Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I’m thinking of you, Mum. I’m thinking you might miss the buzz of the city.’

  ‘But all that fresh air, all that peace and quiet …’

  ‘That’s what I meant,’ said Lindsey. ‘No Zodiac Club. No sausage shop around the corner. No popping into the Pump Room for a quick coffee and a Danish pastry.’

  Honey paused at the door and groaned. ‘Lindsey, mentioning the Danish pastry is so unfair!’

  Steve Doherty was waiting for her outside The Francis Hotel. He was wearing his usual three-day stubble, clothes casual, jacket scuffed leather. Doherty dressed up for no one.

  ‘I see you’ve dressed for the occasion,’ she said with just a hint of sarcasm.

  Doherty didn’t miss a beat. He wasn’t one for conformity or gearing his appearance to the occasion. Doherty suited himself.

  ‘You look very smart.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’re not even late. You’re always late for meeting me.’

  ‘It’s not for you. It’s business. You know that.’

  He raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘And that makes a difference?’

  ‘Houses cost money. Especially manor houses suitable for turning into a country house hotel.’

  ‘Point taken.’

  ‘I take it this guy hung on to you like a leech the other night,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Of course he did. He’s an estate agent.’

  ‘Good-looking?’

  John Rees popped into her mind. She tried hard not to look guilty.

  ‘An eventful night. Did I tell you that I overheard somebody threatening murder?’

  ‘You did. While breathing in the atmosphere of the Roman Baths? How dare they?’

  ‘You’re making fun.’

  ‘People threaten to murder other people all the time, but never mind. Tell me again.’

  ‘There were two women. I was sitting in a cubicle –’

  ‘Interesting picture …’

  ‘After having had a phone call from my mother …’

  ‘I’d hide too.’

  ‘I know that. Anyway, they didn’t know I was there. But get this…one of them was Arabella Neville – you know – that woman who used to be on TV a lot.’

  ‘Well there’s a thing. And there was me thinking you were blushing because some sexy guy was after your body.’

  ‘I was not blushing.’ She shook her head emphatically while eyeing the surging traffic for a sight of Glenwood Halley, upmarket estate agent and as glossy as a conker. ‘Someone was threatening to kill Arabella Neville. That’s all I know.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be the first,’ said Doherty.

  Honey looked at him in surprise. ‘She wouldn’t?’

  ‘Some time ago she was attacked in the street by a woman. Somebody’s wife if I remember rightly. Arabella Neville was having an affair with her husband.’

  ‘Was she badly injured?’

  He shrugged. ‘Bad enough, though shaken up rather than running with blood.’

  A cyclist pulling a kiddie car behind him pedalled along the gutter. His presence preceded the arrival of Glenwood Halley in his dark blue BMW.

  He got out and held out his hand.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Driver. How lovely to see you.’

  Neither of them corrected him.

  A heavy gold chain slid onto his wrist as he shook each of their hands. His hands were cold and silky, his handshake just a trifle limp as though touching them at all was doing them some kind of favour.

  Glenwood was the product of an Indian mother and an English father and had elegance and breeding written all over him. His father had dealt in top of the range antique furniture such as Sheraton and Chippendale. Like the furniture his father dealt in, Glenwood was top-notch and highly polished. He wore a navy blue pinstriped suit and his sparkling white shirt collar emphasized his glossy complexion.

  Glenwood held open the car door and with a sweep of his elegant hand, invited them to enter.

  ‘After you, Mrs Driver,’ said Doherty

  ‘Well thank you very much, Mr Driver,’ said Honey, emphasising the ‘Mr’ and smiling sweetly. He patted her bottom on the way in.

  The car smelled as though it were this year’s model, straight off the forecourt with tan upholstery, shiny chrome, the navigation screen set into the dashboard. It was fastidiously clean, polished and well presented – just like its owner.

  The early morning rush hour had long cleared. The engine purred into life and the car slid away from the kerb.

  ‘Traffic’s light. Shouldn’t take us too long,’ said Glenwood. ‘If I recall, you’re interested in turning it into a hotel; is that right?

