Doherty followed where her travelling finger.
‘Celtic Faith; Celtic Rituals; Celts and the Occult.’ He slid one from the shelf and opened it. A piece of paper fell out.
Honey picked it up and began to open it.
Doherty took it from her and began to read.
Honey waited. He refolded the letter. ‘Well? What does it say?’
‘Did I tell you about the knife that killed him?’
‘It was sharp. I got that much.’
‘As I’ve already told you, the knife we found in him wasn’t the knife that killed him. It was a paper knife. The kind you use for slitting open envelopes.’
‘And not known for being particularly sharp.’
‘Correct.’
‘So you can’t find the real weapon?’
‘Not only that, but we figured that whoever did it valued the knife. We asked ourselves why. The only reason we could come up with was that the weapon was too easy to identify or too valuable.’
‘And that piece of paper that’s just come to light?’
‘It’s a receipt for a ritual knife.’
‘The one used by the killer, I suppose. I wonder where it is?’
‘It appears that Mr Scrimshaw didn’t just collect Bibles,’ said Doherty, his finger running down the spine of one old book after another. ‘Look at this. Pre-Christian Pan European Beliefs.’
‘Pagan,’ said Honey. ‘It has to be.’
‘So. Our Mr Scrimshaw was into the occult, though perhaps only on a collector level.’
Honey had moved on, her eyes landing on one of the folders sitting on the table in the middle of the room. She opened it.
Doherty came to look over her shoulder. ‘Newspaper clippings.’
She turned the pages slowly. ‘They’re all about bog bodies. I know about them.’
‘Explain.’
Some of what Lindsey knew had rubbed off. She hadn’t always turned a deaf ear when her daughter was in full flow.
‘Bog bodies are usually the remains of sacrifices from Celtic times. As you may have guessed, they’re found in bogs – peat bogs all over Europe.’
‘Now there’s a nice subject for Christmas.’
She looked up at him, fully expecting to see that his eyes had glazed over and that he was yawning. He wasn’t. He had adopted his serious face, the one he reserved for serious subjects.
‘Well,’ she said, feeling quite pleased that she knew so much, ‘I recall a bog body found in the Midlands where the details of the sacrifice were clearly visible. His smashed-in skull was due to a heavy blow on the head, but besides that he was also garrotted – the rope still around his neck, and he was also stabbed. Three methods of death; three is a sacred number in most religions you see. It certainly was for the ancient Britons.’
Still eyeing her with that serious policeman expression, he retrieved the piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to her. The paper was crisp and old. It was a bill dated 23rd of February, 1956. The item was listed as a ritual knife. Price paid, seventy-five guineas. ‘Cheap, I reckon. A collector’s piece, and if you happened to know its history, worth a lot more than that.’
‘So. It was valuable.’
‘And whoever used it wanted to keep it – but still leave some kind of knife in place.’
Doherty pursed his lips as he thought about it. ‘Why bother to shove the paper knife in the old man’s ear?’
‘So it would still look like a pagan killing?’
‘Could be. We need to make enquiries. See if he was involved with anything like that and who with.’
Honey knew just the person who might know. ‘I could phone John Rees.’
Doherty looked at her searchingly. He knew John Rees was all hers if she’d just say the word. So far she hadn’t.
‘He’s just a friend.’
He nodded. ‘Sure he is.’
John Rees promised that he would check and phone back.
Chapter Thirty-two
The only let-down – or rather flare-up – on Christmas Day was the excess of blue flames on the plum pudding. Rich in alcohol, the addition of and setting fire to the brandy was a huge success, except for the fact that Smudger’s eyebrows got singed in the process.
‘No problem,’ he cried, patting his eyebrows with the palms of his hands. ‘They needed a trim anyway.’
Guests and hotel staff all sat together in groups of eight. Conversation was brisk and jovial, even among the party from Mallory and Scrimshaw, though Honey did notice that the corners of Sam Brown’s mouth were downturned. She also noticed that the girl’s demeanour bordered on the nervous each time David Longborough looked at her.
She leaned against Doherty and made it appear that she was nuzzling his ear. ‘Do you think Longborough might have been jealous of the attention Mr Scrimshaw extended to Sam Brown?’
‘Anything’s possible.’
Honey’s attention shifted. Her eyes were everywhere, just as a hotelier’s should be.
According to her calculations when setting up the tables, every seat should have been taken. Her eyes settled on an empty chair. Each placing had a name card. The empty chair she espied on one particular table should have been taken by Professor Jake Truebody.
She was about to get up from her chair, when Clint arrived.
‘More wine?’
Clint was doing the honours, a white cloth over his beefy arm. He was wearing a kilt and a white frilly shirt. The lights in his bow tie blinked on and off with rapid frequency. His halo was still in situ, though looking a bit more bent and battered than it had been.
By the time she looked back along the table, another place was empty. Lindsey’s place. Wherever the professor was, her daughter would be there too.
Honey would have gone, there and then, to Professor Truebody’s room, but another event began to take place.
Fingers tightly gripping the table, Anna got to her feet. ‘My water has broken!’
