Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

‘So you saw them then?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Did any of those parcels need a signature – you know – registered requiring a signature?’

  ‘Yep. But they never answered the door. So I left it with Mrs Hicks from across the road.’

  John was surprised. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’ he asked.

  Gavin looked at him as though unsure whether he was accusing him of lacking responsibility or whether as an American he didn’t know much about Royal Mail postmen.

  ‘Look, mate. There’s nobody here in Northend during the day. Everybody works so they can pay their mortgages and for their kids’ private education. There’s only a few old stagers here during daylight hours; retired people that have lived here all their lives. Like Mrs Hicks. Been here forever, she ’ave. When I couldn’t get a reply, she’d step forward, sign for receipt of said parcel, and make sure it was delivered. She never failed me. Never.’

  He looked down disconsolately into his drink and shook his head. ‘I just hope she delivered it this time OK.’

  ‘What did Mrs Hicks think of the murder victims?’ Honey asked.

  Shaking his head he wiped the foamy beer from his lips.

  ‘She said she never saw hide nor hair of them during the day. The only things that convinced her somebody was there was that the lights went on at night.’

  ‘Was that the first parcel you’d ever delivered there? The first one that Mrs Hicks had delivered for you?’ Honey asked him.

  ‘I’d delivered parcels there before when old Miss Porter owned the place, but this was the first one for the new people.’

  ‘So where does she live; this Mrs Hicks?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Just across the road. Number four. Only she’s not there. I haven’t seen her since she delivered that last parcel. Bit odd, that. I’ve never known her not be there. She’s always there. Always has been.’

  Honey could see that he was genuinely concerned. ‘Perhaps she’s gone on holiday or to stay with relatives.’

  Gavin shook his head. ‘That’s what I thought, though she weren’t known for gallivanting around. I’m not even sure she had any relatives, and if she did, they didn’t bother much with her. I’ve asked around. Though they say she pops off now and again, she usually says for a short holiday – something like that. But this time nobody knows where she’s gone. Perry’s gone too. Where she goes, he goes.’

  ‘Is Perry her husband?’ asked Honey.

  ‘No. Perry – Peregrine – is her cat.’ He paused, his big eyes opening even wider. ‘You don’t think they dragged her inside – you know – and buried her in the cellar?’

  It was John who shook his head. ‘I went down into the cellar on the night we attended that party. There was nothing down there.’

  Gavin wolfed down his drink and shook his head again. ‘That’s a relief, though it’s still a worry where she might have gone – if she’s gone anywhere What worries me is that there she was delivering a parcel on behalf of the Royal Mail, and after that – no sign of her. My girlfriend reckons they must be vampires – seeing as nobody saw them except at night. If so, I feel guilty for getting the old dear to do my job for me. Real guilty.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting in her car sipping from a wine bottle across from Moss End Hotel, wasn’t exactly Honey’s idea of fun, but her brain was buzzing. Old Mrs Hicks hadn’t been seen since the day before Boris and Doris Crooks were killed. This gave rise to two particular questions; where was Mrs Hicks now, and what had been in the parcel.

  John had suggested doing a door to door enquiry – just like the police. Honey pointed out to him that seeing as nobody was at home at this time of day, there didn’t seem to be much point. Anyway, it was the police’s lot to stick to normal procedure; it was theirs to be more radical in their approach.

  John rang the Royal Mail sorting office to ask if there was any way of finding out what was in the parcel. A curt voice on the other end told him he had no chance whatsoever. ‘Unless it was insured.’

  ‘And you’d tell us then?’ John asked.

  ‘Only if it got lost and the sender needed to make a claim. Are you the sender?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘Sorry. No can do.’

  The connection was sharply cut – almost as though the person in customer service on the other end had a pair of scissors to hand in case of such eventuality.

  Sid Small, the landlord had pointed them in the direction of a few elderly people in the village. ‘Old Tom Pratt might have some idea. They were close years back – so local gossip tells.’

  He’d winked at them to emphasise the point that the old folk of the village hadn’t always been keen gardeners and whist players, but slim, sexy, and hot for action.

  Old Tom looked after the gardens of people who had no time to look after gardens themselves. It was his daily habit that once he was paid he took himself along to the Northend Inn for a quick pint before closing time. Town centre pubs might stay open all hours, but the village local stayed open purely to fit in with the habits of the residents.

  They’d had it on good authority that he would totter through the village shortly en route for his habitual pint before taking an afternoon nap. Sid Small had assured them they would catch him just right if they parked where they were now.

  Honey regarded the reflections of clouds from first floor windows of the building across the way. The two attic windows looked like blank square eyes. The ground floor windows were totally hidden behind the high wall and the solid metal gate.

  ‘I can hear you thinking,’ John said to her.

  ‘I was thinking about the signs of occupancy in one of those attic bedrooms. I wonder if Mrs Hicks had been kept there before …’

  ‘We don’t know that she’s been abducted – or killed.’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Do the police know of her existence?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. After all, she was supposed to deliver the parcel the day before they were murdered so any questions relating to that parcel are irrelevant to the case in hand – I think.’

