‘A grudge, perhaps?’
‘Could be. I also have to ask myself where he’s getting that many red noses.’
‘He’s obviously got a stash of them. Either that or he’s making them himself.’
‘The super glue is a problem. It’s hard to get off, besides which, they can’t keep up with him – I’m presuming it’s a man. As fast as they remove one, another five appear. It’s proving an unending task.’ Honey sighed. ‘And so is this. How can seventy civilised people make this much mess when they’re eating?’
‘Never mind. Not much more,’ said Lindsey.
‘Amen to that. Not much more. Great things, office parties. And the best thing about them is the money they generate. The worst thing is clearing up the morning after the night before.’
She eyed the bin liner as though she would like to rip it to pieces, which wasn’t far from the truth. They’d filled two and it would take another two to accommodate the remaining detritus of the night before.
Splashes of gravy and splodges of Baked Alaska and Christmas pudding were mopped up with industrial strength kitchen roll. Christmas crackers, empty wine bottles, screwed-up napkins, and a pair of fishnet stockings was consigned to a black plastic rubbish bag.
Lindsey held up a pair of scanty bikini briefs between finger and thumb. ‘Hope they’ve got a spare pair.’
‘Or a good disposition,’ her mother added. ‘It’s two degrees below freezing outside.’
‘Hardy types. The lot from Mallory and Scrimshaw certainly made the most of it. They were drinking until three, determined to get their money’s worth. Sounds as though their boss wasn’t known for going overboard at Christmas – or, if they’re to be believed, overboard at any time; he’s even booked them in for dinner on Christmas Day.’
Honey tied the end of the bulging black bag. ‘Well I’ve got a lot of time for Mr Clarence Scrimshaw. He’s done the finances of The Green River Hotel a lot of good. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’ She couldn’t quite explain why reference to a horse had entered her head. ‘They were well behaved last night and I’m not expecting them to be any different on Christmas Day. Everything is plain sailing from now on,’ Honey declared with a lilt to her voice and a touch of renewed energy.
The first sign that this was wishful thinking and that a horse was involved caught her unawares.
Anna waddled in from the bar and stood politely waiting to be noticed. Her blonde hair was tied back with a pink and white checked bow and a pink cardigan was straining at the buttons over her very pregnant belly.
‘Mrs Driver. There is a dead horse in the bar.’
Anna was a Jill of all trades and her first language was understandably her native Polish. Although her English had improved she did get the odd word wrong. Honey assumed this was one of those times and smiled an understanding smile. ‘Try again.’
‘It is a horse,’ said Anna, a slight frown denting her fair brow. ‘It is definitely a horse. It has four legs, a tail, beady eyes, and a red hooter.’
‘Hooter?’
‘Nose.’
‘Right.’
Sticking to the view that her first assumption was right and that Anna was a bit awry on the language front, Honey took her time going to investigate. Besides last night’s party had been pretty wild. The fallout was subtle but in need of attention, i.e. she was presently disengaging a vol-au-vent from between two brochures advertising an event at the Roman Baths.
Whilst wending her way between dining room and bar, she was stopped in Reception by one of last night’s guests. She recognised the woman as being one of the Mallory and Scrimshaw party.
‘Mrs Driver. If I could just have a word …’ Her tone was soft and her expression was one of concern. ‘Our boss, Mr Scrimshaw; I’m a little worried. I didn’t see him last night so I presume he arrived late. Is he down yet?’
‘No. Sorry.’
The woman was of a comfortable size, the type who rarely missed a meal and enjoyed her food – not that Honey held that against her. In fact, she had instant empathy.
Honey sympathised. ‘Oh dear.’
It was likely the woman hadn’t over-indulged on booze the night before. The rest of the party had done their utmost to drink the cellar dry, and few were likely to be up for the full breakfasts on offer so early in the day. The lady, Mrs Finchley if she recalled correctly, would likely be one of the few diners..
There was something resembling vain hope in Mrs Finchley’s eyes, a yearning to lasso Mr Scrimshaw before breakfast might explain it, but there could be something else.
