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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She recalled the photographs. How stupid that she hadn’t seen it earlier. Perdita keeping her hands and feet off camera. And the reason? Because they were big and unfeminine, because Perdita, like the rest of the troupe and their manager, Clara, were all men!

  Once the routine was over, the chorus line came towards her in a flash of spangles and sequins.

  ‘Perdita?’

  Perdita stopped. Her expression was wary. The rest of the girls swept on by.

  Honey studied the handsome face. It was just as it was in the photograph.

  ‘Can we talk here?’

  The tall person in front of her nodded and licked his lower lip, taking off a layer of lipstick in the process.

  ‘The girls are in a hurry to refresh themselves.’

  His voice took her by surprise. It was surprisingly high for a man. She wondered if he had the full set of condiments. She was too polite to ask.

  ‘I was telling the truth. Your aunt is worried about you. But there is something else I need to ask. It’s to do with a man named Brett Coleridge. I understand you went to see him at the Regency Garden Hotel. Can you confirm that?’

  Perdita’s heavily made-up face stiffened.

  ‘You shouldn’t make a face like that,’ said Honey. ‘It shows up your five o’clock shadow.’

  Alarmed, Perdita fingered her chin in such a way that made Honey feel guilty for pointing it out.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that there’s been a murder …’

  Perdita gasped. Her hands made a slapping sound as she clasped them over her chest. Her moony eyes were fear-filled.

  ‘Who? Who’s been murdered?’

  She sounded as though she were about to faint.

  ‘Martyna Manderley.’

  Her attitude changed. ‘That bitch!’

  ‘I see. So you didn’t think she was a great star devoted to her work?’

  ‘Devoted to herself more like. Mind you she was very fair in one respect. She treated everyone the same. Including the man she was supposed to be marrying.’

  The face, plastered in stage make-up, froze as the obvious thought came to her. ‘You don’t think he did it, do you?’

  ‘You tell me. What makes you say she treated her boyfriend badly? Did you hear them arguing?’

  Perdita smiled. ‘She carried a mobile phone in her knickers when she was on set. If it rang everything stopped. Anyone else would have been given short shrift or thrown off the set. But, there, she was the star. Anyway, he phoned her. I was standing right behind her …’

  ‘Hiding a lamp post?’

  Honey couldn’t help it. She apologized right away.

  Perdita laughed. ‘No need. That’s what extras are used for. Anyway, as I was saying, she said his name so I knew it was him. She then went on to call him every name under the sun. Something bad had happened that she didn’t approve of, but I couldn’t work out what it was. She called him a pervert; I do know that.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Perdita shrugged. ‘How should I know?’

  Staring was supposed to be rude, but it was hard not to. There was something flawed yet fascinating about a man dressed as a woman. It wasn’t so much the sequinned gown or the marcasite earrings dangling from his ears; neither was it the make-up. It was the mannerisms, the playing at being a woman that made her think she was looking at herself, though overplayed; overemphasized.

  ‘You went to see him at his hotel. How did you know he’d be there?’

  A deep flush suffused Perdita’s cheeks.

  ‘A job. I went to ask about a job. I’d heard he was looking for tall girls. I didn’t know what for until I got there.’

  ‘You weren’t interested?’

  ‘No. Not my kind of thing.’

  ‘You’d been dropped from the production. Didn’t that make you angry?’

  Perdita glowered. ‘If you mean did it make me angry enough to kill her, no. Not literally anyway. Only in my dreams.’

  One particular question niggled. ‘What sort of job did Coleridge offer?’

  Perdita pursed her lips and shrugged.

  She pressed a bit further. ‘Nude stuff?’

  Perdita shrugged again. ‘Stuff.’

  It was obvious she wasn’t going to be drawn any more on that count. Honey switched.

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be asking what time I arrived?’

  ‘Oh! Sure. Do forgive me. I haven’t been doing this very long. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK. I arrived about three o’clock, the receptionist announced I was here, up in the lift, into the penthouse and back down again … let me see … one hour? Yes. One hour in total.’

