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

by Jean G Goodhind

  The bluff worked.

  ‘Alright. I’ll tell you. I wanted to see Clarence. He owed me. He always owed me.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I know that now. Samantha phoned me. I hadn’t received a copy of my contract. It was signed only two weeks ago. I need it. It appears I may need to relocate to a new publisher.’

  ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘No. Perhaps I’ll come back in the daytime. This place is gloomy at the best of times.’

  As they spoke they’d slowly eased towards the front door and the semi-gloom outside.

  ‘Clarence was a skinflint when all was said and done.’

  ‘So why did you stay with him?’

  The older woman looked at her askance. ‘Loyalty! We go back a long way.’

  ‘So how do you feel about him being dead?’

  Patricia Pontefract inhaled deeply and in the process seemed to grow ever taller. Was there any limit to this woman’s bodily inflations?

  ‘Everyone dies.’

  Honey flinched at the sound of her voice and the darkness in her eyes. ‘Everyone is not murdered.’

  That superior sniff again; ‘Go on. Ask me if I have a motive.’

  ‘OK. Do you have a motive for killing him?’

  ‘The urge to kill him has crossed my mind on many occasions over the years. And before you ask, I’ll give you my reasons I would want to snuff him out. My advances could have been far better, and his calculations of royalties owed to me were often amiss. Mallory was no better. Birds of a feather flock together, and in this case they were both feathered with meanness. At least one of them had the good grace to die before his time. Old Scrimshaw outstayed his welcome.’

  ‘So did you kill him?’

  ‘As I said, the thought might have crossed my mind on many occasions, yeah, but as I also said, I wasn’t here to do the deed. Hence my skulking around now, to get what’s mine.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were skulking.’

  ‘Only by implication.’

  ‘Can you prove where you were on the night of his death?’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  Getting questions in response to questions was becoming tedious. It occurred to Honey that if this woman had anything to do with the murder, she wouldn’t be here now hunting for her old contract. She would have lifted it at the time, having first plied Clarence Scrimshaw with a glass of sherry laced with an arsenic chaser. That would certainly have rendered him quiet whilst she searched.

  Following up a poisoning with a stabbing and a garrotting took some explaining. There had to be a reason. The only one Honey could think of was the possibility that, having found nothing, Ms Pontefract might have got a bit miffed. Blinded with rage, she could have taken it out on the dead man’s body. It was far-fetched, but it was the best she could come up with for now.

  ‘The police will want to know where you’re staying while you’re in Bath.’

  Patricia Pontefract made a chewing motion and turned off her flashlight. The old Victorian gas lamp gave them enough light to see by.

  ‘I was staying with my niece. One night was enough. She’s very bad-tempered.’

  Honey felt a great leap of satisfaction. She’d guessed right. ‘She doesn’t by any chance run that place across the road, does she?’

  The light from the old gas lamp illuminated the older woman’s expression. There was surprise but also suspicion.

  ‘Ariadne. My niece. She’s a very busy person. I don’t want you going over there asking questions.’

  The woman’s attitude rankled. Honey shook her head dismissively. ‘It’s not your call, sister.’

  The frown deepened. ‘Meaning?

  ‘The police might want to ask you questions. Your niece Ariadne might be the only one able to give you an alibi. She’ll probably have to answer questions too.’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. Honey felt a shiver coming on. Being pierced with those eyes made her feel like a butterfly pinned to a green baize background.

  ‘I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Right,’ said Honey, returning her phone to her pocket with great aplomb. ‘So I presume you’re staying with your niece over the holiday?’

  ‘Presume all you like. I’m staying at the Green River Hotel.’

  Honey felt her jaw slacken and head south. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I know the hotel.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was just wondering what attracted you to the Green River Hotel.’

  Honey stood there feeling a flood of apprehension wash over her. She felt like a hungry dog waiting for a morsel of praise. All she wanted to hear was that someone had recommended her establishment. Praise made her feel warm all over.

  ‘Nothing in particular. It’s pretty ordinary but it’s hosting an event. There’s a reading of published and unpublished ghost stories. I wrote one of those being read. I believe the person holding the event is a clairvoyant. I shall be interested to meet her, I’m into the supernatural. Who knows,’ she added, her teeth intruding on her smile, ‘old Clarence might get conjured up. Then I could ask him the whereabouts of my contract.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  At the Green River Hotel, doors and windows were tightly closed against the chill air of winter and all was cosy within. The smell was of mulled wine, rich fruit pudding, and the zingy zest of mandarin oranges mixed in a seasonal mixture.

  Honey surveyed the shiny decorations, the balls on the tree, the fairy lights blinking on and off in random order. Now was the season to be jolly, keeping warm and eating and drinking too much. It made her feel like snuggling up in a chair, which she did with a glass of mulled wine, some roasted chestnuts, and a cheese and pickle sandwich. The sandwich was not exactly festive fare, but the cheese and pickle took the edge off too much sweetness.

  In the hotel kitchen Smudger the chef was using both hands to push forcemeat into the orifice of a very large turkey. Following the skilful execution of that little duty, he absorbed himself in slapping half a pound of butter onto the turkey breast, rubbing it in with firm, swirling strokes.

