Honey chanced another burp. She was that intrigued. ‘A month? But no one stays at a beauty clinic for a month?’
Doherty interjected. ‘Do you know for sure that she was at the clinic all that time?’
‘They said she was.’
Recalling Serena’s information on plastic surgery and Venezuela, Honey’s brain was going into overdrive. ‘What did she look like when you came back from being away?’
Joss flicked more ash and blew more smoke out of the window. ‘Fantastic! I’d never seen her looking so good and took back all I’d said to her about beauty treatments.’
‘Do you know whether she had any other treatment at the clinic and what it comprised of?’
He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. How would I know? I’m only a man.’
‘Point taken. Do you mind if I use the bathroom now?’
His earlier twinkle-eyed interest in her body returned. ‘Be my guest.’
He escorted her along the narrow passage leading past a bedroom to the bathroom at the end.
‘Cosy,’ she said as his big arm squeezed past her shoulder to open the bathroom door.
He breathed an innuendo into her ear. ‘If you need a hand, just give me a yell.’
Although affable enough, she’d decided she didn’t like Jocelyn Trinder. Granted, he and Pansy Porter had been an item, but he hadn’t thought twice about buying this boat following her demise. She wondered how long he’d waited before the purchase. She also wondered whether any new ‘shipmate’ was on the horizon.
The bathroom was small but perfectly formed. There was no bath but the shower was big enough for one. Two showering at the same time and they were likely to be stuck in there for eternity.
As she was washing her hands in the basin, she looked at her reflection in the mirrored bathroom cabinet. Then she looked at the cabinet. It was amazing what people kept in their bathroom cabinets; toothbrushes, headache tablets, a spare bar of soap and some aftershave …
Yep, that was all she was likely to find, so why did she want to open it?
There was no way she was going to find anything appertaining to the case inside this cabinet. All the same, when curiosity called who was she to ignore it?
A key was hanging from the lock. Now if Joss Trinder had anything to hide, he wouldn’t leave the key in the lock – would he?
Of course not.
The key, she decided, was an open invitation. Carefully and very slowly she turned it and opened the cabinet.
The usual accoutrements of a hygienic lifestyle were all there as suspected. However, there were one or two additions. Number one was a can of deodorant – Sea Petals. For women. No self-respecting male would use a deodorant named that.
Nestled next to it were a packet of tampons, a nail file, and a tube of manicure adhesive. Joss Trinder was in his sixties – and male. He wouldn’t have a use for any of these, would he? OK, she’d give in on the nail file. But not the manicure adhesive, and certainly not the tampons – unless he had a daughter!
Back in the kitchen, Doherty was getting ready to leave and thanking Joss for the bacon sandwiches and coffee.
‘If you come up with anything else, give me a call.’
‘I will.’
Honey purposely left her bag behind, then suddenly remembered it when her head was out in the fresh air and the rest of her body was still inside the boat.
‘My bag,’ she said suddenly, stopped and shot back towards the kitchen.
Joss had been coming up behind her, but stepped back to let her pass.
He caught her arm. ‘Do you get out much?’ he asked.
She managed a smile. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you ever wear a uniform?’
She was about to say that she was not in fact a policewoman, but held back.
‘Sometimes.’
His breath was hot against her ear, his thigh pressed against hers.
‘A woman wearing a uniform does wonders for my sexual performance.’
Having been in the hotel game for some time, she’d been propositioned by experts. Jocelyn Trinder’s approach didn’t faze her.
‘I need to get my bag.’
‘Of course.’
He let her go but followed.
‘My daughter bought it for me,’ she said once the strap of the big brown bag was firmly over her shoulder. ‘Mustn’t lose it. She’d never forgive me. You know how it is with kids.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said as he escorted her back to the way out. ‘Never had any kids myself. Neither did Pansy.’
‘Were you both happy about that?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose it must be nice as you get older, but then, what you’ve never had you don’t miss.’
His palm brushed her bottom as she climbed the steps. Obviously there were certain things Joss Trinder was missing – or was he?
The question was answered more quickly than she’d hoped. The moment they were out on the cockpit, Joss Trinder’s demeanour changed somewhat.
At first Honey didn’t see what – or rather who – he was seeing. A figure was coming towards them along the towpath. No big deal. The odd jogger had trotted past along with the odd cyclist and people walking their dogs. Another figure wouldn’t have made any difference, except for the wave.
Joss Trinder didn’t wave back. The affable expression became flustered.
‘Do excuse me. I have to get on.’
‘If there’s anything you come across –’ Doherty began.
‘Of course. I’ll be in touch.’
With that he ducked down out of sight.
‘He’s got a visitor,’ Honey murmured, nodding in the direction of the figure coming towards them. ‘One he doesn’t want to admit to.’
The woman was perhaps approaching forty, give or take two or three years, though it was hard to tell with any real accuracy. So many women were into beauty treatments and gym membership in a bid to defeat Father Time.
The woman had a sporty look about her: fresh-faced, bobbed hair, and gleaming white teeth. She uttered a bright good morning as she passed.