Mrs Finchley frowned whilst fiddling with the strap of her handbag. ‘I wonder where he might be?’
‘Sleeping it off perhaps?’
Honey said it with a friendly smile. After all it was the usual sort of thing people said after having a party.
Mrs Finchley was not amused.
‘Mr Scrimshaw does not indulge!’
Now that was news. Last night it had seemed to Honey that everyone had been overindulging. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure what Mr Scrimshaw looked like. He’d paid the bill over the phone. She’d not met him face to face. She hadn’t been able to locate him in order to give him a free drink for organising the party.
‘I’m sorry if I was speaking out of turn. I only presumed …’
‘Mr Scrimshaw has standards. He is not a man to drink or eat to excess.’
Or anything else, Honey thought to herself deciding that Mrs Finchley, a dried-out divorcee if ever she saw one, was living in hope that he might indulge himself with her body.
It was politic to offer an explanation – which she did.
‘Well seeing as he had a late night, perhaps he’s decided on a lie-in anyway. If you care to go on into breakfast, when he appears I’ll send him in to you. How would that be?’
Mrs Finchley took on a pinched expression, sucking in her pinched lips. ‘I’m not sure he came down from his room. I’m not even sure he arrived for the party. He may have fallen asleep in his room. He has been working very hard of late, and I was worried when I saw …’
Honey decided she didn’t have any time for this. There were more rubbish bags to be filled. Even during the serving of breakfast, she could see herself kicking the odd bread roll into touch.
‘Well, there you are then. He found the bed very comfortable and decided to take advantage of the situation. Everyone needs a break from work.’
‘Can you get someone to check? Can you ring his room? I need to speak to him about a very important matter …’
‘I can if you wish, though I would point out that he might not be too pleased. As you yourself have just pointed out, he has been working hard. Isn’t it likely that he could well be having a lie-in?’
‘That’s true.’ Mrs Finchley jerked her head in something that passed for a nod, but she didn’t look happy. The moment she’d disappeared through the double doors into the dining room, Honey put the ‘ring the bell’ sign in place and headed for the bar with Anna. Investigating a dead horse seemed eminently preferable than dealing with a doomed love affair.
‘Poor lady,’ said Anna. ‘She looks very unhappy.’
‘The poor lady is a blossom unplucked,’ said Honey.
Anna looked puzzled. ‘Plucked? She is like a flower?’
‘Just like a flower. No man has plucked her – well, not recently anyway.’
‘I have been plucked,’ said Anna, smiling with pleasure.
Honey stole a quick glance at Anna’s belly. ‘Yes. You certainly have.’
Chapter Nine
There was a Christmassy emptiness to the bar and leftover smells of the night before. The smell of scattered peanuts and stale beer was balanced with that of pine needles and chocolate. Dropped crisps scrunched into the carpet beneath her feet. All pretty normal.
The only out of place thing amongst the holly, ivy, and red velvet bows was the purple horse with yellow spots.
Anna stood with hands resting on what remained of
her hips – which wasn’t a lot.
‘You see?’ She pointed an accusing finger.
The horse had its rear end perched on a Chesterfield sofa. Its front half sprawled on the floor, its head on the opposite sofa. It was definitely a horse – a pantomime horse.
The colours clashed with the traditional decor of dark wood and green upholstery. It even out glared the shiny glass balls and sparkling tinsel.
‘I need to vacuum now,’ said Anna. ‘This horse has to go. It is in my way.’
Honey was totally in agreement. Anna was a good worker who liked to get on with her job and even though she was pregnant, she had insisted on working until two weeks before she was due. Honey felt obliged to make things as easy for her as possible. Number one priority was getting rid of the horse. To do that she had to rouse the people inside.
Perhaps it had something to do with being cruel to animals, but although she raised her foot and thought about it, she just couldn’t bring herself to give it a kick. Then it snored. It was a recognisable snore. She’d definitely heard it before.
‘That’s it! Stop horsing around and get out of here.’