  ‘That’s my plan.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible – subject to planning consent of course. I have to admit, most of my clients buy country estates such as Cobden Manor to serve purely as a private residence.’

  ‘I don’t have a bank account in the Cayman Islands,’ snapped Honey. ‘I pay UK tax.’

  He gave no indication of hearing her tart response but went straight into the sales spiel which was vaguely disguised as casual conversation.

  ‘Cobden House used to belong to a famous television star. Arabella Neville. She’s married to Adam Rolfe, a property developer. It’s a lovely place, but became too big for them so they decided to put it up for sale.’

  No way was Honey going to let him get away with half-truths and downright lies. Fingers gripping the seat in front, she leaned forward, her lips adjacent to Glenwood’s ear.

  ‘Mr Halley. How about we cut the crap and tell it as it is? Following the demise of his business, the property was repossessed by the bank. Mr and Mrs Rolfe have purchased an apartment in the Royal Crescent. The bank is selling the house, Mr Halley, not Mr and Mrs Rolfe.’

  ‘It’s come on to the market with a very low reserve, might I add. There’s quite a lot of interest; well there would be, wouldn’t there, Arabella Neville being such a big star.’

  He’d totally ignored her!

  Astounded, Honey exchanged a quick glance with Doherty, her mouth slightly agape and a killer look in her eyes. Doherty, not being so personally involved with this property purchase as she was, looked amused. The outer corners of his eyes turned upwards when he did that – the Cheshire Cat look.

  If her tongue had been a pencil, it would have been sharp enough to stab someone, but she reined it in – ever so slightly.

  ‘Mr Halley, there is no way I am purchasing this house at an over-inflated price just because some blonde … …’ the ‘b’ word bubbled over her tongue, ‘ … bimbo used to own it.’

  ‘Arabella Neville was at the soiree the other night you know. She complimented me on how well I’d organised things and how truly exceptional everything was. She suggested I could organise something for her perhaps – a party, reception …something where high-class catering was called for … …’

  Doherty hid the lower half of his face behind his hand and pretended that the concrete bastions holding back the land to either side of the lower A46 deserved his undivided attention.

  Honey could see his shoulders heaving. He was laughing.

  For her part, Honey felt she was about to implode. She’d had enough of Glenwood’s spiel; it was like an elongated ode to some celestial goddess, though goddess was hardly the right description for Arabella Neville.

  ‘I adore celebrity,’ he at last proclaimed with a heavy sigh.

  ‘I don’t,’ snapped Honey. ‘I have a headache.’

  Doherty was now watching the trees go by and the wide expanse of countryside that was momentarily exposed between the Doddington House estate and Dyrham Park.

  The sleek man in the sleek suit concentrated on driving his equally sleek car, though that was never quite enough. Every so often he forgot himself and mentioned something about another famous person he’d had dealings with, everyone a vignette of how much they’d admired something about him personally, or something he’d done. His conversation always went back to Arabella Neville.


  High walls and mature trees screened Cobden Manor from the main road. Gold paint gleamed from the finials on top of the double ironwork gates. Beyond, the gravel drive curved and was lost amongst the trees.

  Glenwood excused himself, got out of the car and proceeded to unlock the gates.

  ‘Honey …’

  Doherty was grinning.

  Honey shot him a warning look. ‘Don’t say a word.’

  ‘He’s a groupie. A fame and fortune groupie. I bet he buys Hello magazine. I bet he buys every single celebrity mag. He’s celebrity-smitten.’

  Honey sucked air through clenched teeth. ‘Never mind. It’ll all be worth it.’

  Glenwood got back into the driving seat. The tyres crunched over the gravel, a sound not dissimilar to surf passing over pebbles.

  Honey caught sight of the manor itself and heaved a big sigh.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she whispered loudly enough for Doherty to hear, but not their companion.

  As elegantly pretty as a bespoke dolls’ house, Cobden Manor glowed in the sunshine. Birds were singing in the trees and pale gold gravel scrunched reassuringly beneath the car tyres.

