Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Quick if you like, slow if you want.’

  ‘I’ll go with quick on this occasion.’

  The smell of freshly roasted coffee and freshly baked scones filled Honey’s office.

  On arrival Doherty was fairly relaxed. He told her about the murder. She told him about the bag plus the fact that she was probably the last person to see the deceased alive. Or, at least, the last but one.

  Silently and purposefully, he went into action. First he settled himself on the edge of her desk calling in the details as they appeared on the deceased’s passport. ‘She called herself Lady Templeton-Jones, but it seems her name was also Wanda Carpenter. Aged sixty-eight.’ He nodded in response to whatever was being said on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Absolutely. We’ll leave them to take care of that.’ He hung up. ‘They’ll contact the US police and inform the family. I’ve asked for some details to be sent to us.’

  Doherty was wearing his serious expression. The deceased’s brown leather bag was sitting centre stage on the desk – a bit like a coffin, though full of belongings rather than a body. It was down to Steve to itemise the contents for future reference just in case anything came to light that might have a bearing on the case.

  Doherty began carrying out an inventory of the most important stuff – passport, money, crumpled receipts, leaflets of various attractions – the Jane Austen House, the Roman Baths, and a concert at Bath Abbey. He dipped back into the bag for the final items, writing each down on his list.

  ‘Hairbrush …’ Write it down. ‘Lipstick …’ He wrote that down. ‘A box.’ The box was about twelve by eight by two inches.

  ‘Contact lenses,’ said Honey, recognizing the same green plastic case she received every three months.

  Doherty set it to one side. ‘Powder compact … lipstick. Two lipsticks? How many does a woman need?’

  Honey put him straight. ‘Depends on what she’s wearing. My mother has a lipstick for every outfit.’

  He pulled a face. ‘I can believe that. I know your mother.’

  ‘Two’s fine,’ said Honey with a casual shrug. Two was fine, though the deceased hadn’t struck her as a woman who did Helena Rubinstein or even Boots own. The rain could have clouded her vision of course. It had hardly been the night for keen observation.

  He set the bag and his list to one side. ‘I’ll get back to this later.’

  Honey caught him giving her a sidelong look.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  It wasn’t entirely true. She was rattled. Anyone could tell that by the way she was fiddling with the rings on her fingers. She hadn’t been this close to a victim of anything – except a punch-up at a wedding the hotel had once hosted, when the bridegroom had called his newly acquired mother-in-law an interfering, ugly old bat. It hadn’t boded well for the marriage, especially when said mother-in-law had retaliated with a swing of her handbag that had knocked him out cold. He couldn’t possibly have known what junk – heavyweight junk – a woman carries in her handbag. But that was a domestic and had only resulted in concussion. This was murder.

  As one of the last people to see Wanda Carpenter – Lady Templeton-Jones – alive, Mary Jane was called for. She arrived with a small Georgian writing slope tucked beneath her arm. Honey offered her a croissant.

  She eyed the croissants dismissively. ‘Can I have chocolate digestives?’

  Lindsey was summoned to fetch some. She came back carrying a tray of biscuits and wearing a headset. Recently she’d begun making telephone calls on the computer.

  Steve lightened up. ‘You look very hi-tech, Lindz. A bit Trekkie.’

  Lindsey pulled a face. ‘That’s what my mother said. Too Starship Enterprise, not Green River Reception – until I told her telephone calls via the computer were cheaper, even free sometimes.’

  ‘So our lady wasn’t a lady,’ said Honey, wishing to change the subject. Technical matters left her cold – and that included computers, DVD recorders, the timer on the microwave, and even her ancient video recorder. Her cell phone was a necessary evil, though she only did calls and texts. Anything else fried her brain.

  ‘Ha!’ said Mary Jane loud enough to make Lindsey jump and the cups rattle. ‘I just knew she wasn’t a real lady. Real ladies have breeding. One look and you can tell whether they’ve got historic ancestry or not. Look at me, for instance.’

  Everyone looked. Blankly. No one said anything.

  Mary Jane’s ancestors must have been a little on the eccentric side, that’s if dress sense and general behaviour were handed down in the genes. Tall and thin with arms like broom handles, she was presently wearing a cerise pink trouser suit and lime green Alice band. Her hair was tightly curled and a fetching shade of cobalt blue. There was no doubt that she considered herself a lady. It was all to do with her ancestor, Sir Cedric, haunting the Green River Hotel, and, more specifically, the room Mary Jane presently occupied.

