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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she muttered to herself. She decided she had to be low on energy and another cup of tea would help. She poured another cupful from the still warm pot.

  ‘I take it you’ve forgotten that I’m here?’

  Lindsey was perched on the corner of the desk, eyeing her with an expression of bemused affection.

  ‘Of course not! It’s just that I’m feeling a little low on energy.’

  ‘I think not. It’s that woman. She’s infected you.’

  ‘Don’t you mean affected me?’

  ‘No. Infected. She’s the sort who talks to herself and lives on a different planet to the rest of us.’

  ‘You’re right. I need to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing not looking for the lost relatives of dotty old women.’

  ‘Unless they pay you to of course. Did you ask her for a fee?’

  Honey felt as though she were shrinking to the size of a doughnut beneath her daughter’s searching gaze.

  ‘I didn’t think of that. I was thinking that it was a big coincidence that her niece had left the film set without telling anyone where she was going. Curious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Never mind curious. Money doesn’t grow on trees – and neither do private detectives.’

  ‘Talking of detectives, the look on Steve Doherty’s face the other day reminded me of Philip Marlowe – or of one of the actors playing him; Humphrey Bogart perhaps, or Robert Mitchum.’

  ‘Steve Doherty’s a professional cop, not a gumshoe.’

  ‘Gumshoe?’ Honey wrinkled her nose. ‘What a daft term.’

  ‘There you are. You don’t want to be considered daft, do you? Graham asked what she was doing here,’ Lindsey said suddenly.

  Honey blinked. ‘Graham?’

  ‘The guy who operates the clapperboard with the next scene chalked on it.’

  ‘Oh. Him.’

  ‘I told him I didn’t know. He went on to tell me that he’d seen her on the set. She caused a lot of trouble there. Apparently she protested that they weren’t keeping to the facts. She got quite angry about it and had to be escorted off the set by three security guards.’

  ‘It took three to chuck out a little old lady?’ Honey chortled.

  Lindsey slid off the desk. ‘Well, she was armed.’

  Honey read Lindsey’s expression. ‘Don’t tell me. A hatpin?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I’ve brought it back!’

  Gloria Cross flung the satin corset on to the sofa in Honey’s upside-down living room. Honey’s private accommodation was in the old coach house to the rear of the hotel. The living room was upstairs and the bedrooms downstairs.

  Honey regarded her mother with a hint of envy and misgiving. Gloria Cross always looked the bee’s knees, not a hair out of place, make-up perfect, and dressed in something expensive and complete with a designer label. She was also something of a romantic. The corset had been borrowed to inflame a possible suitor at the Conservative Club.

  ‘So! Did he fall for your charms, Mother?’

  ‘Kind of. It set his pulse racing too much. The sight of me all laced up in that giddy little number, plus a pill he popped and that was it.’

  Honey guessed the pill was Viagra and had been bought over the Internet.

  ‘So how did he perform?’

  Her mother screwed up her face. Lips the colour of crushed apricots chewed to the left and the right.

  ‘He didn’t perform. He dropped dead. His heart gave out. They’re burying him next Thursday. A bit inconvenient really. It clashes with the literary club. I told you I’ve written a play, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Honey wasn’t sure whether she had, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it.

  ‘I want my family’s support at the reading of my work. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,’ her mother said brightly. ‘I’ve told Lindsey about it.’ She paused to think, with her painted fingernail resting on her chin. ‘I could just about attend the funeral, though not the food afterwards. That way I’d have time to prepare for my reading. I need to do a rewrite and make sure everything is in order.’

  ‘All that hymn singing at the funeral might leave you without a voice,’ Honey pointed out.

  Gloria adopted an aloof expression as her eyes fell on her daughter.

  ‘I am not reading my work! I am the writer. An actor is reading it. Someone who knows how to get the most out of a work.’

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  Her mother was already on to another subject.

  ‘I’ve been called back on set tomorrow for the Jane Austen film. I have a big part to play in a crowd scene.’