  His head still adorned with his tinsel halo, Clint was watching him.

  ‘Some people like that done to them,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Especially women.’

  ‘What being stuffed with forcemeat?’ said Smudger without missing a stroke.

  ‘No. Being rubbed down with something oily.’

  Smudger stopped and fixed Clint with a querulous lifting of one blond eyebrow. ‘Are you ’aving me on?’

  ‘No. Course not. Apparently it’s good for the skin. Makes it supple. Makes it soft.’

  Smudger went back to what he was doing. ‘In the case of this turkey it makes the skin crisp and brown – and succulent.’

  Clint grinned. ‘Does the same to the girls I know – makes them succulent, I mean.’

  Clint had only lately finished with a girl of Italian ancestry with dubious connections to the Mafia – not least her husband, who had developed murderous designs on Clint. The break had come from her side. On reaching twenty-four years of age, she had considered her opinion of Clint, and of her husband, and found both lacking, so she’d taken up with another supposed Mafioso. This might very well have had something to do with the fact that Clint had no ambition. Ambition to his ex meant being in full-time, well-paid employment, for a start. Clint had never been keen on that particular scenario. He regarded himself as a free spirit. ‘If the Earth Mother had meant me to work in an office environment, she would have fitted me out with a pin-striped suit,’ he’d said to anyone who asked why he was one of the long-term unemployed.

  ‘I suppose one bird is as good as another,’ said Smudger. ‘By the way, I’ve already got your present sorted. That leg there,’ he said, slapping one of the turkey’s meaty legs. ‘You can take it home with you after dinner tomorrow. OK? I take it you are staying for a bit of roast and plum pudding?’

  ‘Of course I am. Jus
t ’cos I’m a worshipper of the Earth Mother don’t mean to say I don’t have respect for the festivals of other religions.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ muttered Smudger. His grin was like a laser beam across his face.

  Like everyone else, Smudger knew that Clint freeloaded whenever he could – another reason for the breakup of his relationship. Sponging off other people was a way of life with him. Winter was Clint’s favourite working time and he had a distinct preference for cash in hand jobs. He didn’t do National Insurance contributions and the Inland Revenue didn’t know he existed.

  Questions had been asked about the present situation of his love life, but if he did have a new lady in his life, he was giving nothing away. All anyone knew was that he was living alone until the spring came, when he’d be off to converse with nature – and the nudists, only returning to the Green River when he was stony broke. Washing dishes didn’t amount to much in the way of readies, but the few pounds Clint earned were enough for his needs.

  ‘What is this Earth Mother thing?’ asked Smudger.

  Clint looked up from scrubbing the fat off a filter from the extractor fan.

  ‘The old religion. Worship of goddesses in the form of the Earth Mother, came before the worship of a God, or gods. She was the protector of the earth and of horses.’

  ‘Just horses?’

  Clint frowned. ‘Well, all animals really. But horses were her favourite – apparently.’

  He didn’t look too sure.

  Not being particularly interested in any religion, Smudger took advantage of the moment. ‘So how’s your love life?’

  Clint paused for just a nanosecond and then grinned. ‘Mind yer own bleedin’ business.’

  Smudger laughed. ‘Sod you too, mate, and Merry Christmas and all. Hey. I was thinking, wouldn’t it be a cracker if Anna had her kid tomorrow on Christmas Day? That would make it almost holy – don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah. Very holy,’ said Clint, but the brightness was gone from his face.

  And Smudger knew. He just knew.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In Reception Lindsey was having second thoughts about Jake Truebody. Should she tell her mother what she’d found out, or should she keep it to herself – at least for the time being? She was enjoying being an amateur detective and, so far, she didn’t think she’d done a bad job, though she still hadn’t managed to catch him on camera.

  Truebody was not who he said he was, of that she was pretty damned sure. So far his historical knowledge hadn’t been that impressive. She kept reminding herself that his particular interest was American history, but it didn’t wash. She’d expected him to know more about Bath. In her estimation he should also have known a bit more about the Romans.

  She mused on this as she crumpled up a brown paper bag that smelled of chocolate truffles, proof if any was needed that her mother was keeping the diet at bay until January 1st. Not until they were on the threshold of a brand new year would the diet restart, perhaps to be focused on a special event – like a wedding.

  Upstairs, Jake Truebody was heading for his room. A tall, angular figure was approaching from the other direction. He recognised the woman with the wild hair and red velvet reindeer antlers as a guest and a fellow American.

  The look of her, the way she dressed, the behaviour he’d witnessed in the dining room, when she appeared to go into a trance before attacking her full English breakfast: all of those things made him feel embarrassed that she was American. No upstanding US citizen should be seen wearing reindeer antlers and red velvet lounging pyjamas trimmed with faux white fur. She looked quite ridiculous, vaguely resembling a gangly Santa Claus, though without the beard.

