Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘You’re right,’ said Honey nodding enthusiastically. ‘If she’s occupied up there keeping vigil, she’s happy. Anyway. I’ve got things to do.’

  As usual the paperwork was piling up, the bank manager was asking her to come in for a review of her account, and Doherty was going to be preoccupied with the present investigation. There were certainly a lot of demands for her time and she didn’t want any more.

  ‘I’m pooped,’ she said to Lindsey. ‘I don’t think I could take on anything else – or speak to anyone else today.’

  ‘I’m afraid you have to. Caspar rang. He said he couldn’t get you on the phone.’

  Caspar! He’d want an update. Was the murder solved yet? It was almost as though Caspar expected the word ‘murderer’ to be written on the forehead of the prime suspect. Not that they had a prime suspect. Not yet.

  Honey took out her mobile phone. ‘Whoops! Low battery.’

  The double doors of The Green River Hotel let in a blast of cold air with most people plus the noise of the city. She didn’t know what it was, but Caspar St John Gervais, chairman of Bath Hotels’ Association, could open a door without a sound coming in with him. His footsteps were soundless too; like a cat he seemed to pad around, sleek and shiny in tailored jacket, trousers and highly polished shoes.

  Honey pasted on a smile. ‘Caspar! How nice to see you. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? A sherry? A glass of wine?’

  His response was swift, his expression slightly disdainful. ‘I’ll forego your offer of coffee. Ditto wine. I am partial to a sherry of course, even at this time of day. It isn’t Cyprus sherry is it?’

  ‘No. Harveys Bristol Cream.’

  Caspar sniffed. ‘It’s acceptable, but just a small one please Lindsey.’

  He flashed a charming smile at Honey’s daughter and with a wave of his walking stick, nose in the air and without being invited, headed for Honey’s office.

  Once the door was safely closed behind them, Caspar spun on his heels turning to face her, chin held high, one well manicured set of fingers combing through his mane of white hair.

  Honey guessed what the opening line would be.

  ‘How are things going with the murder of Nigel Tern?’

  His frown was very deep and his mouth was no more than a thin slash across his face.

  Honey shrugged and tried not to show her discomfort. Caspar was always so demanding. He expected things wrapped up as quickly as possible.

  ‘There are no leads as yet, though I get the impression that he made enemies quite easily – especially amongst his staff. He had pretensions of making the firm less exclusive and more modern. To that end he had given the senior assistant, Cecil Barrington, his marching orders.’

  ‘Could it be him who committed this nefarious deed?’

  Honey shrugged. ‘Possibly, but Mr Barrington is rather plump, in his mid sixties and quite short. It would have taken a strong man to heave Mr Tern into the window and then string him up by the neck.’

  ‘But it’s possible.’

  ‘Anything’s possible.’

  ‘Are there any other likely suspects?’

  ‘Well, I...’

  She didn’t really know whether there were officially, but Caspar did like to hear the positive side of things. Luckily Lindsey came in with the drinks before she had chance to respond; at least it gave her time to think.

  ‘There you are,’ said Lindsey setting the schooners of sherry on Honey’s desk. To Caspar she said, ‘Are you running the Bath marathon this year?’

  Caspar visibly blanched. ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘I’ll see you there then. I’ll be up front – poll position. Bet I can beat you over the first four miles.’

  Caspar rose to the bait. ‘Five pounds.’

  A cry of fifty came bouncing back from Lindsey.

  ‘Done,’ said Caspar. They shook hands.

  ‘You will be,’ said a grinning Lindsey. ‘You will be well and truly done.’

  Humming a happy tune and wearing a smug smile, Lindsey took her leave.

  Honey looked amused. This was the first time she’d heard of this.

  ‘I didn’t know you were entering,’ she said to him.

  ‘I don’t say I’ll finish the course, but it is my dearest intention to compete. Anyway, I’m asking people to sponsor me, a small donation per mile; for charity of course. And I will not be suggesting that you take part, my dear girl. It’s too late. No matter how hard you prepared, you just wouldn’t be fit enough in time. There’s no room for saggy muscles and batwings in competition you know.’

