Blood and Broomsticks

by Jean G. Goodhind

  The spectacles, Honey noticed, had gone back into the bag. Her mother hated imperfections. She did see Honey looking.

  ‘Mother, that pair of spectacles take nothing away from the fact that you’re drop dead gorgeous. I’m sure Antonio would be intrigued.’

  ‘I intend looking drop dead gorgeous whether Antonio approves or not!’

  Pushed back firmly into her place, Honey looked at Mary Jane.

  ‘Not much seems to be happening,’ whispered Lindsey.

  ‘It takes time to tune in,’ Honey replied.

  Gloria shushed them. ‘She has to concentrate very deeply,’ she mouthed silently.

  Mary Jane seemed to have gone into a deeper trance than before, her head thrown back, arms fluttering like a butterfly trapped behind a glass screen.

  ‘Can she see through closed eyes?’ asked Lindsey.

  ‘No, of course not. She’s seeing with her inner eye.’

  ‘Her mind,’ Honey added, not so sure now that it was a good idea.

  Suddenly, Mary Jane began to wail. ‘Ohhhh! Ohhhh! Blood. Blood and broomsticks!’

  Grandmother, mother and daughter exchanged surprised looks. Honey shrugged her shoulders. ‘I presume she’s tuned in to the night of the party. A few witches were there – it was a Hallowe’en party as well as Alison’s birthday party. The blood is self-explanatory.’

  ‘Keep your voices down,’ whispered Gloria who seemed to be acting as a kind of master – or mistress – of ceremonies.

  ‘Oh, this is terrible. Those poor people. Three men all intent on doing away with them.’

  Honey was looking at her watch wondering how much rain was going to frizz her hair and trickle down her spine. Mention of there being three men changed her mind.

  Three? But surely there were only two? She told herself that she had only seen two, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a third. He could have gone round the back in order to block off their escape. She reminded herself that Rhino had exited by the back route. If a third man had been there, Rhino would not have got away.

  ‘Sparklers. Lovely, lovely sparklers. That’s what Doris is telling me. It’s all about lovely, lovely sparklers. And friends.’

  ‘What …?’ Honey was silenced. Her mother thrust a palm towards her in a stop gesture and went on to ask the question Honey had been about to ask.

  ‘What friends, Mary Jane? What friends?’

  ‘The sparklers. She’s telling me that the sparklers are best friends. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. It’s all over.’

  Mary Jane blinked herself back into reality.

  ‘Did I come up with anything useful?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Honey, ‘though I don’t know of anyone named Sparkler being attached to the case.’

  ‘Hannah! You really are dim at times! Sparklers are diamonds. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.’

  Honey slapped her hand on her forehead. ‘Of course, of course, of course!’

  She was about to phone Doherty and leave another voicemail if he was there, but stopped herself. He’d been downright cynical about using Mary Jane’s talents. So what was the next best thing to do? She decided it was to ask the other partygoers if they’d seen anything suspicious – a late arrival who just might have been in the company of two walking bed sheets.

  There was the sudden sound of squealing metal and all eyes turned to the gate.

  ‘Oh. I wondered who it was,’ the arrival said, addressing Honey. ‘Are you all policemen?’

  ‘No, Miss Hicks. We’re not. We’ve been conducting a little experiment. Mary Jane here is a professor of the paranormal, a psychic in fact. She’s helping with enquiries.’

  ‘How very interesting.’

  Mrs Hicks leaned more heavily on her stick, her cat circling her legs until it espied Mary Jane. Its orange eyes stared at her intently and it made a sound, something between a meow and a purr.

  Miss Hicks looked down at the cat, then without moving her head looked up at Mary Jane. For one instant Honey was sure that the old lady’s eyes were as orange as those of the cat. At the same time something seemed to illuminate Mary Jane’s face, as though suddenly she’d been picked out by a spotlight.

  A slow smile spread across Mrs Hicks’ lips. ‘A real one. Well that makes a nice change to these charlatans that ask leading questions and appear on my television set nowadays. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’

  The invitation was unanimously accepted.

