Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

  Thinking her ladyship had driven it round the front – perhaps because she’d left luggage behind – he ran round the front to check. No car to be seen.

  ‘What the hell! Sod her. Let her drive her bloody self.’

  Arms hanging listlessly at his side, he shrugged and walked back to the house. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d shot off to meet a secret lover. Either that or someone from the house had taken over.

  He didn’t care which it was. He had the greenhouses to contend with. He had war games to prepare.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Cora’s hands shook as she placed the cereal packets along the sideboard in the dining room, the granola next to the bran flakes; the Cornflakes next to the Rice Crispies, then the Weetabix, the Shreddies and the Sugar Puffs.

  Honey watched silently, a picture of calm professionalism. Things wouldn’t be done like this at the Green River, but in a guest house it was perfectly acceptable. The lines were straight, the crockery gleamed and the cutlery sparkled. None of this seemed enough for Cora. Again and again she realigned the packets. Her hands shook and for once her fingers did not reach for cigarettes.

  Feeling as though she’d won the lottery, Honey tried to contain her excitement. She could be wrong about the newspapers being the key to everything, but her instinct told her otherwise. Her instinct also told her to tread carefully; be nice.

  ‘It must be very difficult – losing your husband and trying to keep things going.’

  ‘Two husbands actually, and when it came to charm and reliability, both were interchangeable.’

  It wouldn’t be right to add anything about Mervyn having abused his position as stepfather to Loretta. How would I feel, she wondered. A pair of large pinking shears – the heavy and very sharp sort that dressmakers use popped into her mind – something else she mustn’t voice!

  ‘Our Loretta’s a help. She’s given up her other job to give me a hand.’

  ‘That’s good of her.’

  Cora stopped the obsessive moving of cereal packets and glared at her.

  ‘She’s a good girl! I won’t have anyone saying anything else. Neither will Bob.’

  Robert Davies! The impression came over loud and clear that Cora and her former husband were shoulder to shoulder in this.

  ‘You don’t think he killed Mervyn?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t! Though at times he was tempted, mark you!’

  ‘It has to be admitted that your first husband did have a motive for killing your second husband. But why the American? It doesn’t make sense to pin that one on him as well.’

  Cora shook her head emphatically. ‘He didn’t do it! Neither of ’em!’

  And Andrew Charlborough lied. Once she was finished here, he was next on her list – once she’d informed Doherty.

  Sitting at a table with an instant coffee, Honey watched as Cora resumed her fussing along the sideboard, straightening servers, smoothing the lace-edged cloth covering the polished wood. The intricacies of the case slid around in her head – a bit like pieces of scrabble – a bit like Cora rearranging the cereal packets.

  Move that bit there, this bit here, and approach from another angle. She could have come straight out and said, ‘Hey, can I have a look at the old newspapers those watches are wrapped in?’ Best to tread softly, she’d decided. Softly, softly catchee monkey, or in this case a motive and a murderer.

  ‘Do you think Mervyn was capable of murder?’

  The question was out before she could put on the brakes.

  Cora was like a figure on a TV screen when someone hits the pause button on the video. She didn’t seem surprised, more confused as though the thought had never, ever entered her bleached blonde head.

  Eventually, she came to herself. ‘Mervyn was a first-class creep. And that’s putting it mildly! Bob was never like that. An out and out tea-leaf, but never a scumbag.’

  She picked up a duster and began flicking it at imagined specks around the bay window. The windows rattled as a heavy truck trundled past heading along the main A4 towards Bristol.

  ‘But him murder that nice Mr Weinstock? No. Like our Loretta said, Mervyn invited him into his den. He didn’t do that very often, I can tell you. Even me and our Loretta weren’t allowed in there.’

  Something clicked in Honey’s brain. Cora had just called her first husband Bob. No! Could it be Mary Jane’s Bob the Job?

  ‘Did err … Bob … meet Elmer?’

  Cora stiffened.

  ‘Bob the Job?’

  Cora stopped fussing. Her doughy figure turned doughier.

