Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Be careful,’ she called to her companion. She received no reply. Pompous cow! Hope she slips and bruises her dignity.

  Honey kept her eyes fixed on the cobbles, her fingers gripping the harsh sandstone of the parapet.

  She glanced away from the cobbles ahead of her. Not a soul in sight. How had the group got down this slope so quickly? The way ahead was shiny and wet – and empty. Very empty. Was it possible they’d passed the group without noticing?

  She glanced over her shoulder. No one there either. Shadows, a flickering candle and driving rain; no stout woman with a pompous air and a walking stick!

  A sudden gust lifted rainwater from an overflowing gutter and made her look up. The equivalent of a bucketful of water fell on to her upturned face. Spluttering and blinking, she wiped her face with her sleeve. A contact lens popped out and fell earthwards, a tiny coracle for some drowning insect.

  ‘Damn!’

  Coming out from behind her hood, she found she was on level ground and on the right side of a large puddle.

  Honey looked back up the slope. Rods of rain streaked across street lamps. She thought she glimpsed the same motorbike she’d seen earlier. Apart from that, nobody and nothing, not even Her Ladyship. Presumably she’d rejoined the rest of the bunch. How, she couldn’t quite figure out. On a night like this she didn’t care.

  ‘Please yourself,’ she said with a sigh, and bent down to retie her shoelace.

  Losing a contact lens was almost as bad as losing a leg; everything was lopsided. Close up wasn’t so bad. Distance was a nightmare.

  A sudden movement attracted her attention further downhill. Some people were jumping in and out of a puddle that had gathered between the alley and the main pavement. The Australian women, no doubt.

  Just as she thought that, a pair of shiny shoes sauntered past. She glanced up and spied a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over the face.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said.

  Whoever it was didn’t answer, which was something of a pity because she was dying to make a comment about his shiny patent shoes.

  Shiny?

  Patent?

  In this weather?

  How come they weren’t wet – sodden even? And how come she hadn’t heard his footsteps? And his clothes weren’t exactly twenty-first century. More like eighteenth … Not a ghost. No. Couldn’t be. Could it? Her blood turned to ice – and the weather had nothing to do with it!

  Taking off like Concorde from Heathrow, she raced and skidded her way over the cobbles crashing into the small group standing in the gap at the end.

  ‘Hey!’

  The blurred figures suddenly became clear. Faces – young faces – looked at her as if she were batty. They had ‘nightclubbers r us’ written all over them.

  ‘I’m sorry. Wrong group!’

  Chapter Three

  Having eluded her companion, Lady Wanda Templeton-Jones – formerly plain Wanda Carpenter – headed in double-quick time for the shop with the candle burning in its window.

  Before trying the handle she looked over her shoulder. A lone figure, presumably the hotel woman, was picking her way down over the cobbles towards the main road, concentrating on not slipping. Apart from her, the alley was empty.

  She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness. The shop smelled of cobwebs and fluff. The candle in the window did little to aid her eyesight. Using her stick to feel ahead of her, she took a few steps forward, squinting into the darkness.

  The sound of a creaking floorboard sounded overhead. She looked up. Anyone else might have been afraid. She was not. Her purpose on coming here far outweighed any fear she might have felt and anyway, it was a matter of honour.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ she called out. ‘You might not like what I have to say.’

  Her voice sounded thick in her throat but weakened as it bounced off the whitewashed walls.

  Another floorboard creaked. The candle flickered behind her. The shop was empty and had been so for some time, hence no electricity, only a candle. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a flashlight?

  ‘Get going,’ she muttered to herself. She was determined to go through with this.

  She fancied the outline of a door in the corner and made for it. Using her stick she poked at where the floor should be and found a ledge – no – a stair! The door opened on to an inky-black staircase winding upwards.

  She paused with one foot on the bottom stair, hand clenching the handle of her walking stick – a weapon if need be.

  ‘Hey! Are you up there?’

  Perhaps there was another door. Perhaps it was difficult to hear her. After all, she’d only heard the creaking of floorboards. No voice. It was reasonable to assume that her voice might not be heard.