  Honey was obliged to make her apologies. ‘I just have a couple of phone calls to make and I’ll be right with you.’

  The metal gate swung slowly shut on its spring leaving Honey with only her phone for company. Streetlights shone on the other side of the wall surrounding the house. All was total darkness on the inside of the wall and darker still in the house behind her.

  The drizzle was unrelenting so she took shelter in the porch that protected the front door, cloistered like a sentry between the giant urns.

  She flicked to Doherty’s number. Again it went straight to voicemail. Where was the man?

  The next step should be to ask those at the party whether they’d seen a third man. With that in mind she phoned Alison’s landline number. Four or five rings and the phone was picked up but it wasn’t Alison. It was coochie coo lover boy!

  ‘Hi, Maurice. It’s Honey Driver. Is Alison there?’

  ‘Honey! Nice to hear from you. I’m afraid Alison is in the shower. We’re going out to dinner. Can I get her to phone you back?’

  ‘Well, seeing as you were at her party, perhaps you can help. You see it’s been brought to my attention that there was a third man involved in the murder of Mr and Mrs Crook and that it has something to do with diamonds being exchanged for a lot of money. Two million in fact. I was wondering if you or Alison had seen any suspicious character who shouldn’t have been there.’

  ‘Good grief. Do the police know about this?’

  ‘Not yet. I won’t go into detail, but they wouldn’t necessarily respect my source.’

  She could have told him that Rhino had said there were only two men, but she didn’t. He’d think she was mad if she told him that it was a psychic who had insisted there were three and that diamonds were involved. Let sleeping dogs lie, she said to herself. Explain the complexities of the investigation when it’s all done and dusted – and when Doherty had calmed down once he’d found out about Mary Jane’s involvement.

  Maurice was chewing things over. ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Now let me think … did I see anyone who looked as though they shouldn’t be there? It is possible I might not have noticed seeing as everyone was in costume …’

  Honey held her breath. A hit on the first phone call. How great would that be?

  ‘Anything at all.’

  ‘My memory. It is not what it was,’ said Maurice, his South African accent more noticeable as his speed of delivery increased. ‘I’m trying to visualise that place. I only went there the once and was there only briefly – as you were.’

  ‘I can understand that. I’m looking up at the outside of it now and trying to recall who exactly was at the party whose face I didn’t see.’

  ‘Like Spiderman and the Mummy?’

  ‘Exactly like that, though they have checked out.’

  ‘And you’re there now?’

  ‘I am. And it’s dark, cold, and raining.’

  ‘Look, I am more than willing to help you, but perhaps my memory needs a nudge. How about I meet you there? It might help. I’ll drag Alison along too. She can have supper afterwards.’

  ‘She won’t mind coming out here?’

  Maurice laughed. ‘Of course not. You know Alison. She does like to take care of her figure.’

  Right. Three lettuce leaves and half a tomato. Alison would have her ribs taken out to maintain a slim waistline.

  ‘Won’t be long. Wait for me.’

  The light drizzle was turning into a thick mist. The orange gleam of the streetlights was muted as though a muslin veil
had been thrown over them.

  Honey shivered and tossed up whether to stay put or sneak back across the road for a hot cuppa. And a chocolate biscuit. Miss Hicks looked the sort to offer chocolate biscuits to visitors.

  A mental toss of a coin, and Honey trotted across the road.

  A fire was glowing behind the old-fashioned glass of the Parkray.

  Her mother seemed very disappointed at her arrival. ‘We were holding hands and trying to conjure up the murder victims so they could tell us who killed them, but you came banging at the door and spoilt it.’

  ‘There’s nothing like being made to feel welcome,’ murmured Honey.

  Mrs Hicks handed her a cup of tea. ‘Never you mind. Have a chocolate digestive. There’s milk and dark.’

  Am I psychic or what, thought Honey, taking two chocolate biscuits.

  The orange eyed cat purred from Mary Jane’s lap. Lindsey eyed her mother over her tea cup.

  ‘Is all well on the crime liaison front?’

