Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘He earns a very good living.’

  She said it as though pulling people’s teeth was as important as overseeing the International Monetary Fund.

  ‘And that, my dear mother, is reason enough not to be interested. I’ll look him up when I need a tooth pulled. Is there a specific reason for this visit?’

  Her mother pouted her apricot lips. ‘Mary Jane’s séance.’

  ‘I forgot!’

  ‘Yes, you forgot, Miss Know All!’

  She marched off.

  With a sigh as heavy as a sack-load of old horseshoes, Honey slumped over the reception desk.

  ‘Come on, Mum. You’re going out.’

  Honey raised her head a few inches off the desk.

  ‘Why does she make me feel guilty?’

  ‘It’s her way. Now come on. Your prince awaits you.’

  Lindsey took hold of her shoulders and guided her to the door.

  Her mother reappeared having merely paid a visit to the ladies room.

  ‘So you’re not coming to the séance. Well, how cruel is that? Mary Jane will be so disappointed.’

  Honey looked at her daughter and whispered, ‘Mary Jane or John Rees? Should I flip a coin?’

  ‘You’re off. Never mind the séance. Grandma and I will go. Won’t we, Grandma?’

  Gloria Cross glanced from daughter to granddaughter.

  ‘You’re conspiring against me. Don’t deny it.’

  ‘Grandma! I’m going to the séance with you. We’ll have fun. Let’s see if Grandpa comes through.’

  Her grandmother rolled her eyes. ‘Heaven forbid!’

  Union Passage is a traffic-free thoroughfare of specialist shops with narrow frontages; some unchanged since Beau Brummell was a lad.

  Street musicians and jugglers rub shoulders with tourists looking for a bargain and office workers looking for a lunchtime sandwich. Despite the shops selling video games, mobile phones and computer graphics, it has retained its Dickensian charm.

  Ideal for a bookshop, thought Honey, walking with confidence through the gathering dusk on a balmy July night.

  John Rees had been lucky enough to lease a shop still retaining an old-fashioned frontage of Art Deco design. The theme of the framework supporting the window was taken across the glass in the form of a transparent Beardsley-type woman. Typically she had flowing tresses and gown, her willowy arms framing the central display.

  A hum of conversation and the tinkle of glasses drifted out of the open door. With luck the night air would drift in. Few shops in Bath boasted air-conditioning and although linen was cool it creased easily.

  Making up in depth what it lacked in breadth, the shop was choc-a-bloc with people jostling as if in a queue, wine glasses held tightly to chests.

  Cut glass voices droned on about the meaning behind an author’s work or the reasons why women were forced – forced – into wearing corsets.

  ‘It was a man’s way of keeping a woman submissive,’ the dreaded Audrey Tyson Dix was imparting to a politely attentive John Rees.

  Honey stood on tiptoe to ensure that their eyes met.

  John saw her and smiled, swiftly introduced Audrey to someone else and eased himself in her direction. He managed to grab a glass of wine en route.

  ‘Glad you could come.’

  ‘It’s a tight squeeze,’ she said. As she said it a woman with a bookshelf bosom and belly to match squeezed between them. Despite the fact that she’d eased through sideways, Honey ended up with her wine glass pressed against her nose.

  John grabbed her hand.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Holding her wine glass high, she did as she was told.

  ‘There’s steps here,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Three steps.’

  She tottered forward, feet unseen.

  ‘And some more.’

  Her feet seemed to sprout eyes and feel their way.

  ‘Another three.’

  Eventually, they were at the back of the shop and had room to breathe.

  John nodded towards the area where the crowd was thickest. ‘Never mind the culture, you can see what they’ve really come for.’

  Sadly, he was right. The wine and food had been placed on a table at the front of the shop on the lowest level. That was where the crowd was thickest. From where they were standing at the highest point at the far end of the shop, they could see it all.

  She smiled up at him and clinked her glass against his. ‘There are always exceptions.’

  He smiled back. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Would you care for a look at the exhibits?’

  ‘OK.’

  First stop was her own property.

  ‘Yours of course.’

  ‘Not literally,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They might have been OK for Queen Victoria. Passion killers, still they can’t have put Albert off. They had nine kids I believe.’

  ‘I suppose it all depends what turns you on. Big though.’

  ‘You’re right there. I barely saved them from one of my foreign waitresses who presumed they were a tablecloth. My mother calls them Harvest Festivals. All is safely gathered in.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’

  Her eyes strayed to Sir Andrew’s clock. John followed her gaze.

  ‘He insisted I insure it.’

  Honey frowned. ‘I’ve only met the owner a few times, but already I get the impression that it’s the love of his life.’

  John tilted his head to one side as he observed it. ‘Not exactly. I hear he idolises his son, Lance.’

  ‘Is that so? I haven’t met him.’

  ‘He’s at Harvard, though, I get the impression, unwillingly. It was his grandfather’s wish and a provision in his will that Lance finished his education there. The old man left all his money to his daughter, but when she died everything went to him. Seems he was only a kid at the time, not much more than a baby.’

  ‘I wonder what she was like in comparison to Lady Pamela?’

  ‘A bit more of a lady, I think.’

