‘Is that right, hen? That’s very unfortunate. Well, in that case, how about you bringing them along and showing them to me? If I’ve got them imprinted here,’ he said, pointing at his forehead, ‘maybe I’ll notice them if they come up for auction. Then we’ll know, won’t we, hen.’
She agreed to do that.
The tea was almost gone. She eyed the bottom of the cup.
‘Would you like another?’
She wanted to say yes but her thoughts had returned to another pressing subject. The thought of going back to the Green River was giving her the heebie-jeebies. What if Frau Hoffner wasn’t out of her trance? Would her husband run amok with the paint brush? She could just about handle that. But what if he sued? What would she do then? Of course, in the liability stakes Mary Jane was more liable than she was. But had she been allowing her premises to be used for questionable purposes?
She imparted her concern to Alistair.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Questionable purposes? I don’t think that’s illegal. It’s immoral purposes you have to watch out for.’ He winked.
It made her smile, but worry was still there.
‘Any chance of a job?’ she asked.
If he was surprised by her question, he didn’t show it.
‘If you ever need one, I’m sure we can fit you in.’
The response gave her hope and made her feel better. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, a future doing something if all else failed.
There was nothing for it but to bite the bullet and go back, though she’d take it slowly. She might even stop for a bag of home-made fudge on the way. Fudge would help calm her nerves, besides which it might be the last bag she could enjoy if all her money and property went to recompense the Hoffners.
It came as something of a surprise to hear the clicking of knitting needles the moment she hit reception. The fact that everything seemed so calm and back to normal stopped her in her tracks. Frau Hoffner had reclaimed the corner of the sofa. She beamed sweetly, her cheeks pink as sugared plums.
‘Good day, Mrs Driver.’
Honey worked her jaw to prevent it from seizing up in the down position. A weak ‘Good day’ was managed. She hoped she didn’t look like a goldfish.
Mary Jane appeared on the spot she had made her previous entrance, halfway down the staircase. She was wearing a sky blue outfit with fluffy blue shoes. Just for once her expression was more shocking than her outfit, though the glassy-eyed look was gone. The panic was obviously over. Leaning over the banister, she whispered into Honey’s ear.
‘Everything is fine. It was so easy. So quick.’
Honey sighed with relief as the burden of the worst-case scenario fell from her shoulders.
‘There. I’m no expert in these matters, Mary Jane, but I did think reversing what you’d done would work.’
The fact that she’d seemingly been proved right made her feel smug.
Mary Jane punctured her smugness.
‘Remember I told you about how an opposite soul appearing could jerk her out of it?’
‘Ye … sss,’ Honey said slowly.
‘Well, it happened. Your mother appeared!’
Honey weighed up the immensity of this pronouncement.
So! Her mother was the exact opposite of Frau Hoffner. She glanced between the two Germans; Frau Hoffner knitting contentedly while her husband made himself useful. Her mother on the other hand had never knitted in her life; never, ever had she looked, nor would she ever look, homely. On reflection it seemed totally logical. Of all the people in all the world, her mother had come flouncing up the stairs and into Mary Jane’s room demanding to know where her daughter was. Lindsey had gone to the gym. Her mother had learned not to interrupt a chef when he was at full throttle with his meat cleaver. Mary Jane was the next port of call when it came to enquiring about her daughter’s whereabouts.
‘Hannah! I need to speak to you.’
Just for once Honey was really glad to hear her mother’s voice and even more glad to see her.
‘Mother! I wasn’t expecting you. Are you stopping for coffee?’
This morning Gloria Cross, Honey’s mother, was a vision in a black velvet jacket braided in dark blue, a yellow, red, and green patterned blouse with a black background, and dark blue trousers. Her kitten-heeled boots were a shade of silk green. It was also a fact that she had never, ever looked on while her husband painted walls; all her husbands had been more Wall Street than wall painters.
‘Of course. I’ll see you in the conservatory. Get the coffee taken there.’
‘I will.’
