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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Guilt,’ said Honey. ‘He was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing in a place where he wasn’t supposed to be. If Martyna had found out she would have called everything off; might also have cut something off.’

  ‘Ouch!’ He winced. ‘You are indeed correct.’

  ‘Do you know that for sure – about the cheating I mean?’

  Smug of expression, Doherty opened the door of his car. ‘Want a lift?’

  She got in. This she had to hear. ‘So?’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

  ‘Never mind the cat! Where’s this cat at? Who was he cheating with?’

  Doherty shrugged. ‘Not a clue. It was just the look on his face. By the time I get back to him, he’ll be convinced that I know all the details.’

  ‘He’ll confess to everything?’

  Doherty’s grin was fast becoming permanent. ‘Perhaps only admission to sex on the side. Not to murder.’ He started the car, slid the gear stick into first and let up the clutch. ‘So that could be the sex motive and we’ve discussed outright hate. Now it’s money – that and a word with Boris Morris.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Because old guys with bald heads and pony tails look like a horse’s ass with the fur scraped off!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  They caught Boris Morris getting into his car. Penelope Petrie, Martyna’s replacement, was sitting in the passenger seat, smothered in palomino-coloured fur.

  Doherty leaned down over the open window. Honey lurked behind him.

  ‘Mr Morris,’ said Doherty with an air of authority. ‘Mind if I have a quick word?’

  A thin ponytail of sulphur-tinged greyness whipped round the director’s narrow shoulders. Morris’s face stilled for a split second. Like an actor waiting for a prompt, thought Honey. She clicked her biro into operation and readied her notepad.

  The director’s thin face was as flushed as ever; purely an age thing, broken capillaries, no doubt brought on by high blood pressure or drink – possibly both. He looked at Doherty as though trying to remember who he was.

  ‘Detective Inspector Doherty.’ Steve reached for his warrant card.

  Boris Morris bit his bottom lip and looked decidedly shifty. ‘Ah, yes. Of course. Sorry. So many things on my mind. Can we make this quick? Miss Petrie and I have an appointment at six.’

  Boris Morris glanced at his gleaming Rolex. The watch was nestled on a bed of hairy arm.

  Penelope Petrie got out from her side of the car, long legs first.

  ‘Are they the police, Boris darling … ?’

  Despite her gravely Southern drawl, if ever a woman deserved to play Jane Austen it was Penelope Petrie. She had an elfin face, large brown eyes, and glossy brown hair. Long fine fingers folded over the top of the car door. At the sight of her perfectly manicured pale pink nails, Honey shoved hers into her pockets. The appearance of one’s nails was not of prime importance in the hospitality trade, especially at the Green River. Dishwashing had a lot to do with it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Doherty. ‘There are just a few questions I need to ask Mr Boris …’

  ‘Mr Morris,’ whispered Honey.

  ‘… regarding the death of Martyna Manderley.’

  Penelope’s smile was as pink and warm as a puppy dog’s tongue.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Detective Inspector,’ she said in a husky voice that sounded just an itsy bit contrived. ‘You have an important job to do. Please take as much time as you wish.’

  Satisfied that this had nothing to do with her, she got back into the car and shut the door. The aura of her presence, plus the lingering pong of very strong French perfume, was left hanging in the air. Only with great willpower did Doherty manage to keep his jaw from falling on to his chest.

  ‘Mr Boris …’

  ‘Morris,’ Honey prompted him again, giving him a nudge.

  ‘Mr Morris. Just checking on a little technicality. Does the production company gain anything of a financial nature if their leading lady falls by the wayside?’

  Boris Morris shook his head. ‘Not my department. You’d have to ask the producer. He’d know the details agreed to between the insurers and the production company – Nostalgia Productions.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Not Banana Productions?’

  Boris frowned back. ‘No. Whatever gave you that idea?’

  She didn’t tell him about Boring Bernard. It seemed she should have been listening more closely. Banana Productions was figurative; Banana as in Banana Republic; Bernard had obviously not thought much of the company. The name was meant as an insult.

