‘I don’t recall … but he was there,’ she said suddenly, her face lighting up. ‘The big boss. The Russian. The criminal. The oligarch, as everyone seems to call them these days. KGB more like. I know his sort. I know what they’re capable of.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. I saw his car outside.’
‘He was sitting in his car?’
‘Yes, but he knew exactly what was going on inside.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘He got out for a cigarette. They still have bad habits, those Russians, you know. Turkish tobacco. I recognised the smell.’
Feeling proud to be British and health-conscious, Honey nodded, though did recall that Cybil herself was a smoker of French cigarettes and the odd cheroot. Her mother had told her so.
Miss Camper-Young carried on. ‘I had gone out for a little fresh air – and to take a look at him. It is imperative to know who you are dealing with in events of this magnitude. All of them were well “tooled up”; I mean in a technical manner. When the car door opened I saw the equipment and the Bluetooth in his ear. He was listening to what was going on inside on the outside.’ She nodded suddenly. ‘That was it. He was outside. The manager was inside and that man Olsen was doing some talking, in fact the man who was killed was there too for the first half of the meeting. He didn’t linger though. I recall he said some things his partners didn’t like. They were arguing up there on the platform. He was a strange one anyway; dark skin, blond hair. How ridiculous to have hair like that with such dark skin. It isn’t as though it can change anything, is it?’
Honey couldn’t quite grasp where Miss Camper-Young’s train of thought was going and didn’t want to go there. She was a product of a bygone age and as such had very old-fashioned views. All that interested her was that Philippe had had a run-in with other members of the project team. She’d known how much Philippe had appreciated antiques and historical artefacts, but surely he wouldn’t have got caught up in the overall development of a listed building? He certainly wasn’t the sort to get embroiled in a feud between his employers and the villagers.
‘Do you know the villagers well?’ Honey asked.
‘Of course I do. I keep an eye on everything that happens in this village and I make sure that anyone who falls out of line is pulled back into it instantly! Here’s the proof!’
A pair of large masculine hands held up a three-inch-wide file that was full to bursting with paper.
Honey eyed the file’s contents with grave misgiving. The Cybil Camper-Young of the Laura Ashley rose-covered dresses was turning out to be a nosy neighbour of the first degree. There were letters of complaint to the local planning authority, neighbours and the landlord of the local pub. Yet again Honey fancied a change of direction was in order.
‘So! The meeting was useful?’
Miss Camper-Young’s shoulders, as wide and angular as a wooden coat hanger, shrugged dismissively. ‘I stayed to hear all that I wanted to hear, and then I went off to continue my observations.’
‘Watching the Russian.’
‘No. The Martians. They’re only around at night. I see them in the north meadow; that’s the one behind my cottage, though sometimes they root around in the bushes opposite.’
‘Martians!’
The cats purred in response to their mistress’s sugary words and slivers of smoked salmon. The latter were taken from a silver butter dish sitting on the table.
‘There you are, my beautiful darlings,’ she said to the cats, before her attention returned to Honey. ‘They’re here to kill us all. It’s the Martians the police should be investigating. They’re allies of the Russians. Wicked aliens all of them.’
Honey came away feeling pretty mixed-up. She’d gone to see the hotel manager with fire in her belly. How could he treat an old lady so? Well, quite frankly she could understand why! Miss Cybil Camper-Young was an old busybody with an odd mind and the muscles of a world-class weight-lifter if that log basket was anything to go by. It turned out that she was also the sort who wrote letters to local authority officials should a neighbour’s rubbish not be put out on time, or if a new window was put in a loft without planning permission first being gained. Honey knew this for sure. Miss Camper-Young had shown her the letters. It struck her that Mr Parrot and/or his employees had got well and truly brassed off with her. Besides that, the old girl was potty. Honey would never again see a Laura Ashley dress without thinking of little green men, alien cats, and the fact that Big Sister rather than Big Brother was watching you. On the other hand, the timing of the cutting of the wires was too much of a coincidence.
