Sins of the Fathers

by Leah Hope

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  Third in the Gil and Bridget Honeyman mystery series

  By

  Leah Hope

  Copyright © Leah Hope 2018

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

  condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of Leah Hope has been asserted.

  Cover design Ryan Ashcroft - LoveYourCovers.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and

  incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Bridget Honeyman was in seventh heaven. In two days’ time, she and her brother Gil would be setting off to spend a blissful few weeks at their holiday cottage in deepest rural France. This would be their second visit in just over a month. Since they’d only been able to stay for a week last time, to attend the wedding of some friends, this was to be their main summer holiday.

  For Bridget, packing was the exciting bit. The trip had been planned for weeks and she had been counting the days. Packing made it real. She loved the ritual of getting the suitcases down from the loft, checking the passports and ordering euros for the journey. Whilst some may think this part of the holiday is a nightmare, Bridget loves it; it’s her favourite part as it means she will soon be on her way.

  Bridget had enjoyed many holidays in the little village of Saint-Rémy-la-Forêt since she and Gil bought Les Cerisiers and she now had packing down to a fine art. Armed with a checklist fastened to a clipboard, she ticked off each item as she carefully put it into her case. Having the luxury of not needing to take bulky toiletries (Bridget kept a ready supply at the cottage, together with a hairdryer and nightclothes) saved time and room in her case. She had toyed with the idea of keeping a selection of other clothes at the cottage too, but apart from some old trousers and tops she wore for gardening, she preferred to take her holiday wear with her each time. Not least because she just knew that if she needed a particular item, it would be just her luck that it would be in the other house. Best to be safe and know which side of the Channel things were.

  Bridget looked at her watch. She was expecting Gil home from work at any moment. Time to pop downstairs to put the finishing touches to the casserole that had been simmering in the oven for most of the afternoon. As she got to the bottom step she looked through the hall window just in time to see her brother’s car pull into the driveway. She opened the door for him and greeted him with a broad smile.

  “Did you get everything done?” Bridget asked.

  “Yep, Mick’s as organized as ever so I can go away with a clear conscience. Something smells nice, is it nearly ready?” Gil said, sniffing the air.

  “It’s a casserole, so it can be ready now but it won’t spoil if you would prefer to wait a bit.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll have a quick shower. I got involved with an old Capri that’s been leaking oil so I need to clean up first” Gil replied as he sprinted up the stairs.

  “Ok, take your time, I’ll open a bottle of red.”

  *

  Gil and Bridget bought Les Cerisiers four years ago. Ironically, it was a family tragedy that left them financially secure enough to be able to afford a holiday home. Their bank manager father, Frederick, had been killed in a hit and run accident in 1984. Their mother Sylvia, was never the same again, forcing Bridget to give up her career as a promising pastry chef to take care of her.

  Whilst their father’s death had resulted in the end of Bridget’s career, Gil’s fortunes couldn’t have been a greater contrast. Declaring that money was no longer of any use to her, the now virtually bed-bound Sylvia had no hesitation in giving mechanic Gil what he needed to buy himself a longed-for garage. Business soon boomed, the garage expanded and it wasn’t long before Gil felt able to hand the day-to-day running of the business to his head mechanic, Mick Sumner. Mick had by now become a close friend as well as a trusted second-in-command. Now years later, Gil was in the enviable position of being able to work as much or as little as he wanted.

  Sylvia’s death thirty years after her husband, prompted the siblings to take stock of their lives and, whilst on their first holiday abroad together, they bought a little house just outside the village of St-Rémy. Although this had largely been Bridget’s idea, Gil had to admit it was one of the best things they had ever done. Now, many holidays later, they looked forward to another visit to the little community they had grown to love and which, in turn, welcomed them with open arms.

  Chapter Two

  Three weeks later, Bridget could hardly believe that her long-awaited holiday was almost over. Although they would have liked to have stayed longer, Gil needed to get back to the garage. Next week was the last week of the school holidays and Mick had had it booked for some time. At seventeen and sixteen, Mick’s boys Josh and Luke were still in school. Although outwardly they considered themselves far too old to be seen on holiday with their parents, they still secretly enjoyed attending classic car rallies with their dad. Mick had planned a few days away for the three of them taking in a couple of rallies in the north of England and Scotland. It was with a heavy heart that he recognized it would probably be for the last time. Jess, his wife, would be looking forward to the week for a different reason. She had declared their home a “male-free zone” whilst she and a couple of visiting girlfriends enjoyed an indulgent few days together catching up on old times.

  The three weeks that Gil and Bridget had been in France had, as usual, been blissful. The weather had been perfect, sunny almost every day but not too hot, for Bridget’s taste at least. Gil was of the view that it could never be too hot and while he looked like a lobster for the first few days, he inevitably ended up with a light, golden tan. This annoyed Bridget intensely as her fairer skin never tanned, it just got red, peeled and went back to being white again.