  Although her first instinct was to tip the sherry over his head, she refrained and smiled. After all, she had to remember that it was Caspar who’d given her the task of Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of the hotels association. In gratitude, he often sent overspill from his hotel, thus keeping her room lets up. Grateful for the extra business, she held her tongue.

  Caspar took another sip of sherry before asking again. ‘As we were saying. Are there any suspects?’

  Honey outlined Doherty’s intention to interview other shopkeepers who had entered the competition, especially Alan Roper, plus locating some of the women Nigel Tern had been involved with.

  ‘Doherty is also attempting to locate the window dresser; ‘Somebody called Vasey Casey – though that could be the name of the company.’

  ‘We need this cleared up quickly,’ said Caspar in a low voice, almost as though he were afraid microphones were hidden in the room or somebody in MI5 was hiding behind the filing cabinet taking notes.

  ‘The police are doing their best. I will keep you informed.’

  ‘Of course you will. Contact me immediately when you have something positive to report. Jeremy Poughty is my current hotel reception manager.’

  ‘Potty?’

  ‘He’s left his past behind him and prefers to be known as Jerry now,’ said Caspar in a crisp tone.

  ‘Of course.’

  Jeremy Poughty, a lean figure with coffee coloured skin and high cheek bones, used to run a market stall where all kinds of herbs and other substances were for sale. Just one sniff of the stall was enough to send anyone high. Reading between the lines Honey concluded that Jeremy had split up with the guy who had been both his business and live in partner. It wasn’t beyond belief to assume that he and Caspar were now an item, though not necessarily living together. Caspar was a very private man.

  ‘Did you know Nigel Tern personally? I mean, socially?’ asked Honey.

  ‘I had my jackets made there. We did not socialise.’

  In one way his answer surprised her. Caspar was a sucker for dinner parties favoured by the higher strata of Bath society. Nigel, as tailor and confidante to the aristocracy, seemed ideal dinner company for Caspar, and yet he was quite adamant that they were not acquainted. She couldn’t help suspecting another reason for his negative response.

  Obviously her expression betrayed what she was thinking.

  ‘The other side of the sexual coin,’ Caspar suddenly remarked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Honey. He had to be referring to the fact that Nigel was most definitely heterosexual. Not until much later did another conclusion enter her mind. Not until she remembered what kind of shop Lee Curtis owned and what sort of business Mr Papendriou was going into.

  So how about Nigel Tern? Was he into leather and bondage? Her mind went back to the window display itself. The highwayman. It was a highwayman, wasn’t it? Charlie York had thought otherwise. He’d been convinced it was Adam Ant, a pop star from way back. He can’t have seen the gallows. She couldn’t recall a set of gallows in Adam Ant’s act. However, she had to concede that there were similarities.

  With that in mind she swooped on Lindsey.

  ‘Darling daughter, I have a favour to ask. You know there are a whole host of Elvis Presley lookalikes out there. I understand they have clubs where they all turn up looking like the king.’

  ‘Loads,’ said Lindsey. ‘Anyone we know thinking of
joining? Doherty perhaps? Caspar?’

  She grinned.

  Honey grinned too. ‘No. I’m not looking for an Elvis Presley impersonators club. I’m looking for an Adam Ant club. Do you think you could check?’

  ‘Go have a coffee. I’ll be right back to you.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘You are joking!’

  It wasn’t like Doherty to choke on his drink, but there were exceptional circumstances when he couldn’t help it. This was one of them.

  They’d managed to snatch some time at the Zodiac Club, just enough to indulge in a couple of drinks before they both went to their separate beds – at least that was the plan. Hope, as they say, springs eternal. They might get up the energy to sleep together tonight.

  Sharing his disbelief, Honey shook her head and laughed. ‘It’s true. Elvis and Abba are not the only impersonators going the rounds. I spoke to the organiser. Nigel Tern was most definitely an avid Adam Ant impersonator. They have conventions and everything, just like the Elvis lot do. Elvis has the biggest following. Abba do pretty well too, though of course they come in foursomes and you do have to have to cavort around in platform shoes. BIG platforms too. But there are Adam Ant impersonators too. Quite popular apparently.’

