Luckily a more attractive smell was coming from the soup Macrottie was offering her. Her stomach rumbled. She’d had no breakfast. She’d had no lunch either.
‘I grow my own mushrooms in the cellar. All naturally of course. No artificial fertilizers. All home-made and home grown. Mushroom soup,’ he said, handing her a bowl.
The smell was enticing. He gave her a spoon. She was about to take in a spoonful but stopped. Was he going to have some too?
‘Me too,’ he said, licking his chops like a wolf about to take a bite out of Little Red Riding Hood.
He shovelled in two or three mouthfuls, evidence enough that it wasn’t poisoned. He wouldn’t poison himself, would he?
‘Bread,’ he said suddenly. ‘I make my own.’
She could see that he did. There were loaves of every shape and size set out in neat rows on the dresser. He cut her off a piece, liberally spreading it with fresh, yellow butter.
Her mouth began to water. It was ridiculous, but her mouth was watering!
Now come on, she said to herself. Sort yourself out. You’re here to ask questions.
Though not on an empty stomach.
She was sure that her stomach had its own message line to her brain and imagined it having a label on it. Restricted traffic. Bread and butter pudding only.
Still, she had to make the effort.
‘You must miss your wife very much.’
He shook his head and there was an odd smile on his face.
‘No.’
He turned to open the oven door, pulling out a tray of freshly baked bread, at the same time singing a snatch of ‘The Wicked Witch Is Dead’ from The Wizard of Oz.
The smell coming from the bread was wonderful. Things could have been better if she hadn’t been feeling so hungry, so hungry in fact that she was beginning to feel dizzy.
A few more spoonfuls went down and a lot more soup was soaked up with the thickly buttered chunk of bread.
Half a dozen Lord Justin Macrotties were playing on a carousel that was going round and around her head. Up and down, round and round.
The spoon and bowl clattered to the floor.
Justin was smiling. ‘Mushroom soup. Unsurpassable.’
‘Magic,’ she said, and put the two words together. ‘Magic mushrooms.’
Gently, as though she were a maiden aunt in need of support – which quite frankly she was – he led her to the back door.
‘You need some fresh air,’ he told her.
The cold air hit her.
‘Your carriage awaits you, Cinderella. I’ll get you to the ball in no time. And no need to leave by twelve midnight. You can stay in there for ever.’
Her head was fuzzy, but she was convinced she really was hearing a female voice that really could be taken as that of the fairy godmother from the famous old story.
Honey couldn’t quite work out what kind of contraption she was being lowered into. It was like a chair but not a chair.
It came to her in a flash. ‘It’s a barrow. A wheelbarrow,’ she exclaimed. ‘Get me out of here.’
‘Get me out of here!’
It sounded just like her own voice! Was it an echo she’d heard?
And she hadn’t been drinking. Bleary brained, it came to her that the soup – the mushroom soup – had a lot to do with it. Hot and heady. Too heady. And damn it all, she couldn’t get out of this bloody wheelbarrow!
Justin Macrottie sang snatches of Rodgers and Hammerstein as he trundled her along. Her limbs flipped and flopped and her backside was bumped up and down. The path was bumpy. They went past the vegetable garden. She was vaguely aware of conifers and the scratching of gooseberry bushes, though it could just as easily have been brambles.
Her vision was blurry and her limbs had turned to jelly. Her brain was doing some kind of waltz inside her skull, interspersed with a few hip-hop moves. Quite bizarre. Quite crazy. Everything was spinning at varying speeds. Escaping the confines of the wheelbarrow of her own volition would have required gigantic will power. At present her will power was floating some way beyond her reach. She couldn’t have stood up if she’d tried.
‘Dum, dum, de dum, dum, de dum, dum, dum, dum, dum.’
His lordship’s music of choice had changed. Rodgers and Hammerstein had been dumped in favour of what sounded like the funeral march – played ultra-slow but not without a little glee.