  The pair had always promised themselves they would one day venture into other parts of France, or even Spain, which, at less than a day’s drive away, was tantalizingly close. When they first bought Les Cerisiers, Gil had excitedly poured over maps looking for places they might visit. He’d even made a list. But however appealing or exotic they sounded, they’d never quite managed to get round to visiting any of them. Apart from taking the train to Paris on one occasion, the rest of France remained largely undiscovered by the siblings from Whytecliffe-on-Sea.

  So Gil and Bridget rarely strayed far from home. They didn’t really need to. While St Rémy was off the tourist trail, it was pretty enough and had everything they could ever need. As is so typical of the country, the village was built around the square, or rectangle in St Rémy’s case. At one end was the imposing Hotel Mirabeau, a favourite watering hole for Gil and other ex-pats, owned by ebullient Australian Pete M
cNally. Arranged around the other sides of the square were a boulangerie-cum-patisserie, a mini-market, an excellent fruit and veg shop, a post-office and a pharmacy. The Mairie, or Town Hall, another imposing building, graced one of the longer sides of the “square”. Businesses had come and gone since Gil and Bridget first arrived but there remained a lively mix of shops and places to eat to keep them more than happy.

  For Gil and Bridget though, what made St Rémy such a wonderful place to stay, wasn’t the shops or cafes, it was the people they had got to know over the years and whom they now regarded as friends.

  Doug and Helen Faulkner had taken Gil and Bridget under their wing when they first arrived. The couple had lived in France for more than ten years and both were virtually fluent in the language. Doug had overheard Gil attempting to buy some stamps in his very hesitant French and had come to his rescue. A close friendship had grown over the years, despite Bridget’s initial concern that the Faulkners were “far too posh” and “not our sort”. She had come to learn that despite his blustering and cut-glass public school accent, Doug had a heart of gold and she would trust him with her life.

  Bridget had formed a close bond with Helen too, although she had never stopped being in awe of her friend’s sophisticated elegance. With her naturally pale blonde hair, fine bone structure and an enviable trim figure, there was no escaping the fact that Helen Faulkner was a very stylish woman. To Bridget’s continued wonder, she always seemed to hit the right note, instinctively knowing when to pare it down or when to be a little bolder. Had Bridget known the full cost of achieving Helen Faulkner’s “effortless” elegance however, she might have taken some comfort.

  Bridget had learned a lot from Helen over the years, not directly, of course, she was far too stars truck to ask for advice, but rather from secretly studying her and hoping some of her magic would rub off. Surprisingly, some of it had. Bridget now had much more confidence in her appearance and no longer hid behind shapeless clothes which did nothing for her. She didn’t get it right every time and would still sometimes stray into a no-man’s land of outfits which managed to look both drab and garish at the same time. A difficult achievement but one that Bridget was still capable of pulling off. Elegance aside, Helen was a caring, considerate and a surprisingly modest woman of whom Bridget had become very fond.

  Les Cerisiers was situated just outside the village at the bottom of a small track leading to farm land and beautiful rolling countryside beyond. On the opposite side of the track lived Heather and Tony Lloyd-Jones. They had bought their house, Les Volets Bleus, not long before Gil and Bridget arrived. At the time, they had owned a little shop, The Best of British, in St Rémy. It stocked food and other items aimed at the local ex-pat community and holiday makers who discovered that they couldn’t go a whole fortnight without baked beans after all. Not surprisingly, there wasn’t enough trade during the winter months to make the business viable. After some difficult times, Heather and Tony decided to shut up shop, quite literally, and turn the place into a little bistro instead. With some help from Doug in providing a fully trained chef, L’Oie d’Or (The Golden Goose, which for the Lloyd-Jones’ the bistro really was), was now a going concern. Whilst the menu was predominately traditional French (“when in Rome” was one of Tony’s favourite mantras) during the winter months they introduced the occasional British “classic” dish for the tourist trade in the summer. The locals were undoubtedly conservative in their tastes, but they could be tempted to try “foreign” food if it was good enough. And boy were the bistro’s fish and chips good enough. Not all the locals were willing converts however. Whilst some, largely the younger element, were more than happy to try something new, others remained to be persuaded. Those who were brave enough to “give it a go”, did so largely out of curiosity or maybe politeness. But having tried, they would inevitably revert to the safety and comfort of their own cuisine, believing it to be the best in the world. Few would argue with them on that.

  Although Tony and Heather were considerably younger than Gil and Bridget, the age gap had presented no barrier to friendship. The four had hit it off as soon as they’d met and they socialized together as many times as work at the bistro would allow.

