The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8)

by Jean G Goodhind

  ‘And look for that present?’

  ‘It’s worth a try. If it isn’t in his office it might be in his flat. He did live above the business. Just try not to get in the way of the lab boys.’

  ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow after stocking up at the sausage shop.’

  ‘Sausages! My, but you’re a girl with priorities!’

  ‘Aren’t I just.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was after lunch on the following day when Honey finally got her chance to escape, though not before her head chef had forced her to taste his brandy sauce. After two tasters, she was warmed through and her eyes were playing hopscotch.

  Unblinking he waited for her approval. ‘Good?’

  ‘Too good.’

  She went on to point out to him that the emphasis should be on cream rather than brandy.

  ‘It can’t be that bad. You had two tastings,’ he said, wearing a hurt expression in his red rimmed eyes.

  She was tactful. Good chefs were hard to come by.

  ‘I need it. I’m off out and it’s perishing cold. Everyone knows brandy keeps out the cold. That’s the whole point of a St Bernard dog carrying a barrel of it around his neck. A little more cream, chef. However, our guests for Christmas lunch will be warm enough already and you admitted yourself that the plum pudding is bursting with rum, brandy, and whisky – besides the usual sultanas, currants, and candied peel. To my mind, a contrast in tastes is needed in order that they can appreciate the heady content and aromatic pleasures of your pudding. Your pudding deserves that, don’t you think? But of course, I’ll leave the final ingredients up to you.’

  Being tactful and flattering was necessary when dealing with a chef. Each meal was an artistic masterpiece in every chef’s eyes. They craved praise, got high on the discerning palates of people who wrote restaurant reviews though couldn’t boil an egg for themselves.

  She had to get him to go easy on the brandy in the brandy cream. Most of the guests would be well oiled enough by the time they reached the pudding stage. Brandy-soaked fruit plus a cream sauce heavily infused with brandy would likely lay them out for the rest of the day, or at least have them snoring through Mary Jane’s ghost story session.

  Outside was cold and misty when she made her way muffled to the ears in a purple pashmina and a black knitted hat that vaguely resembled the top half of a truncated balaclava. The cloche hat had gone the same way as the knitted tea cosy affair. A head of obnoxiously coloured hair certainly raised her level of hat-wearing.

  She popped into a few hairdressing salons along the way, hoping against hope that somebody might have cancelled their appointment; nobody had.

  The white mist was persistent, blanketing the old buildings of Bath with a ghostly veil. Viewing her surroundings was like gazing through a fine gauze curtain, blunting the edges, dulling the Christmas decorations seen through fuzzy windows.

  The city was drenched in the sights, the smells, and the sounds of Christmas. There were lights, Christmas trees, and red-robed Santas everywhere. The smell of roasting chestnuts, hot pies, and fresh fudge lay heavy on the air.

  In Abbey Churchyard the Salvation Army Band was belting out ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’. A carousel of golden horses whirled around where the old fountain used to be.

  The fountain had been moved into a side street to accommodate a development, a bad mistake as far as Honey was concerned. People used to congregate at that fountain. Now it was just a big open space between shops selling the same stuff being sold in every high street shop in the country – in the world for that matter.

  The carousel was a definite hit. Kids were screeching with delight, noses nipped to rosebud pink.

  The reindeer standing beneath the Colonnades was sprayed gold and dark blue in thick waves across its body. The title was printed on the notice next to it: Aurora Borealis. Northern Lights. The red plastic nose was an added extra. People were pointing and laughing at it. She had to smile too.

  The sausages were weighed and divided between two bags for ease of carrying. She’d bought enough to see them over both Christmas and New Year.

  Seeing as it was mid-morning and therefore coffee time, she treated herself to a hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream. The chocolate drink was accompanied by two Amaretti Virginia biscuits, the soft ones that melted on the tongue.

  Sitting alone drinking hot chocolate and eating her favourite biscuits gave her time to consider how lucky she was. Mr Scrimshaw had apparently been a lonely old soul with no friends, no family, and a frugal way of living.