Suddenly the wheelbarrow came to a halt. Taking advantage to escape her captor and the wheelbarrow was a faint hope, but she tried anyway. Her limbs failed to respond to the electrical impulses from her brain. This was probably due to the fact that the impulses were having trouble getting through. The grey matter had turned to unbaked dough.
A thin hand patted her shoulder reassuringly. ‘No need to worry, dear lady. It won’t exactly be a Christian burial, but as near as I can get.’ She heard him take a deep breath and could imagine him with hands clasped, eyes looking skywards. She wanted to say that she wasn’t keen on any type of burial but the words were garbled and sounded like rubbish.
Her captor on the other hand seemed to be in his element. ‘O Lord, we commit her body to the ground. Ashes to ashes, mulch to mulch …’
Was it purely her imagination or did he really sound like the current Archbishop of Canterbury?
One flip and she was out of the wheelbarrow and over the side of the pit. She landed like a starfish; legs wide open, arms spread. The back of her hand touched something familiar. She managed to move her fingers, stretched them a little and found – a further set of fingers. They didn’t belong to her!
Smudger had fully inspected the vegetable beds. Some plants, he noticed, were doing better than others.
A pile of mulch had been left at the side of the path. Taking a handful he got a whiff of it. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either.
He wandered at will, fully expecting to come across Jake but never doing so. Purely out of professional interest he inspected the vegetables bed by bed, picking leaves, sniffing them, inspecting for size, blight and quality.
Eventually there were no more vegetables but a row of conifers that seemed to spell ‘The End’. They were pretty tall and in need of trimming.
Jake had told him he’d planted a fruit garden and intended to grow asparagus among the fruit and shielded by conifers. He’d also boasted about his raspberries, a hardy variety and of exceptional taste.
Raspberries were one of Smudger’s favourite fruits. If this place was growing seasonal raspberries then he was after some. He thought he could identify the canes if he saw them though he couldn’t be that sure. Cooking veg and fruits was one thing – growing them was something else.
The gap in the hedge was staggered, one row of conifers set back four feet from the other so that the ends overlapped and the wind couldn’t get through.
At the same time as Honey had found a set of dead man’s fingers and Smudger had entered the fruit garden, Justin Macrottie was opening the front door to Steve Doherty. His quick eyes darted to the two cars waiting out front, their blue lights flashing. This was not a social call offering advice on security or chasing up an unpaid parking ticket.
By nature security conscious, he kept the chain on, asking his visitors what they wanted through a six-inch gap.
Doherty flashed his warrant card and stated his business.
‘Justin Francis Macrottie. I have a warrant for your arrest. We are charging you with the murder of your wife, Lady Carlotta Chalmers-Macrottie, and also with that of Miss Karen Pinker.’
The door was slammed shut.
‘Out the back,’ shouted Doherty. ‘You two stay here.’
Police ran off in all directions.
Doherty swore. The door had been slammed even before he’d gone into the niceties of reading the guy his rights.
Remembering the side gate he’d gone through on his last visit, Doherty swerved right.
Two of his officers were pushing against the green gate. Flakes of dried paint flaked off like snow on to th
eir clothes.
‘It’s locked, guv.’
‘Then unlock it.’
The order was sharp. They knew what he wanted.
Beefy shoulders slammed into the gate, disturbing more clouds of dusty paint.
‘Use something! Climb over! Do bloody something!’
One of the younger officers began climbing the spindly trelliswork and rampant wisteria growing to one side of the gate.
There was no sign of Honey or of her car. Perhaps she’d changed her mind about facing Macrottie by herself. Only one car was parked here and it wasn’t hers.
It was back to square one with the opening of the gate. The rotten trellis had snapped beneath the young officer’s weight. He’d come crashing down, cursing and swearing about the state of his coat. It was nice; blue suede with leather-covered buttons. Doherty had admired it.
‘There might be a key,’ said some bright spark. ‘You know. Under a plant pot. People do that; even posh people do that.’
