‘Good day to you both. It’s about the clock of course. Pleased to help out.’
Today he was casually dressed in pale green lambswool sweater and matching trousers. The collar of a checked shirt showed above the ‘V’ neck of his sweater.
‘John Rees, isn’t it? How are you, my dear fellow?’
‘I’m good. Real good. I thought I would drive out and go over the final arrangements with you – if that’s OK with you. If it’s not inconvenient that is?’
‘No, no, my dear fellow! Not at all!’
Perhaps it was the way John said it, or perhaps the way he looked, but Charlborough seemed unable to say no.
Charlborough turned his attention to Honey. John leapt in with an introduction.
‘This is Honey Driver. She collects antique clothes,’ John explained.
They shook hands. Recognition clouded his eyes then was gone. His smile was tight, his grip limp.
‘I came here in my capacity as liaison officer for the Hotels Association. I asked you about Elmer Maxted.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said with a stiff nod of his head. ‘I seem to recall that you’d mislaid an American tourist.’
The terminology irritated.
‘He was not mislaid. He was murdered.’
‘Ah! And the police have arrested the perpetrator?’
She couldn’t help but get the impression that he already knew. News travelled fast – the ‘old boys’ network was rife with senior police chiefs and crown court judges.
‘They have arrested someone. Whether they make the charges stick is, as always, a different matter.’
‘Quite so.’ He turned immediately to John. ‘Now about my clock …’
Honey’s gaze wandered to the gardens and grounds beyond the thick foliage and the stifling conservatory. A church spire pierced the sky above a row of rustling poplars. The humidity, all for the benefit of the monstrous plants, was unbearable. She began dabbing at her glistening cheeks with the back of her hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, interrupting their conversation, ‘would it be all right if I went outside for some fresh air?’
For a moment she detected indecision on Charlborough’s face, as he weighed up the consequences of granting or refusing his permission.
‘Sorry for boring you,’ John said as casually as you’d like. ‘We’re rambling into the realms of history.’ He grinned across at Sir Andrew. ‘Not everyone is as fascinated by the subject as we are. A little fresh air helps blow the cobwebs away so they say.’
Charlborough’s expression veered between arrogance and pained forbearance. ‘Of course.’ He turned to Honey. ‘Please keep to the garden area. I have projects under way in the rest of the grounds.’
‘Not more decapitations,’ she said laughingly.
‘No. Not real ones anyway,’ he smiled back.
Her sweat cooled once she was out in the fresh air. Steps led down from the raised area outside the conservatory. Red and orange nasturtiums trailed from weathered urns. A balustrade of moss-covered stone ran around its perimeter.
Manicured lawns of epic size and decorous design swooped between the flowerbeds and trees, like a river running towards the sea. Unlike a river, these lawns ran up against a red brick wall. The mortar joining the bricks was white and smeared, the bricks uneven and irregular, signs of age and aging. An arched wooden door, the sort found in churches and medieval castles, dissected the wall just before it disappeared behind a laburnum. Nothing of a gardener, she vaguely remembered that laburnum flowers were poisonous.
The door might not have beckoned so strongly if Charlborough hadn’t ordered her – yes – ordered her to stay within the garden. But there it was, a cast-iron ring hanging there, waiting to be touched, turned and pulled.
The door opened. There again were the huge greenhouses thick with greenery, far more profligate than the huge specimens thronging the conservatory. And the size … a football pitch? At least. It was huge!
The roof curved like those on wartime structures, now disintegrating under the onslaught of the years and the weather. Sandbags piled a dozen or so high protected its entrance. A shovel stood upright in a pile of sand beside a wooden fruit box – the sort used for storing oranges.
Just like the last time, no one was around. She wondered when they actually held these war games that people paid to fight.
The only sound was of birds and bees. Just as she’d hoped there were a few loose sacks on the ground next to the sand.
Sacks!