  ‘I can believe that. I don’t see her here, I thought she might put in an appearance seeing as there’s free wine on offer.’

  ‘I understand she’s leaving for Spain. Sir Andrew phoned me earlier. He’s promised to show up later but made apologies on his wife’s behalf.’

  Honey’s gaze slid to the horde of hungry guests.

  ‘He’ll have to squeeze himself in.’

  John looked at his watch. ‘He did promise.’

  ‘Well I doubt that he’s accompanying his darling wife to Spain. I think he must hate Spain as much as he does her.’

  John shrugged and took a slug of wine. ‘Understandable. He was living there when his wife died in a car crash. Head-on, just her and the boy. Luckily Lance survived.’

  They moved slowly along the exhibits: the books, memorabilia, lace mittens, bonnets, old tools, etc.

  ‘Look at these,’ he said. He indicated a few sheets of newspaper preserved behind glass. ‘Do you know it’s only in the last hundred years or so that newspapers were available to everyone? Facts were shouted out by town criers and passed mouth to mouth. Truth could be mighty distorted between source and target audience back then.’

  Honey squinted to read the tiny print of the oldest newspaper he had there. ‘It’s a wonder any news ever got through.’

  ‘Great battles and occasions; it all got through OK. My dad kept old newspapers covering the war years. He used to bring them out now and again just to remind himself of what he’d gone through.’ John’s voice took on an aura of sadness. ‘It’s surprising how reading an old newspaper can jog the memory.’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, still squinting. ‘Old newspapers can be …’ Suddenly it hit her. Old newspapers. Old news, forgotten by some but interesting to others.

  ‘That’s it!’

  John frowned at the glass she’d shoved into his hand.

  She felt elated and guilty; elated at what should have been obvious – newspapers. Old news. And having to lea
ve the party.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Was it something I said?’

  ‘Yes,’ she groaned, touching his face with her fingertips. ‘John, would you think I was too forward if I told you that I wanted to take you to bed?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. But I can’t hold you to that just yet. There’s something I’ve got to do. Can you keep it warm for me? I can’t say I’ll be back tonight, but imminently. What do you say?’

  ‘That’s good for me.’

  He looked happy when she kissed him on the cheek. ‘A consolation prize,’ she said to him. ‘Bear with me.’

  Every step to the shop door was painful, not just because it was slow but because business was overriding pleasure.

  She had to get to where it had all began, and clocks had nothing to do with it. A few steps along Union Passage and she recalled what she’d said to John Rees and almost flipped at how forward she had been. You’re a mature woman, she reminded herself. You can do anything you want.

  She didn’t hear him following her. She wasn’t meant to. That was the good thing about wearing trainers. OK, your feet might end up stinking, but no one heard you following.

  He saw her take her phone from out of her pocket and tap in a number. Judging by the brief moment the phone was next to her ear there was either no signal or the battery was flat.

  He’d expected her to return to the hotel. Instead she headed for the taxi rank outside the Abbey.

  Swearing beneath his breath, he pushed his way through the crowds strolling around, recording their visits to the city on digital camcorders and cameras and stopping to sniff the aroma of up-market cuisine wafting on the evening air.

  His eyes followed her as she wove through the crowds. He saw her get into a taxi.

  Suddenly a text came through to him on his own phone. He read the message quickly. He was wanted. It wouldn’t take long. He’d catch up with Honey Driver later.

  Chapter Thirty

  Lady Pamela Charlborough snapped shut the clasp of her Gucci handbag and, turning to her husband, put on a confident front.

  ‘My car’s broken. Mark will have to drive me to the airport. I’ve booked a hotel. He can stay overnight.’

  Her husband took quick strides across the room, caught her wrist and squeezed hard.

  ‘You expect me to believe that? But don’t worry. I’m not jealous. Sorry for the poor sod. That’s all.’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting me.’

  He tightened his grip.

  ‘Good. I want to hurt you.’

  He smiled at the thought of her feeling pain, the discomfort as her veins filled up with trapped blood.

  He brought his face close to hers.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘How can I let you go my little darling, you who think you have the right to dispose of my possessions even before I am dead, things that I prize, things that have been in this house for years.’

  ‘I needed the money!’ she snapped.

  His face closed on hers. His hand encompassed her neck before his thumb pressed on her windpipe.

  ‘You need!’

  She tugged with both hands at his fingers, eyes wide with fear as she struggled for breath.

  He was doing this with only one hand, still holding his brandy glass in the other.

  The feel of her squirming against his strength excited him. Her mouth was open. He knew she was trying to scream but no sound came out.

  Such was the strength and tension in his fingers, that the hand not compressing his wife’s throat snapped the stem of the brandy balloon.

  Pamela’s eyes were bulging, her face changing colour.

  Feeling an incredible surge of excitement that he hadn’t felt for years – not since he’d left active service; not since he’d come home from killing people, he brought the jagged edge of the stem close to her face.

  She mouthed all the most profane words she knew yet no sound came out. But he understood. She could see from his eyes that he understood. It had been years since she’d been this close to him and it scared her. He looked as if only part of him was in the room. The rest was somewhere else.

