Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Off again soon, Brett baby?’

  Pools of velvet brown looked up at him. He smiled and wound his arms back around both her and the other girl and let out a deep satisfied sigh. ‘Right on, baby. That’s the great thing with a jet-setting lifestyle. You can compartmentalize your life. Family one place, business interests all around, and fun where you can find it. It’s the only way to live. That way you’re never tied down.’

  The blonde scratched circles in his chest hair with wine red fingernails. ‘How do I get not to be tied down?’

  He tapped her nose. ‘Take a tip from me. Marry a rich man. Work on your back.’

  Chapter Four

  The extras had been provided with a converted ex-London bus on which to eat and get relief from the cold. This was where Lindsey headed once her costume and make-up were checked and photographed. The photographs were taken of each costume so that no day-to-day variation occurred. Continuity was God.

  Shivering, the extras reclaimed their Puffa jackets and nylon windcheaters. They didn’t match well with Regency hemlines and poke bonnets, but what did they care?

  Lindsey was wearing fine mesh mittens and warming her hands around a paper cup of steaming coffee when her mother spotted her.

  ‘I’ve been told that I won’t be performing today,’ said Honey. ‘I’m not needed. Not even for a tiddly part. I think our superstar bitch might have had something to do with it.’

  A smart-arse smile shone out from beneath the shadow of Lindsey’s straw-brimmed bonnet. ‘It looked as though you gave an Oscar-winning performance from where I was standing.’

  Honey smirked. ‘I wasn’t entirely sure how to play it. Mary Poppins or Raging Bull.’

  ‘Told you she’s a cow.’ Lindsey took a sip of coffee.

  Honey grimaced. ‘She’s certainly got a temper.’ Her face brightened. ‘So what do you think? Am I ever likely to be an overnight success?’

  ‘Not as a movie star.’

  ‘I figure you’re right. Never mind. I’ll award myself a consolation prize. A mug of hot chocolate would be nice. With two sugars. I need the energy.’

  ‘Gran’s still out there somewhere, playing to the crowd.’ Lindsey shivered. ‘She must be freezing.’

  ‘Or she’s making new friends.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Which is very worrying. My mother is a poor judge of character.’

  ‘Though old enough to know her own mind,’ Lindsey added.

  Honey countered, ‘And there’s no fool like an old fool.’

  Honey’s mother was enjoying herself. She was dressed in a sprigged muslin gown trimmed with pale green lace, and a dark pink bonnet complete with a pair of ostrich feathers. She was also carrying a fan.

  She’d got talking to an elderly gentleman wearing a frock coat and a pale green topper. They got on well enough for her to bring out a satin and lace corset she’d borrowed from her daughter. She had intended wearing it, but Lindsey had dissuaded her by saying it was Victorian not Regency. She’d held on to it anyway in case of need. She was holding it against herself.

  ‘Think it’s a little young for me?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not at all. Sexy. Very sexy,’ he said appraisingly, his eyes out on stalks.

  Gloria almost swooned at that.

  Honey couldn’t tell at this distance whether he was serious or not. This was due to the fact that the ostrich feather in the hat of another woman had flicked a contact lens out of her eye. She could listen though.

  ‘My daughter gave it me. I’m going to try it on properly when I get home.’

  Honey narrowed her eyes. Never mind what her mother looked like, she was flashing the corset! How big a come-on was that?

  Honey waved. The wave was supposed to mean ‘give me back my property’. Her mother waved back, but dismissively, as though she just couldn’t spare the time right now.

  Grinding her teeth and rolling her eyes, Honey headed for a grouping of chairs situated on the other side of the rope that encircled the extras’ ‘recruiting’ area. Just a few extras were left sitting there in their period costumes waiting to be called. They looked forlorn, like limp flowers waiting to be thrown in the bin.

  One of them was a scruffy man – a very scruffy man. Make-up and wardrobe had made him that way.