She landed a smack on the spotty rump with the end pole of the vacuum cleaner.
Loud groans and muffled expletives were accompanied by an infrequent juddering of the saggy legs as the two inmates attempted to get to their feet.
Somebody muttered, ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re a horse’s arse.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘You are a horse’s arse.’
Honey folded her arms. She’d had this idea in her head to have a slow run down to a peaceful Christmas, guests, friends and family only at Christmas Day lunch. Once this horse was out of the way …
‘Right. Disrobe. Now.’
An exclamation of surprise came from within the purple and yellow suit.
‘Off! Now!’
Smudger Smith, her head chef, had hair the colour of corn and the fair skin of someone of Scandinavian descent, though he actually came from Nottingham. Smudger’s face was pink and crumpled and his hair stuck up like the bristles of a worn-out toilet brush. His sous chef, a young lad named Dick, looked just as pale, perhaps paler but that might have something to do with his dark brown hair.
Both of them were the worse for wear.
‘So where did you get it?’
The two chefs looked at each other, then at the horse outfit. They exchanged shrugs.
The smell of a spent Christmas celebration – a scent heavy with whisky and beer – was suddenly replaced with a cloud of Chanel No.5. Honey’s mother, Gloria Cross, had arrived. On seeing the horse and two half-naked men, she stopped in her tracks.
‘What …?’
‘It’s a horse. A pantomime horse,’ Honey proclaimed.
‘Well. It’s certainly not a contender for the 2.15 at Lansdown, is it,’ said her mother. ‘By the way, dear, why the hat?’
‘I had an accident with my hair.’
‘You should get it professionally styled. I’ll get you an appointment with Antoine.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
Antoine was a slinky Latvian with slim hips and a tight bottom who pretended to be Italian. He wore black satin trousers, and a series of steel combs dangled from a belt around his hips. Women of her mother’s age loved him. Antoine didn’t just style their hair, he smothered them with oily attention. He knew how to turn the old girls on all right, and was a dab hand with wedge cuts and beige and pink rinses. Outwardly Antoine appeared undisputedly gay, though she’d heard through the grapevine it was far from the case.
‘He flirts with faggots,’ muttered Casper, the chair of the Bath Hotels Association, ‘but is far from being one. His persona, dear Honey, is a front for his business. Old ladies feel safe with gay men.’
‘So what is his bag?’ asked Honey.
‘Older women. I think he likes being their pet. Cheaper than a dog. And he does their hair.’
Honey patted the crown of her head, deciding she’d prefer to wear a tea cosy for the rest of her life rather than endure a session with Antoine.
Her mother did not insist on dialling Antoine and demanding he fit her daughter in for a total treatment. Her attention was firmly fixed on the horse.
‘I want him,’ she said, her eyes bright, her voice a breathless hush of wonderment.
The sous chef and Smudger exchanged nervous glances.
‘The horse,’ said Gloria. ‘I want that horse.’ Her tone was resolute as she pointed a red-painted fingernail at the mass of yellow and purple. The red nail varnish was a perfect accompaniment to the outfit she was wearing, a grey tweed ensemble with red suede inserts on the cuffs and collar. Her boots were the same shade of red, with little bells hanging from the sides which jingled as she walked. When it came to taking the prize for senior citizen style, Gloria Cross won it hands down.
‘It isn’t mine and I don’t think I can let you have it,’ said Honey. ‘I think the boys, here, should return it to where they got it from. Right boys?’
Her two chefs were in the process of disentangling their limbs from the suit.
Smudger and Dick, the sous chef, frowned and looked shifty.
‘The truth is …’ Smudger began. ‘We can’t return it, because we can’t remember where we got it from in the first place. You see, we were a bit. …’
Honey held up her hand in a ‘stop right there’ gesture.
‘No need to explain. You were drunk. Can you recall the last pub you went in?’
‘I remember going in the Saracen’s Head,’ said Dick.
‘I don’t,’ said Smudger. He made the mistake of shaking his head and groaned. ‘Some bender,’ he said. Covering his face with both hands he collapsed onto the body of the horse.