She grabbed one and shook out the sand. Holding it with both hands, she scrutinised its size. It looked too big. Just to make sure, she took a deep sniff. It smelled of new sacking and the tangy sea smell of sand.
Still clinging to the sack, she turned to leave, her heels sinking into the damp earth.
Suddenly the door to the greenhouse made a wheezing sound. Humid air poured out tainting the freshness of a day after rain.
The fact that someone had come out with the tepid air did not register as quickly as it should have done. The sandbags were piled high and hid him until they were facing each other, each taken off guard, each unsure of how to proceed.
‘You.’
The same man as the time before. The man Sir Andrew had referred to as Trevor. Some kind of butler. Some kind of nightmare. Big, broad-shouldered and seemingly devoid of coherent speech.
She brazened it out. ‘It’s OK for me to be here. I got a little hot in the conservatory. Sir Andrew said I could go outside.’
He had a square face, a down-turned mouth, deep-set eyes and shoulders that, although wide, totally lacked muscle definition. It was as though they had been cut out of stone and the sculptor had not as yet chiselled in the bodily details. Eye colour was hidden in the dark hollows beneath his brows.
He scared her. It was like coming across Frankenstein’s monster on a dark and dirty night, except that it was daytime.
She sensed for her own protection, that she was the one who should first offer an explanation.
She held the sack behind her back, letting it fall slowly to the ground.
‘I’ll make my way back now. I was promised a pot of tea.’
Not the entire truth, but close enough.
The man standing before her shifted his weight on to the opposite leg; either his tension was dissipated or he was about to make a grab for her.
Discretion immediately became the best part of valour. Her legs propelled her back to the door and the manicured lawns, the house and the overpowering heat of the conservatory.
Hidden behind a sweet-smelling bush, she took the opportunity to catch her breath, daring to look behind her when she was sure no one was following.
Sir Andrew had said that Trevor was just a gardener tending the greenhouse. But the unease remained. Was it really only for war games, or was it something more sinister? Drugs were the obvious answer if she cared to take a jaundiced view of Sir Andrew. But what sort of drugs grew to that height?
‘Better now?’ asked John when she got back.
She forced a casual smile, the sort that worked well with pink cheeks and being slightly breathless.
Sir Andrew eyed her with distrust. ‘I’m so glad you feel better.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
She wondered if he had guessed that she’d disobeyed his orders, but wasn’t given the chance to find out.
The sound of a woman’s voice seemed to splinter the beams of weak sunlight that had managed to shine through the canopy of plants.
‘Darling, I didn’t know we had visitors!’
Pamela Charlborough’s hair was Helsinki blonde. Her face was Bermuda bronze. She wore a red silk dress that rustled when she walked and her perfume smelt of money.
Her bare arms were covered in freckles and her toenails were painted the same colour as her dress and the high-heeled mules she wore. A gold chain glistened around her ankle.
Gold and good make-up wasn’t all she had on board. Flushed cheeks and a saucy swaying of h
er whole body betrayed that she’d been drinking.
‘Booze for breakfast, booze for lunch and booze for dinner,’ she said raising a very full wine glass. ‘It’s basically replacement therapy. It replaces sex. Can’t get any of that in this house, can I, darling?’
‘Pamela, you’re drunk,’ growled her husband.
Pamela appeared not to have heard him, her flushed face turned to the American bookseller.
‘And who might this be? Another of your little soldier friends? My, but he’s out of uniform! You should reprimand him at once, darling. Bend him over your lap, pull down his trousers and smack his tight little bottom!’
Her attention transferred to Honey.
‘Oh! A little woman soldier perhaps?’ Her features screwed up like discarded paper as something occurred to her. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
‘Pamela!’
The broken veins in Charlborough’s cheeks spread over his face like a raging forest fire.
Lady Pamela looked surprised. ‘Have I got the wrong end of the stick, darling?’
Sir Andrew’s face was like thunder. ‘Go away, Pamela!’