  ‘Bin or parking meter?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Honey. ‘I was just wondering about putting the trash out in the morning and whether any of our guests have left their cars illegally parked.’

  Her mother was intent on telling her exactly what the professional film makers were doing wrong, and the fact that the leading man had a boil just behind his ear, but that the make-up girls had taken care of it.

  She was still talking when Honey began yawning.

  ‘Honey, you need to take an afternoon nap more regularly.’

  Honey’s eyes snapped open. ‘I should what?’

  ‘I’m off,’ said her mother, springing to her feet in super quick time – super quick for a woman in her early seventies that is. ‘I made sure I had my nap this afternoon.’

  ‘At your age you should,’ said Honey, getting to her feet.

  She was thinking that if she could get her mother out, get the bar closed, and everyone else where they should be, she might have an early night.

  Her mother stopped at the big doors that divided the hotel reception from the big world outside.

  ‘Audrey Hepburn used to take an afternoon nap every day. She reckoned that’s what kept her eyes so bright. Just like mine.’

  Honey managed a few drinks with the film crew before bed. The cold air made them drink more; at least that was their excuse.

  A wee bit tipsy, she was still sober enough to ask how things were going.

  Graham put his arm around her – more out of the need to stay upright rather than out of affection.

  ‘I think old Boris is giving Penelope Petrie the benefit of his body.’

  ‘I’m surprised.’

  Graham tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘Boris got her the part. It’s payback time.’

  Derek was standing behind him in the act of raising a whisky to his wide mouth. Judging by the deep frown, he wasn’t happy with what Graham had said. Once Graham had loped his way to the gents, he slid closer.

  ‘You don’t want to take any notice of him.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  While awaiting an answer, she put her glass on the bar and nodded at the barman to refill it.

  ‘Boris isn’t so bad.’

  She decided it was time to be outspoken. ‘You mean you all depend on him for your livelihoods and no one wants to rock the boat. I get the impression that Martyna called the shots before. Now Boris does. And good old Boris is user friendly?’

  She’d been casual in ordering another drink, her eyes on the barman. Now her gaze darted back to the sound technician. The directness of her look seemed to unnerve him.

  Derek blustered. ‘It’s not exactly that …’

  ‘Martyna complained about the script quite a lot from what I can gather.’

  ‘Huh!’ he said, tossing his head disdainfully. ‘She was finding fault with it every which way she could. Nothing was right as far as she was concerned. She was a right bitch about it.’

  ‘Enough of a bitch to make the scriptwriter want to kill her?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Who wrote the script?’

  ‘Bennett. Chris Bennett.’

  She eyed him over the rim of her glass. ‘What sort of guy is Chris Bennett?’

  ‘Not a
clue.’

  Honey was intrigued. ‘So he’s not present during filming?’

  Derek frowned. ‘No. Not as far as I know. They’re not often around. Directors reckon that scriptwriters get in the way.’

  ‘Do they now?’

  ‘True.’ He nodded gravely. ‘Never saw him at the casting either. Scriptwriters do like to be around when the actors are auditioning. They like to think they’ve got some say …’

  ‘Even though they haven’t.’

  ‘There was no one there that I didn’t recognize. Perhaps this was one scriptwriter who wasn’t interested in who was playing one of his parts as long as he got paid. Can’t fault a man for that, can you?’

  It was nearing midnight and Honey’s mind was still whirring. She had need for soaking in a bath, warming her bones and just musing on what was going on.

  She took the corset back to the coach house with her, placing it on the bed while she got ready to take a bath.

  Eyeing it lying there, all satin and sensuality, she decided her mother was right. It was quite exquisite. She picked it up and stroked the sleek, turquoise satin. She fingered the black lace, still crisp despite its age. The temptation was too much. She hugged it close.

  ‘You are the slinkiest, sexiest and most sensual thing I have ever come across. And you’re mine! All mine!’ she murmured against the cool, soft satin.