  ‘I think we’re getting there,’ Honey exclaimed with satisfaction. ‘But I do have to go back over there to meet someone once I’ve drunk this tea. I really needed something to warm me up. Thank you,’ she added on being handed her third chocolate biscuit.

  ‘I’m presuming you’re meeting your policeman friend,’ said her mother. She scraped a crumb from the corner of her mouth while awaiting a reply.

  ‘No. I’m meeting Alison and Maurice. I asked Maurice whether he’d seen anyone at the party who shouldn’t be there. If Mary Jane’s information is correct, then there was a third man implicated in the murder. He’s still out there. Still dangerous. I figured that seeing as I saw two of the killers, perhaps one of the other guests may have seen the third. Hence my phone call to Alison, the birthday girl. Her latest man friend – I can hardly call him boy – arranged the party for her. We thought it would be a good idea for them to come out in the hope it jogs their memory.’

  The tea and biscuits were consumed over an analysis of Mary Jane’s trance and why it worked sometimes and not others.

  Mrs Hicks informed them that she rarely went into a trance state herself; she just got feelings, like instinct, and followed them up.

  ‘And you’re a white witch?’ Gloria asked her.

  Mrs Hicks poured herself another cup of tea. ‘Of course. Deal in bad spells and they come back to deal with you. Anyone else for tea?’

  The sentry-box shelter outside the front door of Moss End Guest House did nothing to protect Honey from the chilly mist that had fallen on the village. The mist was turning into a fog which made the streetlamps dotted through the village more mysterious and magical-looking. Honey felt the cat brush against her ankles on its way past. The night was cold. Only a cat would want to go out in this weather. A secretive night. A secretive animal.

  The sound of the odd passing car filtered through, though muted, the cars driving slowly, the driver peering over the wheel, stomach taut with nerves as he or she searched for the tail lights of the car in front.

  If she’d been the nervous sort, she might have run back over the road to warmth, friendliness, and chocolate biscuits.

  But you’re not nervous, so you’re staying put come hell or high water.

  Doherty was down in the darker recesses of the police station, the place where they stored larger pieces of evidence.

  They’d found the secure cap that the two-pronged key fitted. They’d also found out that the urns had come from a London nightclub – Seraphina – just as Alistair’s cousin had said. Following investigations, a report had been emailed through. The club’s owners had been found dead under suspicious circumstances. Ownership had passed to a ‘sleeping partner’ who had proceeded to sell everything off. The sleeping partner had flown in and out of the country on business. The nature of business was none too clear though Scotland Yard had their suspicions.

  ‘We think he was smuggling diamonds, but we’ve got no proof. We did a search of the premises, but didn’t find anything.’

  Doherty took a flashlight from the workbench. At first he ran the beam over it too hastily. Nothing stood out.

  ‘Saucy stuff,’ laughed one of his team. ‘Take a look at the size of some of the assets on these geezers.’

  Doherty slowed down, the focused beam making the naked figures look as though they were dancing. One of the figures looked as though it was dancing more vigorously than the others.

  Why that particular figure?

  He trailed the beam back over the figure of a centaur. A well-endowed centaur. There was something about the centaur that wasn’t quite right and his manhood had nothing to do with it.

  It was his tail: thick, bushy, and round like a table tennis bat. The centaur was also the biggest figure in this line of the frieze. All the other rows were smaller. He also seemed to stand out because more paint had been applied, far blacker paint than the rest of the figures.

  He traced the outline of the centaur – even the overlarge manhood. Sensing it gave in to pressure, he pressed the oddly shaped tail more firmly. Something opened.

  Les Cutler, the team member who’d commented on the dancing figures came and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘A compartment! Well, will you look at that!’

  Doherty turned off the flash. ‘So there it is; one urn contained a locked compartment big enough to hold a bag of money. This urn had a smaller aperture; big enough to smuggle diamonds. Get fingerprints here. Now. These urns came in from abroad and the diamonds came in with them. When the diamonds were sold, the other urn was used to hide the money in. Unfortunately a mistake was made when it came to selling them. Whoever hid the money didn’t move quick enough. They were sold before he could retrieve it.’