  ‘Though you’re not sure.’

  Honey offered the bottle of wine to John. He declined and she’d had enough. She screwed the top back onto the bottle and slid it beneath her seat.

  It was nice being with him, but suddenly she wanted some distance. She needed to think – and not just about the case in hand. Still, John had been good enough to come along. It must have ruined his after lunch plans. Perhaps that was why she wanted this over. The after lunch plans were no longer attractive.

  ‘What next?’ he asked.

  If it was a personal question, she wasn’t answering it. Stick to the crime.

  ‘We still have Rhino to consider – when Doherty catches up with him.’ She twiddled her thumbs as she eyed the house opposite. ‘Wouldn’t it be just great if we could look over that place again – now there’s nobody at home.’

  ‘Are you suggesting something illegal?’

  Her eyes and a mischievous smile slid in his direction.

  ‘We could wait until we speak to old Tom.’

  John nodded to an elderly figure walking along the length of the wall. ‘Which, according to the description we were given, seems pretty imminent.’

  Old Tom was using a walking stick to propel himself along. One of his legs was stiff, swinging out to one side with every step.

  They got out of the car.

  ‘Mr Pratt?’

  The old man looked taken by surprise, perhaps trying to place their faces and wondering whether one of the gardens he looked after belonged to them.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asked while peering at them through thick spectacle lenses.

  ‘We’re looking for a Mrs Hicks. We’ve knocked at her door but can’t make anyone here. You don’t know where she might be do you?’

  Old Tom – Mr Pratt – blinked as though he were proc
essing what they’d asked him.

  ‘She don’t go nowhere.’

  ‘Well she isn’t there now.’

  ‘That’s her business. If she don’t want to be there, then she don’t need to be. Now push off and leave ’er alone.’

  ‘We’re just concerned …’

  He lifted his stick, brandishing it as he might a garden hoe at a particularly pernicious weed.

  ‘Push off!’

  Sat in the safety of her car, Honey got to thinking again. As far as she could make out, there was only one option left as regards finding the whereabouts of Mrs Hicks. She had to hand it to Doherty – on a plate. Tonight at dinner.

  She felt John’s eyes on her. ‘You’re thinking again.’

  ‘I tend to do that now and again, and the funny thing is that once I start, I just can’t seem to stop.’

  She laughed lightly, unwilling to let John know she was meeting Doherty this evening.

  Honey started the engine and turned the wheel for home. Tonight would be the first time she’d seen Doherty socially since she’d bashed up his car. Tonight would be dressed to kill night; pull out all the stops. Red carpet dress over minimal underwear. She only hoped it would be enough to make amends.

  Avoid conversation about the car; stick to the job in hand. She would not admit to having had lunch with John of course. As far as Doherty was concerned, she had used her own initiative and asked questions out at Northend all by herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Honey told Doherty all about Mrs Hicks’ disappearance.

  ‘Do you know the identity of the person dossing in the attic bedroom?’

  ‘We’ve taken fingerprint samples and DNA, but one thing I can tell you is that it wasn’t Mrs Hicks. It wasn’t a woman. Big fingers. My guess is that it was Rhino dossing there after doing one of his “deliveries”. The fingerprints will confirm that.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Do you know what was in this parcel she delivered?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No idea and the sorting office wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘You rang them?’

  ‘Of course I did. It seemed the logical thing to do.’

  She carefully avoided looking at him while telling the lie. Phoning Royal Mail had been John’s idea.

  ‘So! You’ve had a busy day what with asking questions at the pub in Northend. It’s a wonder you’ve had time to eat. You must be ravenous. I’ve ordered the full four courses. Their prawn starter is huge. Then I’ve ordered a rack of lamb each and all the trimmings followed by a trio of desserts – I know you have a sweet tooth. And then it’s chocolates and coffee with cream and a liqueur. With wine of course. White to start with, then red … how does that suit?’

  There was something disconcerting about his smile.

  ‘That’s quite a feast.’

  Too much! She’d had a good lunch. She’d intended having something light – smoked salmon, omelette, perhaps fish. And one course.

  He patted her hand. She was instantly suspicious. Doherty didn’t pat her hand – ever. Other parts of her body, yes. But not her hand.

  ‘I presumed you wouldn’t get much to eat seeing as you had a business appointment.’

  He was up to something. He was definitely up to something.

  ‘So what did you have for lunch?’

  There was something about his tone that was too smooth, too cajoling – as though he were planning something – or had planned something.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Just a quick sandwich. I was so keen to get out to Northend and ask a few questions. Apparently the postman was in the habit of having Mrs Hicks sign for parcels and leave them with her to deliver. By the way, have you managed to have a word with that man Rhino yet? I mean, he’d bound to show up shortly – isn’t he?’

  She said it as brightly as she could preferring to steer him away from the subject of lunch. In case she looked guilty. In case she let something slip.

  ‘Shortly? Well that depends.’

  ‘On what?’ she asked without dropping her smile.

  ‘On how much you gave him for the information. You did pay him for the information – didn’t you?’