  His costume consisted of dowdy, dirty-looking trousers, misshapen brown boots, and a battered top hat. On closer inspection she could see his jacket wasn’t just one jacket, it was two. The top jacket was sleeveless, the sleeves apparently ripped from their seams. His arms were covered by the sleeves of another jacket which he wore beneath that.

  She wondered whether he was smelly. His clothes looked pretty grubby. She didn’t want to sit next to somebody smelly – even for a short while. She discreetly sat two chair spaces away and immediately felt guilty. The poor bloke. He was only wearing a costume! Of course it wouldn’t smell!

  She decided to flash him a smile. Her smile froze as she regarded his dirty face. Could it be who she thought it was? No! Surely not.

  Recognizing her before she recognized him, he became fidgety and turned slightly away.

  She stared harder. Surely she knew that aquiline nose, that regal bearing …

  ‘Casper?’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Casper! It is you!’

  Casper St John Gervais, Chairman of Bath Hotels Assocation, was well known as a snappy dresser. But not today.

  ‘Not a word,’ he growled through clenched teeth.

  She barely hid a smirk as she asked him who he was supposed to be. Not a Regency dandy obviously.

  ‘A crossing sweeper!’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home? Never mind, I’ll ask Lindsey. She’ll know.’

  Casper bristled and hissed like a disgruntled snake as he sucked in his breath.

  ‘I do not need your daughter to tell me what it is. I have been told what it is; someone who used to sweep the road – especially after horses had passed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Honey. It was hard not to laugh. She bit her bottom lip. Casper! The dandy of all dandies, dressed up as a bloke employed to sweep up horse manure. ‘I’ve no doubt the roses were always good back then.’ Her laughter bubbled to the surface. ‘Sorry. Just a joke.’

  Casper’s scowl deepened beneath the thick make-up.

  ‘I saw myself as a Regency dandy; silk britches, creamy white cravat, and a handsome frock coat in a subtle shade of lemon. Call themselves casting directors? They do not know the meaning of the word!’ His anger and humiliation curled around every word he uttered.

  Honey wiped the tears from her eyes, sniffed, then coughed. She mustn’t laugh any more. She mustn’t! It was February and the Green River Hotel was half empty. Casper referred guests to her; part of the deal of Honey’s posting as liaison officer between the Hotels Association and the police.

  ‘At least it’s a relatively warm outfit compared to what the women are wearing – and the men for that matter,’ she said as reassuringly as she could.

  ‘Small recompense,’ Casper responded bitterly.

  It was pretty obvious that he was in no mood to be cheered up. Pointing out the advantages of the layered look in this chilly weather might help, she thought.

  ‘I hope I get something warm to wear,’ she said, even though she knew full well that she wasn’t required today. ‘I must admit I’m not looking forward to this. I thought I would, but those dresses are only made of muslin or silk. Perhaps I’d be better in a summer production.’

  Someone from the costume department was making the rounds again, gathering up those already decked in Regency finery.

  ‘Extras in costume over here, please.’

  Casper got up. Snail-like he followed the flock, his eyes making daggers in the direction of the woman from wardrobe.

  Honey remained with the wallflowers. Should she go or should she stay?

  ‘We may not be picked,’ said a woman who’d suddenly sat down next to her. The woman sounded severely disappointed.

  ‘Nev
er mind. It’s too cold for wearing muslin and baring bosoms anyway.’

  ‘This scene is supposed to be spring,’ said the woman. ‘It’s all right to flaunt your bosoms in spring.’

  ‘That’s true. It’s a different matter in February. And it is February.’

  ‘Shame though. I think I’d look good in sprigged muslin and a straw bonnet.’

  Honey was not so turned on at the vision. Instead she thought of Smudger the chef in the – by now – very warm kitchen back at the Green River Hotel. Cooking breakfast was work, but it beat freezing your arse off.

  Warm thoughts caused her eyes to stray and her feet to wander. She found herself eyeing the brightly lit house immediately next to the area in which they would be filming. The house had been hired specifically to cater for the real actors and the senior production staff.

  It was the thin muslin that brought out the coward in her. Her mind was made up. Stardom could wait. Being warm could not. She headed for the house across the road.

