‘You bitch!’
‘You cow!’
Other less than ladylike expletives came thick and fast, along with the sound of slaps, scuffling heels and ripping cloth.
‘Give me that stuff back.’
‘I don’t have your stuff. I never bloody took it! I’ve never been near that bloody store room.’
Taunts were followed by screeches and the slamming of someone against the railings.
They were battling like furies. Honey decided the time was ripe and took two steps at a time.
‘OK, girls. The fight’s over.’
Taken by surprise, the two women parted, and immediately began to straighten their business suits and smooth back their hair in order to give the impression that nothing whatsoever was happening.
‘We were just having a little discussion,’ said Julia in her rich, plummy voice, tossing her head.
Honey folded her arms and eyed them accusingly. ‘What about?’
‘Colour schemes,’ said Camilla, her pointy chin jutting.
‘Yes. Yes indeed,’ said Julia. She smoothed her blonde-streaked hair back behind her ears. ‘We were comparing notes regarding the silk drapes for the honeymoon suite.’
‘And I was acting as her sounding board,’ added the pert-lipped, glossy black-haired Camilla.
‘And I’m your fairy godmother,’ Honey mused. She wetted the tip of her finger and touched the blood seeping from a scratch on Camilla’s cheek. ‘So where’s the loot, Julia?’
Camilla flinched.
Julia’s perfect features faltered like a pie crust sagging in the rain.
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
Honey faced her. ‘You bet your sweet life you do. I heard you.’ She jerked her thumb in the direction of the steps. ‘Quite a little cat-scrap. What do you do for an encore? Murder? Sorry!’ she said, holding up her hands as though she’d made a genuine faux pas. ‘Forget murder as an encore. How about murder being a prelude to this little shouting match? Now which of you had the most to gain by Philippe’s death? Eh, girls? Like to elaborate?’
Camilla looked dumbstruck. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
Julia was cool. ‘I do believe she is, my dear Cammy. She’s trying to accuse us of killing dear Philippe.’
‘No,’ said Camilla, shaking her head emphatically. ‘I did not kill Philippe.’
Honey eyed her ruefully. ‘Not for all that loot he kept in his store room?’
‘No!’ said Camilla, folding her arms defiantly. ‘No, no, no!’
Honey turned her accusing gaze on Julia. ‘You have similar tastes to both Philippe and Camilla. Your designs are very similar. I should know. I commissioned Philippe to refurbish and redecorate my reception area. I know his taste just as well as I know my own. As for you two …’ She looked pointedly at Camilla. ‘You inherit everything he left you. You’ve got to be a suspect in view of that alone. As for you, Julia – well, I’m not sure. You’re not mentioned in his will, but perhaps you think you should have been. Wasn’t there gossip going round about you two?’
‘Her and Philippe?’ Camilla sounded and looked disgusted, her red lips forming a perfect oval and matched with round-eyed surprise.
Julia blushed. ‘It was purely platonic.’
Her salmon-pink blush was enough to belie that little statement.
Honey congratulated herself. She’d gone for a guess and it had come up trumps. Julia and Philippe had been having a little fling. She’d known for ages – ever since Philippe had shown her the new bed linens and asked her if she wanted to try them – that he swung both ways. She was OK with that. What she wasn’t OK with were liars.
‘He promised me some things,’ Julia admitted.
Camilla glared. ‘You bitch!’
She took a lunge. Honey stopped her, twisting her arm behind her back in order to hold on to her. Camilla was pretty mad, twisting and turning like a hyperventilating snake.
‘Are you saying he promised to leave you some things in his will?’ said Honey between the huffs and puffs of trying to hold on to Camilla, who was still shouting at the top of her voice.
‘The stupid sod! He never listened. I warned him. I bloody well warned him!’
Honey looked up at the windows at the back of the hotel. It was hard to tell if anyone was listening. Round at the front the builders would have been leaning over the scaffolding; a fight between two women brightening their day.
Camilla wriggled, reminding her to hold on. She gave her a shake. ‘Is it right that you warned him?’ Twisting the girl around, she peered into her face so she could see her reaction. ‘What did you warn him? Did you warn him to keep the will as it was, leave everything to you, nothing to her? Was he going to change that will, Camilla?’
‘Well he didn’t, did he!’ she spat.
‘He couldn’t. He was dead. Now, Camilla. If you keep this up you’re going to find yourself down at the station with a butch DI asking the questions. How will that suit?’
She felt the girl go limp.
‘Fine,’ she said, slowly relinquishing her grip.
Perhaps they would have discussed the missing list of the items from Philippe’s store room if Mr Parrot hadn’t come along. Honey wasn’t really surprised that someone had called the battling beauties to his attention. Someone had to be watching out of those blank-faced windows.
‘What’s going on here?’
He glared pointedly at each woman in turn, eyes unblinking, face as pasty as porridge.
‘These women were fighting,’ Honey explained. ‘I’ve sorted things out. No need for you to get involved,’ she added with a tight smile.
Camilla pouted as she rubbed her arm. ‘I could complain about police harassment.’