  ‘That was his interest, you see. He started doing it in prison years ago. He’d put adverts in magazines about helping people trace their roots, and they’d write to him. Got hundreds of replies he did.’

  Mouth dry with excitement, Honey curbed her enthusiasm. She didn’t want to alienate Cora. The poor woman had gone through enough.

  ‘Is there any chance that you and Bob might get back together?’

  Cora shrugged. ‘There may be – if we get through this bother that is. It would be good for our Loretta.’

  Honey put down her coffee mug. ‘So. Tell me about Mervyn’s watches. He was quite a collector.’

  ‘That’s right. Rubbish most of them from car boots and junk shops. But that was his hobby. Mended them and got them going, he did.’

  ‘Do you think I could have another look in there?’

  Cora made a whistling sort of noise as she drew in her breath. ‘I was going to put it all to auction. I’ve been advised to keep them all together as one lot.’

  ‘That’s good advice. You can come in with me if you like, though I’m not into collecting watches.’

  ‘Can’t understand why people collect old junk. What is it you collect then?’

  ‘Underwear.’

  ‘Get on!’

  Cora looked flabbergasted.

  ‘Old corsets, stockings, liberty bodices …’

  ‘Knickers?’

  ‘Especially knickers. So you see I’m not going to steal your deceased husband’s watches. You never know. I might pick up on something that the police have overlooked that might help your first husband get off the hook. Perhaps then the two of you might have a future together.’

  Cora pursed her lips then flicked at a cornflake packet with her duster.

  ‘Why not?’

  Mervyn’s den smelled of dried rubber and stale beer. The blink of a computer terminal caught her eye. The unit was old and smudged with dirty finger- and palm-prints. Having a frugal attitude to energy waste, she turned the screen off and looked for the box.

  Cora had placed it beneath the ancient desk on which the computer sat. She pulled it out. As she unwrapped the contents from their newspaper, she became aware of Cora watching her from the doorway.

  Wishing she had a camera, she placed each watch on top of the desk. None of them looked particularly valuable, but you could never tell.

  ‘Do you have a camera?’ she asked Cora. ‘Only I think it might be a good idea for me to photograph the whole collection and pass them to a friend of mine who’s an expert on timepieces. He could advise you of the best way of disposal.’

  ‘I could do with the money,’ said Cora.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Cora disappeared and came back with the required object.

  Pretty soon all the watches had been photographed.

  One of the newspapers tore as she started to rewrap each watch as she’d found them. Her hands shook. This was the real reason why she was here. If she was right, there was something here that caused Elmer Maxted to pay Sir Andrew Charlborough a visit.

  Various headlines caught her eye. They were interesting, some downright dramatic, but what exactly was she looking for?

  The odd thing about the newspapers was that most of them were Irish, none so far from Bath. The tragedies of the world were there in black and white. Robberies, murders, and children left motherless following a fire.

&n
bsp; She read on about the motherless children. One of the boys had been abducted and never seen again. The other had been given a home by a wealthy landowner in the southwest.

  Honey sat back on her haunches and sighed. ‘These newspapers are next to useless.’

  Cora misunderstood. ‘I’ll go and fetch some more.’ Cora turned to go.

  ‘No. Best not,’ said Honey. ‘The police might get uppity about us disturbing things.’

  As far as she could see, the newspapers said nothing. The sudden idea at the bookshop wasn’t as good as it first seemed. None of these articles could possibly be the reason behind the murder of two men of two different nationalities. Except …

  There was a son … he’d survived an accident in which his mother had died. The only Bath newspaper there carried the story, but why was it wrapped up with the Irish national?

  She eyed the orphans whose mother had died in a fire.

  One of the boys looked quite a bit older than the other. The age of the younger one was the same as that of the child whose mother had died in a car crash.

  She frowned. And this means something. But what?

  Once the watches were rewrapped, Cora went with her to the front door.

  ‘It’s a nice night,’ said Honey.