  Two director’s assistants dressed in jogging bottoms and thickly padded coats fell in on either side of her.

  ‘Should be better than the script,’ said one of them. Honey smirked as though she knew what he meant.

  ‘Blood on the carpet,’ said the other warmly clad individual.

  Obviously they were expecting conflict on set. No surprise there then.

  ‘As long as it’s warm blood and a warm carpet,’ returned Honey, turning her collar up against the cold.

  They nodded at her as though she’d said something very profound.

  She followed them into one of the spacious rooms. The Georgian ceilings were bordered in astonishing plasterwork. The windows stretched from ceiling to floor and, once daylight was streaming through them, were guaranteed to flood the room with light.

  Only the marble fireplace and the pure silk curtains remained of the normal decor and furnishings. All traces of the antique furniture usually present were missing, it having been put in storage during the filming. In its place were plastic preformed chairs with metal legs.

  Honey paused by the door. Being a hotelier, she recognized the familiar layout. Chairs set in a circle meant a lot of fat was going to be chewed. Some kind of production meeting was about to take place. She stood in the doorway. Should she go or should she stay? She had no business staying – but she did.

  Squeezing through a gap between the rows, she found an empty chair set slightly apart from the rest. It was presently occupied by a wad of paper. She picked it up and gave it a quick glance. Script. The Life of Jane Austen.

  Scripts didn’t need seats. She sat down on the chair. The script sat on her lap.

  The director’s name was Boris Morris. He was the guy who’d tried to take her phone.

  Boris was in his late forties and his hair was waving goodbye to his head. His forehead was high, naked, and looked as though it were regularly polished with a good helping of beeswax. Beneath the Barbour jacket, he wore a flowery shirt, blue corduroy trousers, and a patchwork waistcoat. He seemed to look directly at her. Was he questioning her right to be here? Due to the contact lens situation, she couldn’t be sure.

  Head down, girl, she thought to herself and pretended to study the script.

  She turned the first few pages and frowned. They were sticky. Whatever the director was saying went over her head. Fingerprints – her fingerprints – dotted the pages. She turned one more page, the one smeared with blood.

  Someone tapped Honey on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’

  She looked up into a hard face set around a broken nose. His cap badge said Ace Security.

  His eyes met hers briefly before dropping to her hands.

  She managed a light laugh. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Tell me it’s only …’

  She was about to say it was probably only ketchup or fake blood – though she couldn’t for the life of her remember whether Jane Austen had ever encountered murder – fictional or otherwise. In which case …

  The double doors crashed open and all heads turned round. The young woman who’d crashed in with them had dark curly hair. Her face was deathly pale above a purple pashmina. Her eyes were glazed with horror.

  ‘She’s dead! Martyna’s dead. She’s been stabbed.’

  The room erupted with noise.

  Honey’s eyes and those of the security guard returned to the script and the dotting of fingerprints.

  The guard’s meaty paw landed heavily on her shoulder. ‘Don’t move,’ he said to her. She could almost smell his excitement. He’d apprehended a murderer – or so he thought.

  To everyone else, he shouted, ‘Call the police. There’s been a murder.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ said Honey.

  ‘They all say that,’ said the man. ‘I’ve seen the movies.’

  Chapter Five

  The medical examiner was doing his thing and the scene of crime boys were loitering around the catering truck waiting for him to finish. Hot coffee and bacon sarnies were being handed round like falling confetti.

  There were moans and groans as Doherty pushed in front of everybody.

  ‘As senior officer at the scene, I’m first in the queue,’ he said. The aroma of fried bacon was enough to make anybody pull rank.

  Armed with coffee and a bacon sandwich, Doherty was collared by a security guard. The guard was hopping impatiently from foot to foot, bubbling with excitement.

  ‘A woman did it. I apprehended her immediately and told her to stay put.’

  ‘And did she? Where is she?’ asked Doherty. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had carried out a citizen’s arrest, but had then forgotten to keep an eye on their suspect.

  ‘We’ve got ’er over in the ’ouse there.’ The security guard stabbed a blunt finger in the direction of the house across the road.

