Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think we’ve been introduced,’ said Honey.

  ‘Clara Witchell. I do believe I was his first.’ She didn’t offer to shake hands.

  First of what, wondered Honey? One possibility loomed higher than any other. Thinking it rude to presume, at the same time as introducing herself, she asked what first Clare Witchell might possibly be referring to.

  ‘His lover. Women were very fond of Tarquin. And he was fond of them. Not that he maintained any long term associations. He couldn’t, seeing as he disappeared for months, even years, at a time. An odd fellow. Odd life.’

  Honey recalled the nickname Mrs Cromer had imparted. The Thoroughbred Stud.

  ‘So he travelled a lot.’

  The woman nodded. ‘A very great deal and very often. He was very clever with languages you know. Quite debonair too, a true jet setter. You know, yachts, nightclubs, pretty girls...but he always came back here. He loved this house.’

  Honey eyed the formidable looking turrets of Torrington Towers, the family’s stately home.

  Clare Witchell had a very direct look. ‘Am I right in thinking you’re a friend of his brother?’

  Her question took Honey off-guard. She didn’t know anyone here except Caspar so hadn’t expected anyone to know her.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘Two entirely different sorts. Both debonair in their own way, but Tarquin was fun; Casino Royale as opposed to Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.’

  It seemed an odd comparison to make, but Honey let it pass until she rethought the Casino Royale aspect.

  ‘Did he play cards?’

  Clara laughed a deep throaty laugh. ‘You mean did he gamble? Oh yes. He gambled all right.’ Her eyes sparkled. Honey wondered at the kind of man who made a woman’s eyes sparkle even after he was dead.

  ‘Ordinary playing cards?’

  ‘What other sort are there?’

  Honey recalled the card found on the dead man’s body.

  ‘Tarot cards?’

  Clara shook her head. ‘Oh no. Tarquin was a very realistic though sensory man, the sort who makes the future rather than foretelling it.’

  The two women regarded the pile of wood.

  ‘They’ll be lighting it soon,’ Honey said to her.

  ‘Very theatrical,’ Clara said softly. ‘He’d like that.’

  Two very splendid Hindu gentlemen wearing yellow turbans were doing the honours. The whole thing was strange, exotic and unconventional and not everyone gathered there approved.

  ‘Outrageous! Not English! What was the boy thinking of?’ The speaker was a round man with a flushed face and handlebar moustache. He looked like a retired colonel, the sort who gave orders but didn’t do anything too physical.

  ‘That’s Uncle Theobald,’ Clara informed her. ‘He’s a bit deaf and very old-school. I didn’t think he would approve.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were any living relatives,’ said Honey.

  ‘Oh, there are. Though some of them only get wheeled out of the closet for christenings, weddings and funerals. They’re the last of the old generation and for the rest of the time they’re best left locked away!’

  Although the comment was just a little cruel, Honey couldn’t help smiling. No wonder Caspar was the way he was.

  ‘It’s what he would have liked,’ Clara went on. ‘The alternative was a plot of earth marked by half a ton of carved stone cross.’

  Honey concurred. ‘At least this way he’s going up in a blaze of glory – so to speak. Well, certainly a blaze.’

  Clara agreed.

  Honey deduced they were now on familiar terms so threw in a question.

  ‘Who do you think killed him?’

  Clara sighed. ‘Well, knowing the man he was...’

  ‘Which you certainly seemed to do,’ Honey said by way of encouragement. Flattery always helped loosen tongues and suggesting Clara knew the deceased better than anyone seemed a good idea.

  ‘An angry husband, boyfriend or father. Or it could have been something to do with his work.’

  Honey frowned. ‘I thought he’d inherited a fortune and didn’t need to work.’

  ‘Everyone needs to work my dear and darling Tarquin was not the sort to vegetate, burying himself in the country behind these splendid walls and dealing with the tenant farmers and villagers.’

  ‘Was the safari park his idea?’

  ‘His father’s. The only way the family could hold onto the place.

  A small boy also wearing Hindu garb led the two Hindu firelighters towards the pyre while solemnly beating a drum.

  Honey gazed around beyond the garden wall where the turrets of Torrington Towers pierced the treeline.

  ‘I would have stayed here. It’s lovely.’

  ‘Then you haven’t got the same itchy feet that he had. He was an adventurer through and through. Not that he talked much about his adventures – not in any great detail.’

  ‘Do you know who he worked for?’

  Clara suddenly eyed her curiously. ‘Well don’t you know, my dear?’

  Honey blinked. ‘No. Whatever made you think that?’

  Clara’s grey eyes deepened to velvet. Her look was cool and calculating.

  ‘Simply because you ask so many questions.’

  ‘Call me an interested party.’ Honey couldn’t help the guilty blush that stained her cheeks.

  The clock in the tower above the stable yard struck noon the allotted time for the fire to start.

  An aged aunt pushed herself into sight between Honey and the fire. She had orange hair and the figure of a rubber banana.

  ‘I am Great Aunt Maude,’ she intoned in a high squeaky voice. ‘You may kiss me.’

