Brotherly Blood

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Suddenly he turned round. ‘Damn them all! I don’t care what happens. You deserve to know the truth!’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Nice day. Nice car.’

  Fred Cromer, the garage owner in the village of Wyvern Wendell was placing the keys to a vintage Ford Capri back on one of a line of brass hooks above his oil covered work bench.

  ‘Early model,’ he said as his eyes swept over the smooth looking bloke who had brought in his car to have checked for an oil leak. It seemed odd that such a handsome car – a BMW at that – would have anything wrong with it. Still, the customer was always right.

  Dominic nodded at the Capri. ‘Yours?’

  Fred Cromer beamed. He was rightly proud of the old car.

  ‘It is. I hire it out. Just in case you’re interested.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having a go.’

  Dominic Christiansen ran his hand over the bonnet. With the other hand he paid his bill.

  ‘It’s still warm. Has it been hired out today?’

  Cromer nodded. ‘This morning.’

  The government employee, light on his feet, followed him into the dark interior of the ramshackle garage. His own car was shoved forward from a deep pit, the keys in it, ready for a quick getaway

  Somewhere beneath the accumulation of grease and oil was a concrete floor. Car and engine parts sat on wooden benches and shelves fashioned from roughly hewn wood.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks. Have you had the car long?’

  ‘Bought it about three months ago from some young fellah who was digging around here. Irish, I think he was. A lot of these hippy types, students for the most part, came here when they were doing a bit of digging around the Torrington estate. Sold me this van just before he shoved off.’ He indicated a Volkswagen Camper Van. ‘Another classic. I do love a classic car. Made to last they were. No bits and bobs of electronic stuff to make it go. Sheer mechanics. Bit over the top though, all these flowers and things. But that’s hippies for you.’

  Christiansen nodded. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘I’ve got ‘is log book with ‘is name on and everything.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Fred Cromer looked at the suave young man with narrowed eyes.

  ‘You a copper?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well for a start I can’t find anything wrong with your car, and secondly you ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Ok. I admit it. Now tell me more. Describe him, this Irish man.’

  Cromer ran the back of his hand beneath his nostrils and sniffed.

  ‘Had long light brown hair, a beard and wore those wire framed glasses like John Lennon used to,’ said Fred whilst wiping the excess grease from his hands. ‘And a bandana around his head. You know. Usual stuff. Baggy jeans. Sandals. Makes me laugh. There they all are, these hippies pretending to be different than normal folk, and all ending up looking the same as each other. Silly buggers.’

  Christiansen stood with his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed. He was thinking how much more he knew about the previous owner of the camper van than Fred did.

  ‘What name did he give you?’

  The way he’d formulated the question made Fred look up from his hands.

  ‘You sound as though ‘e might ‘ave ‘ad loads of different names.’

  ‘Hippies don’t always give the name they were given at birth. Not dramatic enough. I’ve heard of guys called Soft Voiced Sid, Radillion Rainbow; all manner of different handles.’

  ‘Ah! I see what you mean. Patrick Casey. Yes,’ he said after further thought, ‘that was it. Patrick Casey. It’ll be on the log book too. And the address.’

  Christiansen felt a jolt of hope run through him. He knew that neither the name nor the address were authentic. The Tarot Man was good at covering his tracks – whether in his professional or casual capacity.

  Dominic paid the bill and didn’t wait for the change. Fred saw only the tail lights of the sleek car fading into the rain.

  On the way back to the cottage he was living in for the duration of this project, Christiansen stopped off at the telephone box and rang the usual number. A crisp voice answered. He told him what he intended doing.

  ‘You can’t tell her any more than you’ve told her already. We need her to flush him out.’

  ‘Surely it’s only fair that she knows what he looks like. She has to know what she’s up against.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Honey woke up shivering to the sound of the wind howling and the casement window thrashing back and forth. She was still dressed, a fact that somehow surprised her. She remembered going to the pub and asking questions, but surely she’d arranged to go straight home afterwards?

  She recalled it being too late and ending up begging a room at Torrington Towers. She also vaguely recalled having a meal and a bottle of cheap wine.

  Her throbbing temples were proof enough that the wine hadn’t been very good. She presumed that Miss Vincent or one of the other women had dumped her in here on the bed.

  The room was in darkness, but surely it was morning? Surely she hadn’t slept all night?

  Her phone began ringing. She reached out for the table lamp, switched it on and picked up the phone.

  ‘Mother. Are you OK?’

  Lindsey sounded agitated. Placing a cool hand on her aching forehead, Honey tried to remember a time when she’d ever heard her daughter sounding so agitated.

  ‘Mother. Where are you?’

  ‘At Torrington Towers. You see, I went to the pub last night to ask a few questions, and...’

  ‘Mother. Get out of there. Get back here as fast as you can.’

  Honey went to the window and pulled back a curtain. The branches of trees were blowing wildly in the wind and stair rods of rain were coming down sideways.

  ‘Lindsey, I’m not quite finished yet. My, the weather’s certainly taken a turn for the worst.’

