The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  “Well, he won’t be looking for me,” declared Edmund.

  “Don’t be so sure. If he saw you with us yesterday, he might just want to question you. I read somewhere that Arabs like dealing with men much more than women.” I couldn’t tell if that fact quelled his enthusiasm or not, but nonetheless, we all headed off in our appointed directions by ten-thirty.

  I chose the National Gallery as my first stop, followed by the National Portrait Gallery. Someday, I thought as I strolled through the galleries, I would like to come back and really see what I ’m seeing instead of having to concentrate on who’s not seeing the paintings with me. I just knew I was being followed.

  By the time I reached Saint Martin-in-the-Fields tearoom I knew it. I took a cup of tea from the attendant and forgot once again to say, “Black, please,” and wound up with another cup of white tea. I can’t stand milk in tea. I took the offending cup to a table near the Brass-Rubbing Centre, wishing I had time to make a rubbing of Lady Margaret Peyton, circa 1484. Lady Margaret seemed to be the most popular of the brass plates, and I watched three sets of tourists make rubbings from the replica of her tomb plate.

  “Bet I wouldn’t tear mine,” I said aloud as I watched another disappointed visitor leave with a ripped souvenir. “Bet it’s all in the wrist.”

  I was writing down, “Come back and rub Lady Margaret,” when Edmund hissed at me from the shadows of the dark church basement. “Honey, no one has seen Masud. I’ve checked in with Janie and Minnie. Any luck on your end?”

  “No,” I said into the dark corner where he stood. “But I’ve got this feeling . . . well, I can’t explain it. We’re close, I know it. Well, I’m off to . . . to . . .”

  “Saint James Park, down The Mall.”

  “Right.” Edmund knew my schedule better than I did

  By the time I had walked from Saint Martin’s to Buckingham Palace, I was exhausted. I had barely glanced at the Clarence House where the Queen Mum lived, and could have cared less that it wasn’t time for the changing of the guard at Buckingham. I made my way down to Westminster Abbey, waving halfheartedly to a beaming Janie who passed by on her bus; she must have made The Triangle route about sixty times already. She shook her head vigorously, signifying that she hadn’t seen a soul as her bus rumbled on down the street. But she still looked spry and rested, I thought resentfully. I tried to remember why I had assigned the walking part of this plan to myself.

  When I reached the abbey, I sank down in a folding chair near the high altar. Several robe-clad monks were doing what appeared to be a dress rehearsal of some kind. One of them reverently carried a sword on a pillow. I heard one of them say, “Now imagine that the queen is seated here.”

  I looked at the seat next to mine that he indicated. The only person sitting there was Edmund. “This is an honor,” he said like the tour guide he really was. “That’s the Seed Pearl Sword carried by the Lord Mayor of London. They must be getting ready to have a dedication of some sort.”

  “Well, they’ll have to have it without me,” I said. “I’m dead. I feel like jumping up and saying, ‘Ollie, ollie, oxen free’ to Masud or whoever it is that I think is following me. Or shouting from the altar, ‘Harry’s dead, come out, come out, wherever you are.’ ”

  “I’d say you’re getting punchy,” he said.

  “Let’s just say if the queen really were sitting here, I wouldn’t have the strength to give her a nod. No one ever told me that being a tourist was so exhausting.”

  “I just came to tell you that our Minnie is about to give it up, too. I think she’s lost her love for the underground. She says to tell you she’ll meet you in half an hour at the Lord Wellington Pub. It’s on the first street to your right when you leave the abbey. They have tables outside. We’ll wait for you there.” He left the queen’s pretend chair and disappeared.

  The chase was off. The plan hadn’t worked. So be it.

  I relaxed and decided to at least do one enjoyable thing before I met them. I headed for the Poet’s Corner and lost myself in the midst of the memorials and tombs of the great writers. I passed Geoffrey Chaucer’s tomb and laughed when I remembered that Ben Jonson’s epitaph, “O rare Ben Jonson,” also meant in Latin “Pray for Ben Jonson.”

  It was dark and quiet in the Poet’s Corner. Late afternoon, and not a tour group in sight. I turned finally to go and meet Minnie and Edmund, wondering how we could signal Janie to debus, when I bumped into someone — someone I knew: Mr. Sledge Hamra himself.