  ‘Can you give me the name of the producer?’

  ‘Certainly. Kevin Bond is the man to speak to. He’s what you might call the front of house man, the administrator for those putting up the money behind the scenes.’

  Honey’s eyes narrowed. She’d heard about businessmen and bankers getting together on film projects. ‘Am I right in thinking that shareholders are taken on board for individual projects?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  Doherty picked up on where this was going. ‘So if any of those backers found themselves in difficulty – say through other less prosperous ventures – a little insurance money would hit the spot.’

  Morris was outraged. ‘You’re saying that the company might have killed Martyna for the insurance money? That’s a terrible thing to say!’

  Looking resigned, though not satisfied, Doherty stepped back from the car. The couple drove off.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Doherty asked.

  Honey pursed her lips as she watched Morris’s BMW glide out of the Circus. ‘I’m placing my money on a sure-fire winner.’

  ‘Didn’t think you were a betting man – woman.’

  ‘Only on sure-fire certs. What’s the betting that Brett Coleridge is one of the backers of this film?’

  Doherty sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘I’m not taking your bet. It’s bound to be evens.’ Folding his arms he squinted thoughtfully. ‘I wonder whether our Mr Coleridge is still wealthy enough to keep a yacht in the Caribbean, or …’

  Honey raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Or has he downgraded to a rowing boat on the river?’

  Penelope Petrie pulled down the mirror above her seat and checked her make-up.

  They were heading for dinner at a highly recommended restaurant.

  With long, soft fingers, she felt the area around her eyes and felt an instant surge of satisfaction. Her plastic surgeon had done an excellent job. She looked far younger than her forty-five years.

  ‘Well,’ she said, still eyeing her peaches and cream complexion. ‘In my opinion it’s just good riddance to bad rubbish – and I don’t mean that fine-looking policeman, Boris darling.’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’ Boris patted her hand assuredly, though anyone could tell from his face that he was unnerved by the questioning. ‘All’s well that ends well. You’ve got the part that you thoroughly deserve.’

  Sighing with satisfaction, Penelope sat back in her seat and thanked her lucky stars that at some time in the past she’d gone against her better judgement and spent the night in a hotel bed with Boris Morris. It paid to have contacts. Never mind all this stepping into dead man’s shoes nonsense. Martyna was a right cow and had got her just deserts.

  She smiled, noticing his hands tightly gripping the wheel. Everyone gave something of the truth away with their actions. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little fun at his expense, she thought and almost laughed out loud. Penelope Petrie, born Betty May Cartwright, was good at winding people up.

  ‘Darling, you remember Martyna said I would only get this part over her dead body? Well – you didn’t take her at her word, did you? You didn’t do the dirty deed just for little old me, did you, darling?’

  The car swerved.

  ‘What? Of course not. No … how could you think …’

  A fine sweat had broken out on his forehead.

  P
enelope threw her head back and laughed. ‘No! Of course you wouldn’t. Not Morris the Mouse. Not Boris the …’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  Surprised that he was shouting at her, Penelope’s pink lips remained parted. His response had been far from mouse-like and it quite turned her on.

  She began stroking his arm. ‘Come along, darling. Only joking.’

  Boris Morris had a long face and sunken cheeks, though his nose was bulbous at the end as though coming out in rebellion against his gauntness. A tic fluttered beneath one eye as he clenched his jaw and sucked in his cheeks.

  ‘It’s not funny. None of this is funny,’ he hissed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bedroom four needed a new coat of paint. The big ceiling-to-floor windows had been designed back in Georgian times to let in lots of light. The fact that the paintwork was in need of attention showed.

  Rodney ‘Clint’ Eastwood had promised to do the job, but providence, in the form of a nubile twenty-year-old with pierced ears and belly button, had intervened. Honey had tried finding a willing replacement, but without any luck. Every painter and decorator for miles was fully engaged readying winter-occupied hotels for the summer season.

