Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  The Cricketers had a very modern decor that seemed to have little to do with cricket. Not that she minded that. She’d only ever been to one cricket match which she equated with watching paint dry.

  ‘Apparently a fight ensued following a drunken disagreement.’ He sighed heavily. She could imagine him grimacing at the prospect of a long day.

  ‘You’re going to need cheering up when I see you.’

  ‘Say something naughty.’ He sounded only slightly better.

  ‘I’m in a public place,’ she hissed down the phone, turning away as far as she could from the people around her.

  ‘Just hint at something.’

  Honey was good at thinking on her feet, a skill acquired swiftly if you were to survive in the hospitality trade.

  ‘OK. I’m bidding for a corselet. It’s got suspenders and it’s made of white satin. Very 1940’s. I’m going to wear it. With stockings.’

  His sigh whooshed down the phone. ‘I feel better already.’

  Once they’d discussed his schedule, Honey promised she’d be along to Manvers Street Police Station at two o’clock. The other judges were being interviewed around the same time. She was looking forward to meeting them.

  Once the phone connection was severed, she craned her neck, looking around the auction room in an effort to work out where the bidding had got to and had she won the second item.

  It was hard to get the vision of a hanged man out of her mind. The background of the window display had something to do with it; lots of darkness. Lots of drama, enough to send shivers down your spine.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Alistair waving to her from behind the melamine counter where accounts were settled. The big red headed Scotsman had a large beard and broad shoulders and was the auction house cashier. His voice and his expression were convivial.

  ‘I noticed you were on the phone, hen. I kept an eye on the bidding for you. I bid on your behalf. Fifty pounds plus the usual fees and VAT alright with you?’

  ‘Fifty!’ She couldn’t help sounding surprised. She’d fully expected the second corselet to reach one hundred, the same as she’d paid for the first one. ‘Thanks a bundle, Alistair. I fully expected to pay more. Can I collect now?’

  ‘You can indeed. Robin’s brought it over. I said I suspected you might be shooting off shortly on police matters. I saw you on take a phone call.’

  She eyed him sceptically. ‘Oh come on. A phone call’s a phone call. You know something. News through the grapevine?’ News in Bath travelled quickly. Sometimes she was almost sure she could hear the jungle drums.

  ‘No, hen. BBC Bristol. They said a bloke’s been found hanged in a shop window in Bath. No details other than that but I guessed where it happened.’

  Honey pursed her lips. ‘Quite an exit.’

  ‘Makes me think he was taking the final curtain call.’

  ‘You saw the window display?’

  He nodded his big red head. ‘I did. Did you know Dick Turpin never rode to London in the time they say he did. He’d have needed to take the one fifteen from Kings’ Cross.’

  Honey smiled. If anyone was likely to put things into perspective it was Alistair. He spoke solemnly but with humour. He was also a mine of information.

  A lock of hair fell forward on one side of her face as she paid for and signed for collection of her purchases.

  ‘Did you know the dead man?’ It was always worthwhile asking Alistair if he knew someone or knew someone who had known that someone. Alistair had his finger on the more obscure happenings in Bath besides the wickedest rumours.

  ‘Not really. I do wear sports jackets, ones that I’ve had for years.’

  He also seemed to know who bought what and where. People who attended auctions were a community unto themselves and as fond of salacious gossip as anyone.

  ‘No gossip about him?’

  She eyed him from beneath her fringe. If there were any rumours abounding, they no doubt would have come to Alistair’s bushy ears.

  He looked disappointed, his equally bushy eyebrows meeting above his nose like two hairy red headed caterpillars.

  ‘It behoves me to admit that I have never heard anything of a criminal nature about the man.’

  ‘He did invite me to a party and out to dinner if I couldn’t make the party.’

  ‘There’s no mileage in that on the gossip front – unless it’s salacious you’re talking about.’

  Honey raised her eyebrows. ‘Was there gossip of a salacious nature?’

