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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I guarantee that you’ve never tasted anything like them before.’

  This was exactly what Honey was afraid of. She only hoped that he knew the difference between edible mushrooms and a death’s head. If not, she was as done in as a squashed hedgehog.

  Honey bit into the pasty. The crust was golden brown. It looked good, but that didn’t mean anything in Ted Ryker’s world.

  The taste surprised her. It was good.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, nodding her head and spraying breadcrumbs.

  ‘I’m a dab hand with the rolling pin.’

  She swallowed. ‘I didn’t realize you weren’t Dick Richards. You didn’t say.’

  ‘Why should I? Anyway, it’s all mine now.’

  He looked up at the banner and beamed.

  After polishing off the pasty, she found Doherty. He was studying a notepad on which he’d listed the chain of events since the film crew had come to town. He glanced up at her.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘That I’ve got crumbs around my mouth?’

  ‘I’ve got no problem with that. It was the wart I couldn’t cope with.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ve arrested Brett Coleridge.’

  ‘That guy is a wart on the backside of the world.’

  Doherty ignored her remark. ‘There are questions to be asked. He’s in London. I’m off there tonight. How about you come along and we make a night of it?’

  ‘Let me check my diary.’ She thought about it. ‘Seems good to me.’

  They strolled back across the park to the road. Ted Ryker was locking down the stainless-steel fitments of the canteen, prior to it being towed away. Doherty was carrying a small, white cardboard box. He’d been to the bakers on the way here. Inside were two custard slices that they were going to eat in the park. Although it was cold, the absence of tourists and lunchtime escapees from the office meant they’d have it mostly to themselves. It would give them time and space to evaluate what they knew.

  Honey repeated what Ted Ryker had told her about buying out Dick Richards.

  ‘Strange that he didn’t admit it from the outset. You’d almost think that Ted Ryker wanted to be Dick Richards.’

  ‘A lot of people want to be somebody else.’

  ‘That’s what acting is all about, I suppose.’

  ‘So did somebody in disguise go into Martyna’s trailer?’

  Doherty shrugged. ‘If they did, we don’t know who. That’s the thing about disguises. If they’re any good, they work.’ He spotted Ryker. ‘A last word, Mr Ryker.’

  Hearing him, Ryker straightened. He was tall and powerfully built.

  ‘Can you clarify exactly how many people you saw enter Martyna’s trailer before she was found murdered?’

  ‘No problem with me,’ said Ted Ryker. ‘Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m a stickler for perfection. Keep going over things and you perfect them. Have you tried one of my coconut pyramids?’

  Doherty said he had not. He also added that he was on a diet and also on duty. The custard slices didn’t count. He hadn’t eaten them yet.

  ‘Point taken,’ said Ryker.

  It sounded forced. He didn’t want to take any point from any guy and that included cops. That was Honey’s opinion. He struck her as the sort of guy who liked things his own way. The lantern jaw didn’t help. Neither did the bulging biceps. Overall, Ryker looked as though he’d been cast in an iron foundry.

  He turned to her. ‘How about the young lady?’

  ‘On duty. Sorry.’

  ‘Your bad luck,’ said Ryker. His smile had grown thinner and stiffer. ‘They’re freshly made. Can you smell them?’

  Closing his eyes, he turned his nose skyward, sniffing the air like a hungry dog.

  Unfair, screamed Honey, though not out loud. She put a brave face on it, but her taste buds were treacherous. Regardless of how it might be interpreted if known, they began salivating. Coconut pyramids! She hadn’t sampled a jammy, coconut-covered, pyramid-shaped sponge since, since… She couldn’t remember when, but she could remember the taste. Hence, her taste buds were following their own slice of memory.

  ‘Your Cornish pasty was wonderful,’ she trilled. It sounded like a consolation prize. And was. She mustn’t let Doherty down and go for the coconut pyramids.

  It was obvious that Doherty was in serious mode. He wanted answers.

  ‘Can you reel off who you thought you saw go in there prior to Ms Manderley’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’ He began counting on his fingers. They were meaty fingers. ‘First, there was Boris.’