  “About time,” I said.

  He was still wearing his American-sloppy clothes, and his head was shining with sweat. “I need to talk to you,” he said hastily. “You’ve got to stop . . .”

  Whatever it was I had to stop; I didn’t find out.

  One minute he was speaking to me and the next, gone. Poof. Just like that, as what was probably the final tour group of the day poured into the Poet’s Corner. They swirled around me, causing me to step on Mr. Jonson’s plaque. “Excuse me,” I said to the dead writer and hurried back to the door of the abbey.

  Outside, I forgot which was right and which was left. Did Edmund mean for me to turn right as I came out of the abbey or as I was entering it? I chose the wrong way, of course, and it was almost an hour later and many, many blocks before I found the Lord Wellington Pub.

  Minnie and Edmund were sitting impatiently at a street-side table. A waiter was bringing them fresh drinks and took my order for a glass of bar scotch. “With ice,” I shouted after him.

  I told them about seeing Sledge and that I was more frustrated than ever.

  “You had more success than I did,” said Minnie. “I rode from Oxford to Marylebone and back to Waterloo and then to Ravenscourt. I went all the way out to Shepherd’s Bush, for God’s sake. I never want to hear another violin or flute echoing up those tube escalators again. I used to think the sound was so romantic and haunting. Ha! Drink up. You’re way behind us.”

  “You didn’t see anyone?”

  “Not a soul. Oh, well, that is, I did see scores of Arabs. I told each one of them that ‘Harry is dead, leave us alone.’ It’s a wonder they didn’t call a bobby on me. And we have another problem.”

  In response to my questioning look, Edmund said, “We can’t get Janie off the bus. She just keeps going round and round. She’s getting more agitated. I expect her to jump any minute now. Look, here she comes again.”

  And sure enough, the red double-decker bus lumbered by us, a frantic Janie waving from the topside. Edmund stepped out onto the curb and made a pulling motion with his hand like he was switching on and off a cord. “Third time I’ve done that,” he said. “I feel like a fool. All she has to do is go down the steps and pull the cord. Oh, look the bus is stopping. By George, I think she’s got it.” Edmund did a quick tap dance on the sidewalk, which reminded me to tell Minnie for Edmund not to give up his day job.

  We sipped our drinks as we watched Janie run pell-mell up the street.

  “What do you think Sledge meant when he said you’ve got to stop?” asked Minnie. She waved encouragingly to a flagging Janie.

  Edmund held up his glass of dark ale to hurry her on.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe he was trying to tell me that Harry really is dead and I should stop all the looking. And, in fact, I’m sure he’s right. We gave the kidnappers every chance in the world to molest us again, and they were a no show. I’m afraid I’ll have to face the truth. Harry’s dead, and that’s that. Otherwise, Masud would surely have taken the bait.”

  Janie arrived at the table and breathlessly tried to talk, but nothing came out but gasps. She reached rudely over the table and grabbed up Edmund’s ale, which she drank greedily, spilling drops of the beer down her chin. “I saw him,” she finally managed to get out, sputtering beer in all our faces.

  “Sledge Hamra? I know. I saw him, too.”

  “No,” she continued to gasp. “Harry. I saw Harry.”

  THIRTY–TWO

  A
twilight rainstorm impeded our progress to the site where Janie swore she had seen Harry Armstead from her bus-top vantage. Edmund carried one umbrella, and he kept trying to share his “brollie” with all three of us, a knightly gesture that left us all drenched by the time we reached the pub that Janie had seen Harry enter.

  She had told us it was the Ruffled Peacock or the Purple Pheasant. “It had something to do with birds. Oh, I was trying so hard to remember the name,” she wailed.

  It was Edmund to the rescue again, faring better than he had with his umbrella: He finally exclaimed, “I know, the Royal Raven.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it. The Royal Raven. Told you it had something to do with birds. Now I don’t remember which street though.”

  “I do. I know it. It’s not that far, and it’ll be quicker to walk than for me to go get the car. Follow me.” And he led us on a fast track down side streets that ultimately led to the Royal Raven, which we discovered to be down by the Thames. It was a long walk and made me wonder just where Edmund had parked his car.