The clouds in the sky had faces. Some were smiling and some looked glum. Staring at clouds was preferable to thinking about the corpse she was lying on. On a positive note she knew it wasn’t Smudger because the body was cold. This was very reassuring because good chefs were hard to find, and what if he was a little touchy at times – all chefs were like that. It was part of their creed.
So who was the man she was lying on?
Her head was still swimming though she was willing it to stop. If only she hadn’t been so hungry. If she ever got out of this she was never going to miss breakfast again. Wasn’t that the wisdom – that breakfast was the one meal you should never go without?
First things first, she had to get out of here. Her willpower was coming back, though it was patchy. Her eyes kept doing cartwheels.
The green shoots of recovery were pushing through. In twenty or thirty minutes she’d be feeling a lot better than she was now. As long as Macrottie didn’t come back that is. As long as he didn’t resume burying her alive.
Just as she was studying a particularly pretty cloud that closely resembled the dent Doherty left in the mattress, a shadow fell over her. Dismay was too mild a word. Macrottie was back and he had a shovel in his hand.
‘Sorry. Have to hurry.’
One shovelful of dirt after another showered down on her. She was spitting it out of her mouth, blinking it from her eyes. He was working furiously, determined to get her covered in double-quick time.
Suddenly she heard a voice.
‘Hey mate. I’m looking for Jake. Is he down there?’
It had to be Smudger.
She saw the shovel silhouetted against the sky. Macrottie was aiming to strike a blow, but Smudger knew how to take care of himself.
The shovel flew sideways. Smudger was not a man to be trifled with. He had integrity. He also had big fists and a foul temper when roused.
Macrottie stood there as though spellbound while Smudger hit him across the face with something he was holding in his hands.
The assault seemed to take Macrottie off balance. Just as Honey managed to prop herself up on to her elbows, he toppled over straight into the hole.
Smudger was standing up above her, hands resting on his bent knees as he peered down.
‘What the hell are you doing down there?’
Macrottie, his eyes wild, his hands like claws, was on his feet.
‘I think I’m about to be murdered,’ she managed to shout.
Macrottie’s attention being fixed on her, he didn’t see Smudger raising the shovel. The flat of the blade hit him squarely on the top of his head. His whole body wobbled and wavered and for a moment he seemed to hover there.
But seeing as he’d received a hefty bash on the head, she knew it couldn’t last. What got bashed senseless with a spade was bound to fall over. And he did just that.
This was the moment when she found her voice.
‘Don’t fall on me!’
But he did.
Whoosh went the air from her lungs. His weight pinned her to the body beneath. Another man. Some women might dream of such a fantasy – though not quite this scenario, one dead and one out for the count.
Doherty’s face appeared beside that of her chef.
‘Honey, you’ve got no business being here.’
Smudger nodded in agreement. ‘You’re not kidding. Imagine the gossip. Well-known hotel owner found lying between two men.’
Honey screamed. ‘Get me out of here!’
The big surprise was having Serena Sarabande turn police witness to Dr Dexter’s malpractice regarding the referral of patients to a disreputable clinic in Venezuela.
The fact that he’d already flown away to pastures new with Magda Church was an undoubted hindrance to arresting him.
Lord Justin Macrottie was mad and didn’t mind admitting it. He was also incredibly good at mimicking other people’s voices. It was his voice Karen had heard on the other end of the phone inviting her to meet him. He’d sounded like Dr Dexter, so she’d left her client – Lady Carlotta Macrottie – alone long enough for Macrottie to sneak in and kill her.
Then he’d met her again on the site. He’d wanted negotiations for the sale of the manor house to be curtailed while he contested his wife’s will. He’d thought a murder would hold things up.
‘I’ll miss his asparagus,’ Smudger had stated. ‘I’ll have to buy foreign. By the bye, when’s Clint coming back?’