  ‘I would never have believed it! Not that I knew the bloke at all. I only met the man once. That was the time I’ve already told you about when the Chief Constable was being fitted up for a penguin suit for some posh bash he was attending. Nigel Tern looked nothing like Adam Ant. In fact the very thought of him wearing tight britches is enough to make me turn to drink.’

  As confirming the fact, he swigged back his Jack Daniels.

  Honey nodded at the barman. ‘Another, please for both of us.’

  The entertainment at the Zodiac Club was belting out Goldfinger, the old James Bond number best belted out by Shirley Bassey.

  The male impersonator looked the part with his gold lamé dress, size ten killer heels and a curly black wig. However, his voice wasn’t a patch on the Welsh diva.

  Doherty watched the female impersonator from over the top of his newly filled glass. On second glance his figure wasn’t as good as Shirley’s. He had no waistline, his boobs were obviously false and he had a voice like gravel. Funny, he thought, how blokes liked to dress up. He didn’t care for dressing up himself and that included fancy dress parties.

  ‘He’s quite good,’ said Honey.

  Doherty grunted and half-heartedly agreed.

  ‘Not attractive though. I thought the highwayman was attractive, though I’m not so sure now. It didn’t occur to me that he resembled a pop star from the eighties. I wonder whether it occurred to the window dresser.’

  ‘We’ll ask him when we find him. Either he’s an enigma or he’s emigrated to Australia.’

  ‘If Charlie York hadn’t misinterpreted the scene, we wouldn’t have followed up the Adam Ant lead.’

  ‘Cheers to Charlie York,’ said Doherty. They raised their glasses in a toast.

  ‘The gallows were the giveaway,’ said Honey.

  ‘They also figured pretty high as the means of despatching Mr Tern. Finishing the job.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next day Honey had a surprise visitor at the Green River Hotel.

  Lindsey informed her that a Mr Barrington was waiting for her in reception.

  Honey frowned. ‘Why here?’

  ‘Is he something to do with the case?’

  Honey nodded. ‘Senior assistant at Tern and Pauling, though not for long. Apparently the deceased had given him notice to quit.’

  ‘That’s a motive.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Honey. ‘It is. I’d better see him in my office.’

  Mr Barrington was a picture of nerves. His brow was furrowed, the corners of his mouth were downturned.

  He sat down gratefully, his feet swinging a few inches from the floor.

  ‘I did have it in mind to march along to the police station, but I lost the nerve. You see I’ve never entered a police station in my life. I have lived a quiet respectable life and the very act of entering those doors filled me with fear. I couldn’t do it. Mr Pappendriou mentioned that you were a civilian and I might be able to approach you direct. A friend gave him your address. I do hope you don’t mind.’

  Mr Cecil Barrington looked at the floor as he spoke, though raised a quizzical eyebrow when he’d finished what he’d wanted to say.

  Honey smiled. ‘Of course not.’

  Honey studied the little man sitting on the other side of her desk. She had planned to deal with some paperwork today – mostly bills and officious letters from the council informing her of the latest EU regulations with regard to listed buildings. The Green River was Grade II, which meant nothing could be drastically altered on the outside. The inside was a different matter though she didn’t think it would be too long before the European Union had something to say about that too.

  ‘Right. So there’s something relevant to the case that you want to tell me. Do you mind if I write it down,’ she asked whilst pulling a pad towards her and picking up a pen.

  He looked slightly alarmed.

  ‘For the sake of my memory,’ she added hastily in order to ease his consternation. ‘I forget things if I don’t write it down. It’s not official – like a police statement. It’s just for me.’

  He nodded and seemed to relax a little but did not touch the tea Lindsey had brought in for him. He’d declined the coffee from Honey’s percolator, which was always on the go.

  ‘So,’ she said, her pen poised for action. ‘Where would you like to start?’

  Mr Barrington sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘I cannot believe it has come to this. I just cannot believe it.’