  The street was dark, not only from the billowing clouds overhead and the descent of the evening, but also because the small, narrow lane was hidden among tall, surrounding buildings; it was almost an alleyway between major thoroughfares. One murky orb light weakly illuminated the weathered Royal Raven sign that swung from rusty iron rings attached to the light post.

  “Certainly has lots of aromatic atmosphere,” Janie said.

  “It downright stinks,” countered Minnie.

  “What would Harry be doing in a place like this?” I wondered as I looked around. “What were you doing down here, Janie?”

  “I couldn’t help where the bus went, now could I?”

  We were all panting from the fast pace and long distance we had covered and not a little scared and irritable. “Well, you didn’t say you crossed any bridges.”

  “You’d be surprised what I crossed today, bridges being the least of it. Well, are we going in? It’s been over an hour since I saw Harry go in, and he might be gone by now.”

  Minnie was still suspicious, “You’re sure it was Harry?”

  “As sure as I am that it was Sledge Hamra sitting back in coach on the plane,” said Janie, reminding us that sometimes she could be right.

  “I’ll go first,” Edmund volunteered.

  “Now what good would that do?” asked Janie. “You don’t even know what he looks like.” And with a deep breath, she pulled open the dark door and entered the pub.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Minnie quoted as she followed her into the Royal Raven.

  That left Edmund and me still dripping on the stoop outside the pub. “Well?” he asked.

  “I’m going. I’m going. I’m just suddenly overcome by maybe seeing Harry.”

  Janie reopened the door and pulled me bodily inside by the tail of my drenched sweater. “We don’t see him anywhere. You look.”

  The four of us huddled in a wet mass by the door. It was darker inside than out; dim lights hung high near the ceiling, lit by what had to be forty-watt bulbs. “Wait, I have to adjust my eyes. I mean, they have to get used to the light. Ah, there are people here.”

  The few pubs I had visited with Minnie and even the Lord Wellington where we had met today were my ideas of what a pub should be. Dark paneling and tables with benches for people to relax and enjoy a pint of ale. Dartboards had been prevalent and the whole atmosphere was like being in someone’s club room. The Royal Raven was a little different: Peeling paint of an indecipherable color hung from the ceiling and walls. There was an odor of dirty bodies, curry, and stale smoke. Groups of men huddled around small, black tables, and it seemed they were all staring right at us.

  Minnie peered into the room. “None of them at the tables look like Harry. In fact, all of them look like your description of the kidnappers. That’s it. I’m outta here.”

  I stalled her with my hand. “That’s because you’re not looking in the right place. There, behind the bar, that’s Harry.”

  “I was right,” Janie squealed.

  “Hush. Everyone is looking at us. I don’t know if these guys are the kidnappers or not, but if they’re not, they’re their cousins. Minnie, you and Edmund stroll over to the bar. Janie and I will follow, and I’ll do the talking. Okay?”

  Who was going to argue with the only one who had a plan?

  “We’ll have three whiskeys and a Guinness,” I told the bartender, who just happened to be Harry Armstead. He wore dark pants and a wrinkled white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He was dressed like most of the pub’s patrons who, in fact, were all men.

  “Right,” he said and began to fill the order. He gave us our drinks, and we drank them in silence, staring intently at a Harry who acted as if he didn’t know any of us. That he hadn’t had an affair with one of us for almost two years. Like we were complete strangers.

  “Harry, it’s me,” I whispered as he fussed about, giving me change from my twenty pound note. I added, “Honey,” in case he had forgotten my name, too, but I couldn’t catch his eye. Then, “Huckleberry,” in case he thought I was just flirting.

  “You must be tourists,” he said in a bland voice. “The change is enough. Tourists always over tip.” And he pushed the remaining pounds into my hand. “Is that it, then? Or do you need another round?”

  I was too astonished to answer, but Janie came to the rescue. “That’s it; you’ve got us pegged. Lost tourists, all right. This is quite enough, thank you. I’ve just remembered the way home. Well, the way back to the hotel. We’ve got to run now, leaving in the morning. Back to the States and all. Well, thank you, and good-bye.”