  ‘I like the sound of crunching stones being ground beneath tyres,’ Honey murmured as her eyes surveyed the surroundings

  ‘Years ago it was peasants being crunched beneath boots,’ muttered Doherty. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  She looked at him and wondered. It had already crossed her mind that things between them wouldn’t be so convenient. She’d taken the view that where there was a will there was a way. They’d still see each other. She was certain of it.

  ‘Nothing’s set in stone,’ she finally said.

  Four marble steps led up to a massive front door set within a stone-pillared portico. A four-sided lantern of ornate design, studded with leaves formed from copper or bronze hung overhead.

  Glenwood Halley opened the door with a flourish. ‘Voila!’

  Mahogany doors, their colour warm, rich and complimented by brass fittings, made a hushing sound as they swung open.

  If Glenwood Halley was aiming to impress – which surely he was – he was going about it the right way. He would do. He knew all the tricks of the trade.

  Honey stepped inside followed by Doherty, Glenwood Halley hanging back, leaving them to be impressed without the impediment of him doing a twirl in front of them.

  Honey looked around, the sound of her high heels echoing off the uncluttered walls. Overhead clouds raced above a curved glass cupola. Honey was impressed. OK, it wasn’t the Sistine Chapel, but who needed a painted ceiling when a moving vista of sky and clouds was passing overhead?

  Doherty was standing with his head back so he could see all the way up to the top of the staircase and a glittering chandelier.

  ‘And just two people lived here?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘I do believe they used to entertain a lot,’ remarked Glenwood, his chin held high, his agent’s particulars rustling in his hands. ‘There is a helicopter landing pad to the rear of the house and a panic room in the east wing. There’s also a squash court, stables and ten acres of landscaped parkland and grazing, plus an indoor swimming pool.’

  Doherty exhaled. ‘Couldn’t do without it, could you.’

  Carried away by his own enthusiasm, Glenwood Halley appeared not to notice Doherty’s sarcasm. He was into his stride and nothing could stop him now.

  ‘The panic room has its own air and water supply. There’s also a fridge and drinks cabinet, plus air-conditioning and a remote-controlled bath filler. The master control is in the main bedroom. I’ll show it you later.’

  Plans on how to integrate panic rooms and remote-controlled air-conditioning were far from the forefront of Honey’s mind. Was there a big kitchen and were there enough bedrooms to make the venture worthwhile? She asked Glenwood.

  ‘Twenty-five bedrooms including those in the attic. The kitchen is Smallbone, I believe. Very beautiful. American light oak, I think …’ He checked the details. ‘Yes. American light oak.’

  ‘That’s OK. I can sell it on eBay.’

  Finally, she’d caught his attention. Glenwood’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Stainless steel,’ she said to him. ‘It’s the rules. Environmental Health wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Halley looked shocked.

  Doherty shook his head in disbelief. ‘They must have rattled around in this place.’

  Honey imagined this hallway with its grand cupola as a reception area. There were high windows to each side of her. She imagined a curved reception desk in front of them. The fact that having something made to fit the curve of the wall would be exorbitant was placed firmly on the back-burner. She was bewitched, bedazzled, and bewildered as to why she hadn’t thought of doing this before. Who needed to stay in the city when there was all this fresh air, all this beautiful architecture to enjoy?

  ‘The possibilities are endless,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I can just imagine a tastefully proportioned reception desk fashioned from American light oak, a trendy table lamp nestling in one of the arched alcoves, and elegantly proportioned armchairs and sofas …’ she turned to Doherty.

  ‘You could cannibalise the American oak kitchen,’ quipped Doherty.

  Honey shot him a look. He was being facetious, though poor old Glenwood didn’t cotton on to that fact.

  ‘Subject to planning permission, it should be ideal for what you have in mind,’ trilled Glenwood. ‘I can just imagine your guests, sunning themselves in the conservatory or swimming in the pool. I’m sure they’d be very willing to pay top dollar for such luxury.’