  Honey gave Perdita her mobile phone number. She also promised to set Miss Cleveley’s mind at rest. ‘But why don’t you phone her yourself?’

  ‘Number one, she fusses so, and I’ve got such a lot of rehearsing to do before we go on tour. Number two, Aunt Jane doesn’t have a phone.’

  ‘Because Jane Austen didn’t have one.’

  ‘That’s correct. I usually phone a neighbour. Just tell her not to worry. Tell her I’ll be seeing her before very long. There is another excuse. I haven’t got a mobile phone at present.’ Perdita smiled a little sadly. ‘It’s a hazard of being who I am. I go to the john, get myself in position, and splash – the phone’s in the water.’

  Honey promised. There was just one very trivial question that was bothering her.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you …?’

  ‘Peter,’ she said, pre-empting her question. ‘My birth name was Peter.’

  ‘Your aunt speaks of you as though you’ve never been anything else but a woman. She doesn’t condemn you for it. That must make things a bit easier.’

  Perdita – the name first mentioned was the name that suited the person – jerked her firm jaw.

  ‘It helps. We all need to be loved. Do you have a family?’

  The question brought warm visions to mind, firstly of Lindsey.

  ‘I have a daughter. She’s eighteen, though sometimes she seems older than me. She’s so clever.’

  Lindsey would curl up with embarrassment if she’d heard her. But she didn’t care. She was proud of her daughter.

  ‘And I have a mother living in Bath.’

  ‘Does she live with you?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Honey replied with more vehemence than she should have used. ‘She’s a very active lady with her own apartment and a small business venture dealing in second-hand designer clothes. It’s called Second-hand Rose.’

  ‘I know it,’ Perdita shrieked. ‘Wonderful items! I’ve bought quite a few things in there. They cater very well for TVs; and sometimes get quite long day dresses and wide-fitting shoes.’

  TVs! There was no way Honey was going to tell her mother that she was very popular in the transvestite world. Neither was she going to inform her that a tall woman whose real name was Peter had undressed in her changing rooms.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Miss ‘Jane’ Cleveley had to be informed immediately the following morning, Honey decided. Ordinarily she would have phoned to say she was coming, but Miss Cleveley lived in the past. She didn’t believe in phones because the blessed Jane – Jane Austen that is – had managed quite well without one and so could she. She only hoped there was a flushing loo just in case she had the need. Jane Austen wouldn’t have had one of those either.

  The small Georgian cottage was halfway up a narrow street leading to Camden, an area of Bath that was uphill all the way from the city centre.

  By the time she found the right address, her breathing was such that she needed to rest, bent almost double, hands on knees.

  A few minutes later she no longer needed an oxygen mask. Pulling another gallon of air into her lungs, she finally managed to reach up and give the door knocker a good hammering.

  She was almost back to normal by the time Miss Cleveley came to the door.

  Her blue
eyes lit up her small, heart-shaped face.

  ‘Oh, my dear Mistress Driver, how nice of you to call on me. I see you have been sorely taxed by the steepness of this street. Pray come inside. A small sniff of smelling salts and I dare say you will be quite remarkable again.’

  Honey didn’t fancy the smelling salts. She’d had them shoved beneath her nose once when travelling on a National Express bus going from Bath to London. The mixed aroma of full lavatory, smelly socks, and cheeseburger had been too much to bear.

  She suggested a cup of tea instead.

  ‘Indeed. I will prepare a tray immediately.’

  Miss Cleveley showed Honey into a pretty little room. The wallpaper was scattered with tiny blue rosebuds on a grey background. The doors, skirting, and other paintwork were pale blue eggshell. The furniture looked as though it might have been pinched from Jane Austen’s house down in Hampshire or her lodgings when she resided in Bath. There were no curtains at the windows, only shutters painted in the same blue as the doors and window frames.

  Honey accepted Miss Cleveley’s invitation to sit down. She chose a seriously antique balloon-back chair.