  ‘Oh well...’ Alistair made a moue shape with his mouth as he expelled a breath of air.

  ‘A bit of a ladies man, so I hear and not just that; he liked to indulge himself so I hear. Lap dancing clubs, pole dancing clubs, strip clubs – a bit of a champagne Charlie.’

  Honey was well satisfied that gossip in the city agreed with her analysis of the man.

  ‘With a view to maintaining your modesty, I’ve wrapped up your foundation garments. Wouldn’t want all and sundry knowing what you’re going to be wearing under your best frock do we now?’

  Alistair had wrapped her purchase up in some second hand plastic carrier bags that he kept behind the counter for such purpose.

  ‘I’m only considering wearing one of them. The other’s for my collection.’ She was about to leave, but she had a question ripe for asking.

  ‘How did you know I was going to wear one of them?’

  ‘Just say I know your taste.’

  She was about to go when another question leapt out of her mouth.

  ‘Am I ever the subject of gossip?’

  A broad grin spread in amongst all that facial hair.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment – except to say that there’ll be a queue forming if ever you and the policeman fall out.’

  Honey felt herself blushing with pleasure. ‘A very big queue?’

  He tapped the side of his nose. ‘That’s for me to know.

  She was going to add, ‘and for me to find out,’ but stopped herself. She would only know who was in the queue for her affection if she and Doherty broke up. She could see no chance of that happening and neither did she want it to happen.

  Corsets tucked under her arm, Honey made her way back to the Green River Hotel. The news of the murder had come as something of a shock. A whole load of questions and possibilities were spinning around her mind. Why had he been killed? What was the point of leaving him hanging in a window? How many women had he pursued and conquered, and how many of them had he jettisoned? How many of those he’d jettisoned wanted to kill him?

  She stormed on through the crowds of shoppers and sightseers. Many of them stopped and stared into shop windows. The Chocolate Soldier appeared to be doing very well. The owner come manager was outside among a group of tourists and a few children who she thought should have been at school.

  Alan Roper was everyone’s idea of Santa Claus; he had the white hair, the beard and twinkling eyes. He also had not seen his toes for a long time thanks to his rotund belly.

  He was laughing and joking with everyone, pointing out the finer points of his window display.

  Honey caught his eye.

  ‘How’s the drawbridge?’

  His cheery disposition vanished at the sight of her.

  ‘You were one of the judges.’

  ‘That’s right. I much admired your window display.’

  ‘It didn’t win,’ he snapped.

  She attempted to reassure him. ‘It was very close.’

  The glum expression was unaltered. ‘But not close enough to win.’

  Honey glanced at the crowd milling around the window display.

  ‘Well you appear to be doing very well despite not winning.’

  ‘Five thousand pounds would have been very useful,’ he grumbled. ‘Have you any idea of the business rates this building attracts, and that’s besides the lease and the rent....’

  He went grumbling on. Honey would have left then and there, but she had to know whether he’d hear
d about Nigel Tern.

  ‘The owner of the winning shop is dead. Found hung in his own shop window.’

  ‘Oh dear. I am sad!’

  It was obvious from his tone that Alan Roper was being sarcastic.

  ‘I’m surprised at your tone, Mr Roper. Whether you liked Nigel Tern or not, I think it insensitive that you’re taking that attitude just because he won the competition.’

  A pair of pale blue eyes glared at her. ‘Is that what you think, that my attitude is coloured purely by him winning the competition?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Damned right it’s not!’

  At his raised voice, a number of parents covered their children’s ears. The kids grinned. This all looked like fun to them.

  Although Alan’s attitude was a little intimidating, Honey stood her ground. ‘Do you mind enlightening me?’

  The midsummer replica of Santa Claus spouted some very dubious swear words under his breath. The parents who had heard guided their kids away. Howls of protest followed of course, but The Chocolate Soldier wasn’t the only chocolate shop in town. However, it was the only one with a very fetching window display.