John was looking embarrassed.
Honey found herself feeling embarrassed that she was of the same sex as the sun-tanned blonde.
Once she was within range to see Honey’s face more clearly Lady Charlborough’s eyes narrowed.
‘Didn’t you come here before? Yes! I’m sure you did.’ She turned to Sir Andrew. ‘Oh, my dearest, darling, what have you been up to now?’
These two were far from being dearest, darling to each other.
Sir Andrew looked daggers. ‘You are drunk!’
‘Oh, am I, darling? Then I’d better stop at once.’
She laughed, took a few steps forward then poured her wine into a potted plant. The wineglass followed its contents, the bowl breaking from its stem.
Her husband was far from amused.
‘Pamela! For God’s sake, that’s Waterford Crystal!’
Smirking stupidly, Pamela Charlborough hid her mouth behind her hand.
‘Silly me. Should not have said those dreadful things should I. Naughty, naughty things.’ She laughed again.
Although Charlborough looked thoroughly embarrassed, Honey found it hard to pity him. The role of being lord of the manor was ingrained in him. This was hardly the first trophy wife to end up feeling trapped and disappointed with the older, richer man she had married.
‘I apologise for my wife’s rudeness.’ Sir Andrew’s voice dropped an octave or two and his apology seemed sincere.
‘We get on best when we’re apart,’ said Lady Pamela. ‘In fact I’m off to Spain tonight. My husband is footing the bill. Aren’t you darling?’
‘I trust they won’t have run out of Sangria by the time you get there,’ said Honey, her smile and tone as sarcastic as she could make it.
Pamela wagged a perfectly manicured finger. ‘Aren’t you presently playing at being a detective? I recollect you mentioned this when we met before.’
‘Yes.’ Honey maintained her smile. ‘I probably recollect it more clearly than you do.’
The inference was obvious but took a while to sink in. Once it did, the insincerity of her ladyship’s smile was echoed in her eyes.
‘Well that’s the way it is with trade, isn’t it? I presume one has to do everything one can to make ends meet.’
They left with arrangements fully made for the loan of the clock, Lady Pamela inviting John to stay at her private villa if ever he came to Spain. Honey was ignored.
‘Bitch,’ muttered Honey once they were in the car and heading back to Bath.
‘I think her husband is of the same opinion,’ said John.
‘A divorce in the making?’
‘You bet. I’ve been lucky in that respect. My ex-wife is very convivial.’
The slim, gorgeous creature? Honey had to find out. ‘Was that her …’
‘In the restaurant the other night? Yes. We’re still good friends. When either of us has a problem, we talk it through together.’
Honey’s interest in John Rees was instantly resurrected. He was just her type; good-looking, pleasant and available.
‘Your wife sounds like a decent sort – a lady in fact – which is more than I can say for Lady Pamela Charlborough.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
The stables surrounding the yard to the rear of Charlborough Grange had been turned into garages years ago. Where past members of the family had kept their hunters, carriage horses and children’s ponies, the present incumbents kept their Mercedes saloon, their four by four and a variety of sports cars, all with dents in the bodywork, some complete write-offs. Lady Pamela loved speed almost as much as she loved men, money and booze.
Mark Conway was servicing the engine on Pamela Charlborough’s Mercedes Sports, which was presently the one with fewer dents than the others.
Slick with sweat, he pulled his T-shirt away from his body, pulled it up from his belly, and mopped at his face. The action hid his smile and even went some way to masking the smell of her perfume.
He knew she was watching him; had seen his bare torso, the line of hair that dipped down below the waistband of his jeans.
Her heels made a clicking sound as she crossed the concrete yard. Even without looking he knew her hips were swaying provocatively as she sashayed towards him.
She came up close, her hip brushing against his.
‘Darling,’ she breathed. ‘You are coming to Spain with me, aren’t you?’
The raised bonnet of the car threw a shadow across his face. It also went some way to hiding him from the house.