‘According to Doherty, pretty soon. It seems our Italian Jezebel jilted him for an older man, a millionaire with a motor yacht on the Costa del Sol, so Benici’s forgotten all about Clint. Steve reckons he’s a criminal, although like with the Benici family it’s devilishly difficult proving it. Still, birds of a feather, as they say. Her family isn’t likely to disapprove of the relationship. Hey,’ she said suddenly on opening the post to retrieve a crisp white card from a strikingly white envelope. ‘It’s a wedding invitation from Jocelyn Trinder.’
Smudger was disinterested. If the post had no relevance to the smooth running of his kitchen, he wasn’t interested.
Honey flicked the card against her smile. Despite his new relationship and the fact that he’d benefitted from the sale of the property, Joss Trinder had been genuinely saddened at his previous partner’s death – and Steve had investigated and could find no link between Joss and the fire that had killed her. She couldn’t help wishing him well – even though his hand had persistently sought out her bottom!
Chapter Forty-four
Bathing in bubbles while sipping a glassful of bubbles was bliss; it wasn’t often she shared a bathtub with Doherty, but this was a special occasion. They had a lot to celebrate.
‘This is so decadent,’ said Honey, sipping at the glass of champagne.
Doherty, who’d drawn the short straw and was sitting at the plug-hole end of the bath, raised his glass.
‘No. This is a celebration. Drinking champagne in the tub is the most civilized drinking you can do.’
‘A little more room would be useful. Do you think you can move your toes? Your nails need cutting.’
‘Sorry.’
It wasn’t strictly true. The bathtub was the old-fashioned cast-iron type with ball and claw feet. It was absolutely enormous in length, very deep, and of quite outstanding width. A real stonker of a bath! Either the Edwardians had indulged in communal baths on a regular basis or they were built like boilers; big, round, and solid. There was bags of room.
The truth was that Doherty’s toes were poking around in a very sensitive place and she didn’t want any of that – not yet. This was the first opportunity they’d had of late for some time to themselves and she wanted it to last.
‘I wouldn’t mind bathing in champagne,’ said Honey. She’d finished one glass and was busily filling up another. Doherty didn’t say no when she held out the bottle.
‘I suppose you could indulge yourself if you wanted.’
Doherty eyed the four cases of champagne that Honey had been given. Enid, her m
other’s friend, had jilted her fiancé and run off with a retired military type who had his name down for a place at Chelsea Hospital, the home for retired soldiers. Enid had obviously put a charge across the old guy’s spark plugs and him across hers.
‘Understandable for a girl’s head to be turned when a guy has star status. Wouldn’t you run off with a movie star if you had the chance?’
A few likely candidates had flashed through Honey’s mind. It was worth considering, but the old adage about a bird in the hand won out. She’d stick with Doherty.
This was how come Honey had ended up with the champagne. In a surprisingly short time the attentions of the jilted bridegroom had swung to her mother.
‘At our age you can’t let the grass grow under your feet,’ her mother explained. ‘He’s given me the champagne. Eight cases. You can have four. I don’t like anything second-hand, so I’ll probably give the rest away.’
Honey had wanted to point out that Cuthbert, the old guy in question, was more second-hand than the champagne. She’d decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She and Doherty had some catching up to do.
Honey eyed the freshly bubbling drink in her glass. ‘I have a confession to make.’
Doherty slurped and grinned. ‘Go on. It’s been a day of confessions. Make my day.’
‘I was biased against the folks at The Beauty Spot. I wanted them to be guilty of murder.’
Doherty eased himself down so that his bare shoulders were almost obliterated by bubbles.
‘They were guilty of fraudulent practice. Not my department.’
His toes were back exploring intimate places again. She decided to be a martyr and put up with it.
‘He also had a wandering dick,’ commented Honey. ‘Serena, Lady Macrottie, Karen and Magda – to name but a few.’
Doherty grinned. ‘You could have been in the running yourself.’
‘How do you make that out?’
His grin widened. ‘Seeing you dressed only in a black plastic bin bag was bound to have an effect.’
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 24