  Chapter Three

  It was the penultimate full day of Gil and Bridget’s stay at Les Cerisiers. As usual at these times, Bridget felt a wave of sadness spread over her. This time was no exception. Gil on the other hand was secretly itching to get his hands dirty at the garage again. He loved their time in France just as much as Bridget, but he was a mechanic at heart and being up to his elbows in grease was what made him truly come alive. At least we’ve got this evening to look forward to, Bridget thought to herself as she reluctantly pulled out her suitcase from under the bed.

  Heather and Tony had invited Gil and Bridget to a barbecue at their home. This wasn’t in their honour but rather due to the fact that Doug and Helen had offered to stand in for them at the bistro to give them a much needed night off. Heather’s mother, Margaret, was half way through a two week stay with her daughter and son-in-law which gave the Lloyd-Jones another reason to make the most of a rare break from work. As much as they loved running L’Oie d’Or, the couple had to admit it was much harder than they could ever have imagined. Much harder than standing behind a shop counter all day, Heather often said.

  Doug’s offer of help for the night wasn’t born from entirely noble reasons however. He loved being “front of house”. So much so that Helen had accused him of “swanning around like some sort of jumped up Maître d’, after their first stint helping out. “It’s a village bistro Doug, not Maxim’s” she had exclaimed. Her husband had countered with “well our locals deserve first class service just as much as those stuffy Parisians and that’s what I’m jolly well going to give them”. Helen had to admit he was right. She also, reluctantly, had to admit he was really rather good at it. American women of a certain age visibly swooned at hearing his impeccable vowels and Doug, being Doug, lapped it up. Helen very much played second fiddle, but she didn’t mind at all, her husband was enjoying himself and that made her happy.

  Bridget kicked her suitcase back under the bed again. Plenty of time to pack tomorrow she thought, turning her attention to what to wear that evening. Not so long ago, she would have dithered endlessly, trying on outfit after outfit, invariably ending up with her first choice. This was the new, self-assured Bridget though. She took a pair of smart navy cropped trousers out of the wardrobe and held a fuchsia pink linen tunic against them. Deciding that they would be a perfect match she hurried downstairs intending to spend as much of her remaining time at Les Cerisiers as possible in the garden. Gil was already there, giving the grass a final cut.

  After a leisurely afternoon pottering in the garden, the pair were ready to set off next door. Bridget had made a strawberry Pavlova to take for dessert and she scurried round looking for something to carry it in safely. Worried that they were going to be late, even though they were only two minutes from their neighbours’ garden, Gil almost snatched the gateau from his sister’s hands and strode out through the front door. Bridget followed behind sulkily, fearful that the evening hadn’t got off to the best of starts.

  “Hello you two!” said Heather, jumping up from her chair as she spotted Gil opening the little side-gate to the garden. She hurried to greet him, and, looking at the Pavlova, asked him, jokingly, if he had made it himself. “Hardly” had been his rather terse response. Ignoring him, Heather moved on to greet Bridget. She too looked a bit out of sorts she thought and, sensing all was not well, Heather shepherded her guests towards a little table where a couple of bottles of sparkling wine were nestling in a cooler.

  “What can I get you Bridget, a glass of fizz ok?”

  Before she could reply, Tony waved and shouted his greetings from the far corner of the garden where he was busy prodding at something on the barbecue. “Gil” he shouted, “get me a beer will you, if I take my eye off this chicken it’s going to burn. They’re in the cold b
ox under the table.”

  Gil gave him the thumbs up, collected two beers and headed up the garden towards Tony, relieved to be out of his sister’s company for a few minutes.

  “Is everything ok Bridget? Gil doesn’t seem to be his usual cheery self”, Heather asked as she poured the wine for them both.

  “Yes we’re fine thanks” Bridget replied taking a gulp of her drink. “We always get a bit down when it’s time to leave, but we’re determined to enjoy the evening so don’t worry about us.” Glancing around Bridget noticed that Heather’s mother was nowhere to be seen. She and Gil had been introduced to Maggie, as she preferred to be called, a few days ago and Bridget had been looking forward to spending some more time in the company of a woman of her own age and with whom she had felt an immediate rapport.

  “She’ll be out shortly, she’s just taking another shower. I think that’s the third today; she can’t get used to this heat, poor thing!”

  “Yes, August can get ridiculously hot, even this late in the month. We shouldn’t grumble though should we, especially as it’s raining cats and dogs back in the UK”, Bridget said with a laugh. “Although this heat can be a bit too much for me at times, I can’t say I’m looking forward to getting back to typical British weather.”

  “Well you have to admit the weather is one of the main reasons so many of us Brits move to France in the first place, I know it was for us.” After a pause to tie up her dark blonde hair in a pony-tail, Heather continued “have you ever thought of moving over permanently Bridget, if you both miss the place so much? There’s nothing to stop you is there, apart from the garage of course.”