  Placing one foot on the first stair, she leaned forward, twisting her head and shoulders so she could see the top of the stairs. A faint brightness appeared and was gone instantly. Perhaps the person she had come to see had opened a door and closed it again.

  She was about to call out again when something brushed against her face. Cobwebs! Spiders!

  Since childhood she’d been terrified of spiders. Panic overcame her. The stick necessary for her to feel her way was now used to lash out. Thrown off balance, she tilted backwards, then forwards again. Momentum increased.

  She climbed the stairs more quickly. Her breath was coming in quick gasps. Her chest was wheezing.

  Not far now! She had to be at or near the top of the stairs.

  Something brushed gently across her chest. She climbed, stick held out in front of her.

  This time she heard a door latch before the darkness lightened.

  Convinced she’d reached her goal and everything would be worthwhile, she lunged for the top of the stairs. Whatever had lain on her chest tightened around her windpipe; she heard a springing sound, then the sound of her own breath as it was strangled from her throat.

  Chapter Four

  Fast as her soggy trainers would allow, Honey splish-splashed through the puddles. The best place to finish this walk was at the beginning. Her strategy proved correct. The ghost walkers were just sliding to a standstill outside the Theatre Royal.

  ‘See anything?’ someone asked her.

  ‘No … Ha, ha, ha … Nothing at all.’ Even to her ears her laughter sounded weak and wobbly.

  The dripping-wet ghost walkers trooped into the Garrick’s Head. The lounge bar took on the atmosphere of a Chinese laundry as their clothes began to steam.

  The Australian women were first at the bar. Honey wasn’t far behind. Mary Jane muscled in beside her.

  ‘Didn’t see or hear a thing,’ she said miserably. ‘I sure expected some kind of sign. Did you see anything?’

  The shiny black patent shoes came to mind. Avoiding eye contact Honey ordered another drink. ‘No. Nothing.’

  Mary Jane narrowed one eye and arched her eyebrow high above the other. How did she manage that?

  ‘You look a little pale. You’re swigging back the sauce like there’s no tomorrow. I’m reading that you did. You saw something. Go on. Spill the beans – and take a handful of potato chips while you’re at it.’

  Honey ordered another drink but refrained from digging into the bowls of nuts and potato chips placed on the bar top. Mary Jane was sometimes intimidating. She was giving her that look, the one that said I’ll turn you into a frog if you don’t tell me the truth.

  ‘You ever lecture at Hogwarts?’ Honey asked her.

  Mary Jane raised both eyebrows. ‘Of course not. That’s only fiction.’ Her smile widened suddenly. ‘I’d make a good witch though, don’t you think?’

  Honey’s reaction was to wrap both hands around her glass. ‘Don’t doctor my drink whatever you do. Ice and a slice are fine, but eye of newt gives me wind.’

  Mary Jane made a grunting sound but bounced back for the kill. ‘You saw but ain’t telling.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘It was nothing.’

  Mary Jane loomed over her. �
�Tell!’

  Another slurp of vodka. ‘I saw a guy wearing a black cloak and black patent pumps. Fancy dress, I bet.’

  ‘Oh my giddy aunt! Oh, my word! Are you saying you saw something? Are you? Are you?’ The wrinkles of a lifetime rearranged themselves into an expression of awestruck envy. ‘Well, that’s not fair! How come you saw a ghost and I didn’t?’

  Everyone in the immediate vicinity fell to silence. All eyes were turned their way waiting until Honey fired the shot that would get them going again.

  ‘Nah! Just a tosh in a tux. He’d probably been to an important dinner. I expect the woman from Ohio – or wherever it was – Lady Whatshername – saw him too. I’ll ask her.’

  She presumed that Lady Templeton-Jones had raced on ahead of her and quickly rejoined the group. Her eyes scooted from face to face. The dishevelled ghost walkers were now warming themselves up with bottled spirit. Lady Templeton-Jones was not among them.

  ‘Oh. Looks as though she’s already checked out.’

  Of course she had. And she’d probably forgotten about checking out of her present hotel and into the Green River. People reserving rooms and not checking in were a nightmare and annoying.

