‘As in Mallory and Scrimshaw?’
‘Son of the deceased partner. Only found it out when I was doing this genealogy stuff. He’s hiding out here somewhere close by. I’m sure of it. I think he killed Jake and killed this guy Scrimshaw.’
‘You sound as though you do work for the FBI.’
He grinned. ‘There. I’m not so bad.’
‘Do you suppose he has a key to the flat – the apartment above their offices?’
The man now calling himself Father John Smith looked querulous. ‘Well that’s interesting. How do you know that?’
‘My mother had a look round there. She went there to check on the people who’d sent Mr Scrimshaw Christmas cards or presents. There were a few cards in the office, though mostly from suppliers. There were none in the flat above and it was empty.’
‘And presents?’
Lindsey shrugged. ‘The staff said that there had been one, but my mother couldn’t find anything.’
Eyelids as large and smooth as tablespoons fluttered over his deep set eyes. ‘If there was a parcel, it must have contained the Bible. I have to get it back.’ His eyes flashed open. ‘How about we go take a look?’
Lindsey tried not to glance at the door. She was now in two minds about escaping. What if, after all, he was telling the truth.
‘How do we get in?’
‘Hmm,’ he said, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’ A smile lit up his face. ‘I can pretend to be an FBI man with a bunch of skeleton keys in my pocket.’
Chapter Thirty-three
Honey knocked on the door of room thirty-six. There was no response so she knocked again.
Doherty stood waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets.
‘The birds have flown. The door’s innocent. Stop beating it.’
She unclenched her fists and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve never interfered with my daughter’s love life, but this time I’ve got a gut feeling …’ She’d brought the master key with her.
‘If it gives you peace of mind.’
Into the lock went the key.
In a way it was something of a relief to find the room empty, bed neatly made, and nothing out of place.
‘What would you have done if you’d found them in bed together?’ asked Doherty.
Honey swallowed. ‘Normally when that happens I apologise and tell them I’ve entered the wrong room.’
‘And in this instance?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘In this instance I’d tell him to leave and her to find someone of her own age to pick on.’
‘Drastic.’ Doherty took hold of her arm. ‘Let’s get a drink and think about this.’
The smell of mulled wine and rich fruit met them at the bottom of the stairs. By the time they got back to the dining room, the telling of ghost stories was in full swing.
David Longborough was reading a story he’d written himself. Honey was vaguely aware it was about a vampire and his human girlfriend. The more he read, the more she attuned her ears to the sound of his voice. He read with confidence, speaking each character in a different voice, just as an actor would.
Doherty came and sat down beside her. ‘I’ve brought you a drink,’ he whispered.
She didn’t respond. Her attention was firmly fixed on David Longborough. She touched his hand.
‘Steve. That’s him. That’s the voice of Clarence Scrimshaw. The voice that made the booking.’
Doherty waited until Longborough had finished before taking him to one side.
‘How about you come into the bar and we have a quiet word about Mr Scrimshaw?’
Like a lamb to the slaughter, the over confident Longborough, thinking he was onto an amiable chat about his ex-employer, went into the bar. Honey was signalled to come in too.
‘A brandy would be nice,’ said David Longborough. ‘Quite frankly, if it wasn’t for the anti-smoking laws, I’d ask for a cigar to go with it. I don’t suppose there’s any chance …?’
Honey shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
Longborough’s cocky expression was barely dented. ‘And the brandy? I speak better when my vocal cords are well-oiled.’
‘No need. I’ll start the conversation off. Let’s talk about the theft of Clarence Scrimshaw’s debit card.’
Longborough had a wide mouth, the sort that easily slides into a smirk, a smile, or a grin. But not now. His smile contracted.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do. Mrs Driver recognised your voice when you made the reservation.’
Honey noted that he didn’t declare that she’d only just recognised the voice that had phoned her. She hadn’t noticed the similarity before he’d stood up and read in character from the short story.
‘Scrimshaw found out you’d paid for the shindig with his card. You argued and killed him. You knew about his connections with the occult and you were hoping the blame would fall on one of his acquaintances there.’