‘No you can’t,’ Honey replied breezily. ‘I’m not a policeman. I’m a woman,’ she added hastily once she’d realized what she’d said.
Parrot opened his mouth to comment and narrowed his eyes. He surmised that as he was in competition with three women, he didn’t stand a chance. Perhaps he’d misheard.
Julia Porter, never one to let a lucky chance slip through her fingers, adopted a confident smile for Mr Parrot’s benefit.
‘I’m here to speak to the project management committee about the interior design contract following the death of the previous contractor.’
Camilla interrupted with all the politeness of a pint-sized rugby scrum-half, elbowing Julia aside.
‘I’m Philippe Fabiere’s partner. No need to change contractors at all. I’ll be carrying on where he left off.’
Parrot arched a thin, fair eyebrow. One corner of his mouth lifted in what might pass for a smile at a convention of grumpy old men.
‘I’m sorry. A totally new contractor has been appointed. The owner wishes to bring the building up to date. He favours a Moroccan theme.’
All their mouths dropped open – including Honey’s. Those paint pots she’d found were evidence of impending sacrilege!
‘Moroccan?’ Julia almost screamed the word.
‘Moroccan,’ Parrot repeated. He looked somewhat bemused by their astonishment. ‘Is there anything further I can help you with, ladies?’
Not one of them managed to say a single word. As the eldest, Honey gave it her best shot, but her jaw ached with the effort. Nothing came out.
Silently, the three women headed for their cars.
‘I feel gutted,’ Camilla grunted, her bottom lip pouting further than her upper.
Julia added her disquiet in her own subdued manner.
‘I feel quite put-out.’
‘Shit,’ snapped Honey. ‘I feel like getting drunk. Either of you doing anything tonight?’
Julia glared. ‘Like hell!’
Camilla demurred, then, remembering she was presently working for Mrs Honey Driver, changed her mind. ‘That would be nice.’
She accompanied her agreement with a tight little smile. Money had everything to do with it.
Chapter Tw
enty-four
Leaving her car in the hotel car park Honey headed for Cybil’s gingerbread-coloured cottage just across the road. The old maid opened the door dressed in something violet, which was teamed with purple mules with black pompoms on the toes. For the first time since meeting her, Honey noticed how tall she was. Taller than Honey herself, strong-boned and angular, her shoulders broad like those of an athlete.
‘Just getting the logs in from out back,’ she said.
The logs were in a wicker basket with a huge handle. It looked heavy. She’d placed them on the floor prior to answering the door.
Two Persian cats, their orange eyes gleaming in a sea of seal blue above snub noses, wrapped themselves around her ankles like hairy leg warmers. She held a third cat in her arms: a Siamese with ice-blue eyes, a sleek coat, and a sour expression. He seemed disgruntled and yowled at the same time as digging his claws into Miss Camper-Young’s arm. She didn’t appear to notice.
A cat and a log basket. Honey offered to carry the log basket through.
‘If you can manage it my dear. It is very heavy.’
Honey smiled and shook her head. She was younger and stronger than Cybil so of course she could.
The weight of the basket almost pulled her arm off.
Cybil Camper-Young noticed she was struggling. ‘Let me, dear. I’m quite used to it.’ She picked up the basket with ease.
‘I’ve had a word with the hotel manager regarding the damaged wiring,’ said Honey feeling well and truly put in her place,
‘Come in and tell me about it. Shut the door, would you please?’
The door was shut. The cats’ yowling accompanied the sound of their footsteps on flagstone floors.
‘They don’t like Su Ching because she’s foreign,’ explained Miss Camper-Young as she led Honey into the parlour. ‘It’s because she’s so terribly different from them. They have long blue coats and orange eyes, and she has blue eyes and a short, creamy coat with chocolate extremities. They regard it as a significant departure from the norm, an alien in their long-coated midst.’
‘You’d think that as cats they’d all get on the same,’ Honey remarked.
‘Why should they?’ riposted Miss Camper-Young. ‘Humans don’t. We are of many creeds, colours, and tongues. There are definite differences.’
Honey had to concede that the old girl had a point. However, she wasn’t here to talk about cats. She explained that she’d spoken to the hotel manager and he’d agreed to repair the wiring to her security cameras at the hotel’s expense.
Honey handed her the computer disc. ‘Here. I expect you’ll need that.’
‘Not really. I have quite a store of them. I keep them in very selective order, you know. Each one is timed and dated so I know exactly what happened and when. It’s better than keeping a diary or reading a book. Would you like to see my study and my security screens?’
Screens ?
Why would an elderly lady, concerned as she might be about intruders, have more than one security screen?
Honey was suddenly grabbed by a sense of unease. She told herself she was jumping to conclusions. All the same, the feeling of trepidation stayed with her as she followed the old biddy up the stairs noticing how spritely she was.
The floorboards along the landing creaked as she was led to the study, a room with red roses on the wall. More roses bent their heavy heads from what looked to be a fine Sèvres vase – though she couldn’t be sure about that; not sure enough to point out that Miss Camper-Young should not be putting water and mildewing rose stems in it.