  As crockery clattered around in the kitchen, Honey eyed a painting above the fireplace. The subject was a youngish man in army uniform. He had a handsome, open face and one side of his mouth was upturned in a smile. It looked fairly modern. She wondered how come Miss Cleveley allowed such a modern painting to adorn her house. There again, she supposed the fact it was a painting rather than a photograph went some way to living in the past.

  Miss Cleveley came in carrying a tray. The cups and saucers looked like Crown Derby. Honey took a cup of tea, noting that the cups had no handles – just like those back in the eighteenth century.

  OK, she thought. Just smile and take a sip. It’ll oil your vocal cords. In all honesty it wasn’t her vocal cords she was worried about. They worked OK. It was what she needed to say that worried her.

  ‘I take it you’ve seen Perdita and she’s all right,’ said Miss Cleveley.

  Honey was taken off guard. ‘Yes. How did you guess?’ She rubbed her fingers against her thigh. Cups without handles were tricky when the tea was piping hot.

  Miss Cleveley settled herself in a button-backed chair and looked at Honey with a twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘I know you have. You’ve seen her and know her little secret. The truth of the matter is there for all to see on your face.’

  Hot tea and outright surprise that Miss Cleveley was so broad-minded were difficult to deal with at one and the same time. Before she dropped it, Honey quickly returned the very valuable cup to the tray.

  ‘I don’t condemn her for living the way she wants to,’ Honey said.

  Miss Cleveley nodded her head primly.

  ‘I am very glad to hear it, my dear Mistress Driver. Pray, my dear lady, do not look so surprised that I speak of Perdita with such tolerance. Perdita – Peter, as he was christened, informed his mother of the way things were when he was but thirteen. My sister, God rest her dear departed soul, and I shared everything including our darkest secrets. She informed me of the shift in circumstances.’

  Honey was taken aback as what could only be termed as a coquettish look came to Miss Cleveley’s face.

  She eventually found her voice. ‘You and your sister seem to have been extremely close.’

  ‘Indeed we were, God bless her. We had no secrets from each other and shared everything we had. We have even shared our men.’ She nodded at the painting of the dashing officer. ‘That very presentable gentleman is Victor, my sister Emily’s husband – deceased now, but a broad-minded and energetic man in his time. He took care of both of us very well. Do you not think him handsome?’

  Once the initial surprise regarding Miss Cleveley’s tolerance had passed, it seemed safe to reach for and sip at her tea. That was until what she’d just said sunk in. Victor was taking care of both of them? What was she suggesting?

  Honey almost choked. Was she misinterpreting this pronouncement, or was Miss Cleveley saying that Emily’s husband wasn’t averse to keeping both sisters happy – sexually happy that is?

  She checked Miss Cleveley’s twinkling eyes and almost blushed. There was no mistaking that kind of twinkle. Reading her eyes was like reading an open book; certainly nothing highbrow or safe – possibly something like Fanny Hill or the Kama Sutra.

  Miss Cleveley went on. ‘I am so glad that your good services resulted in such a positive outcome.’

  Honey raised her teacup. ‘Here’s to the success of the Dollyboys.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Miss Cleveley, repeating the gesture. ‘Perdita is much more suited to dance and light entertainment than films. I told her that before she got the part in the Jane Austen film.’

  ‘I thought she was merely an extra,’ Honey said.

  ‘Not at first. She had a small part. Thanks to Martyna Manderley it got cut. I could have killed her for that. So could Perdita. Being an extra is such a downgrade step.’

  The tea didn’t seem quite as hot; Honey felt a distinct chill. She’d been convinced that Perdita and her aunt had nothing to do with the murder. Now she wasn’t so sure. As usual her face was an open book and Miss Cleveley read it.

  ‘Pray do not let your suspicions run away with you. You have met Perdita. You know she is a kind-hearted soul. As for me … well …’ She laughed a light, ladylike laugh. ‘I am just an old and fragile woman …’

  Elizabeth the First had said something like that just before she’d led the English to give the Spanish a right hammering.

