Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  He was not happy. Not happy at all. If he’d been well he might have done something about it, gone into town and catch Nigel on his way to the bank with his cheque for five thousand pounds – wasn’t that the amount Edwina had stipulated?

  The pillows and mattress seemed hard as iron beneath him; he’d been ill that long and was in no position to do anything. The room was gloomy even though the curtains had been pulled open. Was it his imagination or was it getting gloomier?

  ‘I’d like a massage when you can fit it in,’ he called out to Edwina. Whether she heard him or not he couldn’t tell. Either way she didn’t answer.

  A return to slumber was imminent. He couldn’t fight it indefinitely, just long enough to eat some breakfast which of course was now brunch as the Americans called it. But first he had to make a phone call. Nigel had angered him. He’d taken a step to taking the business into the realms of commercial tailoring not the bespoke it had always been. Goodness knows who would come in demanding a fitting! Pop stars even! Footballers!

  He would not allow it. Nigel might think he could take the firm that way, but he could think again. If he had to leave his property and his fortune to somebody else then by God he would do it! Damned right he would!

  Although he was getting on in years and his short term memory was fading, his long term was razor sharp. He knew the number he wanted off by heart. A few false starts, hitting the wrong keys, but eventually he got it right. Thank God he’d insisted on a phone with a larger than average dialling pad, a must to a man who needed reading glasses. No other glasses though. He could see distances fine.

  The phone rang for some time before Grace Pauling answered.

  ‘Grace?’

  ‘Arnold! How nice of you to call.’

  He doubted that she thought it nice. He could almost hear her teeth grinding. He could also imagine the look of surprise on her heart shaped face. The moment she’d picked up the phone she would have began combing her polished fingernails through her soft blonde hair instinctively knowing he was going to say something she didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Are you in your office?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been for coffee. I’m on my way...’

  ‘Never mind. I need to see you. I want to amend my will. Call round. Pronto.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grace Pauling turned off the power on her mobile phone. She’d had coffee but was now here to drink champagne at the expense of Bath Retail Association.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, flashing a controlled smile to the people around her as she pushed her way through the crowd. She needed to be at the front where he could see her. She desperately needed to speak to him. The wheelchair helped. People always stood to one side to let a wheelchair through.

  Nigel and the people presenting the prize were lined up ready for speeches and pictures in front of the winning display. Her mind lurched at the sight of it. A highwayman! It was quite exquisite, masculine but romantic. Head turning in fact. She wondered who had created it. Certainly not Nigel. He didn’t have a creative bone in his body.

  She threw him a meaningful look, one that would leave him in no doubt that she wanted to speak to him.

  The Chairman of the Retailers’ Association, Fred Baker, was standing in front of the shop window, his belly protruding over the top of his trousers. His jacket was dark red, his trousers brown. His clothes didn’t exactly match, but all the same she still couldn’t help comparing him to a ringmaster in the circus ring.

  A titled lady from Gloucester was to present the award, but Fred was the one making the speech and obviously liked the sound of his own voice.

  A linen cloth covered a table that had been set on one side. Bottles of champagne stood behind a spread of champagne flutes.

  ‘When it comes to window displays, Bath is full of winners...’ Fred Baker’s voice ricocheted off the smooth facades of the buildings hedging in the alley.

  Grace Pauling wasn’t really listening. She felt tense and worried because Mr Arnold had changed his will. Nigel had always been the main beneficiary. So was she. Plus...She didn’t want to think of the other beneficiary. A scandal in the making if ever there was. Stupid old sod. That’s what Mr Arnold was, nothing but a stupid old sod! Nigel, his son, had to be told.

  If the wide grin was anything to go by, Nigel Tern was totally immersed in the proceedings.