  What had been the main lounge had floor-to-ceiling windows where sunlight fell like blankets on to a marble tiled floor.

  ‘Sicilian marble, I believe,’ cooed Glenwood, tapping the floor with one foot.

  Adopting a searching expression, he held his head to one side, his hands clasped behind his back. Bending purposefully from the waist he addressed Doherty. ‘First impressions, Mr Driver?’

  ‘I couldn’t live here.’

  Glenwood’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh!’

  Honey jumped right in. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s my minder. He minds me and my money..’

  ‘My apologies,’ Glenwood gushed, rubbing his hands together like some latter day Uriah Heep acting humble in a lowly dark corner.

  For all his upmarket sheen he reminded her of a maitre d’ in a London restaurant, lingering with the intention of getting them seated with as little fuss as possible. Some seat. Some price tag!

  ‘Right,’ she said, swivelling on her heels and looking as though she meant business. ‘Let’s see what the rest of the house has to offer.’

  ‘This way,’ said Glenwood, indicating the direction he preferred they should go in.

  Honey set a slightly different course.

  ‘Mrs Driver?’

  ‘Let her wander,’ said Doherty cupping Glenwood’s arm and guiding him in another direction. ‘She likes to get a feel for the place and she’s best left alone to do that. Fill me in on the details. I’m interested in old architecture and the technical aspects of this place. Tell me what you know, and I’ll store the information for future reference. I can then advise Mrs Driver accordingly.’

  The fact was that what Doherty knew about architecture, plumbing, plasterwork, and electricity could be written on the back of a postage stamp. He was a copper through and through, and when he wasn’t being a copper, he liked to chill out. He did not venture into the world of ‘do it yourself’, gardening, or interior design. Doherty’s interest could be captivated by a large gin and tonic, a comfortable armchair, and easy access to the TV remote, especially when there was a rugby match on.

  Swallowing the suggestion hook, line, and sinker, Glenwood Halley allowed Doherty to guide him off towards the east wing and the oldest part of the house.

  ‘Possibly dating back to an earlier house of Elizabethan vintage,’ he was saying.

  So
far she hadn’t found that part of the house where refurbishments had not been completed. If there were areas in need of attention, the bet was they were at the back of the house. That was where she headed.

  Leaving the more splendid public rooms behind, she found herself skirting the dining room and into the kitchen. The latter was just as Glenwood had described it, the light oak dazzling, the work surfaces unscarred by a busy cook or chef chopping, mixing, beating, or rolling. Nobody had ever used the place; it was for show only, something to be photographed against for one of the celebrity magazines, or the showbiz section of a tabloid newspaper.

  Sad as it was, the whole thing had to be ripped out and replaced by commercial fixtures, fittings and equipment. The cooker was too small, the extraction system was there but nowhere near the standard required in a commercial kitchen. Size, she realized, most definitely mattered, and this kitchen wasn’t large enough to take two Falcon ranges and a host of stainless steel kitchen fitments.

  Exiting the kitchen, she doubled back and entered the dining room. Like something out of a vintage play, French doors dominated the room, though in this instance there were four pairs of them. Three sets looked out over a patio area where bursts of colour fell from ornate pots. The pots were fashioned to ape the look of broken Corinthian columns.

  The fourth set of doors opened out into a huge conservatory, with a vaulted roof. Empty of greenery, the brightness was blinding.

  Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she saw the fountain. It was made of stone and had a fluted bowl, each flute resembling a single petal. She supposed it was a lotus, though botany was never her strong subject; she’d always preferred biology.

  Disappointingly it held no water, but she had seen it working, full to the brim with water.

  She hadn’t lied to Glenwood when she’d professed not to have an interest in celebrity. Sometimes she’d passed time in her aching-feet moments, sitting and thumbing through an old magazine. She ran her fingers over the rough stonework wondering how many show-business people had done the same while house guests of Arabella Neville and her husband Adam Rolfe.

  The magazine she’d read recalled one very specific event, the event that had destroyed Arabella’s television career.