Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  The subject of John Rees had come up in conversation. Honey had explained that she’d needed an escort for the gala evening she’d attended and John Rees had been willing.

  ‘You were sorting your daughter out.’

  The girl had gone back to her mother. Doherty hadn’t said as much, but she was pretty convinced that he’d picked up the tab.

  As for tonight … well, tonight she had another fish to fry – or rather a bloke named Scruffy to see. And she had to go alone.

  The sound of the car leaving brought Magda springing from her chair, throwing the blanket behind her. She phoned Dexter.

  ‘The police have just left. Don’t worry. I haven’t told them anything – not much anyway. Have you sorted everything out?’

  He told her that most things were in place and that Sheer had come today to finalize the sale of the clinic.

  ‘And the bitch – have you told the bitch?’

  He was hesitant.

  ‘We may have to circumvent that problem,’ he told her.

  She believed him. He loved her. She was not one of many – she was the special one.

  Chapter Forty

  It was twilight and the sky in the west was lighter than that in the old alleyways and narrower streets of the city.

  The odd cat scooted among the shadows and overhead a brace of starlings twittered good-naturedly as they cuddled up together on a brand new stone parapet, part of the rank of new shops.

  Honey was walking with her head down, concentrating hard on the scrap of paper that passed as a map.

  The developers of the new shopping mall had been forced by the local authority to respect the bushes, birch and willow trees growing between the site and the river. They wanted the building softened with greenery and seeing as there was still so much here, the cost of planting was knocked sideways. They had greenery so why cut it down?

  The leaves of an overgrown buddleia tinkled overhead as she came to the place described in Clint’s note. A variety of bushes grew like a protective wall around its base.

  ‘You have to push your way through, and a bit of wildlife will disperse at your arrival. But don’t worry. They won’t bite.’

  Rats! You mean rats?

  Push my way through, she thought, telling herself what Clint had told her; rats were frightened of human beings. There was nothing to worry about.

  Determined to overcome her fear, she switched her thoughts to other things. What would anybody watching her think she was doing? Relieving herself? Waiting in ambush?

  Get on with it!

  A quick glance around confirmed that there were people in the vicinity but none were looking in her direction. I mean, why should they be looking? Was what she was doing that unusual?

  Unusual, yes, and sneaky.

  ‘Shut up,’ she muttered. Her mind could sometimes go off on a tangent. And it was Mary Jane’s fault. She was sure of it.

  However, back to the job in hand. Using both hands, she pushed and divided the bushes. The dark green leaves were shiny – definitely light reflective. She’d brought a torch just in case, plus a bottle of Bell’s whisky and a pastrami, mustard, and tomato salad baguette, warm from the oven. Scruffy would gratefully accept both and tell her all he knew. That was the plan anyway, and she’d run it past Clint. He’d shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want to do. But beware,’ he said raising a warning finger. ‘Don’t go there poshed up. Have you got a pair of wellies and a waxed Barbour jacket?’

  ‘Lindsey has.’

  Lindsey did own a pair of green wellies and a waxed Barbour jacket. They were residual apparatus from her horse-riding days. Life and being grown up had intervened.

  ‘They’re a bit grubby …’

  ‘Clean them. You wouldn’t wear grubby things to visit your mother, would you?’

  She wasn’t quite getting this, though of course to go looking for Scruffy in evening gown and drop-dead heels had never, ever been on the menu.

  On the other hand she hadn’t expected to be warned to go clean. After all, living where he did hardly justified getup, did it? Dressing down had to be the thing. The torch she’d brought with her was the sort with a headband. It fitted neatly. She’d be able to see her way.

  Thanks to the closeness of the building site, the bushes were thick with dust. Just as Clint had promised, she found a narrow opening.

  Her shoulders brushed against the stones forming the entrance. Bits of it plink-plonked off, leaving marks on her nice warm coat.

  The steps leading down were narrow and dark. She pressed the switch on the head torch. Its clear white beam lit the way ahead of her.