  ‘The director.’

  ‘He was very present on set,’ Honey pointed out. ‘I doubt whether he had the time for either murder.’

  ‘A very busy man.’ Ryker wore a self-satisfied smirk. ‘We’re pals. He said, “Ted, on account of your delicious meatballs, call me Boris. He don’t invite just anybody to call ’im by ’is first name.’

  ‘Great buddies,’ Honey murmured under her breath.

  Doherty continued. ‘You said he came and went a few times.’

  ‘Three or four.’

  ‘Who else?’ asked Doherty.

  ‘There were the usual – make-up girls, wardrobe, second director’s assistant … Any of them could ’ave done it of course.’

  Honey considered. Surely only the last person – or second to last if you discounted the one who’d discovered the body – could have done it. ‘Who was the last?’

  ‘Couldn’t say. I was busy you know. Everyone was busy going in and out. People just went in and left things if she was having some shut-eye. She got a nice trailer you see. It’s got a bed in there so if she feels tired she can just get her head down. I bet she had her head down on them lace-trimmed pillows up front. Lovely! How the other half live, eh?’

  They already knew that Martyna Manderley was sleeping while a variety of people popped in and out. She’d been awake when Courtney, the make-up girl, was touching up her face, and also when Scheherazade had arrived. Scheherazade was the last to see her, but had been adamant she was still alive when she’d left her. Now she was dead but even in death she was still a suspect – perhaps a convenient suspect for the real murderer.

  Doherty was of the same mind. Once this interview was over, he was off to speak to the director again.

  ‘Think carefully,’ urged Doherty. ‘Was there anyone else at all after the make-up girls and before the director?’

  Ryker looked skywards, puffing out his cheeks with held breath.

  ‘I was busy, but got the chance to glance up now and again. Let me rewind the old memory banks … I know. The bird in the bonnet. I forgot about ’er. But, yes. She went in. Definitely.’

  Doherty frowned. This was something he hadn’t heard before. A mysterious someone. Perhaps the same someone Honey had seen running away?

  ‘Who was it?’

  Ryker shrugged and shook his head. ‘One of the cast, I suppose. She was bundled up in a bonnet and shawl. Could ’ave been that batty old bird that used to hang around.’

  His description was enough to bring a figure and a name into Honey’s mind.

  ‘Miss Cleveley,’ she whispered.

  Ryker looked at her. ‘Don’t know her name. A bit batty. Waffled on about historical accuracy and all that.’

  Honey felt sick. Miss Cleveley was a little eccentric, but she couldn’t believe she’d kill simply because the script favoured fiction above fact.

  Doherty thanked Ryker for his help. Neither of them was allowed to leave without having a bag of coconut pyramids foisted on them. Honey planned to eat hers at teatime – sharing them with whoever was around. One or two wouldn’t be too bad for the figure. Then Doherty reminded her of the custard slices.

  There was nothing else for it. The diet would have to go on hold until April.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Honey had spent more money than she should have on renovating the conservatory at the back of the hot
el. It had been a place of broken chairs and stored crockery when she’d first taken over.

  The gardener had also stored his lawnmower there, alongside a variety of rusty garden implements and hundreds of seedlings that he told her were tomatoes. Once she decided to renovate, the plants got thrown with the rest of the rubbish. She left one as a reminder of what had been there. It had since grown to rather generous proportion and produced seedlings of its own. The whole family of plants sat on a wrought-iron plant display in one corner. The rest of the furnishings were also wrought iron and embellished with comfortable cushions. The conservatory was now something to be proud of.

  At present, except for an elderly gentleman from Canada, sound asleep on a full-length recliner, there were no guests out there.

  Apart from him, there was only her and Casper.

  ‘I’m concerned,’ said Casper. He flicked his fingers out across the chair before sitting down.

  Honey bit her tongue. Casper was a finicky old fusspot, but in a way he helped pay the bills. Biting her tongue was the way it would have to be.

  On this occasion he caught the look in her eyes and, to her surprise, apologized.

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ he said. The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch with amusement.