  Grace Pauling wondered what he intended doing with the prize money; probably taking one of his women on a jaunt to Italy. The thought of it brought a lump to her throat. Not a nice lump. A very nasty lump. Of course with luck he might ask her. ‘All the same lying down, Grace darling,’ he’d said one night when his ardour had got the better of him. He’d been drunk but seemingly serious, telling her it didn’t matter that she was in a wheelchair. Somehow she didn’t think he’d invite her, not this time even though airlines and hotels catered for the disabled.

  Grace glanced at her watch. She hoped the presentation wouldn’t go on for much longer. A probate solicitor, she had work to do. Drawing up wills was a lucrative business. Her clients were well heeled types who preferred someone else to do the donkey work. They were not the type to browse on line do it yourself sites, thank God!

  With regard to the Tern family, her ties were closer with them than most. Her father, Josiah, had been Arnold’s partner. Both her parents were dead now but she still held an interest in the Tern family’s holdings and the tailoring business in particular. She’d promised her father she would never sell it and she wouldn’t, not whilst Arnold was still alive and not whilst Nigel remained single.

  She managed to catch Nigel’s eye and smiled. He smiled back. She gave him a little wave. He looked away. The corners of Grace’s mouth downturned.

  A reporter from the Bath Chronicle took notes and flashed off a few photographs.

  The applause was accompanied by the sound of champagne corks. Drinks were handed round to those who had taken part in the competition including the sponsors. A few glasses were left over for some of the onlookers.

  Grace declined a glass but noticed that Nigel knocked back more than one, his face immediately turning a deep pink. She also noticed that he was leering at one of the judges’, a female one of course.

  She was in her forties, slightly younger than Grace. She had dark hair, dancing eyes and a cheery expression. She also poured the champagne without spilling a single bubble.

  ‘Hmm. A steady hand I see,’ she muttered to herself.

  Her comment was overheard. ‘If you’re referring to the lady pouring the champagne, her name’s Honey Driver. She owns the Green River Hotel.’

  ‘Does she now.’

  Honey was tasting champagne while Grace was tasting acid.

  OK, so the good-looking woman was a hotel owner, not a grand hotel but of reasonable size and good reputation. What she knew about the retail sector Grace couldn’t imagine. So how come she was one of the judges? She knows somebody, Grace confided to herself. She obviously knows somebody and they owe her a favour.

  She had to concede that Honey Driver was an attractive name for an attractive woman. Nigel certainly seemed to find her attractive, hovering over her, chatting amicably, accepting a second glass of champagne.

  Grace gritted her teeth.

  The woman was looking laughingly up into his eyes, her head tilted provocatively backwards, her swan like neck exposed.

  Grace couldn’t bear it. She looked away, tapping at the arms of her wheel chair. She had to break this up and Nigel’s father had given her a reason to do so. He wanted to change his will. Well that should puncture any thoughts of passion Nigel might have in mind!

  She pushed on the rims of her wheels. The wheelchair shot forward.

  ‘Nigel!’

  Both Nigel and Honey looked down at the woman who had forcibly pushed her wheelchair between them.

  Having retrieved her toe from beneath a wheel, Honey said, ‘Excuse me. Have you passed your test for driving that thing?’

  The woman in the w
heel chair blanked her out, her face upturned, eyes fixed on Nigel Tern.

  ‘If you can bear to drag yourself away from your five minutes of fame, we need to talk.’

  Her tone was sharp and extremely businesslike.

  Honey took a step back. ‘I’d better leave you in peace...’

  Nigel pulled her back. His breath and his attention was all over her.

  ‘Look, I’m having a party tonight round at my place. Next door to the shop. If you’re free...’

  She held her breath against the smell of drink.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve got a hotel to run.’

  ‘Shame. Perhaps some other time. Dinner perhaps?’ He was all avid attention. He was that sort, desperate to impress, to make her another notch on his stick.

  Honey was under no illusion that Nigel Tern would leap all over her given the chance. She’d responded politely enough, but hey, this was her professional self shining through!

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps another time.’

  She threw her smile at him first then at the woman in the wheelchair. The blonde haired woman was too fixated on Nigel Tern to notice.