  It made her glad – very glad that she had a family. OK, there was that old saying about being able to choose your friends but not your relatives. Even the closest of families had problems. On the whole, if she really considered the matter, there were few problems with her family. In fact she could count the present problems on one hand, so that wasn’t so bad, was it?

  Firstly there was this business of telling Lindsey about Doherty’s proposal. No problem. Sooner said, soonest mended! That’s what she told herself. That was before she called herself a coward.

  A thick moustache of chocolate-flavoured foam on her upper lip remained untouched as she thought about Professor Jake Truebody. She hadn’t recognised the name and she hadn’t recognised him. Of course, she hadn’t known all of Carl’s acquaintances.

  Her thoughts turned to presents. She’d bought her mother the Hermes scarf as directed. She’d bought Lindsey a year’s gym membership plus a year’s subscription to British History magazine. Doherty was getting a weekend away in the New Year, all expenses paid. She would be with him, of course, so it was a present they could share.

  Honey licked the mix of foam and crumbs from her lips. Her mother was coming to lunch on Christmas Day. No doubt she’d be cornered again regarding the dating website.

  ‘I will not submit to being videoed,’ she muttered to herself.

  It came out a bit too loud. She looked swiftly around her for anyone who might have heard and wondered at her appetites.

  No one seemed remotely interested, everyone wrapped up with their own lives, their own little Christmases.

  Her thoughts went back to Mr Scrimshaw lying there with a letter opener sticking out of his ear. No goodwill to all men there, then!

  Following his murder, the possibility of a little sleuthing had checked her rushing around. Christmas was receiving a more measured approach than per usual.

  She was shaken from her reverie by a deep Scottish accent.

  ‘A Merry Christmas to you!’ A kiss landed on her chocolaty lips from a mouth surrounded by hair.

  ‘Alistair! Good to see you. Can I buy you a coffee?’ She looked up into a beard that almost matched the colour of her hair.

  Alistair said that he’d love a coffee, but only if it was laced with whisky – Scotch whisky.

  He sipped the drink when it arrived. Honey must have looked surprised that he didn’t knock it back in one.

  He explained that it was too hot.

  ‘I take it you’re involved in this murder case. Poor old Clarence. Skewered in the ear with his own letter-opener.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I spoke to him a few times.’

  ‘Socially?’ asked Honey, her lips frothy from her second cup of chocolate.

  He shook his head. His big arms were folded and took up half the table. ‘Business matters. He used to buy old books at auction. The old devil never liked parting with money. I had to chase him for it.’

  Honey told him that a booking had been made for an office party and for Christmas lunch. Alistair raised his bright ginger eyebrows. ‘Well there’s a surprise. And there was me thinking that a leopard never changes its spots.’

  Tucking a stray strand of hair beneath her hat eyed him questioningly. ‘You don’t think it likely that he had a change of heart and wanted to reward his employees?’

  Alistair threw back his head and laughed. His orange mane was long on his shoulders.

&nbs
p; ‘Not him. He only paid what he had to pay – to the penny. Take this place for instance; if he came in here to partake of a hot drink – which is pretty unlikely – he would tender the exact amount from his purse.’

  ‘His purse?’

  ‘A small leather purse that fitted in the inside pocket of his jacket. He’d have the exact amount in there – probably phone up beforehand to find out the price. Oh, and he didn’t give tips. Not him. Basically, on those rare occasions when he did eat or drink out, it would be in company.’

  She nodded in understanding. ‘When the company was paying the check? Though not his firm.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She thought about it. It seemed old Scrimshaw might well have been plucked direct from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol.

  ‘Did he have any friends that you know of?’

  Alistair placed his mug on the table and wiped his whiskers with the back of his hand. ‘That was a grand drink. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I don’t recall talk of him having friends, though there was talk of him being a bit of a boy when he was younger.’

  ‘Really?’

  The divorced Mrs Finchley came to mind. Perhaps her unrequited love wasn’t as misplaced as she’d thought.

