, she couldn’t make out. But it was nice to be in demand.

  Her daughter brought her coffee.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  Startled out of her reverie, Honey took in her daughter’s fresh face and plum-coloured hair.

  ‘Was that your hair colour last month?’

  ‘Similar. Just a shade different.’

  ‘And next month?’

  ‘Who knows,’ said Lindsey with a deep sigh. ‘It depends.’

  On what, thought Honey, but didn’t ask. It seemed Lindsey had been changing her hair each month, or maybe it was just that time was passing more quickly. And was that a necklace hanging around her neck or this month’s must-have iPod?

  Hair colour and daughter were only briefly wondered at. The visitor bit was the thing making her heart leap hurdles. It had to be John Rees.

  ‘He’s early.’ Even to her own ears, her voice sounded breathless. Like a silly teenager.

  ‘It’s not a he. It’s a she.’

  Euphoria and her gushing, rushing heartbeat went walkabouts.

  ‘Oh!’

  Lindsey lifted a quizzical eyebrow. The hint of a smile curved her lips. She turned to leave, then stalled. Purposefully. Honey thought.

  ‘John Rees phoned and said he can’t make it for morning coffee as promised. He’ll catch up with you again.’

  What was it with this man? They were like a couple in a country dance – skip smartly towards each other, then skip to my Lou.

  Honey shuffled papers and pretended to clear her throat.

  ‘Never mind. I’ve got a lot of work to do. Who wants to see me?’ she asked, preferring to change the subject rather than deflect questions she didn’t want to answer.

  That knowing look stayed on Lindsey’s face. Honey did her best to ignore it.

  ‘It’s that strange little woman who talks funny. I think she must dine on Pride and Prejudice for breakfast, Northanger Abbey for lunch, and Sense and Sensibility for dinner.’

  Honey stayed sitting at her desk, waiting for Miss Cleveley to appear. A few minutes went by and still her door remained closed. She checked her watch. Best see what was going on. The old dear might have got lost or changed her mind or gone to the bathroom. It wouldn’t hurt to check.

  She opened the door on an argument. On the other side of the reception desk two elderly women were head to head, going at it hammer and tongs.

  Mary Jane towered over Miss Cleveley, but, reminiscent of a yappy Jack Russell terrier, Miss Cleveley was holding her own.

  Mary Jane was present
ly holding sway.

  ‘Hell, woman! You’re talking like a bull’s rear end. Bring the book to the big screen, that’s what I say. OK, so the guys in Hollywood take a little dramatic licence …’

  ‘Dramatic licence? Dramatic drivel! Dear Jane would turn in her grave if she knew what indelicate …’

  Honey groaned. Obviously the two had met, got better acquainted, then found they didn’t see eye-to-eye when it came to movie treatment of Regency classics.

  For all her eccentricity, Mary Jane was an out-and-out film buff. She loved Hollywood period pieces like Braveheart and Gladiator. So what if directors dismissed fact and replaced it with fiction? It was the story that counted. In that regard, Mary Jane was a sucker for sheer entertainment value. Whereas Miss Cleveley it seemed was a stickler for fact and accurate detail.

  Lindsey kept darting in between the pair using suitably placating sentences.

  The two elderly women ignored her. Lindsey might just as well have been a fly.

  ‘You deal with them,’ Lindsey said, recognizing intervention as a useless task. ‘I’m off to the bathroom. I’ll be in there a while.’

  Honey knew she meant it. Lindsey was wearing her iPod. Tunes on the toilet helped relieve stress, or so she’d heard.

  Honey took a deep breath and waded into the fray. ‘Miss Cleveley!’

  She’d said it at the right time. There was something of a lull in the argument.

  ‘My dear Mrs Driver,’ said Miss Cleveley. Tossing her head, she left Mary Jane standing there with a dark scowl on her face. Anyone who hated Hollywood was an instant enemy.

  Honey addressed Anna, who this morning was manning reception.

  ‘Can you order us some tea? Hot chocolate for Miss Cleveley.’

  Gripping Miss Cleveley’s elbow, she guided her into the office, surprised at how firmly muscled she was despite the frail appearance.

  Once they were both sitting comfortably, Honey got right to it.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  The little lady fussed her curls back beneath her bonnet. It was straw and a cluster of violets was pinned to its crown.

  ‘I came to give you this,’ said Miss Cleveley. She began delving into the crocheted reticule she carried. Like her outfit, it was pale lilac.

  She handed Honey a small book with a brown vellum cover. Old, thought Honey. Very old.

  ‘It is a prayer book,’ Miss Cleveley explained. ‘I wish to bequeath this to you in grateful thanks for finding Perdita and putting my mind at rest.’

  Honey opened the stiff covers. Knowing of Miss Cleveley’s obsession, she wondered if this had once belonged to Jane Austen. Her heart leapt at how much it might be worth. She turned to the fly page. Her surprise was complete.

  ‘Oh. Emily Brontë.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Honey detected a fleeting look that convinced her that Miss Cleveley was far more instinctive than she let on.

  ‘I am assured that the signature is genuine. You look surprised, my dear. You didn’t expect I was giving you a book that may have belonged to Jane Austen, did you?’

  She said Jane Austen as though it were a prayer all by itself.

  Honey considered whether to lie. There was no point, she decided. Instead, she smiled and shook her head in disbelief. She’d been analysed and found out.

  ‘Considering your close affiliation with such a literary genius, I presumed you had no interest in other literary greats.’

  Miss Cleveley got up. Her smile was mischievous, even cheeky.

  ‘I would never part with any items pertaining to the greatest romantic writer in the English language, nay, in any language. But a lesser one I could part with.’

