‘The men won’t stay. It can’t be helped. It’s the probate situation. They won’t get paid until it’s all sorted out.’
Honey swore under her breath. ‘Why the hell didn’t Philippe make a will?’
Camilla shrugged her narrow shoulders and shifted the meagre weight on her equally narrow hips. ‘Because he didn’t expect to die. None of us do, do we?’
‘But I paid a deposit!’
A three thousand pound deposit; not much in the banking scheme of things but enough to make her bank manager blink before allowing the overdraft. She eyed a particular spot where the blue paint finished and the bare plaster began. The shape of the plaster against the blue roughly resembled a humpbacked whale. A small splash of paint had created what looked like an eye.
As Camilla went on to explain about the probate and that Philippe’s bank account had been frozen, Honey’s face froze too. She did not wish to be left with what amounted to a rough and ready mural.
‘Wait,’ she said, raising her hand, palm facing Camilla’s china-doll face. ‘Have you any idea how this is affecting my business? I refused room bookings for the next two weeks presuming everything would be finished, including the mink suede settees and scumble-glazed coffee tables. Now you’re telling me that I can’t even get the basic paintwork done.’
She told herself that there was no point in mentioning that she’d relented on her decision with regard to room occupancy. The action had been forced on her in dire circumstances.
‘I suppose I could run it past the solicitor.’ Camilla blinked and for a fleeting moment truly seemed to sympathize before the distant look returned. ‘There again, it can’t really prevent you from letting the rooms, can it?’
‘Of course it can!’
An elderly couple speaking German were coming down the stairs. Camilla noticed them and turned back to Honey, raising a querulous eyebrow.
‘It was an emergency,’ Honey said swiftly. ‘They can’t stay at St Margaret’s Court until the police have finished. It’s only for one night.’
Camilla jerked her ever so pert chin. It was difficult to tell whether she believed Honey or not. Camilla was the sort who made a career out of always being right. Not the sort with many friends, thought Honey.
The German couple waved to her. ‘So nice here,’ said the man.
‘A lovely room,’ said his wife. ‘We have a four-poster bed,’ she added, directing her comment at Camilla. ‘Isn’t that wonderful. It’s just like being on honeymoon all over again.’
Judging by the smug expression on her husband’s face, she was telling the absolute truth.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Honey, refusing to turn pink in response to Camilla’s questioning expression.
‘Lovely colour,’ said her husband, indicating the half-painted walls as he followed in his wife’s footsteps towards the door. ‘This should not take too long now before it is complete.’
‘I would like to think that. Now,’ she said turning back to Camilla once the old couple had gone. ‘How about I pay the painters’ wages and then reclaim it when probate is granted?’
Camilla pursed her blood-red lips as she thought about it. ‘I would have to consult the solicitors.’
‘I’d rather you told the decorators first,’ returned Honey, noticing that said crew were packing up their equipment rather than spreading paint on the walls. ‘If you don’t, I will.’
‘That’s fine. You tell them. I’ll ask the solicitor whether that’s in order.’
‘Great!’
Camilla swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Right. I’ll be off.’
‘Not yet,’ said Honey, cupping the girl’s elbow and edging her to one side. ‘There’s a question I need to ask you.’
A slight frown came to the porcelain complexion. ‘Really? What’s that?’
‘Had anyone threatened Philippe? Was there any member of the competition with an axe to grind?’
Camilla shrugged. ‘There always are. It’s a very competitive profession. Philippe was very good at what he did and also a good businessman. People get jealous at the success of others. That is a fact.’
‘Who inherits Philippe’s estate?’
Camilla turned defensive. ‘I don’t know that it’s any of your business …’
‘I’m not speaking to you as Honey Driver, owner of the Green River Hotel. I’m speaking to you as Honey Driver, Crime Liaison Officer. I’m working with the police on this. Either I ask you the question or the police will be calling you in to answer the same question.’ She shrugged. ‘The choice is yours.’
The distant look turned hard. The corners of her bright red mouth turned slightly downwards.
‘It’s a foregone conclusion. As the surviving partner of the business, I get everything.’
‘Nobody else?’
‘He has no family. Will that be all?’
Honey folded her arms and eyed the girl with a mixture of amusement and malice. Camilla Boylan was too perfect for words.
‘Forget what I said about the possibility of the police calling on you. You’re now prime suspect. It’s a dead cert.’
Chapter Four
It came as something of a relief for Doherty to arrive, even though it was unannounced.
‘In an official capacity,’ he said. ‘How well did you know Philippe Fabiere?’
‘This well,’ said Honey, indicating the ongoing paintwork with a sweeping wave of her right hand. ‘Well enough to believe I was going to get this place fixed up, but not well enough to know he was earmarked for death by a method likely to get him in the Guinness Book of Records .’
‘That fact had never occurred to me. But you’re right. Top marks for originality, whoever it was.’
Despite the dark subject matter, Doherty looked amused. He rubbed at his day-old stubble. He wore plain clothes of course, but having stubble was part of his uniform. Plain-clothes cops liked to fit in with the street scene.
She explained about the deposit and also about Camilla Boylan being the sole beneficiary in the absence of a will.