Honey and Doherty stopped and turned round. Blissfully unaware of their interest, she bounced on the balls of her feet in the general direction of Jocelyn Trinder’s boat. Placing one hand on the railing running along the back she vaulted over the side.
‘How old was Pansy Porter?’ Honey asked.
‘About fifty-six, I think.’
‘That figures. There were things in Mr Trinder’s medicine chest that might not have been of much use to an older woman.’
Doherty had an intuition about the tone of Honey’s voice. He knew when she was talking women’s stuff and he never asked questions about women’s stuff – their personal things – bodily functions and all that. He just nodded as though he understood – because he did.
Chapter Twenty-five
When Steve Doherty told Honey she was being taken on a day out and he wasn’t wearing anything special, she knew they were off ‘making further enquiries’.
Lady Macrottie, the woman who had suffocated on a mudpack and/or drowned in the mud bath, had lived in a grand mansion to the south of the city. Entrance was through a wide gateway bounded by high stone pillars.
The steps to the front door were straight out of Pride and Prejudice in that they went off at either side, meeting in the middle at the front door.
Honey took the right set. Doherty took the left.
Outside the door, Doherty raised his hand to knock.
‘If you wants ’is lordship, you’d be finding ’im in the veg patch.’
They looked down over the parapet to where a ruddy-faced man wearing a flippy-floppy hat looked up at them.
‘Worzel Gummidge,’ muttered Honey.
‘Too fat to be a scarecrow,’ Doherty whispered back. ‘Where is the veg patch?’ he asked the man.
The man pointed. ‘Thur!’
‘Thur,’ mimicked Honey quietly.
The old guy walked off, his pace
slow, possibly by virtue of the fact that his legs were bowed with age. His clothes looked as though he might have mugged a scarecrow. Top drawer they were not.
Though it had been vague, they followed where the finger had pointed. The sound of a cultivator motor helped with direction.
The vegetable patch was something of a surprise. It was large and consisted of one-third lawn, the size of which was diminishing with each pass of the cultivator.
The man pushing the machine was tall and middle aged, his face hidden by a large sombrero. His clothes were better than the ruddy-faced guy’s out front, though tired and obviously way past their best.
He did not acknowledge them until their shadows fell across where he was turning over the earth.
Something bordering on elation swept over his expression. The machine was switched off.
‘Are you from English Heritage?’
‘No.’
Doherty presented his warrant card. He introduced Honey as his assistant.
Lord Macrottie’s face visibly dropped.
‘That’s a shame. I was expecting English Heritage.’
He sounded terribly put out – as though they were only pretending not to be from English Heritage.
‘Sorry,’ said Doherty putting his card away.
‘What do you want?’
‘I wanted to ask a few more questions about your wife. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Oh. Her.’
Judging by the look on Macrottie’s face, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about his wife. Begrudgingly, he pulled off the oversized gardening gloves he wore and gestured to a hut. The door of the hut hung open, swaying and squeaking on its hinges. Inside it smelled of compost and creosote and wasn’t that big. The three of them huddled close around the door as a few drops of drizzle began to come down.
‘I don’t mind living alone. It’s very soothing.’
Lord Macrottie’s face was upturned as he said it, almost as though her ladyship was in heaven and he was talking directly to her.
‘It must have been something of a shock, your wife going to the beauty clinic and dying. I mean, it’s not what you expect.’
‘No.’
His voice sounded hollow and impassive.
‘Had she had similar treatment before?’ asked Honey.
‘I believe so.’
‘Did she complain about it itching?’
Doherty shot her a warning look. They were not here to compare notes about allergic reactions.
‘Of course not,’ snapped his lordship. ‘If she wanted to plaster her face with mud that was up to her. I prefer to grow vegetables in mine.’
Doherty was as uninterested as Lord Macrottie with regard to the mud. He was here to go over a few things, not that he felt it likely he’d find out anything new. It was just to clarify a few things in his mind.
‘Your wife had no enemies?’
Lord Macrottie threw him a disdainful look. ‘Everyone has enemies! Even you, Mr Policeman! Come along. I think the rain has stopped.’
‘This is a lovely building,’ said Honey, looking up admiringly at the Elizabethan brickwork and the lead-paned windows through the pouring rain. ‘Has it been in your family for long?’
Lord Macrottie inhaled deeply, his chest expanding with pride, his eyes moist with affection as he too admired the elegant façade.
‘It’s been in my family for four hundred years, or perhaps I should say that my family has been in this house for four hundred years. After so many years it becomes that the house owns you. Its history is my history. There is nothing I would not do to keep this house in the family.’
‘So who might want to see your wife dead?’
‘A few people, I suppose.’
His gaze stayed fixed on the house.
‘Can you give me any names?’
‘Not really. My wife upset a lot of people – including that harpy Serena Sarabande and that shit, Dexter.’
Doherty’s ears visibly pricked up. ‘You didn’t mention that before. Any particular reason?’
‘Any particular reason they didn’t get on, or any particular reason that I didn’t mention it before?’