  Before I could utter another word, I found myself back out on the rainy street. “What on earth, Janie? That was Harry, and you know it.”

  The door to the Royal Raven opened, and one of Masud’s cousins came out. He stood on the stoop and stared at us, which made me reconsider lingering in the area. “Right, then, we’re off,” said Edmund as he guided me away by the elbow.

  Minnie looked back down the street as we rounded the corner. “He’s still there. No, he’s going back in. He’s gone.”

  I pushed Janie’s hands away from my sweater. “Quit dragging me. What was that all about? You know that was Harry,” I said again.

  “Sometimes I wonder about you, Honey Huckleberry. You’ve got to quit reading romances and concentrate on mysteries. That was Harry, yes, and it was a Harry trying not to bring attention to you. Or to him. I’ll have to think about that. Which one of you or us was in danger?”

  “Janie, I’ll show you some danger,” I threatened. I knew in my heart that Harry knew me and that it was some kind of perilous game he had been playing in the bar. I was embarrassed and ashamed of the amateurish way I had acted in the pub, and yet I still childishly was taking it out on Janie. I knew I hadn’t played my role well in the Royal Raven.

  Edmund restrained my arm with the purse I was getting ready to swing at Janie. “Hang on, luv, she’s right.”

  “You could feel it,” agreed Minnie. “Smell it, even.”

  “What? What did I miss?” I hugged Janie in an apology.

  “Let’s get out of this neighborhood, and I’ll tell you,” said Janie. “Which way, Edmund?”

  We slunk through the street, one by one, clinging close to the shadows of the buildings. It wasn’t until we reached the lighted bridge, we had crossed earlier that Janie came to a halt. “There’s enough light here.”

  “For what?”

  “To read what Harry wrote on that five pound note, doofus.”

  THIRTY–THREE

  “Mind the gap.”

  “Why does she keep saying that?”

  “Who?”

  “That woman saying, ‘Mind the gap,’ ‘Mind the gap’ ”

  “Honey, that’s recorded, and the reminder is to keep you from stepping in the gap between the train and the rails.”

  “I only need to be told once.”

  “I heard her eno
ugh yesterday to ask her home to marry my brother . . . that is, if I had a brother.”

  “Minnie, you’re sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Marble Arch station. Two o’clock train.”

  “It could be the train going the other way. The note didn’t say which way.”

  “Which is why we put Janie and Edmund on that track.”

  “But I want to be on the right track. I mean the correct track. I want to see Harry.”

  “And I want you to see him. Believe me, I want you to see him.”

  “Do people really step through that gap?”

  “Yep, just like they step in front of cars and buses when they cross a street. That’s why they paint those arrows on the sidewalk so tourists won’t get hit because they are used to looking for traffic the other way.”

  “What time is it?”

  “The same one-forty-five it was when you asked me thirty seconds ago.”

  “Do you see anyone that looks like Harry?”

  “No.”

  “What if the train’s not on time? Do you think he’ll be on the train or get on with us?”

  “I honestly don’t know. All the note said was Marble Arch station. Two o’clock train. What do you think it means? You’re the one who knows Harry best.”

  “I don’t think I know Harry at all.”

  It had been a busy morning for us. Our reservations at Selfridges had run out. Three nights was all even an influential Minnie had been able to arrange, and we had to move out by checkout time. It was Janie’s idea for us to move to Twenty Wigmore Street. “It’s your flat, after all.”

  “It’s not my flat now. Harry’s alive. It was just my flat while Harry was dead,” I reminded her.

  “Well, the sentiment is the same. He’d want you to be there, I know it.”

  “You want us to be there. Then you could say you had a flat in London.”

  “Girls, girls, don’t squabble. I agree with Janie, Honey. Moving to Harry’s flat is a good idea. We can do it ourselves. Just carry the bags across the street and no hassle with trying to find another hotel. And we don’t know how much longer we’ll have to be here. You know I’m going to have to leave soon. I have that shoot in Wales. And, Honey, you haven’t forgotten the Constant deal, have you? When are you supposed to do that?”