  Leaves from last October scrunched beneath her feet. So did a few crisp packets and discarded chocolate wrappings.

  A supermarket trolley was wedged half way down. By the light of her torch she could see a second one at the bottom of the steps. They’d been put there purposely, the inhabitants obviously being security conscious.

  The steps ended opposite a blank wall on which was written, ‘No Trespassers. Keep Out Or Else!’ A run from the exclamation mark was finished with a dagger and drips made to look like blood. The whole of it looked to be written in red paint – at least she hoped it was red paint.

  She paused, balancing on the heels of her feet. Toes and soles swept from side to side as if they were being sensible and were going to run up the stairs by themselves. Her heels acted as anchors. She was made to go on. What if the sign really had been painted in blood?

  ‘Can’t you bloody read?’

  She spun round at the sound of the voice, jerked back to normality – or as close to normality as things ever were in the world of a middle-market hotelier.

  The cellar went off to her right. The light from her torch picked out a grubby figure.

  ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Well you won’t find ’em ’ere! Now shove off!’

  ‘Are you Scruffy?’

  ‘Is that a question or an observation, love?’

  Somebody else had said that. The same somebody giggled.

  ‘I was told that someone named Scruffy might be able to help me find a murderer. Clint sent me.’

  ‘Clint?’

  ‘Rodney Eastwood.’

  For a moment there was no movement and then there was.

  ‘Well if Clint sent you, you’d better come in.’

  He pressed himself against the wall so she could squeeze past.

  ‘Be right with you, love. Got to put the door back in place first. Don’t want any bloody Tom, Dick, or ’Arry finding their way in ’ere.’

  She looked around, surprised at what she was seeing. There was an electric cooker, an electric fire, and an electric table lamp. The latter was standing on a bedside table with glass shelves and chrome legs. It looked to be of sixties vintage.

  There was also an old sofa covered in dark green velvet plus one other chair.

  The centre of the room was lit by the table lamp. The rest of the room was gloomy, the shadows shifting towards the black mouth of what seemed to be some kind of tunnel.

  The stench had to be smelt to believed; she didn’t need a guided tour to know that there was no bathroom. Thankfully she hadn’t eaten since breakfast time. Her stomach was empty.

  This is controllable, she told herself. Of course it was – as long as she didn’t stay down here too long.

  ‘So my mate Clint sent you.’ The person asking the question had tangled shoulder-length hair and was dressed in an old army overcoat. His legs were bare, his feet encased in a pair of boots that didn’t appear to have any laces.

  She did her best to avert her gaze from the bare legs between boots and coat and tried not to wonder about the state of his underwear.

  ‘We knows Clint well, don’t we, Poxy?’

  The person he addressed as Poxy grinned a toothless grin. She couldn’t see any blemishes on his face caused either by smallpox or acne. Politeness had nothing to do with not asking how he
’d got his name. It was best, she decided, that she lived on in ignorance.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sit yer bum down,’ he said, indicating the only chair in the room.

  A cursory glance reassured her that the seat was made of hardwood and there was no chance of something crawling out and biting her.

  Focusing her mind on the job in hand helped obliterate everything else – though one question did vex her. Where was the electricity coming from to power the cooker, the light, and the fire?

  Her curiosity must have shown.

  ‘The city council,’ said Scruffy. ‘A mate of mine used to be an electrician. He wired us into the council mains. They’re only along the road and the amount they use, they weren’t going to notice the little bit that we use, now were they?’

  She agreed with that. Local authorities often had money to burn. If they ran out they’d just approach the taxpayer for a little bit more to balance their budget.

  Scruffy sprawled himself full length on the sofa, head supported on fist. The other guy, Poxy, sprawled himself out on the floor. She fidgeted at the thought that the chair she was sitting on was mostly used by him.

  This is no time to be squeamish. She had to press on.