What he said next took her by surprise.
‘There is a will. A firm of solicitors phoned me just minutes ago to say one had been discovered, so the granting of probate shouldn’t take very long at all.’
Honey pulled a face. ‘How very convenient for Ms Boylan.’
The return of the dotty German couple waving fingers and smiling at her as they came through the door, failed to lift her spirits.
‘You looked a bit down, my dear,’ said Frau Hoffner.
She had twinkling blue eyes and fluffy white hair that looked as though the slightest puff would blow it away.
‘We brought you a cake,’ added her husband.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a shiny face that looked as though it got a regular coating of beeswax.
‘It is called a cream horn,’ said his wife, her smile undiminished.
Aware that Doherty was hiding a grin behind his hand, she thanked them and said she would eat it later.
‘We knew you English like cakes with your tea,’ said Herr Hoffner.
Honey didn’t enlighten them that her preference was for black coffee. English tea drinking was not what it had once been.
The couple paused on their way back up to their room to speak to the decorators.
‘When’s the job supposed to be finished?’ Doherty asked.
Honey sighed.
‘Two weeks. I was lucky to get Philippe to do it. He’s in such demand, but he managed to fit me in with this big job he’s been doing at St Margaret’s Court. His exact words were, “Them dudes are heavy going. I need a little light relief.” ’
Doherty wore a puzzled frown. ‘So you were the light relief? This job was the light relief?’
Honey shrugged. ‘He referred to the people overseeing the St Margaret’s project – the accountant, the project manager, and the architect, as the three little pigs. Snouts in a trough come to mind – you know – like when th
e media refers to company directors and such like.’
Doherty looked thoughtful. ‘Three? Not five?’
‘Three little piggies,’ she said adamantly. ‘The lesser mortals – including interior designers – don’t seem to count.
He took out his Blackberry and scrolled down. ‘I’ve been trying to make notes on this thing. Seemed a good idea seeing as I’m always mislaying pens.’
‘They’re a very good idea. I wouldn’t be without one.’ She didn’t add that technology was something she tolerated rather than liked. She just wasn’t good with it.
‘So you’ll know how to use this?’ he asked.
Not so skilful as she would like him to think, she ignored the hopeful look on his face. ‘Mine’s a different make to yours.’
She also ignored the sceptical glance.
‘Here goes,’ he said, convinced that she knew as much about the damned thing as he did.
She watched as he scanned the small screen. ‘It’s very smart,’ she remarked, trying hard to look interested and knowledgeable.
He shook his head. ‘It might look that way, but it isn’t easy to operate. I don’t know that I’ll ever get the hang of this!’
Honey sniffed knowingly. ‘Do you want me to summon the technical department?’
The answer had to be in the affirmative. Lindsey came along and sorted it out.
‘Press this, this and this. And there you are!’
Although he nodded as though he understood her perfectly, there was a blank look on his face.
Honey handed her daughter the box containing the cream horn. ‘I’ll have it with my tea.’
‘You don’t drink tea.’
‘I’ll make an exception – in honour of Mr and Mrs Hoffner.’
Doherty suggested she accompany him to interview the architect in charge of the St Margaret’s project.
‘One of the three little piggies. Ferdinand Olsen. His offices are at Laycock.’
‘There’s a nice tea shop in Laycock,’ Honey pointed out.
‘As good a reason as any.’
Chapter Five
A shiny brass plaque adorned a red brick mill, now converted into the offices of Ferdinand Olsen Associates. The mill dated from the time of William and Mary, when Penn had put his name to Pennsylvania and men had worn stockings and had buckles on their shoes.
There was a lane running to one side of the property and space to park outside on the cobbled street. The tea shop serving home-made scones with butter, jam, and a choice of teas was just across the way. Honey’s mouth watered as she eyed it covetously. But they were here on business. Serious business, and that came first.
Plate-glass doors opened into an atrium of old brick and huge roof trusses. A fountain tinkled in one corner next to a couple of millstones and an oak mill wheel. Ahead of them, people worked behind smoked glass in a ground-floor drawing office. A flight of stairs led to more offices above.
Mr Olsen’s office was on the first floor. Presuming the name was of Scandinavian origin, Honey had expected a blue-eyed blond. Standing before her was a swarthy man with a mass of shoulder-length curls and velvet brown eyes, the kind usually described in romantic novels as ‘smouldering’. He held out his hand and gave them both a firm handshake.
‘Terrible thing to happen,’ he said. The timbre of his voice was deep but not loud. But then, he was expressing his remorse at what had happened.
After offering them refreshments – which they both declined – he offered his help.
‘In any way I can. Although I don’t pretend to know that much about what happened.’
He smiled affably. He was surprisingly handsome; rugged, though slim rather than heavily muscled. He’d cut quite a dash as a swashbuckling pirate, she thought – jerkin, red sash, white shirt, and a sword dangling against his tight breeches.
The mental vision must have shown in her eyes.
‘Are you feeling ill, madam?’
She was mortified to find she was gripping his hand too tightly for first acquaintance.
‘Sorry.’ She turned scarlet. ‘You weren’t quite what I was expecting.’