  Some old memory, no doubt, but she wouldn’t pry.

  Following the interruption at the Francis Hotel, he’d called in to check on progress and also to book rooms for a party of Dutch tourists. Hardy types obviously and used to February weather.

  Filling her rooms at this time of the year was by way of repayment for her work as Crime Liaison Officer. Not that she minded being dragged away from the hotel. Liaising with Detective Inspector Steve Doherty was an appealing pastime and, after all, she was assisting the tourist trade. Tourists liked to think that everywhere they visited was as safe as Disneyland.

  Casper gave her the details of the booking in writing. ‘Neville would have emailed, but I needed a walk. Fresh air in the lungs, blood flowing through the veins.’

  Honey understood. Like her, he preferred the written word to computers. Neville, his manager, took care of that, just as her daughter did for her.

  Just as he was about to ask her how the case was going, there was a clattering of kitten-heeled boots and her mother barged in.

  She was wearing a suede jacket with matching culottes that ended at the knee. Her boots were of tan leather and had brass-tipped toes. She vaguely reminded Honey of an elderly, though more upmarket, Calamity Jane – the Doris Day variety.

  ‘Hannah!’ she exclaimed, totally ignoring Casper and looking flushed and terribly put out. ‘My play is going to be read and could win a prize. I so wanted you to hear it being read, but you can’t. They’ve run out of tickets! Would you believe it?’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  Honey thanked heaven for small mercies. No matter what her mother had said, she was pretty sure that the play readings would send her to sleep and be a waste of two or three useful hours of ironing, or dusting, or anything!

  ‘I think I can assist.’

  To Honey’s horror, Casper’s face lit up and his hand was in his inside pocket.

  She knew – she just knew what he was going to say and what he’d be waving in his hand.

  ‘You can have these.’

  The nightmare had come true!

  She had a sickly smile on her face when he passed her the tickets.

  Her mother looked ecstatic. ‘What a wonderful man you are!’

  Casper received a kiss whether he liked it or not.

  ‘This is wonderful,’ said Gloria, ‘You are a knight in shining armour.’

  He waved her gratitude aside. ‘Think nothing of it, dear lady. They were surplus to my requirements. I have another engagement that night.’

  ‘My, my,’ said Gloria, turning to her daughter. ‘Just you wait until you hear my play. You’ll be so glad we were able to get tickets.’

  Honey’s smile stayed fixed. ‘Great.’

  Gloria studied her watch – a gold number from Gucci. ‘Look at the time. I have to meet the girls for lunch. Do excuse me,’ she said to Casper. ‘And thank you again. Just wait till I tell the girls that I could’ve won a prize!’

  The girls she referred to were all in their seventies. Running their daughters’ lives came pretty high on their lunchtime agenda.

  Gloria did a little wiggle and winked at Casper on her way out.

  Casper raised a querulous eyebrow. Honey was mightily embarrassed. Casper might be close to her mother’s age, but he was not heterosexual.

  Honey made a mental note to tell her mother that she was barking up the wrong tree.

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Casper, smiling at her from beneath lowered eyebrows. ‘I take it you know these are amateur playwrights. Their offerings could be an insult to the ear, if not the intelligence. The plays will consist of the meanderings of would-be playwrights with big egos and small talent.’

  Honey wiped a hand across her forehead in a fair imitation of theatrical tragedienne. ‘Angst is us! Casper! How could you do this to me?’

  ‘My profound apologies, but needs must.’

  ‘I’ll have a few drinks beforehand.’

  ‘After might be better. Falling asleep and falsetto snoring would not be appreciated.’

  Doherty called for her just after lunch. He’d toyed with the idea of calling on Miss Cleveley with a woman police officer, but had changed his mind. He didn’t want to be responsible for giving the poor old dear a heart attack. He had to question hard to get results and having Honey there, someone Miss Cleveley knew and trusted, would be an asset.

  Two cats greeted them at the door of the little cottage. Miss Cleveley’s bright eyes looked up at them quizzically from beneath a lace-edged mop cap.