  Armed with a ladder, mint green emulsion for the walls, and frost white for the doors and skirting boards, Honey decamped to room four. The ceiling was first and it was her least favourite part to decorate. Regency ceilings were high and had elegant plasterwork around the light fittings and along the picture rail. No joke when you hated heights. But needs must, so up she went. Two hours and a lot of paint splashes later, an interruption occurred.

  ‘Mother, I’ve got a Miss Cleveley wanting to speak to you.’

  Honey looked at Lindsey somewhat blankly.

  ‘She said it’s a private matter,’ Lindsey added, and opened the door wider.

  A small figure stepped into the room.

  ‘Perchance you may remember me.’

  Honey looked down from the top rung of the ladder into the upturned face of she of the Jane Austen persuasion.

  Today, the wee lady was wearing a pale mauve floaty skirt and satin slippers. The ensemble was topped off with a knitted bonnet and matching poncho in a velvety yarn.

  ‘I’m looking for my niece. Perdita was supposed to stay with me last night. I made a promise to her mother that I would make her feel welcome in my humble establishment. I heard that you’re a detective.’

  Honey got down from the ladder feeling quite elated. Could it be possible that she was being presented with her first case independent of the Hotels Association or the police? It seemed her fame as an amateur detective was spreading.

  ‘I saw your picture in the paper. I didn’t realize you were a detective when I apprehended you in the street with regard to my very worthy petition. The fact was that I saw in your edifice the integrity only attributable to a woman of mature years.’

  ‘I see,’ said Honey, her smile stiffening. She made a mental note to have a word with that press photographer. Hadn’t he heard of airbrushing? ‘Well,’ she went on. ‘Let’s discuss your problem over some tea, shall we?’

  ‘Tea? No. I would prefer chocolate,’ said Miss Cleveley, with a wrinkling of her pert, though rather scoured, nose.

  Lindsey, bless her, had made a pretty shrewd appraisal of the situation.

  ‘I thought you’d prefer chocolate,’ she said with a smile at the aged spinster. ‘Very Jane Austen.’

  Miss Cleveley beamed and thanked her. Lindsey exited.

  ‘Right,’ said Honey. ‘Now we’re alone, would you like to fill me in on why you’ve come to see me?’

  ‘Perdita!’ Spidery thin fingers half covered in lace mittens delved into a tapestry-printed reticule complete with hanging tassel in a faded shade of pink. Miss Cleveley handed Honey two photographs. The first was a portrait, head only.

  ‘My niece, Perdita Moody!’

  Honey studied the photograph.

  Perdita had a handsome rather than pretty face. Honey was drawn to the smile. It was fixed as though she were trying too hard, like you do when people tell you to say ‘cheese’ and you don’t want to or you’ve got a toothache or something.

  The second photograph she shuffled into the limelight was of a tall, gangly woman standing in front of railings against a background of deserted beach and far-off sea. It wasn’t quite a full-length figure though. Whoever had taken it had cut her feet off. Not very professional, thought Honey, and wondered whether Miss Cleveley was responsible.

  ‘Does she live alone?’ Honey asked.

  ‘She has a flat in Clevedon.’

  ‘I see.’

  Clevedon was only some sixty miles from Bath on the west coast; a quiet place with Regency and Victorian houses overlooking the sea.

  ‘And she hasn’t gone back there?’

  Miss Cleveley shook her head. ‘No. I checked with her landlord. She has not been seen since the day she left to work on this film.’

  Suddenly thin fingers were gripping her wrist. Miss Cleveley’s eyes were glittering and looking into hers. ‘I feel, dear Mrs Driver, that I was wrong in decrying these people by merely accusing them of defiling the great works of Jane Austen. I fear more sinister deeds are afoot,’ she whispered.

  How cold her fingers are, thought Honey. How firm the grip.

  ‘Now, what sinister deeds might these be?’ Honey asked while making a determined effort to dislodge the bony fingers and increase her blood circulation.

  ‘White slavers!’ Miss Cleveley exclaimed. ‘Dear, innocent Perdita has been whisked off and sold into the harem of some eastern potentate. Can you imagine it? That poor girl at the mercy of a barbaric man intent on ravishing her, as yet, unsullied maidenhead.’