  After the warm bath she tried it on.

  ‘Wow! Wow, wow, and wow again!’

  There was such a lot to be said about constrictive corsetry!

  A good buy at auction some weeks before, her intention had been to add it to her quite considerable collection.

  She bought underwear as an investment. Some she displayed behind glare-free glass on the walls of the living room.

  She eyed her reflection and almost purred. Slivers of black lace decorated the boned breast cups. Spines of black satin whalebones ran from bosom to groin. Silk cord provided the drawstrings lacing up at the back to secure a narrowed waist.

  She tugged at one of its whalebone inserts and was sure half an inch, perhaps even a whole inch, vanished. Those Victorian gals certainly knew a thing or two when it came to smoothing a silhouette and trimming a waistline.

  Bracing her hands on her waist, she pouted and wriggled her hips.

  ‘Does it do things to you, Detective Inspector Steve Doherty?’

  No wonder the luscious lovelies of yore had squeezed themselves into these things. Torture for the sake of fashion, but hey, was it any different to some of the modern stuff girls were wearing?

  Lacy little thongs sprang to mind; underwear no bigger than a handkerchief. Thongs served no practical purpose – except to entice. No change there then.

  She’d purchased the corset, plus black silk stockings and matching garters, from a house clearance sale. The proceeds were going to a deceased estate and the items she’d bought had belonged to the lately lamented – who happened to be a man named Ken, a bachelor who’d never married.

  The romantic side of her preferred to think the corset and accessories had belonged to some long-lost love that he’d never quite got over. The more pragmatic was suspicious that Ken himself might have worn them, but she tried not to dwell on that.

  Off came the corset and on went the flannel nightdress. That too was Victorian, but meant to hide the female form rather than flaunt it.

  Once attired in flannel from head to toe, the corset still enticed.

  Honey couldn’t resist. She wanted to feel sexy. She also wanted to keep warm. She’d wear both. Flannel nightdress against her skin, sexy corset on top of it.

  The feeling that she was not alone woke her up in the wee hours of the morning.

  At first she blamed a particularly lurid dream for snapping her awake. That wedge of St Agur she’d consumed for supper could be equally suspect. Ditto the gherkins.

  However, on second thoughts, she changed her mind. She was one of those rare people who could drag the details of dreams into the cold light of day. She tried to do exactly that, but on this occasion it just wasn’t happening.

  Yet she was sure she’d heard something.

  Suddenly she heard voices.

  Although her heart began hammering, she lay very still, hardly daring to breathe. Low voices, as hushed as softly gasped breath, drifted in from the other side of the door. The door began to open. Light fell in from the hallway.

  ‘Mother? Are you awake?’

  Honey shot upright in bed.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve got company. Didn’t you hear the knocking at the door?’

  Honey blinked. Someone bigger and darker was standing immediately behind her daughter. Steve Doherty!

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Lindsey slid into the room. Sprawling on the Victorian nursing chair she patted her mouth to hide a yawn. ‘He insisted.’

  Honey dragged the bedding up over her chest in shocked-virgin style. ‘This had better be good,’ she said grimly.

  ‘Get dressed. We’ve got a train to catch.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Martyna’s husband. He wasn’t in New York staring at skyscrapers.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. He was airing his assets with members of the board.’

  Doherty shook his head and grinned. ‘No. Airing his member with two naked broads. But he did have a view of skyscrapers from his window – CanaryWharf, London, as opposed to Manhattan, New York. So that’s where I’m going. London. I need to make an early start. I thought you might like to tag along. If we’re quick, we should get there just before the rush hour.’

  Honey peered at the space on the bedside cabinet where her mobile phone usually sat flashing an upward jet of blue light all night. Annoying sometimes when you were desperately in need of sleep. It wasn’t there. She vaguely remembered half waking and getting annoyed at the flashing blueness, grabbing the phone and throwing it to the floor.

  Doherty looked down at his foot.