  ‘Mother, never mind the weather. If you don’t get in your car right this minute, I’m coming down to get you. You’re out of your depth. Completely out of your depth. You see, Professor Lionel Jefferies wasn’t Jefferies and Caspar’s brother wasn’t who he was either. It’s a trap, Mother. A trap to get...’

  The line went dead. The flashing green light told Honey the battery had died.

  Head spinning, she fell back onto the pillow and closed her eyes.

  Behind her closed lids she thought about Lindsey’s phone call. There had been more than agitation in her daughter’s voice. There had also been fear.

  Honey sat up too swiftly, sending her head swimming.

  Swinging her legs over, feet hitting the floor, her head swam and taking deep breaths didn’t help very much. The most positive thing she could think of to do was to take deep breaths; at the same time willing her eyes to stop acting as though she were swinging on a trapeze, and settle down. Once they did settle down and she could focus, she spotted a note left on the bedside table. It was from Miss Vincent.

  The editor of the Western Daily Press called. He said you can get him at home this evening. Hereunder is his home number. He says he has some important information for you. Urgent.

  Honey frowned. What information? He’d already apologised to Caspar, so what else did he need to do?

  Her mind was like a notebook. She went through the possibilities quickly simply because there weren’t that many. The only possibility was that the editor had discovered the identity of the person who had passed misinformation to the reporter. Someone had given the reporter a lead, but who did and why?

  Unfortunately her mobile phone was dead so no chance of using that.

  Miss Vincent had fought her way through the foul weather and informed Honey that the lines were down so she couldn’t use the landline.

  ‘Do you have a mobile phone?’ Honey asked.

  Miss Vincent looked at her as though she’d suggested something quite lewd might be happening ov
er breakfast.

  ‘And nobody else is in. You could use the payphone in the cafeteria. That might still be working.’

  If it hadn’t been so important, and if Miss Vincent hadn’t lent her a pair of stout Wellington boots and an oversize raincoat, Honey would have stayed put until the storm had blown itself out. Reminding herself that this was England and that the storm could last for days, she decided she had no choice.

  Swamped in wet weather gear, she trudged off in boots two sizes too big for her, head bowed against the howling gale and driving rain.

  The payphone was not exactly in the cafeteria but adjacent to a stone wall some distance hence and very much outside.

  In an effort to hold with tradition, it was one of the old red telephone boxes, a ploy to tempt the visitor away from their mobile phone and enjoy a bit of nostalgia. Honey couldn’t see that getting soaked through was much of a nostalgia trip, but hey, what did she know.

  Heaving open the door to the telephone box was a two handed job. It weighed a ton!

  Luckily the phone box took credit cards; nostalgia wasn’t everything and the modern visitor wasn’t likely to have enough change.

  Honey rang the number and asked for Geoffrey Monmouth, the man who would disclose the source of his story. If she was guessing correctly the source must have had a reason for imparting the wrong information and only Geoffrey Monmouth knew his source’s identity.

  Someone answered and told her that Geoffrey was away at present covering a body found in a mud slide somewhere in Shropshire.

  Honey asked where he was staying and was given the address and telephone number of a pub in Much Wenlock.

  ‘And I’m going to stay there too,’ Honey said out loud once the old fashioned phone was back in its cradle. It did pain her that she didn’t have time to phone the Green River, just to check that everything was alright, but she trusted her daughter to take care of things. Her aim was to travel to Shropshire and take a room in the same pub as Geoffrey Monmouth. Face to face he wouldn’t have the nerve to lie or fob her off.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The Tarot Man was already there.

  The engine of the old red truck idled as he checked things out. The inn where the archaeology team had stayed looked the most likely place to start.

  If the interior of The Black Dog was any reflection of the exterior, there wasn’t much to look forward to. The paint was peeling. The dog on the old wooden sign looked as though it had mange, the paint from one ear hanging like a ribbon covering one jowl. He swung into the parking lot ranged along the front. The white painted lines delineating the spaces were as decrepit as the inn sign. Two vehicles were parked out front. One of them was a tractor.

  It had been a long journey. The ground was firm beneath his feet and it felt good to stretch his long legs, tense and release the muscles and take a deep breath of evening air.

  Behind the roof of the pub the branches of trees made bare by an early north wind spread like black veins against a blushing sky.

  Without bothering to lock the truck door behind him, - this was a village after all, not a big city where anything with wheels was fair game, he headed for the warmth of the pub.

  The door was oak panelled, grey with age and braced with reinforcements of cast iron.

  Heads turned as he and the night invaded the clogging warmth and staleness.

  Conversation ceased immediately. He guessed they didn’t get many visitors through here. The finding of a murdered girl was probably the most sensational thing that had happened here in years.

  He bid them good evening. They looked surprised that he was well spoken as they eyed him suspiciusly. Not that they went overboard to be friendly, though one or two bobbed their heads. Their mouths remained tightly shut. He didn’t let it get to him. He’d been in other out-of-the-way places where everyone knew everyone else and strangers were observed and not accepted until their credentials were known.

  Isolation didn’t so much breed contempt as insularity, an inbuilt wariness of those not sharing the same history, the same family name, the same sins and introvert thoughts.