There was an instant flurry of confusion infused with just as much activity.
Smudger the chef had been moving from guest to guest with a jug of brandy cream. He was now hovering over Anna, was the closest to her in fact. His pink face had turned white.
‘Do something!’
Whoever said it was asking the wrong man.
‘I don’t deliver babies. Only food,’ he said, nervously clutching his jug and shaking his head.
‘This is most inconvenient. Will someone please phone an ambulance?’ The demand was made by Patricia Pontefract.
‘Done,’ said Doherty.
Honey was first at her side. ‘Get her into the bar. It’s cooler in there.’
Together, Honey and Mary Jane helped Anna from her chair and onto her feet. The poor girl was bent almost double, panting and taking deep breaths, arms cradling her belly. Doherty followed on behind at a respectable distance.
‘Imagine,’ said Mary Jane, her voice trembling with excitement. ‘We’re having a holy birth! What I mean is, Anna is giving birth on Christmas Day.’
‘I was born on Christmas Day.’ The speaker was none other than their favourite washer-up – Clint.
‘Tell her to breathe deeply,’ Doherty was saying, still keeping his distance and offering the advice to Honey.
Anna puffed out her cheeks and took deep breaths, expelling the same breath with the ferocity of a hurricane.
‘That’s very good,’ Honey said. ‘Just keep doing as Steve says and you’ll be all right. Policemen know about these things.’
Doherty dropped his voice. ‘Like hell I do. I’m just a copper.’
‘Aw, come on. You guys are always delivering babies on the back seats of cars.’ Mary Jane looked quite convinced of this.
‘I’ve never done that,’ said Doherty.
‘Never?’ asked Honey.
‘Never. Can somebody go and see if that ambulance is here yet? Bloody hell, it’s not as though they’ve got far to come.’ He sounded rattled and it made her smile.
; Clint was kneeling down, holding Anna’s hand. ‘Hang in there, Anna, baby. Hang in there. And don’t you worry about Vicky. I’ll take care of her.’
Vicky was Anna’s eldest child. There was no way that Clint would not be inconvenienced by looking after her. This was because she was presently living with Anna’s mother, her grandmother, in Poland. But despite his unorthodox appearance, Clint was a romantic who knew how to turn on the charm.
The sound of the front door bursting open carried into the bar. Everyone, though Doherty more so than anyone else, breathed a sigh of relief. He was telling the truth when he’d said that he’d never delivered a baby in the back of police car or anywhere else for that matter. ‘Just because police doing that make the headlines, doesn’t mean to say that we all do it.’
The cavalry, in the form of two paramedics and a large yellow and green ambulance parked outside – had arrived.
‘Let’s take a look,’ one of them said. He knelt down and proceeded to prod Anna’s stomach. His brow was furrowed.
‘Labour pains are coming quick and the intervals between are very short. Better take you in or the baby will be born here in the bar.’
‘Handy,’ said the other paramedic. ‘We can all stay and wet the baby’s head!’
‘Clint? You are coming with me?’ cried Anna. Her eyes were fixed on his face.
‘Just you try and stop me, Anna, baby.’
‘Well wasn’t that sweet of our friend Clint,’ said Mary Jane once the entourage of medical personnel, Clint and Anna had left.
Honey and Doherty exchanged looks. They said nothing, but both of them were aware that Clint’s going with Anna wasn’t just about being sweet.
‘Right,’ said Doherty rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s see if there’s any pudding left, shall we?’
He took Mary Jane’s arm and was about to take hers, when she made an excuse.
‘I just have to powder my nose.’
‘Take a leak,’ said Doherty in instant understanding.
‘That too.’
She did enter the ladies’ cloakroom, but didn’t linger. A quick look into the dining room confirmed that Lindsey had not retaken her seat. Neither had Professor Truebody. Not sure what to expect, she headed for the stairs.
‘Honey. I’ve caught you.’
Doherty meant it literally, scooping her with one arm until she was flat against his chest. A sprig of mistletoe dangled from his free hand.
He kissed her.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said once the kiss was broken.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she managed to say once she’d caught her breath. ‘You took me by surprise.’
‘I did consider following you into the ladies washroom, but it wouldn’t look good on my record sheet. Anything wrong?’
Her gaze kept shifting to the stairs. He asked her what was up.
‘Professor Jake Truebody was not at lunch. Did you not notice?’
‘And Lindsey?’
‘She’s disappeared too, but I know where they are. I was just about to go upstairs and confront them.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
Honey sighed. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t even know if Carl really knew him. I don’t recall the name, but that doesn’t mean to say he wasn’t an acquaintance of Carl’s. But if he wasn’t, how would he have got hold of our personal details?’
‘Online.’
‘What do you mean?’
He looked reluctant to continue. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this just yet, but John Rees phoned me. He said that there were rumours about the deceased being involved in the occult, but that they were only rumours. Nobody knew for sure. Then he went on to tell me something else.’
Doherty wasn’t one for hesitating. He tended to bark it out as it was, take it or leave it. But he hesitated now.’
‘There’s more?’
He nodded. ‘It concerns your personal details.’