‘I’m wanted here,’ he said without taking his attention from the engine.
Despite his resolve not to cave into her, his blood raced when she touched him. She licked her lips as she ran her hands down his back, tracing his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt.
‘I want you in Spain,’ she said. ‘I want you all ways and which ways in Spain.’
His bare biceps were hard beneath her hands. She sucked in her breath. ‘You have such a beautiful body, Mark.’
‘I’m busy.’
Although he tried to shrug her off, she clung on. Her fingertips tantalised the nape of his neck. He smelled alcohol when she whispered in his ear.
‘Imagine making love on a deserted beach or high on a cliff top overlooking the sea.’
He turned his back to her while wiping his oily hands on a rag.
‘Your husband might not like that.’
‘I would like it,’ she breathed. ‘You know I would.’
Her fingers travelled along his jaw.
‘I thought you loved me,’ she said in a silly doll-like voice.
‘Then you got it wrong. I’ve made love to you. If you can call it that.’
‘Whatever. It’s enough for me. And I thought we’d agreed … you know … that afternoon. You agreed to get rid of him.’
‘I thought it was down to you to get rid of him – you know – divorce.’
‘The money, darling. The money. If you want to share the money with me, you have to get rid of him good and proper.’
He fancied she was mocking him, talking as though she hailed from the East End of London – like his family, coming to Somerset to settle for the good life.
‘And how do I do that?’
‘Fix his brakes,’ she whispered. ‘Make it look like an accident.’
He stared at her wishing he’d never given in to her, but also wanting her again. And again.
‘You really mean it.’
‘Of course I do. You look appalled, my darling boy.’ She sounded surprised.
With a look of disdain fractured with disbelief, he shrugged her hand from his arm. ‘I can’t believe you’re saying it. I can’t believe you’d want me to do it.’
She stroked his face and kissed him.
‘Believe it.’
Honey checked herself in the mirrored doors of the dini
ng room. This evening she’d chosen to wear a white linen suit with a blue-and-silver rope belt and a dark blue silk top. Casual but classy, her favourite words when it came to fashion.
‘These earrings,’ said Lindsey who had insisted on helping choosing her clothes, had made up her face, and was now choosing her accessories. ‘And this bracelet.’
‘Whatever you say.’
Having someone make all the decisions was unbelievably wonderful.
‘And remember to be home before twelve,’ said Lindsey with a crafty grin.
‘Will I change into a pumpkin if I don’t?’
‘No, but you’ll be locked out if you forget your key.’
‘I promise I won’t sleep over.’
‘Just knock the handsome prince off his feet.’
‘Is there a sure-fire way to do that?’
Lindsey shrugged. ‘How would I know? You’re the one with the experience.’
‘You would tell me if there was anyone special in your life?’ Honey asked her. ‘As in Sam? Who is he?’
Lindsey tutted and shook her head. ‘You couldn’t resist, could you? You had to ask.’
‘I worry about you.’
‘Just take it from me that he’s a great guy. There’s a lot between us. Just how much, only time will tell.’
‘How old is he?’
‘I think that’s enough information for now.’
‘I know when I’ve been shown the red card.’ Honey held up her hands in mute surrender. ‘I am off to meet Prince Charming.’
‘Are you going out?’
Her mother’s voice! She’d arrived wearing Donna Karan and smelling of Chanel N° 5.
‘Yes,’ replied Honey through gritted teeth.
‘With a man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘Not really.’
Gloria Cross sucked in her breath.
‘It’s that bookseller! Or is it that policeman? Please don’t let it be that policeman.’
She made it sound as though going out with him would be tantamount to going out with Frankenstein’s monster.
It wasn’t easy, but Honey kept her cool.
‘It’s one of them. Possibly two in the same night.’
‘And what shall I tell Mr Paget?’
‘Mother, are you talking about the dentist?’
Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) Page 19