  Chewing crusty bread and crispy bacon, Doherty urged him to go on. ‘You saw her do it?’

  ‘No. But her hands are covered in blood.’

  Doherty chewed as he walked. He’d been having a day off, but had been called out of bed for this one.

  The guard preceded him by a few paces as he moved across the road to the house. Things were looking good. They’d apprehended a woman with blood on her hands. With a bit of luck this case could be wrapped up quickly. What a turn-up that would be. First time ever, in fact, unless you counted the time when he’d encountered two Irish brickies knocking each other senseless on a building site. One died. The other did it. Simple.

  If it hadn’t been for the crusty roll and coffee he was carrying, he would have rubbed his hands together.

  ‘She’s in ’ere,’ said the guard. ‘My mate caught ’er with blood on ’er ’ands.’ He licked his lips as he said it. Excited, maybe, at the sight of blood.

  ‘I see,’ said Doherty.

  The ‘mate’ nodded and got up from the chair that he’d set in front of a pair of double doors.

  Doherty shoved the last of the food into his mouth and took another slurp of coffee before asking, ‘Bit of a hard case, is she?’

  ‘Not so much aggressive as sharp-tongued. Had a set to with Miss Manderley earlier on. So there’s your motive. Right?’

  ‘Right. Let’s get on with it.’

  Doherty passed his empty coffee cup to the man with the broken nose and pushed the door open.

  Honey had settled herself in a leather armchair, her feet resting on a matching stool. She was wearing plastic bags on her hands and making waves.

  ‘Crap coffee. Can you get me a fresh one? Better still, see if there’s any more of that hot chocolate. Hi, Steve. Here to solve the case or land a supporting role?’

  She couldn’t help sounding glad to see him. Martyna Manderley had died at a very propitious moment. Doherty had had to put his weekend on hold.

  Doherty groaned. ‘OK, lads,’ he said to the two guards who had followed him in. ‘I think I can handle this.’

  Honey leaned out of the chair, one arm outstretched. ‘I would really appreciate
you guys getting me a fresh cup of coffee. Please,’ she added, wiggling the cup until one of them took it from her.

  Once the door was closed, Doherty pulled up a chair. ‘See what you’ve done? If you’d have come away with me, you wouldn’t be a suspect in a murder case.’

  She wiggled her bloodstained fingertips inside their plastic covers. ‘Look. All I did was pick up a bloodstained manuscript.’

  ‘Explain.’

  She did. She explained about the misunderstanding over the mobile phone. ‘That woman was paranoid and greedy with it. She hates the thought of anyone making money out of her fame. I’m not surprised someone bumped her off – but it wasn’t me.’

  The corners of his eyes wrinkled mischievously when he grinned. ‘You didn’t lose your temper?’

  ‘I never lose my temper.’

  She went on to tell him about being cold and getting involved in the meeting.

  ‘The script was left lying on a chair – honest. I picked it up. It felt sticky and when I looked down …’

  ‘You saw it wasn’t jam.’

  She ignored that. ‘The first I knew that Martyna Manderley had been killed was when that woman came crashing into the room and screamed it out for everyone to hear.’

  ‘They’ve bagged the script.’

  ‘They’ve bagged me too. When do these come off?’ The plastic bags crackled as she wiggled her fingers.

  Doherty stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘If this wasn’t such a serious occasion, I’d take advantage of your helplessness. As it is …’

  She saw the remains of the bacon butty in his fist. ‘I’m starving. Can I have a bite?’

  He jerked his chin at her bagged hands. ‘Could prove difficult.’

  She heard her stomach rumble. So did Doherty.

  ‘Abstinence is good for your figure,’ he said, wolfing down the last piece.

  Honey shot him a warning look. ‘This is cruel.’

  A knock sounded at the door. Detective Sergeant Ali Fleming, the station’s latest addition, poked his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, governor, but it’s just to say that Mrs Driver’s alibi checks out.’ His conker brown face beamed broadly as he turned to Honey. ‘You are free to go.’