For a moment Honey had the scary suspicion that her identity had been stolen and that she was currently running an overdraft at her local bank equal to the national debt.
‘Go on.’
‘We had a kind of man-to-man thing. He’s been doing some online dating of late.’
‘John Rees? I don’t believe it!’
She was shocked. John scored high on the list of desirable men that no mature woman would kick out of bed. He’d always been decidedly single, but perhaps feeling more lonely than she’d thought.
‘He said he found it difficult to make dates the conventional way. I can understand that.. So he went online and purely by mistake, found a site for the over-sixties called Snow on the Roof. That’s where your details are listed, even though you’re not in that age bracket, including you being listed as a widow, plus Carl’s name and profession. Link into that and you get redirected to information about Carl. It was easy to find.’
‘I feel dizzy.’
‘Too much wine and rich food?’
‘No. Too much interference from my mother, plus I didn’t know John Rees was that old.’
‘He’s not. He just likes mature women – like you.’
She kicked his leg.
Her attention went back to the stairs and what Jake Truebody might be doing with her daughter.
Doherty sussed it out. ‘Do you want me to come upstairs with you?’
She nodded. ‘That’s an offer I can’t possibly refuse.’
An email from Jake Truebody’s sister stated that her brother’s body had been found!
Taking a deep breath, Lindsey decided that the best time to do another search of Jake Truebody’s room was while he was eating Christmas lunch – which unfortunately he didn’t do.
Once she was in his room, Jake slammed the door behind her and lay flat against it, between her and the chance of escape.
‘I came up to check the towels.’
Jake Truebody shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Despite the speed of her heartbeat, she put on a brave face. Folding her arms, she kept her chin up and looked him straight in the eye.
‘I don’t believe you either, Professor Jake Truebody – or whoever you are.’
If he was taken off-guard, he wasn’t showing it.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘The real professor’s body has been found. His sister emailed me.’
He gave a choking kind of laugh and shook his head. ‘You don’t say!’
He smiled like a snake as he shook his head. ‘Would you believe me if I said that I worked for the FBI?’
‘No.’
‘Very wise. Would you believe me if I said that I was a priest?’
‘Well you’re certainly not an historian!’
The man who had checked into the hotel as Jake Truebody threw back his head and laughed loudly.
‘You caught me out there. I didn’t have much of a clue did I, even about American history, though I thought I did. What tripped me up?’
‘You stated that Pocahontas married John Smith. She rescued John Smith and married John Rolfe.’
He pulled a face and slapped his forehead. ‘Unpardonable! My real speciality is genealogy. Tracing family trees. It went down very well in the prison where good old Jake Truebody did his duty one day a week. I was there to save their hellbent souls. Anyway, people are very interested in knowing who their ancestors are and where they came from, and I’m no exception.’
It was difficult to believe that Jake Truebody was a priest. But she had to play along. She had to play for time until someone came looking for her.
‘So what’s your real name?’
His whole demeanour seemed to soften.
‘Father John Smith – would you believe?’
‘And you were a prison padre?’
‘We can all sin.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘I’m seeking a Bible on behalf of an old friend. Of course I didn’t know that back in prison – not until later on
. Old Professor Truebody put me on to it. A very valuable Bible as it turns out, one of the first to be translated from the Latin Vulgate back into Greek. I traced it here. It was delivered to a collector who didn’t care much about its origins so long as it was in his bookcase. I was going to call in on him, but then heard he’d been murdered.’
‘Clarence Scrimshaw.’
‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘A very Dickensian name, don’t you think?’
‘Similar to Scrooge. And his partner was named Mallory.’
‘Similar to Marley. Isn’t that amazing?’
She agreed that it was. ‘So why didn’t you go to the police?’
Jake Truebody – or Father John Smith as he now said he was – moved away from the door.
‘My client wished to keep the matter private, hence my coming up here during lunch just in case your mother’s boyfriend – the policeman – makes contact with me and starts asking difficult questions. After all, you suspected I wasn’t who I said I was, and you’re not the professional.’
‘So why use Jake’s name and passport?’
‘There are other very dangerous people after that Bible. I knew I was being followed and knew he’d gone missing. I don’t think he’d mind. Jake was a very understanding guy. And the real owner would like that Bible back.’
She hugged herself. ‘So who is your client?’
He shook his head and a strange smile came to his lips. ‘Someone who is very close to me.’
‘A relative?’
‘Something like that. You know, we’re very similar, you and I. Both of us are lacking a father. Mine died when I was very young.’
‘You never knew my father. The real Jake Truebody knew my father, not you. And I don’t believe you’re a priest.’
His eyes turned frighteningly dark, like deep-set chips of onyx. One side of his mouth curled upwards; not a smile and hardly a sneer. It was then she remembered the shiver she’d felt on first meeting him.
‘OK. OK,’ he repeated, his eyes unblinking and never leaving her face. ‘What the hell? You might as well the truth.’
He told her about the night of a great storm when the real professor had taken pity on two men, lately released from the prison where he taught history and genealogy.
‘One of them was a man known as Wes Patterson, otherwise known as Crispin Mallory.’
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 21