She’d reached the gate when she remembered something. Miss Camper-Young was a busybody. Like a firework, busybodies could be primed to go off how and when you wanted, as long as you handled it right.
Turning round by a rustling hydrangea bush that was still only in bud, she marched straight back up the path, knocked on the door and said her piece.
Bearing her position in mind, she expressed carefully how appreciative she would be if Miss Camper-Young were to keep an eye on things. Doherty would be OK with that. He’d understand that her reasoning was perfectly logical. She was making enquiries relevant to a murder case. There was nothing she could say about a bunch of morons turning a very grand Elizabethan house into something resembling a whorehouse in Marrakesh – except to Cybil Camper-Young, who in turn would repeat it to the planning authority. They in turn would pay a visit and make sure it didn’t happen. That would be something positive.
The Siamese cat was back in the cat box wailing its head off.
Miss Camper-Young eyed the box with a thoroughly distasteful look.
‘Your cat’s not happy,’ Honey said, purely as an observation. She didn’t know too much about cats.
‘She’s not mine,’ snapped Miss Camper-Young in a voice that Honey would later describe as nasty. ‘She wandered in here. She doesn’t belong. Never mind. I’ll soon get rid of her.’
Honey told herself that the deadly intent in Cybil’s eyes was down to her own vivid imagination. The old girl would give the cat to the local home for feline waifs and strays leaving the Persians to reign supreme.
Chapter Twenty-five
Safely back behind her own steering wheel, Honey took a deep breath. Well, that was that. She tried phoning Doherty to tell him about Miss Camper-Young and her security cameras, also about a person she suspected was Deirdre Olsen panicking when a piece of porcelain had been sold by mistake. Her take on it was that the item of Spode was stolen, and that Mrs Olsen didn’t want it falling into anyone else’s hands, and the trail leading back to her. It had to be stolen. That was Honey’s belief.
Unfortunately the hills to either side of the valley folded in like two giant table napkins. She couldn’t get a signal. The phone went back into her big leather bag. There was nothing for it but to leave. The two warring interior designers had gone, Julia driving out in her dark green Jaguar, Camilla following in her 4x4. Why such a small person need such a big car, she couldn’t quite fathom. OK, she could ferry interior design stuff around – fabrics, wallpapers and paint charts galore. But that big?
Another vehicle squeezed past and parked opposite to where Honey waited for the road to clear. A wiry man with fuzzy hair got out. He’d been attempting to manhandle a whole load of other stuff out with him; bits of material, rolled-up paper that could only be plans of the hotel. His rear stuck out, torso hidden. Swatches of colour fluttered like trapped butterflies on half a dozen pieces of card. One or more of the objects kept falling from his grasp. He looked addled, frazzled, and not fit to be out. He was wearing an orange shirt. She made a rough guess at who he was. The interior designer. Keith Richardson Smythe.
. For a moment her gaze fixed on the elegant mansion. Its stonework was dark with age but its lead-paned windows glittered like diamonds each time she moved her head. Philippe must have loved this place, she thought. He’d sometimes said that he’d been born into the
wrong age. ‘I would have preferred to have lived at any time before the death of Queen Victoria, my darling,’ he’d said with a casual wave of his long hand. ‘But preferably Elizabethan times. I think the doublet and hose would have suited me a treat, don’t you think so, my darling? A nice turn of calf and all that!’
Hands resting on his trim waist, he’d done a little pirouette and tossed his elegant head. He was right, of course. He would have made a very elegant Elizabethan gentleman – minus the dyed blond hair of course, and the dark skin might have caused some consternation in those days.
Thinking of the manner of his death saddened her. She counted off the list of suspects in her mind.
Camilla Boylan, of course. She stood to gain an inheritance by way of the business. Julia? It appeared that she too could have inherited something, though the fact that Philippe had died before confirming anything cast doubt on her guilt. No wonder the two of them were fighting like cat and dog.