  ‘My word. It is not my custom to receive visitors after midday. I favour the morning for receiving.’

  ‘This is official business,’ said Doherty, flashing his warrant card.

  Honey was worried about upsetting the old dear, though like Doherty she was intrigued to know what she’d been doing in Martyna Manderley’s trailer.

  She kept her voice soft, her expression mild. ‘He wants to ask you some questions about the death of Martyna Manderley. I hope you don’t mind.’

  If Miss Cleveley did mind, she showed no sign of it; perhaps because her mind lived in the past and her body in the present. Besides the mop cap on her head, her body was enclosed in floaty muslin of pale blue, sprinkled with tiny pink rosebuds. Her shoes were flat ballerina ones and laced up around the ankles.

  ‘Do come in. Please excuse my attire. I was not expecting visitors.’

  She led them down the hall and into the drawing room.

  ‘Dig the outfit,’ Honey whispered.

  Doherty looked at her blankly. ‘Why?’

  Honey sighed. ‘Doherty, you will never be a fashion victim.’

  He grimaced. ‘Thank God for that.’

  Miss Cleveley invited them to take a seat. Doherty seated himself in a winged armchair. Honey perched on a love seat with a curved back and velvet cushions.

  ‘Can I offer you tea?’ the old woman asked.

  Doherty declined.

  ‘Not for me,’ Honey said. ‘Have you heard from Perdita?’ Asking about a member of family she hoped would put Miss Cleveley at ease.

  Miss Cleveley smiled. ‘Yes. She apologized for not writing. Very naughty of her.’

  Honey reminded herself that the house had no phone. Perdita either wrote or phoned a neighbour.

  Doherty swung into action. He asked Miss Cleveley where she was on the day in question.

  ‘Did you ever go in to Martyna Manderley’s trailer?’

  Miss Cleveley’s face darkened. Her brows knitted in a deep V above her nose. ‘No,’ she said adamantly. ‘No. I was not there.’ She turned to Honey. ‘I told you, they banished me from their presence. I was humiliated. I don’t mind telling you that, but I did not go back and do this foul deed! I most certa
inly did not!’

  Doherty nodded sagely as though he were older in years than he really was.

  ‘Can you tell me where you were that morning?’

  Miss Cleveley’s bright blue eyes blinked a few times. Her jaw moved as though she were chewing the matter over. There was something about the action that made Honey think that she was hiding something; was it something incriminating?

  ‘I was at the beauty clinic.’

  She touched her chin in a telling manner. Honey got the drift. Miss Cleveley, Perdita’s aunt, had been at the clinic having a touch of electrolysis.

  Doherty didn’t get it. ‘We’ll get that verified.’

  There was nothing more to be said.

  After thanking her for her time, they left.

  ‘I thought you said she lived in the past and didn’t indulge in modern luxuries? What’s a beauty clinic if it isn’t a modern luxury?’ said Doherty as they made their way back down the cobbled alley to the road.

  ‘She was having her bristles removed from her face. Saves shaving.’

  Doherty muttered, ‘Oh. Right.’ He obviously didn’t get it straight away. He said, ‘Oh’ a second time, but louder. ‘I forgot that little detail.’

  ‘It’ll check out. No beautician is going to forget a bristly chin like hers. Which begs the question, if it wasn’t her in the bonnet and shawl, who was it?’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  A plain black dress worn with a matching three-quarter-length jacket trimmed with beige was just the thing to wear on a night out. The jacket had a swing to it. On inspecting her appearance, Honey decided it was just the thing for a play reading.

  Dallying with some paperwork after an evening meal and a good Shiraz would have been preferable, but this was something she couldn’t avoid. Damn Casper for having spare tickets.

  ‘You look very nice,’ said Alex the barman as he poured her a vodka and slimline tonic.

  ‘Make it a double.’

  Being a good barman and half her age, he obeyed immediately. Alex was a boy who had respect for his elders – and his boss.

  Lindsey was taking her time getting ready. Honey phoned her while Alex poured her another vodka.

  ‘Are you ready yet?’

  ‘Mother, there’s plenty of time.’