  Damn! I should have got her credit card number.

  A sudden whack on the bar top sent the complimentary snacks skipping out of their dishes.

  A big voice boomed out. ‘Here’s yer bag, Your Ladyship.’

  Conversation paused. Uncomprehending faces turned in his direction.

  ‘Lady Templeton,’ he added. Whether by accident or intent he’d omitted to add the more common name of Jones.

  Adrian Harris was the pub landlord. He was tall, dark and bloated. His six-pack had become a beer barrel long ago. He also had the publican’s sweaty pallor indicative of people who came out at night and slept in the day. Think vampire, but without the strong teeth and muscle tone.

  ‘I think she’s gone straight to her hotel,’ Honey explained. ‘She’s checking out and booking in with me. I presume she’ll turn up at my place later.’

  ‘It’s all yours then,’ Adrian said abruptly. He slammed the bag down in front of Honey and turned away.

  ‘But she might come back here for it.’

  ‘She’ll be out of luck. I’m closing on the dot at eleven.’ Surly was Adrian’s middle name. He didn’t give a sod for anyone.

  ‘I thought the Government brought in twenty-four-hour drinking.’

  ‘Sod the Government. Twenty-four-hour drinking’s something I do when I’m on holiday. I’m off to the Costa del Sol tomorrow and I can’t be having old bags left in my premises – of any sort.’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ Honey murmured, presuming that she was one of the sorts of old bag he referred to.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  She turned to see Pamela Windsor’s pale face on a level with her own. Her eyes were brighter now, perhaps because she’d been steam dried.

  ‘I’d better take it,’ she said, reaching for the bag. ‘I can leave a message at her hotel that I have it safely in my possession. I’m sure that would be all right.’

  OK, it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. So why was it that Honey suddenly found herself feeling protective about a brown leather bag? Was it because it resembled her favourite overlarge receptacle, though on a smaller scale? Or was it because their ghost-walk guide looked less wan and more animated than she’d been all evening?

  ‘No need.’ Honey hugged the bag to her as though it were a newborn babe due for a feed. ‘Her Ladyship was checking out of her hotel and into mine. She’ll probably be there when I get back.’

  There was no guarantee that Her Ladyship would appear at the Green River. Neither did she have any real reason to be suspicious of dear Pamela. The ghost-walk guide was well meaning, but Honey couldn’t help but get the impression that something was wrong. The world and his wife passed through the doors of the Green River Hotel. You got to know how people behaved. No woman of a certain age would wander off home or wherever she was staying without a bag over her arm. Such a bag would contain everything she held dear and of value: a bunch of keys, her phone and money, perhaps a stub of lipstick, and a powder compact plus family photos.

  She remarked on this.

  Pamela glared. Strange really because she didn’t look the sort who would glare. She was more the nervous fluttery-eyelash type. The latter kicked in. Flutter, flutter. At the same time her chin disappeared into the cowl of a bright red sweater. ‘I didn’t realise. But if you’re quite sure …?’ Her voice was reed-thin, and yet for a slip of a second Honey had detected strength, even a hint of sultriness there.

  Mary Jane suggested they call the police.

  ‘We should wait,’ Honey cautioned. ‘It’s not long enough to report her missing. She must have decided she needed her luggage after all but forgot about her bag.’

  Pamela Windsor retreated further into her cowl, her eyes fixed on the bag. ‘I still do fear she may presume I’m responsible for looking after her property.’

  Honey considered handing the bag over, but Mary Jane jumped in first. ‘If the woman’s moving into the Green River then Honey’s the gal to take care of it. She has a huge green safe that she keeps in the office behind reception. It’ll be fine in there until it’s claimed.’

  Honey touched Mary Jane’s arm and in a low voice explained that it was never wise to discuss safes and valuables in the middle of a pub, no matter where it was.

  ‘Makes sense, huh?’

  Mary Jane jerked her chin. ‘I see where you’re coming from. You don’t want to get done in.’

  ‘Done over. Done in is getting killed, done over is getting burgled.’

  ‘Right!’