What about the new interior designer? Had he bumped Philippe off in the hope of gaining his contract? It was possible, but she couldn’t add him to her list just yet. He was fairly new on the scene. She’d have to make enquiries.
Next on her list was Ferdinand Olsen. He was a prime mover on the project committee and was having problems at home. Husbands with home problems could snap in a minute.
Joybell Peters seemed a hard sort. She served on the management committee and hadn’t had a good word to say about Philippe. She’d also been having a relationship with Ferdinand Olsen; understandable of course with his swashbuckling good looks.
Thinking of his exotic dark eyes, slim frame, and tumbling curls brought back the surprise she’d experienced on first meeting him. First impressions counted for a lot and her immediate reaction had been: what the hell is someone as romantic-looking as him doing with someone like Deirdre?
She reminded herself that younger men were often attracted to older women. Some found an experienced woman more interesting than a younger woman. They also tended to be richer. Money again, she thought with a toss of her head. Isn’t there any other factor involved on this occasion besides that?
‘Think laterally,’ she muttered. ‘Who else have we got?’
For a start there was the waiter who’d disappeared at the time of the murder. He could not be discounted. No one ran away unless they were running from something. Aloysius Rodrigues had disappeared off the face of the earth. Portugal was his home, but even with the help of Interpol, he had not yet been traced. And what possible reason could he have for killing Philippe? Unless it was sexual – a gay affair that Aloysius didn’t want his wife finding out about.
The shrubs and trees that helped camouflage the car park from the main house and the road began to flutter as a rain-filled breeze stirred their branches. For a brief second she thought she saw someone’s hand wave from among them. She looked more carefully before her vision was further distracted by Mr Parrot coming down the steps in the company of another man. They appeared to be arguing – or rather the other man appeared to be laying down the law. There were two other men just behind them.. The two men she was watching were worryingly familiar. She’d seen them performing on a grainy black and white security recording Cybil had shown her. Parrot had lied. It would have been nice to catch him out, but she reined herself in. After all she didn’t want him studying her credentials too closely. Best, she decided, to let sleeping dogs lie.
Nosing the car towards the gate, she headed back towards the A4 and Bath.
Halfway there her phone rang. The traffic was heavy, the police out in force directing traffic, so she didn’t chance answering it and receiving a heavy fine. Answering cell phones while on the move was a big no-no. Not until she was parking her car did she return Doherty’s call. He didn’t answer her right away – not until she found herself on the street and trying to decide whether she should head for home or take a peek at Bonham’s general sale.
Bonham’s won. She was perusing the exquisite embroidery running up the sides of a pair of Victorian silk stockings when Doherty returned her call.
‘Steve! You are never going to believe this, but a friend of my mother’s –’
She heard him groan as though he’d suddenly acquired toothache; her mother got her like that too on occasion.
‘Listen! It’s not what you think. A friend of my mother’s – Cybil Camper-Young – you wouldn’t know her, so don’t ask. She’s built like an all-in wrestler although she tries to play down the fact, and she lives in Lobelia Cottage immediately opposite the entrance to St Margaret’s Court, and guess what?’
‘I won’t bother. You’re going to tell me anyway.’
He sounded resigned. And laid back. And strangely uninterested.
‘She has a security camera – or at least, she did have, and guess what?’
‘You’ve already said that.’
Now he sounded glum.
‘She’s just amazing. According to her some little green men from Mars are responsible for the murder.’
‘Great. We won’t bother with an identikit picture; we’ve got hundreds on file.’
‘That’s not all. Two thugs from the hotel cut the wires to her security cameras just before Philippe was killed. What do you make of that?’
‘Interesting.’
He didn’t sound that interested. Honey was disappointed, but decided that a little uplifting of spirits was needed and she had just the thing. She fingered the silk stockings, holding one up to the light. My, but they were so, so sexy!
‘You sound down, old buddy. Let me take a stab at raising your spirits. What’s black and shiny and looks good when worn with four-inch heels and held up with frilly garters? Wanna guess?’
The fact that he didn’t immediately bite was one big message. Doherty always – always – responded to the sexy stuff. Not this time.