  Honey looked into the earnest expression. There and then she decided that not only was Miss Cleveley living à la Jane Austen, but she’d read and digested a great deal too much romantic – and dare she think it – slightly erotic fiction.

  But she couldn’t say that. The look was so intense, the concern sincere. And who knows, at her age I too might retreat into a fantasy existence, thought Honey. I’d have good company. Mary Jane was already there.

  She smiled and patted aside the tight fingers that had threatened her blood supply.

  ‘So she hasn’t returned home. Neither friends nor family have seen her?’

  Miss Cleveley gave a demure nod. It was the sort of nod conjured up from reading old historical novels; especially Regency ones. ‘Be assured, my dear Mrs Driver, I have made enquiries of all those I knew to be of her social circle and also her family. Need I add that her mother is beside herself with concern? My dear sister is of a most nervous disposition. She frets most desperately if ignorant of her child’s whereabouts.’

  As Miss Cleveley leaned forward again to impart some other pearl of information, Honey tucked her wrists behind her back.

  The whites of Miss Cleveley’s eyes were bloodshot and frightening.

  ‘Beware when making your enquiries, my dear Mrs Driver. You are beyond the age of white slaving, I would think, but one can never be too sure. Men have very strange tastes, you know.’

  Great! So she was now beyond the pale as far as sexual attraction was concerned, and if a guy did fancy her, it was only because he was an out and out weirdo.

  ‘I will do my best to find your niece, Miss Cleveley.’

  What am I saying?

  There was no proof that Perdita was really missing. Perhaps the girl was a figment of Miss Cleveley’s undoubtedly rich imagination.

  The small, frail woman drained the last of her chocolate and slipped a few biscuits into her reticule before taking her leave.

  ‘For the pigeons,’ she said with a winning smile.

  ‘Of course,’ said Honey, smiling back, convinced that the biscuits would be consumed later by Miss Cleveley herself.

  After insisting that Honey kept the photos, Miss Cleveley floated out of the room, a slightly comic figure in muslin and old lace.

&nbs
p; Honey took another look at the photographs and was still doing so when Lindsey came to collect the tea tray.

  She slumped in the chair that Miss Cleveley had just vacated. ‘My feet are killing me.’ She exhaled audibly. ‘So what did the old girl want?’

  ‘To find her niece. She thinks she may have been whisked away by white slavers. What do you think?’

  Lindsey studied the photos.

  ‘They’re almost good,’ she said.

  Honey adjured to her. ‘They are? I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘The portrait’s better than the full length.’

  ‘I thought so too. She’s got no feet.’

  ‘Or hands. Look.’

  Honey looked. Perdita was standing in front of some railings, her hands hidden behind her back. And that smile again; winsome yet nervous. Like an actor about to go on stage.

  Casper chose that moment to ring and remind her that he was very concerned that Martyna Manderley’s murderer had not yet been caught.

  ‘Have you any leads?’ he asked imperiously. ‘What about the lover?’

  ‘You mean the fiancé.’

  ‘Him. Did he do it? I hope he’s guilty. Then we can get this whole thing wrapped up and archived.’

  She kept it simple. ‘Things are progressing. I’ve just had someone come to see me about an actress who’s gone missing.’

  ‘Oh Lord! Please do not tell me it’s someone of great importance. Not a knighted thespian of the theatre, I hope?’

  ‘Not famous if that’s what you mean. Her name’s Perdita Moody.’

  She sensed a sudden pause before he made comment.

  ‘I cannot say that I have ever heard of her,’ he pronounced dismissively. ‘Prioritize, Honey! Prioritize! That is how you should approach this. The murder is the highest priority. Do bear that in mind.’

  She replaced the landline phone thoughtfully. Casper St John Gervais had sounded taken aback at first – almost as though the name was known to him. And he hadn’t sounded impatient. Was he ill? Preoccupied? On the other hand, he could merely have turned over a new leaf and been holding his impatience in check.