  Cora sighed. ‘It’ll be a better night once all this is sorted out. It’s unsettling having people think you’ve done away with yer husband. Bad for business.’

  Honey wasn’t so sure. Having a murdered husband found in the back garden attracted the ghoulishly curious. A murdered American was a different matter. The national press had got hold of the story. OK if it had stayed local, but national could syndicate the news to international. She thought about this more deeply as she walked back along Bristol Road . She got a taxi as far as WidcombeBasin. A little evening air would help the thinking process.

  ‘I’ll walk from here,’ she said, got out and paid the driver.

  She took a left turn along the towpath, enjoying the smell of water, the colours of a narrow boat moored in the lock. Lights from the restaurant of a nearby hotel lay like fallen stars on the water.

  Veins of purple stretched from the western sky, the air just cool enough to invigorate the brain without chilling the skin.

  She passed a troop of tourists undertaking yet another Ghost Walk. The tour guide, a leggy chap wearing learned glasses above an acne-covered chin, sounded full of enthusiasm.

  ‘There are many legends and many buildings supposedly haunted by a “Grey Lady”. One of the most famous has to be the one who haunts the Theatre Royal.’

  A low murmur of interest rustled through the listeners. ‘Have you ever seen her?’ someone asked.

  ‘I didn’t exactly see her,’ said the guide, his eyes brilliant behind the wire-rimmed specs. ‘But I did feel her presence. It’s a bit like turning round quickly and fancying you’ve just seen someone out of the corner of your eye.’

  Perhaps it was the tone of emphatic belief that made Honey do just that.

  Was it her imagination, or had someone ducked into a doorway? She’d caught a glimpse of white trainers. Ghosts didn’t wear white trainers; did they?

  Under the circumstances, she joined the crowd following behind their guide like a clutch of spring ducklings.

  Someone nudged her elbow. ‘Have you ever felt someone was trying to get in touch with you from the other side?’ The woman spoke in a thick New York accent.

  Honey grimaced. ‘Yes. Mostly my bank manager when I’ve gone on the wrong side of my overdraft facility.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The sun streamed into the dining room of the Green River Hotel. The clattering of cutlery against crockery drowned the sound of butter knives grating against toast. Guests conversed across white damask tablecloths and the smell of grilled bacon and fresh coffee drifted like a friendly wraith around the room.

  Mary Jane sat at her usual table in the farthest corner – her favourite spot. From there she had a panoramic view of the breakfast room and everybody entering it.

  A starburst of wrinkles spread out from her lips as she smiled.

  Honey raised the coffee pot. ‘Coffee?’

  Mary Jane’s eyes stayed unblinking on Honey’s face.

  ‘Sorry you missed the séance.’

  ‘I am so sorry. Previous engagement.’

  ‘I quite understand. But I have to tell you, you’re being watched,’ she said in a hushed voice.

  Honey was taken aback.

  ‘Well that certainly puts the egg and bacon into the shade.’

  She wondered if he wore white trainers.

  ‘I saw you waltzing along the

  Royal Crescent the other day. He was right behind you.’ ‘Are we talking about a ghost?’

  Mary Jane leaned backwards, cricking her head to an awkward angle. ‘Not a ghost. I mean the guy who looks like that film star who ended up getting butchered in Gladiator.’

  Smiling, Honey put the coffee pot down on the next table. ‘Help yourselves,’ she said to the four Australians sitting there.

  Pulling up a chair, she leaned over the table and looked up into Mary Jane’s wise old face. ‘Make my day. Am I being pursued by Russell Crowe? If so, I’ll slow down and let him catch me.’

  Mary Jane went all vague. ‘It might have been Spartacus I was thinking of. You know, fair-haired and a broken nose.’

  Honey’s elation vanished. Kirk Douglas and a Zimmer frame came to mind.

  ‘Now this guy, he wasn’t wearing white trainers by any chance?’

  As she considered the question, Mary Jane’s pink lips pursed on the rim of her coffee cup. A perfect pink imprint was left behind.

  ‘I didn’t notice his feet. Just his face.’