  Despite television, good transport and the telephone, old habits die hard. Old hostilities towards outsiders stayed pretty much the same.

  He could feel it in their eyes as he made for the bar and ordered a beer. They were as wary as the people of the Middle Ages would have been, wondering who he was, what he was doing here, what sort of trouble he would stir up. Would he steal their money, rape their women?

  A log fire crackled and spat in a cast iron dog grate set into an inglenook fireplace. A live dog – a Jack Russell, pricked its ears and met his eyes.

  Something unseen and unheard by anyone else passed between them. The dog whined, got up and resettled beneath a fireside stool.

  He addressed the woman behind the bar. ‘Do you have rooms?’

  She had a double chin, greasy with sweat and pink, either from drink or sitting too close to the fire. He favoured the first theory.

  Her small blue eyes stayed fixed on him as she nodded. Her lashes were golden blond – like ripe straw and just as spiky. She looked surprised by his request and uncertain whether she should let him have one, until he got out his wallet.

  ‘Cash,’ she said, her eyes now fixed on the wad of money emerging from a handsome leather wallet.

  Her fat fingers folded over the bills before slipping them into the pink patch between her breasts.

  ‘I’ll need a name.’

  ‘Geoffrey Monmouth.’

  ‘First floor, second door on the left,’ she said handing him a key.

  He recalled the white painted sign outside. ‘Bar Food Available.’

  ‘Are you still serving food?’

  ‘It’s a bit late but I can do you a ploughmans.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Cheese or ham?’

  He chose ham. ‘And a pint of beer.’

  ‘Do you want it in your room?’

  ‘No. Here.’

  After sliding over some more money, he took his beer and made for an unoccupied table.

  The table was round and small – possibly the smallest in the bar and he had trouble tucking his legs beneath it.

  A slight murmur of conversation resumed, though it was still subdued. To his ears it sounded like the humming of a piece of machinery or an old fashioned tape recorder, the sort with big reels that made a hissing sound.

  The ham ploughman’s came; crusty bread, yellow butter, thickly sliced ham with just enough fat, a little salad, a lot of pickle, a touch of coleslaw.

  The beer was warm and straight from the barrel. It would be the only beer that night. He needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to ask questions, though subtly and without arousing suspicion.

  He left the bar following the sign saying ‘Residents Only.’

  The room had a floor that creaked with each footstep. A double bed, clean white pillowcases, an old television sitting on a chest of drawers, a wardrobe – possibly Edwardian vintage – definitely pre First World War; a chair and a card hanging from the headboard of the bed stating that the bathroom was to the left along the landing. No en suite facilities. He hadn’t expected anything else.

  He lifted the curtain and looked outside, his eyes searching the shadows thrown by trees and thick bushes on the other side of the road. There were few streetlights. The denser part of the darkness formed frames around squares of light falling from cottage windows. Twilight was turning into night. The village was locked down for the night – which seemed strange.

  It was Halloween yet no kids were out trick or treating. Down in the bar he’d seen a black and white notice on the wall advertising a Halloween party, yet no one down there was dressed in costume and he’d detected less than a party spirit.

  The silence was suddenly disturbed by the sound of a car. The Tarot Man looked in the direction it was coming from. A pair of small headlights popped like a pair of surprised eyes through the darkness. A yellow Citroen
slid to a halt beside the old red truck. Honey Driver had arrived. She’d got the message. Things were about to get interesting.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘Hi,’ said Honey, bouncing into the bar as though she was a regular. ‘I phoned you about a room. You have kept it for me, have you?’

  The woman behind the bar exchanged looks with all the other heads that had turned to give Honey the once over.

  Honey noticed the cessation of conversation. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  The woman behind the bar looked away from the curiosity of her customers and back to Honey.

  ‘It’s just that we don’t get many people asking for rooms at this time of year. Do you want food as well?’

  ‘If it’s available.’

  ‘I can do a ploughman’s.’

  ‘That’ll do nicely. I don’t suppose you sell wine by the glass,’ she said as she handed over the money.

  ‘The Black Dog don’t even do wine by the bottle,’ somebody said.

  There were chuckles and grins.

  ‘The room’s at the back,’ said the woman. ‘It’s not as big as the one at the front, but I’ve already let that. Would you like your ploughman’s by the fire?’

  It seemed a good idea. No wine, so Honey settled for a port and lemon; a bit of a tart’s drink, but needs must.

  ‘On holiday?’ the landlady asked her, suspicion written all over her face.

  ‘Business,’ Honey said. ‘I’m a tax inspector.’

  Heads turned aside at her pronouncement. One or two downed their drinks and left. Honey smiled to herself, confident she wouldn’t attract any further questions. She had time to think.

  ‘You said you’ve already let the other room. Was it to a man named Geoffrey Monmouth?’

  The landlady eyed her suspiciously. Being in the hospitality trade herself, Honey could read her thoughts. She thought this was an assignation; two separate rooms booked but only one bed likely to be slept in. Two married people were the norm, though not married to each other.

  Honey decided to enlighten her. ‘He’s a journalist.

  The landlady almost looked disappointed. ‘Oh. I suppose he’s up here about the girl they found.’