  He kept his head down. So far he’d avoided her invitation for a congenial chat over a cup of chocolate and digestive biscuits. He wasn’t here to be sociable. He had a job to do and so kept up his pace, only giving her a nod as he passed by.

  After securing the door to his room, he took off his hat, coat, and scarf, throwing them into a heap on the bed.

  First he needed his phone. The process of patting his trousers went on until he remembered that his phone was still in his coat pocket. He retrieved it quickly and called a Bath number.

  The call was swiftly answered.

  ‘You were right. I needed to be here. We’re in this together.’

  The voice on the other end warned him not to get too fond of the girl.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, and laughed. ‘She’s sweet, but just a means to an end. You can count on me. You should know that.’

  Something was said that made him frown.

  ‘If she gets too close, she has to go. I know that. And I’m not afraid to do it. I’m a chip off the old block. Right?’

  The person on the other end of the phone loved him for saying that. He could tell. However, it didn’t stop more warnings and plans coming down the line.

  ‘My cover on this job is total. I’m an old family friend, remember? I’m tolerated if not exactly accepted, but we have to be careful. Things haven’t gone exactly as planned, but we’ll win through. I promise you that we’ll win through. I’ll allow nothing, absolutely nothing, to stand in my way. OK?’

  Once it was done Jake severed the connection and made his way to the bathroom. He rolled his shoulders against the stiffness he was feeling. The English mists had chilled him to the bone. A hot bath was in order. After that he would make his way to the bar, have a drink, then eat in the dining room. Later on, Lindsey was going to take him to a pantomime. He wasn’t really sure what a pantomime was, though Lindsey had assured him it was wall-to-wall fun.

  ‘It’s being given by the Senior Citizens’ Club. My grandmother has a starring role.’

  What harm could it do? A load of oldies dressed up in fairy-tale costumes. They were hardly a threat. Too old to do anything but act like children, and certainly no threat to someone like him.

  After that … well … what happened next depended on what opportunities came along. No matter what name he was going under and what job he was on, he was always open to opportunities.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Doherty looked surprised when Honey grabbed his arm and guided him to the lift. She’d thought about this carefully. Lindsey was being distant and she didn’t like it. Appearing more caring about her sensitivities might help the situation.

  ‘You can stay in the honeymoon suite tonight and possibly over Christmas. You can chill out in there. It’s got a spa bath and a four-poster.’ She sounded all bright and cheerful when she said it, but he wasn’t fooled.

  The lift was already there, the doors opened and in they stepped.

  She avoided his eyes.

  He shook his head. ‘Why do I get the impression that I’m getting this room all to myself?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I just thought that you’d like to chill out and concentrate on the case …’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘There’s no need for that language. This is a respectable establishment.’

  Doherty threw his overnight bag onto the bed while Honey pretended to check the radiator.

  ‘Come here.’

  She looked at him, chewed her bottom lip, and gave in.

  He cupped her chin.

  ‘Now. Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re sharing this room with me throughout Christmas.’

  She felt her resolve, and a few other things, give way when she looked up into his eyes. If temptation had legs, then Doherty was it.

  ‘Lindsey’s in a funny mood.’

  ‘So the coach house and, in particular, your bed, are off limits.’

  ‘Just until …’

  ‘She’s being childish. Is that it?’

  Partly, it was. But there was also the Jake Truebody thing.

  ‘She’s feeling a bit little girlish. Rebellious too. She’s never been like that before. I never expected her to react like this. And then on top of that, Professor Truebody turned up. She’s acting as though she’s on the re
bound – as if it’s me, her own mother, who’s let her down.’ Her eyes fluttered nervously. ‘I’m worried she might do something stupid, so I’m staying close and playing safe. OK?’

  Doherty began removing his clothes as they talked.

  ‘You’re telling me that you think she may have fallen for an older man just because he knew her father. Have you asked her outright?’

  She squirmed. ‘Well … no …’

  ‘Then why don’t you?’

  He saw her expression. ‘OK. You’re scared.’

  She shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. He’s also a professor of history. Lindsey is turned on big time by history like some people are turned on by … chocolate, cream cakes …’

  ‘Sod the history. I’ll take the sex,’ said Doherty. But she could tell he wasn’t best pleased. He’d been looking forward to spending some time with her – both in and out of bed.

  He discarded more clothes as he headed for the shower. By the time he’d crossed the room, he was naked. He stopped there, struck a pose, and smiled.

  ‘Care to join me?’

  ‘I’ve already showered.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Lame excuse, and so obviously defensive. ‘Later, perhaps. Christmas present.’

  ‘Suits me,’ he called, his voice accompanied by the sudden sound of running water. ‘So what’s on the agenda this evening? A swinging party? Drunken orgy with Santa Claus?’

  Honey bit her lip and folded her arms. This was the difficult bit. He wasn’t going to like this but perhaps if she played the family card, the same one her own mother had played earlier …

  ‘It’s a family gathering. We’re going to a pantomime.’

  She could have added that it was being put on by the Senior Citizens’ Club and that her mother, Gloria Cross, had a leading role. But she didn’t. That, she decided, would be a surprise.

  Go on. He has to be told.