She stated the first thing that came into her mind. ‘Something bad has happened.’
He confirmed that indeed it had. ‘Deirdre Olsen’s been trampled to death by her own horse.’
Honey’s breath caught in her throat. ‘That’s terrible. She loved those horses.’ It was tantamount to learning that someone had been killed by a close friend.
Doherty made a comment. ‘Perhaps they didn’t reciprocate.’
‘I don’t think you believe that.’
‘No. I don’t think I do. Neither do I believe it to have been an accident.’
Honey let the silk stockings drift back into their box. ‘I’m all ears. What makes you think that?’
‘Olsen’s gone.’
‘And?’
‘A neighbour saw him arrive. Saw him leave in a pretty big hurry too.’
Honey took the opportunity to tell him about the piece of Spode Smudger the chef had bought at a car boot, the suspicion that it had been sold by mistake and that Deirdre had been running the stall.
‘She tried to buy it back for more than it was worth. That’s suspicious.’
He agreed that it was.
He wasn’t too forthcoming about the details of Mrs Olsen’s death and why he thought it was murder, but she probed a little.
‘So how would he get the horse to kick her to death?’
‘How the hell do I know? Horses and me don’t mix.’
‘I did notice you didn’t seem keen.’
He sighed. ‘To my mind anyone with a strong pair of legs and a knowledge of horses would have been out of there p.d.q. Even though the perpetrator – i.e. a bloody great big horse by the name of Lord John – has a bit of a temper, she was a horsy woman. She’d cope. Women like that do cope.’
Honey agreed with him and immediately made the comparison with Cybil.
There was a pause. For a split second she was sure he was going to take a detour from work and get personal.
‘It’s just a gut instinct. I’ll wait for the forensic and pathology report.’
Seemingly he’d changed his mind. She couldn’t explain the feeling of disappointment, but force
d herself to keep on track too.
‘You mean she could have been drugged – or the horse could have,’ she suggested.
He sighed. ‘I’ll start off with a pathology report on Mrs Olsen and a blood test on the horse.’
She began thinking about the romantic dreams she’d been having of late. It seemed that’s all they would be until this was over.
He couldn’t see her own look of disappointment. ‘That’s your social life curtailed for the immediate future.’
‘Long hours, no sleep and no … socializing. Never mind, once all this is over …’
Keenly sensitive to his mood, Honey opted for sympathy.
‘Never mind. We can get together eventually. You bet we will.’
A warm glow seemed to diffuse down the telephone line. She could almost feel his smile when he said, ‘You’re part of the hotel world and likely to hear more gossip than I am. You also know the right people to ask. Go to it.’
‘I will. Have you found the Portuguese waiter?’
‘No. Everyone we’ve interviewed swears he was in the victim’s company on and off. Something to do with art, I believe.’
‘I heard the same. Nothing very substantial, though I suppose that the fact that he’s gone missing puts him in the frame. There’s no such thing as a coincidence – isn’t that the saying?’
‘Very much so.’ There was a pause. ‘Hey. I like anything that goes with four-inch heels. Ditto the frilly garters. You know that, don’t you?’ It was as though he’d pressed rewind.
She smiled into the phone. The vision she’d painted had hit home. ‘A little thought to keep you warm while you work.’
‘High heels kill me – one way or another.’
If he’d had the courage Doherty would have told her then and there about winning the night at St Margaret’s Court. As it was he decided the time wasn’t right, and anyway, the place was still in a state with builders and decorators all over the place. The prize would coincide with the reopening, which shouldn’t be too far off. He only hoped that he wouldn’t be too busy around that time. He shrugged his shoulders against his jacket, an act of decision more than anything else. He’d make damn sure he wasn’t too busy. This was his chance, a chance he’d long been waiting for. He’d take some of the leave due to him. The two of them deserved it. Of course they did. She’d accept. Of course she would. And soon he would ask her. Despite work and the fear of rejection, he damned well would!
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 14