  Alan narrowed his eyes and thrust his white beard in her direction.

  ‘You ever heard of Rachman?’

  Honey conceded that she had. ‘He was a racketeering landlord years ago.’

  ‘That’s right! And the word Rachman became synonymous with property racketeering. Well in Bath Tern is the name synonymous with rip off rents and leases. Tern doesn’t just depend on his tailoring shop to make a living. Don’t think that. He owns and rents out property. A lot of property!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Honey’s news that Nigel Tern was active in the property market as well as chasing women, was received with interest. Doherty promised that he’d look into it.

  Honey asked if she was likely to see him that evening.

  ‘I know we have an afternoon date, but I was just wondering...’

  His response was relatively ambiguous.

  ‘One thing at a time.’

  Alan Roper’s bitterness that he hadn’t won the window display competition should not have come as a surprise. She had been warned. What had surprised her more was that a man who looked like Santa Claus could react like that. The image and the attitude just didn’t match.

  On reflection she was more than pleased that Julian Cunningham had been hit out of the running because a portion of his display had gone up in flames. Had it been an accident or sabotage? She hadn’t considered the latter possibility at all up until now. And how about the drawbridge on the chocolate castle? Had somebody fiddled with that?

  She made a note to ask the other retailers a few pertinent questions, like how many had encountered problems with their displays. It was very likely they would all have suspicions, purely because they hadn’t won.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she said to herself coming to a halt at the corner of Poultney Street and Abigail Square.

  The comment came spontaneously and made her want to giggle. She was thankful she wasn’t a shop owner?

  Yep! She was. Involved in the hospitality game wasn’t the be all and end all, but at least she didn’t have hang ups about window displays; neither did she have to pay rent and her property was freehold not leasehold; the latter she knew could be a minefield.

  Lovely, she thought stopping to breathe a deep sigh at the same time surveying the hotel she owned as though for the first time. It always felt like the first time when she did that. She loved the building so much.

  The Green River Hotel dated from the eighteenth century and was four storeys high. It had a classical frontage complete with large windows gleaming from beneath carved pediments. The double doors were set back into a broad alcove flanked by Dorian pillars. The pillars were not original but found in a local reclamation yard by a previous owner and cemented firmly in place. Nobody had attempted to remove them and they did look as though they belonged. In fact Honey reckoned they garnished the building with an elegant grandeur. No doubt her hotel guest, Candy Boldman would take the lot down, but then she was the sort to demolish the whole building replacing it with something made of blue glass and stainless steel.

  Nigel Tern had been murdered. Doherty had been in touch, but there was one person who had not as yet phoned her.

  She ran her gaze along each set of windows as she waited for the call she knew would come. He was late. She counted to ten and reached number eight when it rang.

  ‘Honey. I cannot believe this has happened and in the shop window of a very well respected gentlemen’s outfitters. What is the world coming to!’

  Chairman of Bath Hotels Association, Caspar St John Gervais was playing catch up and sounded positively outraged.

  The last comment was a statement not a question; Caspar was always appalled when a heinous crime was committed, more specifically when it was committed in Bath. He didn’t much care if it happened anywhere else.

  Lindsey had described him as being like a medieval lord overseeing his domain and protesting loudly when the serfs ran amok. Honey conceded that he had a point. ‘It is a World Heritage site after all.’

  ‘And we have kind of cultured murders; the sort that used to be solved in a drawing room by amateur sleuths with names such as Hercule and Jane.’

  Honey conceded that Lindsey was right. Caspar fitted the picture. ‘And he’d look OK in tights,’ she’d added. ‘Not so sure about chain mail and armour though.’

  Musing on Caspar’s characteristics was not going to get anything done. She had a job to do. She was the Hotels’ Association Crime Liaison Officer. Caspar deserved to be kept informed.

  ‘Yes, Caspar, it really is quite terrible and on this occasion I feel very uneasy seeing as I was one of the judges.’