Doherty was firing blanks here; he didn’t know for sure that Clarence Scrimshaw was involved in the occult; the man had merely collected books on various religions. He was guessing Longborough wouldn’t know that. All he was aiming for was a confession.
Longborough’s confidence had melted away. He looked frightened. He shook his head adamantly. ‘No. It wasn’t like that. It was meant to be a joke. Just a joke.
‘So how did the debit card get into his coat pocket?’
Longborough hung his head and spoke to his hands. ‘I got Sam to do it. She gave him a Christmas kiss and a big hug when she did it. He always did have a soft spot for her. It was easy for her to slip it into his pocket. But I swear he was fine when we left the office, inspector. Honestly he was.’
‘And the key,’ said Honey. ‘I’m presuming you collected the key to Mr Scrimshaw’s room, then posted it in the slot the next day.’
Longborough nodded. ‘The Polish girl gave me the key, but didn’t ask me to sign for it. She seemed in a bit of a hurry. It was a great result as far as I was concerned.’
Honey needed no further explanation. Anna had been in a hurry because she’d wanted to go to the lavatory.
It was difficult to tell but she guessed Doherty thought Longborough was telling the truth. He wouldn’t get tried for murder, but he would for fraud. So would Sam Brown, though only as an accomplice.
Doherty slung his leg over a chair, turning it so he could rest his elbows on the chair back.
‘So Christmas was still humbug as far as Mr Scrimshaw was concerned?’
‘Too right it was. We even bought the Christmas tinsel and baubles ourselves. He wouldn’t put a penny to it.’
Doherty stroked his chin. ‘So you thought you’d take a Christmas bonus when he wasn’t looking.’
Longborough hung his head. ‘I’m in the shit, aren’t I?’
‘Deep.’
Doherty read him his rights then phoned for someone to come up with a car from Manvers Street.
Accused of aiding and abetting, Sam Brown went too. Honey found herself feeling little sympathy for the girl. It was obvious she was in thrall to Longborough; why else would a mother spend Christmas Day – even if only part of Christmas Day – away from her child?
Doherty paused outside the door to the dining room, shoulders hunched, thumbs latched into his waistband.
Honey recognised he was thinking things through.
‘So he didn’t kill him. It wasn’t about money – well not as far as David Longborough is concerned. So what next?’
‘I’ve got a few ghosts that need putting to rest.’
The telling of ghost stories had gone on without interruption. Doherty wanted to interview others. Honey suggested it best that she fetched them out as required.
Doherty agreed that would be OK. ‘I wouldn’t want to be a party pooper.’
The first was Mrs Finchley. Shocked by the death of the man she worked for and hankered after she’d looked downcast most of the day.
Mrs Finchley didn’t question who wanted her. Neither did she resist. It was as though she were moving on auto pilot; her body acting independently of her brain, moving in response to outside suggestion.
Honey led her from Reception and into the bar. Mrs Finchley raised no objection. She was a far more docile person than she had been; not that Honey liked her any better for that. She was certainly no team player, aloof as she was from her colleagues, looking down her nose at them, thinking she was better than they were.
Her dress sense didn’t help; she was wearing a sparkly twinset and a double string of pearls. If her hairstyle was anything to go by, she had a great fondness for the Margaret Thatcher years; the years before the ex-prime minister had taken grooming advice.
Doherty was perched on a bar stool. He signalled for Mrs Finchley to sit on the one next to his.
‘I’d prefer a chair. Stools are not ladylike,’ she said, regarding the bar stool as some would the south face of the Eiger.
Doherty waved at a club chair with deep set buttons and bun style feet.
Honey stood at the end of the bar, one eye on the door in case of interruption, one on Mrs Finchley.
Doherty sat casually picking at a dish of ready salted peanuts. He’d taken off his jacket. Seeing as it was Christmas Day he’d broken his own rules and was wearing a shirt and tie. He looked cool. He looked collected.