  ‘Ummm.’

  ‘How much?’

  Honey cleared her throat, fully prepared to make a clean breast of it.

  ‘Thirty pounds.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Did I do that bad?’

  Doherty leaned back in his chair. He’d only picked at his meal, but the wine was going down well.

  ‘Rhino can live for a month on thirty quid. We need to find him. This deal he had with the Crooks has to have some bearing on the case. You should have told me sooner.’

  ‘Your uniformed people should have listened to him. They dismissed him just because …’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘He smells.’

  Doherty pushed his plate away and looked disconsolately around the room, an elegant room with white table linen, soft music, and seemingly unchanged since the Prince Regent was a lad.

  ‘OK. I admit errors were made. But you should have told me sooner. Obviously you were preoccupied with other things – and people.’

  ‘Your car,’ Honey began hesitantly assuming this was what he was referring to. ‘Is it fully recovered?

  She bit her lip as she regarded him from under a lock of glossy dark hair.

  ‘It’s fully repaired, thanks to Ahmed, who I would use again – despite the drawbacks.’

  ‘Drawbacks?’

  ‘I told him I felt like singing, which set him off singing to me. Twice! Apparently some fool told him he was a dead cert for Bollywood. ‘

  ‘Well there’s a thing.’

  He narrowed his eyes and fixed them on her. She felt like an insect being pinned to a board.

  ‘Don’t tell me. Not only are you a budding amateur sleuth, you’re also a theatrical entrepreneur.’

  Honey began to explain, waving her hands with each word as though doing so would bat them out of the way.

  ‘All I said to him was …’

  Doherty held up a hand, palm outermost. ‘Spare me the details. It’s water under the bridge and before you offer me your body and everything else to get back in my good books…’

  ‘Now just a minute. You are not the be all and end all of a girl’s dreams …’

  ‘You can’t resist me. Go on. Admit it.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve …’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

  The question was unexpected and knocked her breathless. ‘I’ve nothing planned except that my mother was wittering on about her friend who’s mislaid her husband …’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘He’s gone walkabout. To find himself. And in his eighties at that. He left a note.’

  ‘You’ve got to take your hat off to the guy.’ Doherty nodded in that understanding way men do when they figure they’ve discovered a kindred spirit.

  ‘His wife doesn’t quite see things that way. She’s seriously into comfort eating at present, though she is fastidious in her taste; Marks and Spencer cream cakes only.’

  ‘They’re the best. She hasn’t reported him as a missing person?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. What with the cakes and believing he’ll come back when the weather turns cold – apparently she still has his bedsocks – she hasn’t felt the need.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment. Would you believe we’ve got a chainsaw maniac on the prowl?’

  ‘Oh my God! I hadn’t heard or read anything about it. Who’s he sawing up?’

  Doherty poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Gnomes. Plastic garden gnomes, and all at the same address.’

  Honey digested the information. She decided she could feel quite sympathetic about old style clay or plaster gnomes being sawn into pieces, but plastic gnomes? Somehow they deserved it.

  Honey pushed her hair back from her face and took a deep breath. She felt relieved. Casper
would have preferred becoming an all in wrestler rather than face a real serial killer doing the rounds.

  ‘Unfortunate for the gnomes,’ she said. ‘But hardly important. So to get back to the job in hand; what have you got scheduled for tomorrow?’

  ‘Miss Porter has agreed to be interviewed, but insisted I brought you with me. She knows you, apparently.’

  Honey fingered the stem of her glass and nodded. ‘From Bonhams Auction rooms. We sometimes used to be rivals, though not for those dreadful pots she bought. Whatever possessed her I don’t know. She used to be so discerning with her purchases, though determined too. Once she’d set her mind on something, she went all out to get it. Hence why she entered “last bid” on those two urns: it must have been a senior moment. Definitely a case of approaching ODAF.’

  He looked at her for enlightenment.

  ‘Old, dotty, and forgetful.’

  ‘A genuine mistake?’

  ‘Possibly. I don’t know what she paid for them, but one thing’s for sure – they’re carbon fibre. I’m thinking they were made for a film set, a shop window display, a photo shoot – something of that ilk. Alistair would be able to enlighten us on where they came from.’

  ‘The bloke from Bonhams?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  They both fell to silence, each harbouring thoughts that had as much to do with each other as with the case in hand.

  Honey felt in something of a quandary. She asked herself, should I break the ice and admit to going out with John Rees?

  The ice was broken for her.

  ‘So. Bought any good books lately?’

  She squirmed. The question had popped up from nowhere and that look of his was pinning her to the back of her chair.

  She attempted to laugh it away. ‘Now when have I got time to read a book? The odd download I suppose when I’m lying in bed … alone … with nothing else to do.’

  The inference was obvious; there was nobody in her bed at night – just her and an e-book.

  It was no good. Those eyes were dissecting her thoughts – either that or he was having a go at telepathy and she was receiving the message loud and clear.

  ‘OK. I own up. I had lunch with John Rees.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking,’ he said, falling back into his chair as though it had been a purely casual question.