Usually she would have muttered something under her breath. Her mother threw orders around like confetti at a wedding. On this occasion Honey owed her a debt of gratitude. A cup of coffee was neither here nor there. But first she had to find out a few details from Mary Jane.
‘Does she remember seeing Sir Cedric?’
Mary Jane shrugged. ‘Shall I ask her?’
Honey slammed a restraining hand on Mary Jane’s arm. ‘Let’s let sleeping dogs lie, shall we?’
She was about to join her mother when she noticed something. As was the way of things in the hotel trade, another day, another problem. The secret was to pre-empt problems before they happened or alleviate their effect. She could see a problem developing before her very eyes.
Two extra men were there attempting to install one of the crystal chandeliers. On her way to the conservatory, her mother had paused and was proceeding to give them directions as to how they should be fitted.
At present she was standing directly beneath the sparkling and very heavy objects. Judging by their expressions, the electricians didn’t seem too happy about it.
‘Not too high,’ her mother was shouting up at them, one painted talon pointing to the exact position she wanted it to hang from. ‘Lengthen the chain. Lengthen the chain!’
The two men were straining for all they were worth to get the light exactly where her mother wanted it. She saw the lips of one man move in a silent mutter. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was saying.
‘Mother!’
Honey grabbed her mother’s arm. ‘Leave the men to get on with their job, Mother.’
Gloria Cross pouted with pink-lipped petulance. ‘Give me one good reason why I should!’
Honey pointed at the men. ‘See that chain they’re lengthening?’
Her mother nodded.
‘If they make it much longer they’re likely to hang you with it.’
Chapter Nine
Camilla Boylan marched determinedly between the iron railings bordering the checkerboard apron in front of a Regency town house in Henrietta Street. She stopped dead when she saw the woman about to put her key in the door of one of the houses.
‘Julia!’
The shout made Julia Porter stop in her tracks. All traces of a pleasant welcome fell from her face when she saw who was there.
‘Bugger!’
Julia turned the key quickly and leapt over the threshold, meaning to slam the door.
It didn’t happen. Camilla was quick on her feet and had the foresight to jam her foot in the gap.
‘I want to talk to you.’
Julia was her usual sniffy self. ‘Well, I have nothing to say to you whatsoever!’
Camilla flinched. When it came to cut-glass voices, Julia’s could slice a jugular.
As the daughter of an ex-showgirl, Julia towered over her would-be rival. Camilla was made of sterner stuff and refused to be intimidated. Her acid-green eyes narrowed as they peered upwards into Julia’s frozen face.
‘I know what you did,’ she snarled.
Julia’s eyes reflected her disquiet, blinking as though suddenly blinded by a bright light.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Her voice was sharp as a scalpel.
Camilla raised her voice. ‘Shall I shout it out for the whole street to hear? Shall I shout out to everybody that you use underhand means to further your career? Beside
s Daddy’s money that is. Shall I also tell them that some of your dealings are downright illegal? Who else would buy items stolen from a Warsaw museum?’
Attracted by the raised voice, a few passers-by looked in their direction.
Julia’s face turned red. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, her voice lower now but maintaining a distinct tone of unwelcome.
The interior of Julia’s house was a monument to Regency splendour and the world of interior design. She was known as a designer good at blending old with new, shiny surfaces with Old Masters. She was also a great collector of Chinese and Japanese pottery. A whole battalion of the stuff sat on a very long walnut sideboard that had once done service in a stately home. A gilt-framed mirror caught the minimalist beams of overhead spotlights.
Camilla picked up a blue, orange, and white sweet dish. The design was known as Imari. The piece was not hugely valuable but expensive enough. She let it fall. Julia caught it. She hugged it to her chest, her face white with alarm.
‘I’m going to screw you into the ground,’ hissed Camilla. ‘Your business depends on knockers, thieves, and how good you are in bed. But it didn’t work with the Russian, did it Julia? I wonder, does your father know what a tart you are?’