Honey smoothed her red dress down over her hips. She’d made an effort too. The dress looked good; full marks to a new foundation garment controlling everything from just above the waist to half way down her thighs. Her shoes were black and high heeled.
Doherty began his questioning. ‘Mrs Finchley. It’s been reported by a reliable witness that on the night of Clarence Scrimshaw’s murder, you left the hotel looking quite flustered. Can you tell me why that might be?’
Mrs Finchley shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘It’s simple. I forgot to bring some decent bath gel. Hotels only supply such meagre samples.’ She sounded nervous and didn’t meet his eyes.
Sliding from the stool, Doherty began pacing the floor.
Honey worked out what he was up to. He knew something Mrs Finchley did not know and he was about to enlighten her.
‘Did you visit Mr Scrimshaw’s room round about four thirty on the afternoon of the murder?’
‘No. Certainly not. I’m a respectable woman. Anyway, I don’t think Mr Scrimshaw had arrived just then.’
Doherty shot her an accusing glare. ‘One of the chambermaids saw the door to his room closing about five minutes after you left. Would you like to change your story?’
Mrs Finchley’s jaw dropped and if eyes were ever going to pop, hers were. ‘No, he was not.’
‘Why do you say that, Mrs Finchley? Are you saying that because he didn’t want you there, because somebody else was in there? Is that the reason, Mrs Finchley?’
For a brief moment, Freda Finchley’s plump face seemed to freeze then suddenly broke. She began to bawl, her cries as loud as a braying donkey.
‘Crocodile tears!’
Honey couldn’t help it. Doherty looked to her for clarification.
‘Her eyes are dry. It’s just a noise.’
Most men are knocked off balance when women turned on the waterworks. Doherty was no exception.
He glanced from Honey to Mrs Finchley and back again.
His expression said, ‘Do something!’
Honey shouted directly into Mrs Finchley’s face. ‘Cut it out, lady. Your eyes are dry.’
For a moment Mrs Finchley seemed to cease breathing.
‘Well go on. Tell us all what you know. We’re all ears. Was old skinflint Scrimshaw making it with somebody else? Did he have a floozie in there or not? Come on, Mrs Finchley. Come clean.’
Mrs Finchley’s face turned from flaccid to Florentine marble. She heaved a huge sigh.
‘Mr Scrimshaw wasn’t in the room.’
Honey cocked her head to one side. Mary Jane’s ghost stories were entertaining enough, but this stuff was gripping.
‘So if Scrimshaw wasn’t in the room, who was in there?’
Mrs Finchley raised her pale round eyes. ‘Mallory. Eamon Mallory. Or at least … it looked like him.’ She frowned as she tried to recall the memory. ‘It looked like Eamon alright, but as he was, not the age he would be now.’
Honey frowned. This was not the answer she’d been expecting. She suspected Doherty hadn’t expected this either.
‘Excuse me, but who is Eamon Mallory?’ she asked.
Mrs Finchley swallowed hard before responding. ‘Eamon Mallory was Clarence Scrimshaw’s business partner. He died some time ago.’
‘So I understand,’ said Honey. Doherty shot her a look. ‘Alistair told me,’ she explained.
Doherty jerked his chin in understanding. He stood in front of Mrs Finchley with arms folded. ‘Are you saying that you saw a dead man in this hotel?’
Mrs Finchley nodded. ‘Though of course it couldn’t be him. He’s dead.’
‘Where did you go to when you left the hotel in such a hurry?’
‘I went to see Clarence, Mr Scrimshaw. I wanted to tell him that I’d seen Eamon Mallory – or his ghost. I haven’t seen him for about thirty years. He left at Christmas time over thirty years ago. He ran away to America with a younger woman. The last I heard they’d all died in a house fire …’ She paused. ‘Or perhaps not all of them,’ she said, her brow furrowing as she fought to recall the details. ‘Eamon definitely died and I think the child did too. I’m not sure about Daisy.’
‘Daisy? What was her maiden name?’