  ‘So she left Bath straight after?’

  Miss Cleveley nodded. ‘She was quite distraught about being dropped. And then, of course, she went for that interview with that terrible Brett Coleridge. If that make-up girl had not put such ideas into Perdita’s head, she might not have gone to London in the first place.’

  ‘Which make-up girl was that?’

  ‘The one that Manderley woman was overly friendly with. Miss Manderley bullied one and kissed the other.’

  Honey sucked in her breath, not sure what she was hearing here.

  ‘Overly friendly as in an unnatural manner,’ added Miss Cleveley. ‘In case you’re wondering.’

  Honey was in no doubt what she meant. Miss Cleveley was implying that Martyna Manderley didn’t just have a fiancé in her life, she also had a lover; a female lover.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Gloria Cross, Honey’s mother, chanced poking her head around the kitchen door. She should have known better of course. Smudger the chef was king in the kitchen.

  ‘Hannah, I need to speak to you.’

  Honey sighed. Her mother was the only person in the whole world who called her by her given name. That is with the exception of her bank manager. She had the distinct impression that he didn’t want to get too familiar in case she asked him for a bigger overdraft.

  ‘I’m a bit busy,’ she said.

  Her mother was adamant. Smudger hated uninvited people coming into his kitchen.

  Gloria ignored his glower.

  ‘You’ve been called,’ she said to her daughter.

  ‘Called what?’ asked Honey, her attention fixed on the planning of a wedding menu. She and Smudger were bent over it. The bride had requested bread and butter pudding as a dessert choice. One of her childhood favourites, she’d said.

  Smudger’s dark glower got steadily darker. He wore dark glowers as frequently as he wore his chefs’ whites.

  ‘What do you think?’ Honey asked.

  Unable to keep his feelings in, he snarled his considered opinion.

  ‘Bread and butter pudding looks a wee bit bland alongside brandy chocolate rococo with sugar orange tracery.’

  Honey’s mother Gloria was nothing if not persistent.

  ‘Did you hear what I said? You’ve been called as a walk-on.’

  Honey looked up. She knew what walk-on meant. Ordinary film extras were part of crowd scenes, passers-by and background material. Being a w
alk-on meant having some kind of exchange with the main characters.

  ‘I suppose I’m a maid coming in with a tray. Or a pickpocket perhaps. Hollywood will wait with baited breath; or perhaps not. Unfortunately I’m needed here. Dumpy Doris phoned in to say she slipped in the supermarket and dented something …’

  ‘Possibly the supermarket floor,’ muttered Gloria.

  ‘Now, now, Mother. Don’t be cruel.’

  Dumpy Doris was big, but you couldn’t hold that against her. She would come in and cook or clean or waitress at a moment’s notice. Having her around was like having three separate people all rolled into one. She was that kind of size and had those kinds of skills.

  ‘You wanted to get away from this place and now you’re turning a good offer down,’ her mother pointed out.

  Honey began ticking off Smudger’s suggested alternatives to bread and butter pudding. To her mother, she said, ‘Call them and tell them I can’t make it today.’

  ‘It’s not for today. Call time is six thirty tomorrow morning. The cook’s promised to have waffles cooked for breakfast. He reckons they’re the best in the world. He specifically told me to let you know.’ Her mother frowned and wore a suspicious look. ‘Has he got a crush on you?’

  She was referring to Richard Richards of course.

  ‘No. He’s a guy that relishes my praise. But I don’t care. I need something more exciting than that to tempt me.’

  Sighing, Honey ran her hands through her hair. The day after returning from London she’d trotted along to an early appointment at the hairdressers. The stylist had created a centre parting affair in some straggly arrangement resembling an old-time bob but updated. The straggly bits kept falling forward around her face and were becoming irritating. For the twentieth time, she tucked her wayward straggly bits back behind her ears.

  Lindsey joined them. ‘Is this a secret discussion or can anyone join in?’ She squeezed herself between Smudger and her mother.