  He continued shaking his head.

  ‘I take it you’re enjoying a day off,’ she said in a friendly manner she hoped would put him at ease.

  ‘And why not?’ he said somewhat huffily. ‘I am not obliged to work out my notice.’

  ‘Your notice. I thought it was Mr Nigel who gave you notice and seeing as he’s gone…’

  She purposely left the sentence hanging in mid air guessing that Mr Barrington would fill in the details.

  She was right.

  ‘Mr Arnold has decided that I am too old to continue. My dismissal and subsequent retirement is to stand.’

  She felt for him. He was a figure of dejection. His life had been given to his employer and now the employer had done the dirty on him.

  Honey maintained her pose. She had done everything possible to put him at ease, hence the tea. She had also instructed Lindsey that they were not to be disturbed. ‘And that includes your grandmother,’ she’d added in a low voice so Mr Barrington couldn’t hear her.

  Mr Barrington fingered the teaspoon sitting in his saucer. His eyes were downcast. His mouth moved nervously.

  ‘This is difficult. So difficult,’ he muttered. ‘I feel like a traitor coming in here like this.’

  ‘Rest assured, Mr Barrington, no one is going to behead you and stick your head on a spike. This is the Green River Hotel not the Tower of London.’

  Her attempt at humour failed to illicit a response. Mr Barrington was an employee of the old school having loyally stayed with the same firm for years. She wondered how much he was paid. She guessed not very much.

  He was taking his time and she could understand him feeling guilty. He’d worked for Tern and Pauling for a long time. However, she did have a hotel to run. She glanced at her watch. He saw her do it.

  ‘I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time. It’s not easy. Not easy at all.’

  ‘Take your time.’ She wished she hadn’t said it. Time was precious and the officials at the European Union waited for no man.

  ‘The fact is I’ve nothing appertaining to the slaying of Mr Nigel as such, but I can give you some background information regarding the family and Mr Nigel’s lifestyle and...’ He paused in his search for the right word. ‘Other things. Things that are nor quite n
ormal…not respectable. They might have some bearing on the case. Or they might not.’

  Honey nodded. This was all very ambiguous, but there might be something in what he had to say – when he got round to spilling it out.

  She smiled reassuringly. ‘Well we have to start somewhere. Have you always got on well with your employer?’

  ‘Yes. On the whole. Mr Arnold ran the business somewhat autocratically. By that I mean he was always in charge – there were never any familiarities but everyone knew their place. He was always Mr Arnold or Mr Tern Senior. And it worked the other way too. It was old fashioned but respectful.’

  Honey nodded in understanding. Tern and Pauling had maintained a rigid workplace environment. There was no intermingling between management and staff. Mr Barrington would have been fitted well into times past, a typically Victorian style old retainer. She tried not to colour her judgement in thinking that Mr Arnold Tern had more in common with Ebenezer Scrooge rather than the Employee Protection Act.

  ‘Excuse me for saying so, but Mr Arnold didn’t appear terribly upset at the death of his son.’

  Arnold Tern hadn’t shed a tear, almost as though he were expecting his son’s imminent demise. During her visit to the premises, Mr Arnold Tern had actually stated that he wasn’t very surprised.

  Cecil Barrington shifted nervously in his chair. She guessed he was beginning to regret dropping in.

  ‘You mustn’t take Mr Arnold at face value. He’s a very private man. He never showed any emotion when Deirdre, his wife died. It isn’t I think that he doesn’t care it’s just that he considers death to be part of life. Nothing is fair in this world so get used to it, that’s what he always used to say.’

  Honey frowned. She’d only met Mr Arnold the once and had disliked him on the spot.

  However, it wasn’t for her to judge. Mr Barrington had put himself out to come in. He deserved her undivided attention.

  ‘Still. It was his son. How long ago did Mr Nigel take over from his father?’

  ‘Only six months ago when Mr Arnold took ill. Up until that time Mr Arnold came into the shop for a few hours a day, although ostensibly, Mr Nigel was supposed to be running it.’