  ‘Whoops.’

  The phone still had some shape, but the flashing blue light was non-existent.

  Honey groaned and rubbed at her face. ‘That was a pretty light. I liked that light. I also no longer have a keyed-in alarm. Can someone tell me what time it is?’

  ‘Five o’clock,’ said Lindsey.

  ‘Five o’clock and you’ve destroyed my phone. Give me a really good reason why I should accompany you to London.’ Her bad-tempered snarl and her snake-slit eyes were directed at Doherty.

  ‘To nail Brett Coleridge for his fiancée’s murder?’

  The moment she swung her legs out of bed, she knew she’d done wrong! She’d forgotten the corset. And the Victorian night dress beneath it. How crackers was that?

  There was a dual intake of breath.

  ‘What is she like?’ Lindsey covered her face in an effort to stifle her giggles.

  Doherty stared.

  Honey winged it. OK, she could feel her face flushing with embarrassment, but hell, she’d brave it out. Shrugging as though it were perfectly normal to wear a sexy corset over a dowager’s nightdress, she spread her arms. ‘So what? I wanted to feel sexy in bed!’

  ‘So,’ said Doherty, retrieving his chin at the same time as taking a deep breath. ‘How come the garment from Rent-a-Tent got in on the act?’

  ‘Warmth!’

  She stormed off to the bathroom slamming the door behind her.

  After stripping off both corset and nightdress, she stepped into the shower. The water ran fast and furious, spraying her eyes shut and cooling her head.

  She got out and began feeling for a towel. The rail was empty and there were none on the shelf. How about her dressing gown? Her fingers flicked towards the bare coat hook.

  She swore.

  Ear to the door, she called out, ‘Can someone get me a towel?’

  Nobody answered. She decided Lindsey had taken Doherty to get some breakfast. Good. She could sneak out naked, get a towel from the closet and get dressed.
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br />   She cracked the door open an inch and looked out into her bedroom. Nobody around. The closet was to her left. She picked up the corset, unwilling to let it soak up steam and end up water-stained. Holding the bundle of silk and lace against her chest, she tiptoed out into the hallway leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. The closet door creaked open. The shelves were full. She took out a towel, headed for the living room and began drying herself, making shivering and ‘brrr-brrr’ noises.

  Placing her foot on a chair, she bent over to dry her toes. Doherty’s head appeared over the back of the sofa.

  ‘What the hell are you doing there?’

  Sleep was blinked from his eyes. He boldly went where a few men had gone before; eyeing her up and down as though she was available by the pound.

  ‘Great corset, but not right for where we’re going. That kind of outfit might be OK in Bath, but we’re off to a hotel in London. Best to fit the bill, dress appropriately and not to frighten the bellboys!’

  She bottled down her annoyance and turned tail.

  ‘Nice tail,’ Doherty shouted out.

  She flicked the corset around to cover her rear.

  Back in her bedroom, she put on her underwear and make-up. The latter took a little longer than her pants. Concealing the dark rings beneath her eyes, opened before they were ready, was her hot priority.

  Once her face looked as though she were still alive, she took out a smart suit from the closet. It was navy blue with a white collar and cuffs and small gold chains looped around the buttons. She matched the outfit with plain black court shoes, Christian Dior diamanté earrings and a matching brooch. Full kit inspection in the full-length mirror and she was ready for anything.

  She sauntered back into the living room, hand on hip, her other hand behind her back. She did a twirl. Naomi Campbell eat your heart out!

  ‘Does this fit sir’s requirements?’

  He eyed her up and down, though not with quite the enthusiasm as when she’d been naked.

  ‘Hmm. You look good, though I have to say, doll, I was more drawn to the other outfit.’

  ‘Out!’ She pointed at the door.

  Doherty pretended to be startled. ‘I was only saying that I liked what I saw.’

  ‘Out!’

  He laughed.

  Honey brought her hidden hand round from behind her back. The corset fetched him a hefty whack around the head.