  ‘There was talk of family at one time – a sister – dead by now I shouldn’t wonder. His business partner of course, Eamon Mallory, though of course we all know he’s been dead for some years.’

  ‘How did Mallory die?’

  ‘Eamon Mallory?’ Alistair’s lofty brow wrinkled into a thoughtful frown. ‘Well, let me see now.’ He threw back his head and closed his eyes. His fingers were still around his cup, just in case it should grow legs and run away. ‘I heard tell that he died in a house fire. That’s basically all I know.

  ‘There might be relatives,’ said Alistair, raising a single finger. ‘As I mentioned, there were rumours of him being a bit of a ladies’ man. They both were, funnily enough, though age might have dimmed the urge in old Scrimshaw.’

  ‘The dirty old goat.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Alistair, his loud trumpet of a voice causing heads to turn in their direction. ‘Everyone is driven by the procreative urge for a while in their lives. Even you, eh, hen?’

  Honey feigned embarrassment. Alistair knew her well. She’d known the big Scotsman from the auction house for quite some time. He was a great contact, tipping her the wink when a particularly interesting item of underwear was up for auction.

  She turned her thoughts back to Scrimshaw.

  ‘On the other hand, he couldn’t be so tight all the time. At Christmas he used to go away to a hotel in Ilfracombe.’

  Alistair pulled a face. ‘Nice enough in summer. A bit drear in winter.’

  ‘Perhaps he got fed up with its dreariness. Perhaps that was why he decided to Christmas at home – in the bosom of his workforce if not his family and in a city that always has something going, no matter what the season.’

  Alistair shrugged. ‘You’ve a rose-coloured view of Clarence Scrimshaw, Mrs Driver. The man lived to make money, not to make merry. Now you must excuse me,’ he said, half-rising from his chair. ‘I’ve a train to catch for Edinburgh. I’ll leave you to your Christmas. I’m off to do what all Scots do at this time of year – head for the homestead and Hogmanay.’

  She wished him a prosperous New Year and a fine time with his folks in Scotland. Although they celebrated Christmas north of the border, the true making-merry didn’t happen until New Year’s Eve when a rendering of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was accompanied by a skirl of bagpipes, a stuffed sheep’s stomach, and a lot of drinking and reciting of Robbie Burns.

  Alistair had confirmed what she’d already been told, and yet according to young Samantha Brown, someone had sent Scrimshaw a present. She hadn’t specified it being wrapped in colourful paper, complete with ribbons and bows, but a present was a present at this time of year.

  Her chocolate drink finished, Honey’s boots took on a mind of their own, and promptly made their way to Cobblers Court.

  The sky was leaden, the air as cold as a snowman’s nose, and people were scurrying round in a fever of last-minute shopping. The whole thing was like a scene from a silent movie, when women in big hats and men in bowlers moved in double-quick time, their speed of movement detached from reality.

  A crowd had gathered at the alley that led into Cobblers Court. Inquisitive eyes peered through steaming breath. The usual daft things were happening. A few people were wearing reindeer antlers or fur trimmed red hats. Three young men, obviously the worse for wear, had linked arms whilst singing an upbeat version of Silent Night.

  ‘Nothing going on here now,’ stated a uniformed policeman standing in front of the crime scene tape. His stance and voice were heavily authoritarian. ‘If you’re got no official business here, you can go home. The excitement is over.’

  ‘Was it a murder?’ asked a plump American woman with a hump-backed man in tow.

  ‘It was, madam.’

  ‘How terrible. And at Christmas too. What is the world coming to?’ The woman made a clucking sound like a chicken about to lay a double-yolker. ‘I suppose this means that you policemen will be burning the midnight oil to find the killer?’ Her question was directed at the uniformed policeman guarding the entrance.

  The policeman was patient and pretty good at international relations, having spent some time on traffic duty when foreigners used to a left-hand drive had driven the wrong way around the one-way system.

  With an air of importance that seemed to make him increase in height, he responded courteously. ‘A shame, madam, but we are here to be of service to the public. That is our job.’