  ‘There was a murder out at The Old Manor House – the place that’s now being run as a beauty clinic. A scruffy man was seen running away from there. Clint suggested that the people you know have their favourite spots. He thought you might be able to pinpoint who it might be.’

  ‘That was that woman who got drowned in her mudpack!’ Poxy exclaimed. ‘I never could see the point of that, you know – washing in mud.’

  Scruffy guffawed. ‘You could never see the point of washing in anything, Poxy. Neither could I fer that matter. I mean, you only gets dirty agin, don’t you?’

  Above ground their logic would seem odd. Down here, looking at the two of them, it was strangely philosophical in that it suited them; it suited their world.

  ‘But ’e weren’t one of us. No sir. He might ’ave looked like one of us, but ’e weren’t. I guarantee it.’

  Honey told herself that it was only natural that they should defend their own situation.

  Not us, guv’nor. It weren’t us.

  This was going to get her nowhere. She shrugged. ‘Shame you didn’t see him, then you would know for sure if he wasn’t one of you.’

  ‘I did see ’im,’ said Scruffy. ‘We was out there scrapping. You know – looking roundabouts for a bit of scrap metal. When there’s building going on, there’s always a bit of rubbish left over for taking down the scrap yard and getting money for it. It’s our job of work, you know – clearing up after other people.’

  ‘Like the Wombles.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Scruffy. Like her, he seemed to remember the children’s programme about furry creatures tidying up Wimbledon Common.

  ‘The first environmentalists,’ laughed Poxy.

  Honey could feel the rictus grin on her face. This was all so surreal, being down here with a couple of down-and-outs who really did go round cleaning up after people – in a manner of speaking.

  ‘So you reckon you saw the scruffy man.’

  ‘Definitely. We did consider going to police but then, you know how it is. They’d want to know what we were doing there. They wouldn’t understand about the scrap. They’d say we nicked it.’

  What they said was very likely, so she wasn’t going to push it.

  ‘OK,’ she said nodding slowly. ‘So this man. You seem pretty sure that he wasn’t one of your scene.’

  A shower of dandruff came out as Scruffy shook his head. Honey tried not to breathe.

  ‘Definitely not one of us. No sir. He was just an untidy bugger trespassing on our territory – though we don’t do murders. Only scrap metal.’

  Concentrating was becoming more difficult. Honey couldn’t help her eyes wandering to the black tunnel and she could hear scuttling in the shadows. She wanted to ask whether they kept pets down here, but figured she wouldn’t like the answer.

  Swallowing her nerves, she felt glad that as an honoured guest – a friend of Clint’s no less – she’d been given the only chair in the place. The old sofa looked comfy, but she suspected that it too might be home to other living organisms that couldn’t be regarded as pets – unless you kept a flea circus. Just the thought of it made her want to scratch.

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Scruffy,’ said Scruffy – which was definitely a case of the pot calling the kettle black. ‘And tall. A six-footer, I should think.’

  She opened her mouth to question the degree to which a person who was scruffy could describe a person as scruffy – it was pretty confusing. Scruffy and his mates were all, – well – scruffy.

  ‘So what else?’ she asked.

  ‘His voice. He spoke posh but looked down on ’is uppers – if you knows what I mean.’

  Chapter Forty-one

  The following morning Smudger the chef was purchasing organic vegetables when Honey wandered into the kitchen. She’d been planning to go through the month’s menu with her head chef, but he was presently busy so she lingered, waiting her turn. Chefs were famous – or more accurately infamous – for prioritizing in their own sweet way. She was only the hotel owner. The man delivering fresh produce had priority.

  ‘Best there is,’ Smudger was saying to the delivery man.

  Honey did a double-take. She’d seen that man before.

  He recognized her too. ‘Howdy do.’ He lifted his old-fashioned cap as he greeted her.

  ‘You work at the Macrottie place.’

  ‘I do indeed, ma’am. Have done all my life, right back when the place was really something to write ’ome about – if you get me drift. Course, the family had money back then – that’s why they could afford to keep two places running.’