  Honey stirred from the corner of the porch. Surely she’d heard a car. She listened intently, willing it to pull up outside then she could get this over and get into the warm.

  The car stopped short of the guest house. Just somebody finally finding their way home to one of the cottages closer to the main road.

  She snuggled back into her corner. She looked up and saw she had company.

  ‘Maurice! Where did you come from? I didn’t hear the gate squeak. It usually makes such a …’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you. I came up through the car park.’

  He spoke quietly, not nearly as brusque as he usually was.

  She thought about the car she’d heard earlier. It had to have been Maurice’s car. A feeling of unease crept like the ice cube a boy named Darren Hughes had slid down her back years ago. Even he wouldn’t have managed to make her shiver so much as she shivered now.

  ‘Where’s Alison? I thought she was coming with you.’

  She tried to sound light hearted as though nothing was amiss when all her faculties were warning her that something most definitely was.

  ‘Alison won’t be coming. She’s indisposed. She’ll be all right though. Just a little something in the fizzy drink she’s so fond of. Women and champagne. Can’t understand it myself.’

  ‘I prefer red wine,’ Honey blurted, as though keeping things light would keep him at bay. Deep down she knew it would not. Maurice was here on a mission. Things began to add up. Diamonds. South Africa. Smuggling. The two urns and the nightclub in London.

  She’d trod on his toes, upset his apple cart, put her nose into things she had no business knowing about. Grim faced, he was standing between her and the gate. Doing a runner was out of the question.

  Although doing a great imitation of a half set blancmange, she put a brave face on it.

  ‘Are you going to explain to me what you were involved in?’

  ‘No. You’re not on my need to know list.’

  Nor on your need to live list, Honey thought. Suddenly the awesome shiver threatened to bring on convulsions. Not that she’d ever had convulsions, but if one did come on, it might get her out of here – or make his job of killing her easier.

  ‘Right! I’m going to scream.’

  He clamped a h
and firmly around her mouth. ‘No you’re not. You’re going to die.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The tea party across the way was just about at an end when a phone began to ring.

  All three women looked for it, diving into bags and, in Mrs Hicks’ case, looking behind the clock, in drawers and beneath a knitted cat.

  It was Lindsey who traced the source. ‘My mother’s left her bag behind.’

  She took out the phone and clicked receive call. ‘Hey. Doherty. What gives?’

  Mary Jane was staring at the phone Lindsey was using. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling.’

  ‘So have I,’ echoed Mrs Hicks, who had insisted they call her Olivia. ‘It’s not my real name, it’s just a name I like.’

  ‘OK. Get here quick as you can.’ Lindsey ended the call.

  All three women were looking at Lindsey. Her face had gone incredibly pale, her bottom lip hanging slightly as though she didn’t know quite what to say.

  ‘Tell it as it is,’ said Mary Jane.

  Her grandmother was all eyes.

  ‘That was Detective Chief Inspector Doherty. There’s been a development. Bonhams confirmed where those urns came from. Some special surveillance department at Scotland Yard confirmed that they were sold with the rest of the contents of a London club that was under surveillance. They also said that the urns had come in from South Africa.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Gloria Cross sprang to her feet. ‘Diamonds come from South Africa.’

  Lindsey surveyed all of them with wide frightened eyes. ‘So does Maurice Hoffman, the man my mother has arranged to meet.’

  Gloria Cross sprang immediately into action. ‘Where’s my coat? Does anyone have a gun?’

  Lindsey looked horrified. ‘Grandma, you don’t know how to use a gun.’

  ‘When my daughter’s in danger I’ll just point it and fire.’

  ‘I’ve got this.’ Mrs Hicks – Olivia – grabbed her walking stick.

  ‘Are we all in on this?’ Lindsey asked.

  ‘One for all and all for one,’ shouted Mary Jane. ‘Just you wait till you see what I’ve got in my car.’

  The three septuagenarians and the youthful Lindsey Driver, medieval historian and unofficial guardian to a disorganised mother, trooped out of the door.