  ‘I don’t think...’ Honey protested. It was no good. There was no escaping the long arms that clasped her to a bony bosom. Her cheek was as soft as a peach and she smelled of cologne. What with the orange hair, the long arms and the hairy face, Honey was reminded of an orang-utan. Only the over applied cologne helped dispel the image.

  Caspar stood straight and silent surrounded by relatives. Judging by the look on his face he wished they would vanish.

  However, it was impossible for him to escape. The words of condolence kept coming.

  ‘At last,’ Honey murmured under her breath as the pyre was finally lit. The flames were hot and high.

  Nobody prayed.

  Nobody sang hymns.

  ‘A trifle heathen,’ somebody said.

  ‘Tarquin was a heathen,’ somebody else muttered under their breath.

  Once the logs were cracking, Caspar sauntered over with a glass of champagne in his hand with which he had toasted his brother’s personal barbecue.

  ‘Thank God that’s all over,’ he muttered. ‘Now. Have you found out anything?’

  Honey frowned. His tone was very abrupt and slightly disrespectful given their present circumstances.

  Caspar read her expression.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. My brother and I never got on. In fact I would go so far as to say we didn’t like each other very much.’

  ‘But you still want to find out who killed him even though you didn’t like him?’

  Caspar looked oddly taken aback. ‘Um. Yes.’ His fluster was uncharacteristic. He was usually so forthright and always chose the right words.

  He immediately seemed to collect himself.

  ‘Of course I do. Blood is thicker than water. However, my brother was insufferable. Totally selfish in fact and an out and out philanderer. I felt like killing him myself on many an occasion.’

  Honey raised her eyebrows. ‘The Thoroughbred Stud?’

  Caspar raised his eyes in surprise. ‘Who called him that?’

  ‘Everyone. I understand he didn’t spend much time here, that he was away a lot with the work he did.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He was a diplomat. Something to do with the Foreign Office. He was always away
at some embassy or another.’

  Ah, thought Honey. This was where Doherty’s suspicions were heading.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was necessary. Anyway, you might not have wanted to get involved. In my estimation only somebody on the outside is likely to find out what really happened. Government departments are famous for policing themselves and covering up anything that reflects badly on them.’

  What he was saying made perfect sense as to why Doherty had had trouble getting anyone at Devizes to tell him anything. No wonder he’d warned her against getting involved. This type of thing was way out of their league.

  One of the park wardens, the man who looked after the lions, came across to ask Caspar about the situation regarding the employees.

  ‘I didn’t think it was really the right time, but if you don’t mind....’ he mumbled while shuffling his feet.

  Caspar sighed impatiently. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘The thing is, do you think you’re likely to change things here? Do you think jobs might go?’

  ‘Perhaps now is not the time. The one thing I am sure of is that the paperwork will be tremendous.’

  Turning his back on the park ranger, he headed for the arched gate, a gaggle of mourners following after him.

  Doherty reappeared. ‘I don’t know about you, but all I’ve found out is that Caspar has a lot of dotty relatives. When can we go?’

  She glared accusingly up at him. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  His eyes turned darkly intense as though he had something to say and was just waiting for the right time to say it. Just as suddenly they became guarded.

  ‘My suggestion is that we head for the local pub for lunch and compare notes.’

  ‘Never mind the pub! I know when you’re hedging, Steve Doherty!’

  It wasn’t like her to lose her temper, but she was certainly losing it now.

  ‘No wonder you didn’t want to come here. You knew Tarquin was something at the Foreign Office and you wer warned off investigating. Isn’t that the truth?’

  Doherty shrugged his shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Confession time. Yes, I became aware that something was off kilter when Devizes gave me the run around, also when your smooth talking boyfriend turned up at the scene of the murder.’

  Honey paused for breath and to consider how swiftly Dominic Christiansen had charmed her with his looks and glossy accoutrements, i.e. a cool black BMW with shiny wheels, come to bed eyes and a muscular form beneath an Italian suit.

  ‘Are we into something very dangerous?’

  Doherty rubbed thoughtfully at his chin which today was clean shaven, no sign of his usual stubble.

  ‘What you’re asking is whether it’s too late to pull out.’

  ‘Am I?’

  She hadn’t really thought she was, but on reflection it seemed backing out was a sensible option if personal danger was likely to be involved. Government departments were either ruthless or careless when it came to matters of national security. Either one could get you killed.

  ‘I’ve already told you to back off, but will you?’

  Honey took only seconds to consider.

  ‘Caspar asked me so I have to stick with it.’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  The saying was a casual one that people used all the time in many contexts. The way Doherty said it now was deadly serious, but she’d given her promise. She just had to see this through.

  Chapter Ten

  It was a week or so later when Honey called in on Caspar at La Reine Rouge just to see how he was in the aftermath of his half-brother’s send-off.

  The duty receptionist rolled his eyes when she asked after Caspar’s wellbeing.

  ‘His temper could be better,’ said the coffee skinned young man with tight fitting trousers and a habit of patting his bright yellow hair.

  Honey made her way down to Caspar’s office, quietly rapping the door and waiting for his permission to enter before opening it.

  ‘Just an old friend to see you,’ she said poking her head around the door.