‘You’ve got no proof,’ Julia hissed back. Her voice was steady, but the clichéd retort showed just how unnerved she actually was.
Camilla smiled. ‘You don’t fool me, Julia. Not like you fooled Philippe. He’s left everything to me and now you’re going to have real competition. Philippe was an artiste, not a businessman. It was easy to convince him that entering into a loose partnership was a good idea. Just take it as read that the partnership is dead and buried and I’m no longer restricted by a bloke who was too soft for his own good.’
‘Poor Philippe. We had a good working relationship.’
‘You screwed him. He lent you stuff from that store room and you never gave half of it back. And now the goods have gone. Where are they, Julia? What have you done with them?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Julia proceeded to throw her keys in a dish and take off her jacket, her eyes flickering nervously between her treasured porcelain and Camilla’s menacing presence.
‘You took the stuff from the store room.’
‘It was mine. Half mine anyway. Philippe said that if anything happened to him his parents wouldn’t use it to enhance and that I would.’
‘Whatever, you cannot deny that the other half is mine. I was his full-time business partner, not you!’
Her scowl deepening, Camilla ran her fingers over a Chinese figurine of a reclining mandarin. With one sweep of her arm the porcelain figures and dishes were sent crashing to the floor.
‘I want the stuff back, Julia. I know you have it.’
Julia was on her hands and knees gathering up the bits of broken china. ‘You cow! You fucking cow! Look what you’ve done!’
‘I’ll smash more and I’ll smash you,’ snarled Camilla. ‘I want everything from the store room returned. Now!’
‘I haven’t got it,’ Julia screamed. ‘I don’t know where it is!’
Camilla grabbed a bunch of Julia’s sleek blonde hair, using it to tug her head forward so she could glare into her face. ‘Once a liar, always a liar. Now get it back for me. Pronto! Or else.’
Chapter Ten
Steve Doherty sat considering the implications of the raffle ticket. What if he did win? Honey accepting his invitation for a night of luxury and unbridled passion he could cope with. Rejection was another matter entirely and, although he’d never admit to it, his pride would be dented.
The ring tone of his mobile phone caught him on the point of ripping the ticket into tiny pieces, halting his hand. The decision could wait.
‘Doherty,’ he said tersely as he tucked the ticket back into his inside pocket.
Mathison, the new forensics guy, was on the other end.
‘Guess what?’ He sounded breathlessly excited.
Doherty was in no mood for guessing, but Mathison was new and as such each piece of the crime jigsaw was incredibly exciting; you could hear it in his voice.
Doherty was less than forthcoming. Excitement wasn’t his thing in the world of solving crime. Only facts mattered.
‘Enlighten me.’
Mathison’s deep breathing was clearly audible.
‘He didn’t just choke to death. A little poison helped him on his way.’
‘Christ!’
‘Belladonna. A nice old-fashioned poison.’
‘I take your point.’
‘We don’t know how it was administered.’
‘Well, there’s a thing.’
‘But we’re looking into it.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘He’d also been drinking,’ said Mathison, sounding as though he’d ballooned to twice his normal size. ‘Poison and alcohol are a lethal combination.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I’m terribly pleased at the outcome.’
Doherty pointed out the obvious. ‘Why? We haven’t found the murderer. What’s the point of the pull handle taken from the lavatory chain and shoved down his throat?’
Mathison was deflated. ‘I suppose he was already groggy, easy to overcome. I suppose it choked him.’
‘I suppose it did.’
Doherty severed the connection. Now he had two things to worry about. Number one, Honey’s reaction if and when he won the raffle prize. Number two, who the hell would use belladonna to poison Philippe Fabiere. And why the china lavatory handle? That was more than two questions, Doherty decided, and there was a further one running swiftly behind it. Why poison the poor chap in the first place? And was it definitely administered, or was it on the lavatory pull? One thing he knew for sure was that the matter of the raffle ticket had to be put on the back burner – at least for now.
Chapter Eleven
‘We could really do with Doris being here now,’ said Honey .’