Impossibly white teeth flashed against his tanned skin when he smiled.
‘You’re surprised I don’t look like most Scandinavians. My mother was Spanish.’
Honey nodded. ‘That would do it.’
‘How long had you known the deceased?’ The question brought the reason for their being here back into focus. Honey was in no doubt that Doherty had noticed her attention had drifted.
Olsen obliged. ‘Only since he was taken on as interior designer by the project management team. My company merely designed the alterations, drew up the drawings and applied for planning permission where needed. You may not be aware that St Margaret’s Court has a Grade One listing. Modernizing and improvement is a very delicate operation with such an ancient edifice.’
As Honey listened her gaze dropped to his hands. They were big and lay flat on the desk, fingers splayed. Whoever was responsible for Philippe’s cruel demise must have had strong hands. Ferdinand Olsen had strong hands. She felt her throat constricting.
Doherty continued with the questions. ‘Where were you the day before yesterday between the hours of 2200 and twelve midnight?’
‘Certainly not at St Margaret’s Court. I was attending an event at Bath Abbey. A Welsh choir was singing there.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
Honey knew instinctively what the answer would be.
‘My wife. I’m not terribly keen on choirs, tone deaf in fact, but my wife bought the tickets and it pleased her for me to attend.’
‘I may need to speak to your wife. Is she at home at this moment in time?’
‘Not in the house. She’ll be in the field at the back. Just go round. She won’t mind. I’ll give you my address. It’s not far.’
The meeting yawned with disappointment. There would be no early solution to this case.
Olsen gave Doherty a list of the members of the project committee. ‘There are basically three of us overseeing the project and a lesser committee attached to that.’
Doherty was impressed by the sumptuous offices. Such premises cost a great deal of money to maintain. He’d also seen the Ferrari parked outside.
‘Is that your car outside?’
Olsen nodded. There was a wary look in his eyes. ‘Yes. There’s no law against owning a Ferrari is there?’
‘How much is the project worth?’
Olsen shifted slightly. The leather chair creaked. ‘A little over five million.’
Honey swallowed. The Green River wasn’t worth five million. St Margaret’s Court Hotel was spending that amount on extension and refurbishment! Phew! The mind boggled.
‘A lot of money,’ Doherty remarked.
‘Yes, but there are extra considerations with old buildings that do not arise with new builds. Special permissions have to be applied for.’
‘The other people on the committee …’
‘There are … or rather there were three of us. The owner of course, myself, and Joybell Peters of Mackintosh Neate. They’re the accountants with overall charge of project management.’
Joybell Peters would be interviewed. Apart from that they’d learned nothing except that Ferdinand Olsen had big hands.
‘Did you notice them?’ asked Honey as they settled back into Doherty’s sporty little MR2. She gave him a visual image, placing her own hands around her neck. ‘He had maulers the size of shovels.’
Doherty was trying desperately to avoid looking in the direction of the bright red Ferrari.
‘They didn’t need to be big,’ he said, sliding the gear stick into first. ‘The victim wasn’t strangled, he was choked by the insertion of a foreign object, in this case a lavatory handle.’
Honey settled back against the warm leather upholstery and dreamed a little. There was something about Ferdinand Olsen’s big hands that fascinated; that and his dark good looks. He had such a lithe roma
ntic look about him; tumbling black hair and brandy brown eyes. The hands seemed somewhat out of place, almost as though they’d been borrowed from someone bigger and stuck on as an afterthought.
‘Mrs Olsen first then,’ said Doherty.
‘I’m with you.’
For some obscure reason, Honey had assumed that the Olsen residence would be similar to his office building – a tasteful mixture of old and new, plate-glass windows stretching from floor to gable held within frames of green oak. Instead they were crunching up a gravel drive to a Jacobean monument. From its mullioned windows to its sturdy gables, Four Winds was the epitome of period pieces and the opposite of what Honey had expected.
‘Heavenly,’ said Honey, lowering her head so she could better see the full height of the place through the car windscreen.
‘Must have cost a pile,’ Doherty remarked.
‘After seeing his office I did wonder how come he was involved in the refurbishment of an historic building. He lives in one.’
‘Wish I did.’
‘You do,’ said Honey.
‘Only part of one. I have a flat.’
‘Lucky you.’
Doherty’s apartment was part of a subdivided house in Lansdown Crescent. The Crescent was about a mile from the city centre and uphill all the way. Walking up the hill was hard work, but the view was to die for. The whole of Bath spread out in a panorama beneath it. He’d sold his cottage on the Wellsway to be within walking distance of the city centre and Manvers Street in particular.
As instructed, they made their way through a gate at the side of the house. A path led past the well laid-out garden to another gate past a stable block, through yet another gate and into a field.
‘Walk on! Walk on! Walk on!’
A woman stood in the middle of the field holding a lunge rein. A chestnut horse, neck arched and nostrils flared, was walking a circle around her. Every so often she flicked the tip of a long whip some distance from the horse’s hooves.
Honey noticed the saddle on the horse’s back. ‘It’s a young horse. She’s training it to respond to the voice and get used to the weight of the saddle on its back.’
‘Is she going to hit it?’ Doherty asked.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 3