  ‘Two?’ Honey was intrigued, automatically pouring him a freshly brewed coffee.

  Smudger looked intrigued, pulling up a chair, hooking his leg across and resting his hands and chin on the back of it.

  Waiting for action, thought Honey. Well here goes.

  ‘So they had two big houses.’

  The old guy gratefully accepted a plateful of chocolate digestives, one of which he proceeded to dunk in his coffee. Crumbs scattered everywhere when he spoke.

  ‘That place down in Lambton was her ladyship’s. His lordship hated her selling it. He can’t bear old parkland being built on and old buildings turned from houses into commercial places. Hated it he did! But …’ He shrugged. ‘The old girl would have her way and seeing as it was hers by right – passed down through the family …’

  Dunk went another digestive, the chocolate slurped off; the soft biscuit left behind was sucked in after the chocolate. The old man had priorities.

  Honey felt an odd tingling sensation. She’d been trying to get hold of Steve all morning. She’d failed to get hold of him last night but had left messages.

  The old guy was adding fuel to the fire. Lord Macrottie, the last in a long line of the family that had owned Hamthorpe Hall, had crept into her mind last night at Scruffy’s place and hadn’t fully crept out again. Now, thanks to the old guy delivering vegetables, his presence was set in cement.

  ‘How did his lordship take to his wife selling the place off for development?’

  The old guy scowled and shook his head. ‘Not well. But on the other hand the cash could be spent on the hall. Not that it’s come to that – not yet anyway.’

  Honey mused on what the reason might be. There were a few possibilities that all led to questions, but the delivery man had drained his cup and was about to depart.

  ‘Oh well. Can’t stand ’round ’ere gossiping.’

  Honey tried phoning Doherty again.

  ‘Steve. I’ve been trying to get hold of you. If you don’t get back to me shortly, I’m going out to Hamthorpe Hall alone. I think the down-and-out Serena Sarabande saw was his lordship. I think he killed his wife because she was divorc
ing him. He wanted the money to do up the Hall. You saw what a state it was in.’

  He’d go mad her going out there alone, but she was on a roll.

  ‘I should come with you.’

  Lindsey was looking worried.

  ‘Someone has to stay here and run things. How about Mary Jane?’

  Honey frowned and shook her head. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

  Mary Jane had inadvertently done damage to Benici’s Bentley. She wasn’t sure how things were in that area of her life – the abduction and possible murder area. The pink Cadillac was very noticeable. It made sense to go out in something less conspicuous.

  ‘Hey! Did I hear tell that you’re going out to Hamthorpe Hall?’

  Smudger was still in his kitchen whites. His face was pink, he looked disgruntled, and he was brandishing a bunch of wilting asparagus. ‘Look at the state of these! I paid good money for twenty-four bunches of fresh asparagus. It’s May so they should be top notch and fresh as daisies, and fresh these ain’t!’

  A chef in need of fresh vegetables is a formidable force indeed. It seemed a good idea to take him with her – far better than taking Mary Jane.

  ‘OK. Drat!’

  She suddenly remembered her car was in for a service.

  Smudger read her mind.

  ‘We can take mine.’

  ‘Mine’ turned out to be a turbocharged BMW with big tyres and blue enhancement lights around the wheel arches. She couldn’t help thinking it a bit of a pimpmobile but wouldn’t dare say so. Chefs – especially Smudger – were notoriously sensitive.

  First he loaded up the boot with the offending asparagus.

  ‘I want exchange or our money back,’ he declared on slamming the driver’s door shut. ‘Otherwise, this means war!’

  Smudger was passionate about asparagus. Figuring he was looking after her interests, Honey didn’t mention that nobody in their right mind went to war over asparagus. Tulips, maybe. Asparagus? No!

  Doherty took in the details of the pathology report. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Cranfield, the new boy on the block who hadn’t long emigrated there from Australia, peeled off his latex gloves finger by finger.