  ‘I insist...’

  His grip was quite strong despite the softness of his hands, the lack of calluses, the well manicured fingernails.

  ‘I really do have to go now.’

  ‘Perhaps I can call in? Perhaps have a coffee. Perhaps you can even give me the room rate for the night.’

  As if she would.

  The woman in the wheelchair showed her impatience. ‘Nigel,’ she said sharply. ‘Your father phoned me.’

  ‘He’s recovered?’

  Although Honey wasn’t beyond hearing distance, Grace glowered and threw her warning.

  ‘You’ll be disappointed to know that your father has recovered. That’s the good news. The bad news will make you much more disappointed. Your father wants to change his will.’

  That was about as much of the conversation Honey could catch. She found it intriguing but it was none of her business.

  ‘So what do you think of the winner,’ asked a man with shoulder length hair and scruffy jeans.

  ‘I’d take him to bed if I could.’

  He laughed. ‘He’s made of plastic. Stiff but not real.’

  Honey grimaced. ‘I’ve known a lot of men like that.’

  She strolled to the edge of the window and the boundary between the tailor’s shop and the house next door. She felt his eyes on her before seeing him.

  ‘Any more of that champagne?’

  John Rees was leaning against the drainpipe of the property next door to the shop looking slightly bemused. He had not dressed up for the occasion preferring as usual to stick to casual denim, his beard untrimmed and his hair in need of cutting; rough around the edges perhaps, but incredibly attractive.

  Honey held up the bottle.

  ‘Allow me.’

  Champagne bounced and eddied as the glasses were filled, the bubbles dissipating within a centimetre of the rim.

  ‘What’s the frown in aid of?’ he asked her.

  She jerked her head towards where Nigel Tern was having what seemed an intensely deep conversation with the woman in the wheel chair.

  Top prize for deepness went to the woman in the wheelchair. Her look was intense, as though she might bury him beneath a stone slab if he didn’t listen to what she was saying.

  ‘Do you know that woman?’ Honey jerked her chin towards the woman in the wheelchair.

  John had a discreet way of looking over one’s shoulder, making it seem as though he was really looking deeply into her eyes.

  ‘Do you see her?’

  John said that he did.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Grace Pauling. She’s a lawyer.’

  ‘Really? How do you know that?’

  ‘I had a run in with her once over some property I wanted to buy. She was acting for interested parties. My lawyer and I had a meeting with her. No clients. She refused to say who they were.’

  ‘I see. Big shot property lawyer.’

  John frowned. ‘No. She’s not. My lawyer informed me that she’s actually a probate lawyer – you know – drawing up peoples’ wills and stuff. She only works in other realms for favoured clients – friends and family I guess.’

  ‘She must have been a good looking woman when she was younger,’ Honey remarked, turning back to study the woman and noticing her expression was no less intensive than it was a few minutes ago.

  John gave Grace Pauling a swift appraisal which was followed by a so-so shake of his head.

  To Honey’s mind that meant he was undecided.

  ‘I guess she’s OK, and I don’t mean I’m put off by the wheelchair. What I do mean is that she’s not a patch on present company.’ His grin was enticing as was the wicked wink that followed it up.

  Seeing as Doherty was numero uno, she deflected the conversation. Best to be safe than sorry. Or something like that.

  ‘What’s with the wheelchair?’

  ‘Riding accident when she was a kid, so I hear.’

  He tipped his head to one side. Grace Pauling was going at Nigel Tern hammer and tongs.

  John made comment. ‘By the look of her she’s got the tailor by the balls.’

  Honey winced. ‘Rather her than me.’

  John’s grin widened. ‘Some guys get all the luck.’

  Tramping round the streets of Bath could be downright tiring if you were determined to take in all the sights en route. Poor tourists, thought Honey, her feet aching merely by trudging around the shops to judge a window display competition.

  Back at the hotel Lindsey, Mary Jane and her mother were all sitting drinking coffee in the lounge. On seeing her approach they poured an extra cup.