‘Then I’m sure whoever owns it won’t mind me looking after it. Someone has to.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Honey, surprised about her mother being so insistent over a pantomime horse.
‘I’ve made up my mind. I’ll look after it until the rightful owner turns up. It’ll have to work for its keep of course in our pantomime, but I doubt whoever mislaid him will mind.’
‘Mislaid? Hang on, Mother, it’s not mine to give you. The correct thing to do is to report its whereabouts to lost and found!’
Her mother waved her aside. ‘Phooey! The police haven’t got time to bother with a mislaid pantomime horse. It’s not as though there are two dead bodies inside there and a serial killer of pantomime acts on the loose. It’s just a pantomime costume. Nobody’s going to mind a group of pensioners using it for their Christmas pantomime, now are they?’
Honey pointed out that the innards of the horse could be scouring the street looking for it. Her mother was unmoved.
‘Anyway, the police wouldn’t have room for something that big. I’ve made up my mind and will take total responsibility for Galloper until his owner shows up. Book a taxi. Get him sent round to St Michael’s.’
‘Galloper?’
‘I think it’s a good name for a horse.’
Nobody would dare go against Gloria Cross when she was determined about something. Honey certainly wouldn’t. She recognised this as one of those moments when she had to give in. Her mother had made up her mind and was already envisaging who was going to get inside the horse. She’d decided at what point it would appear in this year’s pantomime produced, directed and performed by Bath Senior Citizens’ Drama Group.
Honey gave in. She was too busy to argue. The chefs, who were just getting up off their knees, had a lot to do too and there was no way she was about to send them off around the city trying to locate the owner. She could phone the police, but on reflection, would they really want to be bothered with that at such a busy period?
‘OK,’ said Honey, ‘I’ll do as you say, but that doesn’t mean to say I’m a party to the theft of this animal – panto horse …’
‘Galloper,’ said Smudger, and managed a smirk.
> Honey rolled her eyes. What with her hair, the horse and her mother …
‘Honey, you’re a treasure!’
It wasn’t often her mother hugged her and called her a treasure. She decided it must be the time of year, and if the pantomime costume caused her to do that, then why not let her have it?
‘It should definitely fit into the back of a taxi,’ Gloria went on, tilting her head from one side to the other. ‘I’ll call my usual man. He’ll be around to collect it.’
Gloria made her way to the door, where she paused and turned on her heel.
‘And Honey. No chocolates for Christmas, please. I saw a silk Hermes headscarf in the House of Fraser. It’s got the Mona Lisa on it in red, blue, and green with a touch of gold. That should do nicely.’ Then she was gone.
A Hermes scarf. Honey grimaced. Chocolates and a nice bunch of seasonal flowers would have been much cheaper.
Free of further encumbrance, Smudger and Dick were struggling to their feet, heads bowed, shoulders slumped.
‘As for you!’ Honey’s accusatory followed the two chefs to the door. ‘I’ll be speaking to you two later.’
Somehow or other and with the help of the barman, she bundled Galloper into a manageable mass and shoved him behind a sofa. His head still sprouted over the top, but she couldn’t do anything about that.
Gary, her barman, wore a pin-striped waistcoat over a sparkling white shirt and tight-fitting black trousers.
Galloper, the horse, was wearing his birthday suit of yellow-spotted purple and outrageously long lashes over black googly eyes.
The two eyed each other like desperados in a Mexican standoff.
It was Gary, of course, who broke the stalemate. ‘I suppose someone will claim him.’
‘I should think so. He must belong to somebody.’
Gary folded his arms and heaved a sigh. ‘But what if they don’t? What happens then? In fact, it’s got me thinking – what happens to pantomime horses once the pantomime season is over?’
Honey threw back her head, closed her eyes, and made a heartfelt wish that when she opened them again, the horse would be gone. Unfortunately, the fairy of heartfelt wishes must have been on an all-inclusive sunshine break in the Caribbean, because when she opened them again, the horse was still there.
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 6