  Mary Jane was quickly picking up UK slang, most of it gained from soaps set in the north of England or the East End of London. She’d also tried watching a Welsh soap, convinced she would pick up the language. She’d failed.

  ‘OK. So Her Ladyship got topped.’

  Honey didn’t correct her. She might just be right.

  When they arrived back at the Green River, Lindsey was sitting behind the desk surfing the net. The desk was custom-built and had little alcoves hidden above it out of the guest’s view but easily accessible to the receptionist. On seeing her mother, she brought out a half-bottle of Shiraz and an empty glass.

  Honey felt a wave of relaxation fall over her. ‘My daughter knows me well.’

  ‘This first,’ said Lindsey, handing her a towel.

  ‘I saw nothing,’ said a dismal Mary Jane as Honey dried her hair.

  Towel draped over her head, Honey rolled a second sip of wine around her mouth. ‘I saw someone vanish.’

  ‘You can’t see someone vanish. If they’ve vanished you can’t see them,’ said Lindsey. Her daughter was good with words.

  Mary Jane on the other hand, was impressed by certain words like haunting and invisible. Vanish was especially good. Her eyes were still goggling.

  Honey tapped the bag she’d been landed with. ‘Apologies to the queen for my lack of good English. Let me explain. A woman vanished on the ghost walk. This bag is all that’s left of her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary Jane, retrieving her jaw from the slack-on-chest position. ‘Of course she didn’t vanish. Not properly. She just got lost. But I didn’t see anything,’ she repeated, noticeably upset that she hadn’t made contact with one single ghost, spirit, poltergeist, or hobgoblin.

  ‘Has Sir Cedric wished you a happy birthday yet?’ Lindsey asked her.

  Mary Jane’s grin was like an eruption of wrinkles. ‘I expect he’ll sing it to me.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Mary Jane. Sweet dreams,’ said Lindsey.

  ‘Happy birthday, and thanks for a great night out,’ said Honey.

  ‘Great?’ muttered Lindsey through a fixed smile.

  ‘Wet,’ her mother muttered back.

  Lindsey was a younger version of her mother, except for her hair colour, which tended to change with the seasons. Lindsey also had a more
athletic look about her, mainly because she enjoyed a little exercise and Honey did not. A bit of salsa around the bedroom was OK for Honey. Lindsey preferred jogging and symphonies.

  Mary Jane looked a bit like the Caped Crusader, though her tights were baggy around her bony knees and her cape of pink angora was totally devoid of bat insignia.

  ‘So what’s the story?’ Lindsey asked once their one and only permanent guest had floated up the stairs.

  Honey rested her arms on the desktop and her chin on her arm. She swirled the wine around the glass watching it rise, ebb and subside. ‘One minute the woman was walking with me, and then she wasn’t.’

  ‘Nice woman?’

  ‘Overbearing. That reminds me, has your grandmother called?’

  ‘Three times. She has a problem. Was whining that she might just as well have remained childless. She was told a child would look after her in her old age. Especially a daughter. Said she couldn’t get you on your mobile. I told her you were on a ghost walk and that mobile phones disturb the ectoplasm – or whatever.’

  Honey did an eye-roll in one direction and repeated it in the other.

  Lindsey grinned. Honey’s mother, Gloria Cross, was not your run-of-the-mill septuagenarian. Senior she might be, but senile she was not. She had strong opinions, and a taste that only Donna Karan and Helena Rubinstein could cater for.

  Honey checked her cell phone. Three calls, all from her mother. None from Steve Doherty. He’s busy, she told herself. Cops usually are.

  The bag was put in the safe, and the night porter checked in. Mother and daughter gave reception up to his care and headed for the coach house behind the hotel. The old place had been planned upside down in order to take advantage of city view. The bedrooms were situated on the ground floor. The huge living room, kitchen and bathroom were above that and enjoyed views of mansard roofs and the green hills surrounding the city.

  Kicking off soggy trainers and socks was followed by a warm shower. Like herself, the old house settled down for the night to the sound of water trickling down the roof and gushing throatily along its ancient gutters.