  ‘Had a good time,’ asked Lindsey, her daughter.

  Honey flopped into a chair. ‘Can I categorically state here and now that said judge, Hannah Driver, known as Honey to her friends, had nothing to do with the chocolate display melting at The Chocolate Soldier, and ditto the chequered flag catching fire at Road Runners Racers – though I did stamp on the owner’s foot.’

  Gloria Cross, Honey’s mother, and now having remarried was called Gloria Stewart, peered at her daughter.

  ‘Does that have some significance?’

  ‘It did to him. His shoes were very exceptional. Italian I think. If they weren’t Italian they were Spanish.’

  ‘Shame to spoil Italian shoes,’ said her mother before taking a sip of her coffee.

  ‘I didn’t like him.’

  ‘Obviously, but Hannah, you can’t go round stamping on men’s feet just because you don’t like them.’

  ‘I realise that. Still, I doubt whether I shall be seeing him again.’

  Lindsey was straight to the point.

  ‘So tell us who won.’

  ‘Tern and Pauling.’

  ‘Really? I’m surprised. I mean, I am really SO surprised. I didn’t even think they had a window display.’

  ‘Well they do now.’

  ‘I would have thought Road Runners and Boy Racers would have been in with a chance. I saw their window yesterday. I thought it was good. The manager’s very friendly too.’

  Honey grimaced over the edge of her coffee cup.

  ‘I second that. In fact each time I looked at him I kept imagining him in a posing pouch!’ She shivered. ‘That’s enough to put anybody off! Not that I allowed my prejudice to interfere with my judgement. I was fair and impartial all the way through.’

  ‘I liked the highwayman best,’ said Mary Jane with a heavy sigh. ‘He reminds me of Sir Cedric.’

  She went back to dunking her biscuit in her tea, her pronouncement over. Honey and her daughter exchanged knowing looks. Sir Cedric was dead. He’d been dead for close on two hundred years. Mary Jane reckoned she communicated with him on a regular basis. Sometimes he even drank tea in her bedroom it being very convenient for him seeing as he appeared to live in the wardrobe. Lindsey was of the opinion she was in love with
him.

  ‘He’s too old for her,’ Honey had pointed out. ‘By about two hundred years.’

  ‘All in all, quite an eventful day,’ Honey murmured, her thoughts turning to the fact that more than one man had invited her out or made it very clear that they fancied her. It was great to be fancied once you were in your forties. She’d honestly thought all that would have been over by now. What an idiot!

  Although most of the guests staying at the Green River were out and about, exploring the pleasures of Bath or its immediate hinterland, there were occasionally people staying who really shouldn’t visit either the UK or Europe, in fact anywhere the buildings were over one hundred years old.

  Mr and Mrs Boldman came wandering in with squashed expressions and drooping shoulders.

  ‘Can we have coffee?’ the wife said to the husband.

  ‘Sure. We can get coffee here.’

  They said it loudly, not exactly asking for coffee but just making it obvious that they wished to be waited on.

  ‘They’re not from California,’ whispered Mary Jane, seemingly in an attempt to defend her home state from undeserved criticism. ‘I think they’re from Vermont,’ she added as though that explained everything. ‘And guess what, they don’t like it here because everything’s so old.’

  Gloria shrugged. ‘So why did they come?’

  ‘It’s the thing to do,’ said Mary Jane. ‘Something to crow about when you next meet up with fellow members of the country club or whatever. They’re the kind of people who embarrass me.’

  Lindsey got to her feet. ‘I’ll get it.’ She swooped down on the tea tray.

  Unwilling to converse with her fellow countrymen, Mary Jane huddled into her chair. It was an effort to make herself small which was very difficult to do. Mary Jane was very tall. Her twinkling blue eyes hit on Honey.

  ‘I think they’ll try and join us.’

  She was wrong. They asked her to come over and join them.

  ‘You don’t have to go,’ said Honey.