  It wasn’t like Caspar to be turned towards the window, his back to his desk although the courtyard garden beyond the window was lovely.

  He looked pale and there were dark rings beneath his eyes.

  ‘You look terrible. Have I come at a bad time?’

  ‘Yes. Not that it’s likely to go away if you go away. The bad time is here to stay. Thanks to the dutiful dictates of my brother!’

  Honey took a guess at what his brother might have done to annoy him so. Not leaving him anything? Who got the stately pile?

  ‘Is this something to do with your brother’s will?’

  Caspar’s face was like a punctured beach ball though far less colourful unless you considered thunder clouds as colourful.

  ‘He’s left me Torrington Towers.’

  ‘Well that was nice of him. You did say he was your half brother didn’t you? He didn’t have to leave you anything did he?’

  Caspar’s scowl deepened. ‘He’s left me the responsibility – subject to a proviso.’

  Rising from his chair he loomed over Honey like a preying-mantis, his eyes like dull grey marbles.

  Honey felt something – her courage possibly – shrinking inside.

  ‘My dearly departed brother put a clause in the Will that requires me to run the place for five years.’

  ‘Oh!’ Honey held her breath for a moment. Caspar was his own man. He didn’t like being organised by anyone, so being told he had to live in the ancestral home and run a safari park and other entertainments open to the public was not to his liking.

  ‘Five years?’

  That doleful nodding again. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘OK,’ said Honey not quite over the initial shock. ‘Plan B. How about getting rid of the animals, closing the safari park and taking it back to being a private house.’

  Even before she looked up at him, she knew she was going to see that doleful head shaking yet again.

  ‘Keeping and continuing to run the safari park is also a prerequisite of me inheriting Torrington Towers.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  The head shaking came to an abrupt end. ‘I never joke.’

  No, thought Honey. You never laugh either. Carefully she thought through her next question before pitching it.

  ‘And if you don’t move into the house?’

  ‘The whole lot goes to the National Trust.’

  It was a difficult thing to say, but Honey just had to say it.

  ‘Who needs a big old house anyway? It’s not your life. This is your life.’

  She spoke breezily and waved her hands around to signify that the building they were in was his life, not the house he’d known when he was growing up.

  Caspar was unmoved. ‘That’s not the point. Granted, fairgrounds and wild animals are not my thing, but it’s a matter of honour that I inherit.’ A glimmer of sadness flashed into his eyes and his Adam’s apple moved as though he was swallowing something that tasted very bitter. ‘I also owe it to my mother, God rest her soul.’

  ‘Oh!’ Honey was again speechless. Caspar was being emotional about another human being – his mother! Caspar hadn’t spoken of the circumstances surrounding his relationship to Tarquin.

  ‘Did Tarquin’s mother die at a young age?’

  Caspar looked startled. ‘Young age? The old cow lived till she was eighty.’

  ‘So your father and she divorced...’

  ‘No!’ Caspar’s jaw tightened as he grasped for the courage to tell the truth. ‘He and my mother never married. We lived in a cottage in the village. My father had visiting rights – to my mother as well as me. He hated Esme, his wife, but loved my mother.’ Suddenly he fixed her with an intense look. ‘You will never disclose this to anyone! Never!’

  Honey gulped. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Even your boyfriend.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’
She took a deep breath, ready to make amends. ‘So it’s a matter of pride, you getting the stately home.’

  ‘Most emphatically. It is said by those who have plenty that money doesn’t make one happy, but it certainly helps. Not that I am ever likely to warm to the idea of running the place. Oh, how mortifying.’

  Honey made as if to catch him as he slumped back down into his chair, both hands covering his face.

  ‘Five years of smelly animals and smelly visitors asking stupid questions about the house and family; children wanting pony rides and permission to touch the giraffe.

  ‘Perhaps he had good reason for leaving it to you. Perhaps he felt guilty about your mother and all...’

  He did not respond, his face hidden and his head in his hands.

  ‘Are you still prime suspect?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  In her opinion the police had every right to suspect him. He’d inherited a huge stately home on his half brother’s death. People would kill for that.

  She paused before leaving as a more mundane thought occurred to her.

  ‘Seeing as the situation currently seems set in stone, do you think you could see your way to giving me some free tickets? I could do with a day out.’

  ‘Get out!’

  Chapter Eleven

  In the deep dark depths beneath the rolling grassland of the Torrington estate, Dominic Christiansen tagged through the steel door that protected the entrance to the facility, went to the communications room and made his report.

  The man sitting across from him had dark arched eyebrows over wide set eyes. Beneath that, his face seemed to contract inwards ending in a sharply pointed chin. He perused the report thoughtfully.

  ‘So the Tarot Man is still around. You know he’s as nutty as a fruit cake, don’t you?’

  It wasn’t often the man known as GR to his subordinates – GR standing for Grave Robber on account of his skull like features – cracked a joke. He wasn’t the joking kind.

  Dominic was careful not to smile too widely.

  ‘I do.’ He wanted to add that perhaps they should inform the woman that her life was in danger, but the creaking gears of government intelligence regarded such disclosure as tantamount to treason. Nobody must know anything and nobody in this case meant any ordinary member of the public.