Paintings in fine gilt frames hung from the walls. A display of knots hung in a glass-fronted display outside the study door. It stood out from the paintings, a practical subject among sheer works of art.
Her thoughts on Sèvres, roses, and works of art were instantly banished the moment she saw the bank of surveillance monitors. At present they were blank, though judging by the winking red lights, they were still receiving power.
‘Isn’t it a shame?’ moaned Miss Camper-Young. ‘I can’t watch anything. How can I keep up with day-to-day events without my little darlings here?’
She was not referring to the cats. Honey reached the only conclusion she could. Unbeknown to her friends, Cybil Camper-Young was an inveterate busybody. A nosy parker of the first order. Those screens were more loved than her cats. Now wasn’t that something!
Honey thought about gently persuading her that spying on her neighbours wasn’t such a good idea. After due consideration she thought better of it. Observant people could be very useful. They didn’t miss a thing, including all the trivialities that other people failed to notice.
Recalling Mr Parrot’s conversation, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of prying herself. ‘Did you go to the village meeting on the night of the fourth?’
‘Of course.’
‘Were there many people there?’
‘A full house! Feelings in this village are running very high with regard to these people wanting to vulgarize our beautiful valley and such a beautiful house. Sir Albert Shaddick would be turning in his grave if he knew what was happening to his beautiful home. He built it in the sixteenth century, you know. His son was lucky enough to choose the right side at the start of the Civil War in the mid sixteen-hundreds and swapped sides in time for the return of Charles the Second. Shrewd lot, the Shaddicks.’
‘Very auspicious.’
‘Not really. I think a more fitting description would be that he was sneaky and clever,’ said Cybil, her eyes sparkling. ‘Admirable features in the art of survival.’
‘What did the hotel management have to say about the matter?’
Cybil placed the cat on the mantelpiece, from where the Siamese yowled down at the Persians like some medieval baron locked safely in his castle and taunting would-be aggressors.
Cybil’s eyes hardened. ‘The hotel promised the world, but nothing will come of it. The owner is Russian. His history suggests that he’s not the sort to give anything away unless he has to. Such a man will make sure that he doesn’t have to. He will not allow the village to dictate to him.’
‘How will he placate them?’
It was difficult to read the look in the steel-grey eyes of Miss Cybil Camper-Young. Perhaps there was a hint of malice there, even perhaps outright evil. Whatever the look, Honey had the distinct impression that the faded, ugly dresses were hiding a far more nimble mind and body than met the eye.
‘He won’t. He’ll have his own way. He’d destroy this village and everyone in it to get what he wants. The village would rather burn the house down than see it being destroyed by a bunch of foreign peasants.’
The words she used and the way she said them almost made Honey’s hair stand on end. It was pretty strong language for a lady who loved cats and wore flowery dresses. Cabbage roses and violets would never look so innocent again.
‘You don’t seem to like foreigners very much.’
Miss Camper-Young eyed her wryly. ‘I have met many foreigners in my time. I didn’t like them very much back then. I’m a bit like the Persian pussies in that regard. I am wary of anyone who looks and acts a little differently.’
It was tempting to pry into Miss Camper-Young’s background and ask questions about her background, but Honey held her tongue. A life sitting behind a typewriter at the Ministry of Defence would prove pretty disappointing – if that was all she’d ever done there.
Honey asked her about the meeting at the village hall. ‘I take it the hotel manager was there?’
Suddenly the cat in Miss Camper-Young’s hands was swooping over the other two.
‘Warn them, Susie! Warn them what your talons can do!’
So! The Siamese was female.
The cats yowled at each other, one Persian cat diving for cover beneath a chair, the other diving into a coal scuttle from where it peered out like a nervous tortoise.
The Siamese had its claws out and was making its dreadful sound, nothing like your avera
ge moggy.
Honey was taken aback. She wasn’t scared of cats, but their quick movements and throaty yowls were surprising.
‘Miss Camper-Young?’
The elderly lady appeared not to hear her. She muttered to herself as she placed the Siamese in a cat box and firmly closed the lid. The cat within protested at being left in the darkness.
‘Miss Camper-Young?’
The steel-grey eyes blinked from within the folds of flesh that hooded them.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said accusingly.
Honey shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I came on the off chance.’
The old lady stared back at her as though digesting what had been said.
‘You shouldn’t walk into people’s houses unannounced.’
Honey was about to protest that she hadn’t walked in unannounced, that Miss Camper-Young had let her in. It then occurred to her that the old lady had forgotten asking her in, forgotten asking her to look at her surveillance screens.
‘Will the cat be all right in there?’ she asked by way of diversion.
She indicated the cat box.
Frowning, Miss Camper-Young glared at her accusingly. ‘You had no business to put her in there.’
‘I didn’t. You put her –’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
She got the cat back out of the box and proceeded to stroke it.
Honey tried to make sense of what had been said, but decided she didn’t have the skill for that. Instead she decided to backtrack. Again she asked Miss Camper-Young whether the hotel manager, Mr Parrot, had been at the meeting.
The wrinkles in her face deepened as she delved into her memory.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 13