Smudger whistled through his teeth in disbelief. ‘Dumpy Doris is a Godsend, but I still don’t want to think about her in that bikini!’
Honey narrowed her eyes and threw him an eat-you-for-dinner kind of look. ‘And I still hope you wouldn’t say the same about me when my back was turned!’
He smiled, a mischievous look putting a wicked sparkle in his eyes.
‘You’re on a warning, Smithy,’ said Honey before he could respond. She wagged a warning finger as she made for the door.
‘I’ve been on a warning ever since I started here.’
It was true. Smudger Smith was volatile, saucy, and a bloody good chef. Everything about him was tolerated.
All the same, his banter put her in a pretty good mood. So far the fact was that her empty rooms, despite the smell of fresh paint and the crumpled dust sheets spread over the bare floorboards, had not caused any problems with the guests transferred from St Margaret’s Court. And at the rate Herr Hoffner was breezing through the reception area with a full paint roller, it wouldn’t be long before the mess was far behind.
The workmen had stopped grumbling about his interfering, taking wisdom from the old saying: why stop a willing horse who wanted to work? They were quite content to adopt more and longer tea breaks in order to accommodate his enthusiasm. The only fly in the ointment was her missing paintings.
It came as quite a surprise when Doherty phoned to tell her that Philippe had been poisoned.
‘Isn’t poisoning a woman’s weapon of choice?’ she asked.
‘Notable murderers have used it. I suppose you’d consider them creative types.’
‘I see.’ She was thoughtfully watching Smudger sprinkling spices and herbs into a risotto mix like there was no tomorrow.
Doherty assured her it was true. ‘On the other hand, whoever shoved the piece of china down his throat was fairly strong. It’s not easy to do, whether the victim’s living or dead, though he had drunk a substantial amount of alcohol. Alcohol and poiso
n are a pretty lethal cocktail.’
Honey took an involuntary swallow of the warm cookie she’d pinched from a tray. ‘What was the murderer trying to say?’ she wondered out loud. ‘And why lock the bathroom door?’
‘I’m presuming it was just a delaying measure. Someone wanted time to get away before the body was discovered.’
Honey sighed heavily. ‘Poor Philippe. He was such a nice guy. Can’t quite make out why he got shacked up with Camilla Boylan though. Not in the physical sense of course – purely business.’
Doherty made the usual masculine sounds acknowledging that he’d caught her drift. Philippe was bright, funny, artistic, and gay. Doherty had always shown his discomfort with the latter. He couldn’t help it. He was the product of a certain generation, though Honey was convinced he would have liked Philippe if he’d known him better. Everybody loved Philippe – or so she’d thought. Obviously someone had not.
‘When and how was he poisoned?’
‘According to my information the poison was tasteless, odourless, and slow-acting. Our victim had knocked back more than a few glasses of crème de menthe before dying. We’re working on the poison being in the drink, though it’s difficult to be absolutely sure. My guess is that not everyone was drinking the same drink.’
‘So questions are being asked at St Margaret’s Court?’
‘Too true. We’re checking backgrounds too. One waiter has already done a runner, chap by the name of Aloysius Rodrigues. We’re checking on him with the immigration authorities. You know how many foreign workers there are in Bath. Low wages and all that …’
Honey was perfectly aware that the catering and hospitality trade would grind to a halt if it weren’t for the influx of foreign workers. Most of them were here quite legitimately. Some were not. It was logical to assume that Aloysius Rodrigues was an illegal and police activity had made him nervous so he’d done a runner.
Doherty’s voice broke into her thoughts and took them back to the murder victim. ‘Can you think of anyone who disliked the guy enough to kill him?’
She racked her brains at the same time as licking biscuit crumbs from around her mouth. ‘I can’t say that I can. Some people might not have liked his brocade swathes or deep coral upholstery swatches, and clients can get pretty hostile if a colour scheme doesn’t match up with their personal vision. I don’t think it makes them mad enough to kill – hold a grudge perhaps … ’
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 7