  ‘Ugly?’

  She meant ugly as in dangerous. Police mug shots clicked through her mind.

  ‘Rugged,’ said Mary after much consideration. ‘But then, I might not have noted his features in detail. I wasn’t concentrating too much on him. I was watching the sheep feeding on the grass in front of the Royal Crescent .’

  ‘There aren’t any sheep grazing in the Royal Crescent .’

  Mary Jane’s expression of total belief was undiminished. ‘Not now, but there used to be.’ She nodded at a picture on the wall of the

  Royal Crescent as it had been in the eighteenth century. ‘See? If you go to the Crescent and narrow your eyes, you can see them gambolling there just as they used to.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  As she rose from the chair, Mary Jane caught her arm.

  ‘Before you go,’ she said, her voice falling into a deep whisper. ‘I thought you should know that Sir Cedric reckons your life is in danger. He saw blood and a lot of trees – like a forest he said, only worse.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The other night at the séance. He came through you see. He was terribly specific. You should have been there.’

  In the past she had always taken Mary Jane’s prophesies with a pinch of salt. Suddenly she felt vulnerable.

  ‘Perhaps that what comes of being a detective,’ she said with a hint of sarcasm. ‘Jane Marple,’ she added with a laugh that she thought sounded convincing.

  ‘I’m sure that’s got something to do with it,’ said Mary Jane. ‘And that’s why I’ve decided to assist you.’

  She wondered what the cop shop would think when they saw Mary Jane, dressed head to toe in a pink caftan and wearing silver sandals. Probably that somebody had put magic mushrooms in their tea.

  ‘I’m supposed to do this by myself.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I know. But that isn’t what I meant.’

  She sat back as though about to deliver a eulogy fit for a king.

  ‘I have a private income, thanks to my dearly departed mother, so I’ve decided to move in here permanently.’

  Honey’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re not going back to California? Not ever?’

  ‘Why should I? I’ve found my roots and I’ll be buried here in the land of my forebears. Wh
at could be better? Can we agree a special rate?’

  The shrewdness of age shone in her eyes. No doubt the funeral parlour would also be tied into a discounted deal when the time came.

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Uncertain about the advantages of having the gangly woman as a permanent guest, Honey gathered up greasy plates and headed for the kitchen.

  Her mother was putting the bacon away and Clint, complete with cobweb tattoo, was dealing with the washing up.

  ‘Hannah,’ said her mother once the fridge door had slammed shut. ‘Mr Paget tells me you have not returned his calls.’

  Each time her mother’s dentist had called, she’d got someone to tell him she was out. The Eastern European girls were quite wonderful at it. Trying hard not to giggle, they adopted thicker accents than they actually had.

  ‘Mother, I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘You sound just like your father. He was always busy.’

  ‘That figures. He ran a multi-million dollar industry,’ she muttered while scraping bits of sausage and bacon rind into the bin.

  ‘And left me almost destitute!’

  ‘Hardly that. He allowed you what he could. After all, he only managed the company.’

  Her mother grimaced. ‘Keep your voice down. Think of my image.’

  Honey rolled her eyes. Rumours that her mother’s former husbands had all been millionaires were exactly that – rumours put about by Gloria Cross herself. Image, as she insistently reminded her, was everything.

  ‘Well there you are! No one could blame me for finding solace in the arms of another man! Nothing can beat good and frequent sex for keeping a woman looking young. You should do more of it yourself.’

  Hearing this, a soapy plate slid from the washer up’s fingers. The top plate from the greasy pile followed it.

  Gloria Cross jerked her chin at the smashed plates. ‘Two plates. That’s bad luck. Everything should come in threes.’ A hand encompassed in pink rubber reached for a plate.

  Before the deed could be done, Honey had grabbed it with both hands.

  ‘Plates cost money.’

  ‘Yer mother may have a point,’ said Clint, his shaved head wreathed in steam from the dishwasher. ‘It’s Friday the 13th today. Unlucky for some,’ he said with a smile, and winked.