  ‘Oh dear. I myself declined the invitation. Shopkeepers can be SO competitive!’

  Honey did not voice the thought that hoteliers could also be pretty competitive.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Honey at the same time recalling that she’d been invited because of her affiliations with the police force.

  ‘Do the police perceive that you know something?’ asked Caspar in his most imperious voice.

  Honey chewed her lip before answering. Perceive was a definite Caspar word, much preferred over the more common or garden THINK.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I have to make a statement. I’ve an interview with the police at two this afternoon.’

  ‘Are there any suspects?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I’ll know more later when a clearer picture has been created. There are ongoing interviews of the staff, people who attended the presentation and the party at the Cricketers later, especially the latter. I understand there was a bit of a fracas and the police were called.’

  A stony silence ensued on the other end of the phone.

  ‘I attended the party at the Cricketers.’ His tone was sombre.

  ‘Oh. Of course you did.’

  She should have known. Caspar was quite a gadfly when it came to parties celebrating something likely to make headlines in the newspaper, even if only the Bath Chronicle. If it made the nationals or some up market magazine’s social calendar, so much the better.

  ‘Do you know what the disturbance was about?’ she asked him.

  ‘I would not bend so low as to fraternise with the more violent element of the clientele. Two shopkeepers who were bad losers I shouldn’t wonder!’

  ‘And you don’t know who they were?’

  ‘No,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘I left early.’

  Obviously he didn’t want to know. They were only shopkeepers after all. If they’d been titled or highly placed in the judiciary or the military, it might have been another matter.

  ‘Pauling and Tern have a very up market client list,’ he said suddenly. ‘I will trust you to be discrete.’

  ‘Were you a client of theirs?’

  ‘They are exquisite tailors – or were. I haven’t graced their doors
since Mr Tern Senior, Mr Arnold Tern, retired and his son took over.’

  ‘Oh, really.’

  Honey detected a disdainful sniff before Caspar continued.

  ‘I wasn’t sure of the ongoing quality,’ he said finally. ‘I did hear rumours that Tern Junior wanted to make the business more accessible to the general public – people with money and no status. They are suppliers to royalty you know.’

  It never failed to amaze Honey that Caspar had survived into the modern age seemingly unaware that the world of class and titled gentry was near extinguished. He was quite astute on the political correctness front because he ran a business; La Reine Rouge Hotel and guests of every persuasion came from all over the world.

  The fact that Nigel Tern owned a lot of property stayed with her. How many tenants, she wondered, had often threatened to do away with him. Still, that was Doherty’s remit. In the meantime Caspar seemed the man to ask about the tailoring business.

  ‘How long since Nigel Tern took over the business?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t be totally accurate, but I think it is about two years. Mr Tern Senior had a stroke I believe and is virtually bed ridden. I don’t know where he lives and what his other circumstances are. We didn’t move in the same circles.’

  ‘You didn’t socialise with him.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Tern socialised. Arnold Tern was a very private man. In fact the only time we ever met was in the shop.’

  ‘And his son?’

  ‘I met him with regard to furnishing me with a new evening suit. He asked how I felt about off the peg. I told him I had no feeling for off the peg except for that I wouldn’t be seen dead in it!’

  She closed the connection after first promising Caspar that she would get back to him when anything substantial developed, i.e. the arrest of the perpetrator.

  ‘Back to work,’ she muttered as she slid the phone into her bag whilst getting a firmer grip on the corsets she was carrying beneath her arm.

  She took another in depth look at the edifice of the building she owned, relishing the balance it gave her between the solid and the sordid. If she’d been able to take another look at the shop window display at Pauling and Tern, she would have done. But that would no longer be possible. The whole area outside the shop would be cordoned off with police and fluttering incident tape. She hadn’t known Nigel Tern but couldn’t put his shop out of her head, especially that highwayman who had appealed to the dramatic side of her nature.