‘Both,’ Doherty replied curtly.
Honey stepped away from the hut. Even the possibility of getting caught in another downpour was preferable to witnessing two men squaring up to each other.
Nobody told her not to go wandering, so off she wandered. Luckily she’d worn flat shoes and hadn’t strayed on to the mud, though there had been a few blobs here and there. At the edge of the path she scraped off the blobs that had managed to stick to her soles.
Retracing their steps, she followed the paths back round to the front of the house, stopped, and took a look.
The façade was imposing, the tiny squares that made up the lead-paned windows glittering like diamonds. One or two windows seemed to have lost their glitter, plywood covering the gaps where glass had once been.
Funny, she hadn’t noticed that before. Even the balustrade bordering the parapet in front of the canopied entrance seemed a little worse for wear.
Not having noticed things annoyed her. ‘Shoddy observation, Hannah,’ she muttered to herself.
A second look wouldn’t hurt. A second look she would have.
Chapter Twenty-six
This time she chose the steps on the left side. She stumbled half way up as a piece of stone edging flaked off as easily as a biscuit crumbles.
Bath stone was notoriously soft, though a beautiful buttermilk colour. While wiping one grit-encrusted hand against the other, she noticed that more than one stone step was the victim of corrosion. She proceeded more carefully.
It struck her forcibly that they hadn’t been replaced in years, perhaps since the place was built. Some of the brickwork was also in need of repair.
The hugely imposing front door they’d stood in front of earlier was of solid oak that was whitened and dried with age. The door knocker needed painting. A white plastic bell push had been crudely inserted into the door surround, offensive against the ancient wood. Where was the bell pull, normally an ornate Victorian item of cast iron and ringing tone? Where was the butler come to that?
Overcome by a flash of pure mischief, something she was often prone to, she pressed the plastic bell.
The electric ring seemed to resonate inside and out.
‘No good pressing that.’
She looked over the parapet. The same ruddy-faced old guy they’d seen earlier had reappeared pushing a wheelbarrow.
‘Is it the butler’s day off?’ she asked politely.
‘Too bloody right it is. He’s ’elping ’is lordship. We need to plant some spuds shortly. Can’t be wasting time doing butlering.’
As the old guy wandered off Honey regarded the garden and sweeping driveway. Judged from its gardens and a cursory view of the outside, Hamthorpe Hall looked the part. On closer inspection the building was a little tired and servants seemed more than a little thin on the ground. No one had come to answer her ring on the door bell and the guy with the ruddy cheeks doubled up as butler and gardener.
An obvious conclusion bobbed into her head like an apple floating on water; his lordship was strapped for cash.
Looking sidelong at the windows made her curious about the interior; would it be neglected, the furniture shabby, and the old oak panelling suffering from woodworm? Very likely, though the woodworm wouldn’t notice much, of course
There was only one way to find out. She had to have a look through a window. Better still, she needed to get inside.
The Elizabethans had been very keen on building their houses in the shape of an E in honour of their queen. The middle of the letter was formed by the entrance and the bigger end bits were formed by brick-built wings embellished with huge oriel windows with stone mullions and tiny leaded panes. Her first intention was to take a peek through one of these.
Balancing on the steps gave her something of a view, but stretching one leg out and placing
one foot on the window ledge gave her an even better one.
Despite the big window the room was sombre, the light swallowed up by the dark woods of the floor and walls. On the whole it looked tidy enough, furnished as it was with period furniture which, although not exactly in the first flush of youth, suited the room.
After retrieving her leg from the window ledge on one side of the house, she repeated the action on the other. This time her leg didn’t seem anywhere near long enough. Some analysing was called for. Either one of her legs was shorter than the other or some old-time builder had used an extra brick, because the gap seemed wider.
However, she determined not to be beaten by an old-time brickie being slack on the job. A big breath, a leap of faith and … her foot was on the window ledge.
But it wasn’t easy. Another inch and her legs would snap off, at least that’s what it felt like.
And that wasn’t the only problem. The foot left behind was balanced on the very edge of the step. The old masonry was beginning to separate into flaky layers and one flaky layer was moving on top of the other.
She caught only a glimpse of the other room before the flaky stone crumbled. First things first, she could either fall or leap with both legs onto the window ledge. She chose the latter.
Fingernails that she’d been determined to grow (yet again) snapped off as she grabbed the soft stone mullions, digging her fingers in as best she could.
The window ledge was narrow, the stone mullion difficult to hold on to. She was going to fall.
Ordinarily it might not have been far to fall, but the steps swept down and away from the building. There was a fair drop to the ground, not enough to break her neck perhaps, but a broken leg wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility.
She was very likely to fall. There wasn’t enough grip in the mullion.
Frantically she searched for a finger hold. There wasn’t much to choose from: a lump of metal that formed the outside of the window catch; the hanging frond of a wisteria, not yet in full bloom, scratching the window with each breath of wind.
She was going to fall! That was all there was to it.
Then she spotted a third option. A portion of glass was missing. A piece of plywood had been nailed over the gap on the inside of the window.
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 14