  Suddenly he let go. Staggering and gasping for air she ran for the stairs.

  Once the bedroom door was safely locked, clothes, shoes and toiletries flew into her luggage. Lingerie was wound into balls; shoes were shoved haphazardly amongst delicate laces, silks and cashmere.

  Passport and essentials were thrown into a tan leather bag with the famous Gucci symbol on the side. Her mobile fell onto the silk and satin counterpane.

  Her enhanced breasts heaved and she coughed a little before regaining control, before even being able to speak.

  She stared at the passport. Revenge was like an ice-cold knife between her ribs. It was not in her power to destroy Andrew, but she could make things difficult for him – swine that he was.

  She phoned the police, asked for whoever was in charge of the case and told him that the murdered American HAD visited Charlborough Grange.

  ‘It would be very worthwhile if you questioned my husband.’

  Doherty noted what she said. ‘We do already have someone helping us with our enquiries. I’ll let you know if we need to speak to you or your husband again.’

  Frustrated by his answer, she slammed the disconnect button. Someone had to be interested.

  Her! The hotel liaison person! She’d left her card.

  Honey answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘My husband lied. The American was here,’ she said once the initial introductions were taken care of.

  ‘That’s interesting. Thank you very much.’

  Lady Pamela’s mouth remained open. This was not the response she’d hoped for – from either of them.

  ‘Interesting? Is that all you can say?’

  ‘Look, I’m a bit busy at the moment, but if you’d like to jot down all you remember …’

  ‘Surely what I know deserves a little time?’

  ‘All right. Tell me something.’

  Pamela paused. ‘Elmer Maxted. Do you know where he died?’

  Honey was currently in the back of the taxi, en route to Cora Herbert’s establishment.

  Still, information was information. She answered Pamela’s question.

  ‘As far as they know, he was killed in the cellars of one of the houses with access to the river. They think the house he was murdered in was numbered six or nine.’

  Silence ensued before Pamela spoke.

  ‘I see.’

  She sounded a lot less intense. Again silence. Honey gave her a nudge.

  ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll put it in a letter.’

  She slammed the phone shut. Razor thin, it slid from her hand and into her suitcase.

  Nothing was going quite as she’d wanted it to. Even her car was refusing to start. ‘Give me an hour and I’ll take a look at it,’ said Mark.

  ‘Half an hour!’

  He turned his back on her temper. ‘Mark, I think you should come to Spain with me.’

  He said nothing.

  She wanted to say so much, but couldn’t. He might not approve of what she was about to do.

  The maid had left today’s Bath Chronicle on the dressing table. The headlines caught her eye. SUSPECT RELEASED. She read on. The police had raided the wrong house, the wrong terrace. What was more, the suspect, Robert Davies, had been released due to lack of evidence. She shivered.

  Her room was an oasis of tranquil pale lime and deep pink. She sat down at her desk, took out a pad and began to write. Once finished, she read what she had written. Her fine eyebrows arched with satisfaction. Yes. This would do the trick.

  Frances Tolly, housekeeper at Charlborough Grange, came in to tell her that Mark had failed to fix her car.

  ‘Then tell him to get the Rolls out, and tell him I need a driver. I’m not driving that bloody great thing! He’ll have to stay over
night at the airport hotel.’

  And come with me. Yes, he must come with me!

  Pamela smiled at the prospect. Although she had told her husband that she wanted Mark to drive her and stay overnight, there had been no guarantee that he would. But the car was big. Perhaps there would be time to get together en route.

  Perhaps it was just as well that the sleek little Mercedes would not start. The thought of Mark’s youthful body sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. There was so much potential in that young man. She’d tempted him into having sex with her. She hadn’t managed to persuade him to kill Andrew, but there was more than one way to skin a rabbit.

  Frances turned to go.

  ‘Wait a moment. Can you post this for me, Frances? It needs a stamp.’

  After sealing the envelope, she passed it to the maid.

  That, she thought, closes the last chapter in a loveless marriage.

  Her luggage was transferred into the trunk of the Rolls Royce.

  To her dismay she found that Trevor was driving.

  ‘Mark’s gone on an errand,’ he told her.

  She wasn’t sure that he was telling the truth. But she had a flight booked. She wanted to go before the shit really hit the fan.

  She didn’t look back as they drove off. She never wanted to see the place again.

  The main gate loomed up before them. Suddenly, Trevor stopped the car.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s something wrong with the brakes. We’ll have to go back.’

  He swung the car round and headed back down the drive. Out back in the old stable yard, he left the car running. She tapped her fingers impatiently, watching as he went into the garage to find what he needed.

  Trevor hadn’t liked lying. The fact was that Sir Andrew had ordered him to drive his soon-to-be ex-wife to the airport.

  Damned nuisance with the brakes, but soon fixed.

  He cocked his ear, thinking he’d heard the engine rev up then disappear. Perhaps it had cut out?

  Never mind. It would soon start up.

  Whistling to himself, he opened the top tier of the toolbox, found what he was looking for and went back outside.

  Swinging the tool from his hand, he went back to where he’d left the car – but it wasn’t there.

  ‘What the bloody …?’