  Honey imagined that comment could cause a riot in the Brontë Society.

  ‘Funny little woman,’ said Lindsey, once she’d left the bathroom and had helped the old dear out of the front door.

  ‘Perdita’s aunt,’ explained Honey.

  Doherty had arranged to meet Candy Laurel in the residents’ lounge at the Francis Hotel.

  ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’

  ‘It’s either there or the station.’

  She crumbled like stale biscuits.

  ‘All right.’

  She was sitting at the end of one of the comfortable settees furnishing the lounge. Her elbow was resting on the arm.

  The brim of a cream suede hat was pulled down over one side of her face. She was wearing matching trousers, dark pink boots and a pale pink jumper with pistachio green trim.

  Her hair seemed to be tucked up into the crown of her hat.

  ‘I don’t know why you want to interview me,’ she said, somewhat defensively.

  ‘You know that Scheherazade Parker-Henson was murdered yesterday?’

  ‘So I heard. As I said, what’s that got to do with me?’

  Honey fancied her bottom lip trembled a little. There was no box of opened candies on the table. Somehow she’d expected there to be. Candy needed her sweet fix. Unless she’d moved on to other things of course. She marvelled at Candy’s skin. Other folk got their imperfections airbrushed out. In Candy’s case, it wasn’t needed. Amazing, considering her candy consumption.

  Despite the fact that Candy’s breasts were playing peek-a-boo over her low neckline, Doherty was focused. ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why are you lying?’

  Candy’s pale cheeks flushed baby pink. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  It wasn’t for Honey to ask questions. Doherty was the professional. But her natural exuberance would not be held in check.

  ‘Had you met her?’ Honey asked.

  Candy’s honesty would be made or broken on the answer to this. Honey found herself holding her breath. She liked Candy. OK, she looked like an oversized Barbie doll, but you couldn’t hold that against her. Neither could she condemn her indulging in candy. She had much the same problem with almond paste. Smudger had never yet managed to complete a Christmas cake without her having previously nibbled bits of almond paste from around the edge.

  Candy stared at her hands and sucked in her lips before answering.

  ‘I never knew her. I only met her last night.’

  ‘You met her last night.’ Doherty was harbouring dark looks.

  She nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I was down here for the weekend …’

  ‘Just visiting?’ urged Doherty.

  She was lying. Honey was sure of it.

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t down here to do a little job – you know – centre page tabloid stuff?’

  Candy’s eyes were big and luminous when she brought her gaze up to meet that of Honey’s.

  ‘I just made her acquaintance. That’s all.’

  ‘You were meant to seduce her. Get her into a compromising position. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Candy couldn’t cope. She screwed up her eyes.

  ‘Don’t keep on at me!’ she wailed.

  Honey found herself feeling sorry for the girl. ‘Look, Candy. Someone had it in for Scheherazade and we know she liked girls. Who put you up to it? This Mr North you mentioned earlier?’

  She sat bolt upright at the name. ‘Did I?’

  ‘That’s a nice hat,’ Honey said suddenly. ‘I didn’t know you liked hats.’

  ‘I don’t …’

  Doherty reached out. She didn’t protest when he removed the hat from her head and her platinum hair tumbled around her shoulders. She just sat there like a rabbit sitting in the middle of the road, hypnotized by a car’s headlights.

  ‘You could do with having a stitch put in that.’ Honey was looking at what she’d half expected. There was a deep gash from the corner of Candy’s eye all the way up to her hairline and it was still seeping blood.

  Doherty got out his mobile phone.

  ‘Hey there!’

  Honey looked up to see Mary J
ane coming in their direction. She spent most of her waking hours wandering around the city, absorbing the atmosphere. By midday she was thinking about lunch.

  ‘Hey!’ Mary Jane said, immediately spotting the gash on Candy’s face. ‘Who did that?’

  She looked pointedly at Doherty, who held his hands up. ‘Nothing to do with me, sheriff!’

  ‘It needs stitching,’ Honey said. ‘We’re going to get a taxi and get her to the hospital.’

  ‘No need! I’ll take her. My car’s outside.’

  Doherty raised his eyebrows. ‘Parked on double yellow lines?’

  ‘Only just over there on the square. I bought my parking permits.’

  ‘My luggage,’ said Candy.

  Honey assured her that she’d deal with it. ‘There’s a store room for guests’ luggage.’

  Doherty opted to ride shotgun to the hospital. ‘I’ll let you know what transpires,’ he confided to Honey.

  Honey couldn’t stop the Cheshire cat grin. ‘You’re a brave man, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘I know,’ returned Doherty. ‘I’ve seen Mary Jane’s driving.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Of all the hotel bars in all of Bath, Boris Morris had walked into the Green River! How lucky was that? Was he Mr North? That was what Honey was aching to find out. Someone was indulging in a sideline aimed at trapping the rich and famous into compromising situations. He wasn’t top of the list of possibilities, but he was also far from being at the bottom.

  The pony-tailed film director was well into his cups – half a bottle of Jameson’s Irish in half an hour according to Lindsey.

  ‘He’s feeling pretty sorry for himself,’ Lindsey added.

  Honey beamed at her. ‘What a fantastic coincidence; but, hey, never look a gift horse in the mouth – or a murder suspect drowning himself in Irish whiskey.’

  Lindsey tugged at the trio of earrings hanging from her right ear. She didn’t usually play an active part in her mother’s detective work, but she was interested. ‘Is he the prime suspect?’

  ‘As prime as the rest on Steve Doherty’s list,’ returned her mother. ‘He’s got about eight on the list, I think, though it could be more. But Boris Morris is as good a place to start as any. Is he still standing and coherent?’