‘Barber, I think. I never met her. I think Mr Scrimshaw was sweet on her too. I think she was an author – an American author. I remember he locked himself away in his office when he heard the news that they’d run away together.’
‘So you went along to tell Mr Scrimshaw that you’d seen Eamon Mallory – even though he’s supposed to be dead. What time did you reach the office?’
She shrugged and appeared confused. Honey guessed she was having difficulty getting the details in some kind of order.
Honey repeated the question Doherty had already asked. ‘What time did you get to the office?’
Mrs Finchley blinked like someone emerging from a deep dark mine.
‘About five fifteen, I suppose. He was alive then. I swear he was. I didn’t kill him!’ she cried, her eyes filled with pleading. ‘There are plenty with good reason to kill him, but not me. I loved him. I really loved him.’
Doherty took Honey to one side.
‘Do you think that’s a woman who would kill in a fit of passion?’
‘Possibly, but more likely she’d kill a chocolate gateau first. Comfort eating always comes first in healing matters of the heart. It’s a girl thing.’
Doherty shook his head in disbelief. ‘Women!’
Mrs Finchley was allowed to go, but not before she’d intimated who might have a good reason to kill her former employer.
‘Eamon would, if he were still alive. They quarrelled about books. They were keen collectors of antiquarian volumes.’
‘Mrs Finchley, did you ever see any valuable Bibles in Mr Scrimshaw’s possession?’ asked Honey.
She shrugged. ‘I saw old books. Possibly some of them were Bibles.’
‘Did you have sight of one very ancient one that arrived just before Christmas?’
Mrs Finchley shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean that one didn’t arrive. Mr Scrimshaw was very secretive about the books he collected.
Honey turned to Doherty and voiced what she was thinking. ‘Eamon Mallory’s son; do you think he might have survived the fire?’
‘I’ll get it checked.’
He phoned the details through.
‘If the son is still alive, then he could have been the intruder.’
‘Why break in?’
‘He was looking for something.�
��
Doherty shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I think the intruder who caught you in boots and towelling robe was a separate incident. . Perhaps it was someone who’d forgotten their key.’
Honey wasn’t too sure about that. She put herself back to that night.
It was what Doherty said next that jogged her memory.
‘I liked the outfit you were wearing that night.’
Yes, her outfit had been memorable and incredibly simple; a towelling robe and a pair of knee-high boots – and something else; something very small and insignificant.
‘I was also wearing perfume. Chanel No.5 Number Five. The intruder smelled of perfume – not aftershave. Perfume.’
‘A woman?’
‘Bingo! A female guest creeping from a male guest’s room and not wanting to be discovered!’ She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. ‘It happens all the time, though they don’t usually bash people over the head when they are discovered.’
‘So who’s next on the hit list?’
He stood leaning on the bar, thinking things through.
‘Excuse me.’
Mallory and Scrimshaw’s financial director, Paul Emmerson, had a face without softness. His nose was a straight line, his mouth was a straight line, and his cheekbones and jaw were sharp. He looked from Doherty to Honey Driver.
‘I need to speak to you.’
He looked terribly pale, but then, reasoned Honey, most people who deal with money for a living, look as though they only come out at night.
‘I saw your daughter go out earlier,’ he said to Honey. ‘I couldn’t believe who she was with.’
Sensing that she wasn’t going to like this, Honey asked him why, what, who the hell was he talking about?
Doherty played Mr Cool. ‘Can you enlighten us, Mr Emmerson? Can you tell us who Lindsey was with?’
‘Crispin Mallory. Eamon’s son. It had to be him. He looks so like his father.’
Honey and Doherty both straightened.
‘Tell me more,’ said Doherty.
‘I went up to my room to get my wife’s headache pills. She takes them a lot,’ he added with a somewhat pained expression. ‘It’s the wine,’ Emmerson added with a nervous laugh.
Honey was under no illusion. This guy was attempting to distract them from knowing the passionate intimacy – or rather the lack of passionate intimacy – in his sex life. All the same, she felt a niggling sense of unease.
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 22