  ‘Oh my,’ said the woman turning to the old guy with the curved spine. ‘Isn’t that just wonderful, Cecil?’

  The old pair turned round abruptly, bumping into Honey as they did so.

  ‘Oh, so sorry, miss.’

  ‘No need to apologise.’

  ‘Are you English?’ Their tone was incredulous, as though Bath was only filled with people visiting from elsewhere. Like a kind of giant Disneyland.

  Honey confirmed that she was.

  ‘Well I just have to tell you that I think your policemen are wonderful.’ The accent was pure Tennessee.

  Honey got in quick before the police officer got chance to tell her to shove off.

  ‘Is Doherty here? I need to see him.’

  He began shaking his head. ‘No members of the public or press …’

  ‘I’m his fiancée.’

  The word was out before she could stop it. The woman from Tennessee stopped in her tracks and offered her congratulations.

  ‘Fancy that, Cecil. This lady is marrying a policeman.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Honey as the officer held up the tape. With hindsight she regretted saying it out loud. It could have been because word travelled fast in Bath, or it could have been a premonition of problems to come.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘There,’ said Lindsey, feeling very pleased with herself. She was speaking to the Christmas pot pourri design she’d just created and set at the end of the reception desk against the wall. Red poinsettia, pine cones, and dried apple shavings all mixed together in a scooped-out piece of tree bark.

  Hands on hips, she admired it from various angles. Yes, it was just right. It looked a treat and smelled it too.

  A blast of cool air preceded a policeman coming through the door into Reception. Two plastic carrier bags were swinging from his fingers.

  He had a rustic complexion, probably pinched there by the cold. His top two incisors loomed large when he smiled.

  ‘Sausages. Your mother and the guv’nor are grabbing a quick lunch. Seems they’ve got a lot to talk about.’

  ‘Oh yes. The murder of Bath’s very own Mr Scrooge, so I hear.’

  The policeman’s round face broadened with a knowing smile and a wicked wink. ‘And the impending marriage. I expect they’ve got a lot of personal s
tuff to sort out.’

  Lindsey frowned. ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your mother said she’s the guv’s fiancée. Straight from the horse’s mouth.’ He paused in response to the look on her face. ‘Was it supposed to be kept a secret?’

  ‘No. No. Of course not.’

  ‘Cheerio, then. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Lindsey felt a wave of heat flood her face. So who else knew? Well this was one girl who was going to bloody well find out! First, she’d ask Anna.

  Anna was totally enraptured by the news. ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘You knew?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘No. But it is lovely, yes?’

  Lindsey didn’t commit. Yes, it was lovely. Lovelier if she’d been told about it first. What was going on here?

  Once she’d secured the peace and quiet of an unoccupied room, she punched in her mother’s phone number.

  ‘What’s this about you and Doherty getting married?’

  There was a stunned silence on the other end.

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ her mother began falteringly. ‘But you know how busy it’s been … How?’

  ‘A stranger. A complete stranger wearing a police uniform and bearing a bag of sausages.’

  ‘Nothing’s been agreed …’

  ‘No doubt I’ll be the last to know about it when it is agreed.’

  She closed the connection abruptly. She’d not been so bolshie towards her mother since she was fourteen and finding her feet like all young adolescents do. Rebellious teenagers are par for the course – not that she’d been that rebellious. She decided this might be a delayed reaction.

  ‘Perhaps I’m a late developer,’ she muttered, and headed for the kitchen.

  She stormed in, the door slamming behind her, her eyes blazing.

  ‘Right. So who knows about my mother being engaged?’

  Smudger backed up against the hot range and shook his head vehemently.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I’m just the engineer in the engine room. OK?’

  No, it was not OK, but Lindsey left the kitchen staff to get on with their work and didn’t stop until she reached a handy alcove. Alcoves were deep and abundant in the Green River Hotel. She stood there with her eyes closed and her heart racing. She was feeling angry. So angry! To think a local bobby had told her the news before her mother had done so. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all.