  The silence was awkward.

  Steve pricked it. ‘If we stick to the point …’

  Lindsey followed through. ‘Mary Jane’s probably right. Titles can be bought online for as little as three hundred dollars. The real ones are upwards of five thousand, some as much as thirty thousand. Pounds, not dollars. Some are even more.’

  Mary Jane’s jaw dropped. ‘You don’t say?’

  Steve Doherty straightened and was all interest. ‘So there’s a legal and an illegal market.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  Lindsey, a fount of historical knowledge, nodded into her microphone. ‘There are a lot of old titles passed down in noble families, not used but still owned by them.’

  ‘Did they earn these titles for services to the crown? To Henry VIII and people like that?’ asked an enthralled Mary Jane.

  Lindsey’s smile was slow and slightly wicked. ‘For services rendered. Some in battle. Some in bed.’

  Steve closed in. ‘Go on.’

  Honey knew where he was coming from. Never mind the history, lascivious details please!

  Lindsey, true to her soul, kept to the facts. ‘It’s no big deal for the old nobility to sell on defunct titles they no longer use. No property attached, of course, but they are listed by the Master of Arms – the keeper of titles in the heraldic process. But as with all things, especially on the net, there are sharks in the water. Hence the titles sold for three hundred dollars – aimed at Americans of course, though they’re not the only partakers. Plenty of foreigners buy defunct titles.’

  Honey asked the obvious question. ‘But why do people do it? What’s the point of having a title you didn’t inherit?’

  Lindsey raised one eyebrow and eyed her mother with just a hint – a very small hint of accusation. ‘It impresses the flunkies.’

  Honey felt her face getting warm. ‘I’m never impressed by titles!’

  Lindsey’s eyebrow lifted a little higher. ‘Maybe not, but you’re canny around them, just in case they can do the business some good – recommendations to their friends, or a mention in a glossy magazine.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  Steve intervened. He addressed Lindsey. ‘Are you impressed by titled people?’

  Lindsey shook her head; this week her hair was a glossy beetroot colour, a single lick of blonde dissecting her fringe. ‘No. I’m more interested in the titled people of the past when they made history and were part of the status quo. Modern day titles are no longer relevant. Nowadays I’m a republican.’

  Mary Jane looked confused. Honey assumed that as an American national she was having trouble making her mind up as to where she stood. Should she declare for republicanism or defend her aristocratic heritage?

  ‘Anyway,’ Lindsey said, ‘I’m off to beat the peasants in the kitchen.’ Honey raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the thought of anyone attempting to beat Smudger the chef. Not wise if you wanted to stay healthy!

  ‘Right,’ said Doherty, turning to Mary Jane. ‘I need you to make
a statement.’

  ‘The woman was a fraud!’

  Doherty was a picture of forbearance. ‘That isn’t quite what I meant. I want you to think very carefully, Mary Jane. When did you see her last?’

  Mary Jane screwed up her face, her pale eyebrows hovering around the bridge of her nose.

  ‘Outside the Garrick’s Head. That’s when I last saw her clearly. I only kind of glimpsed her after that. Hell, it was as though God had turned on the faucet and was trying to wash us down the drain!’

  ‘Right. “I last saw the woman referred to as Lady Templeton-Jones outside the Garrick’s Head … ”’

  Doherty was patient. He went on speaking each line out loud to Mary Jane, gaining her approval before writing it down. Eventually he had enough for her to sign.

  Honey rolled her eyes as Mary Jane spread the letter on the writing slope, the whole thing perched on her knees.

  Doherty looked on in amazement as she unfastened the brass clasps, then opened the lid of the inkwell. Last but not least, out came the quill pen.

  ‘The past is still alive with me,’ she said. ‘If I’m to write anything, I do it the way my ancestors did.’

  She proceeded to sign the statement with a feathery flourish, blotting her name with an ivory-handled blotter. Once that was done, she was told she was free to go.

  Mary Jane half rose from her chair looking pretty thoughtful. She paused, her long legs bent like the stem of a desk light. ‘I suppose I could try contacting her and ask her who did it.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once they were alone, Steve burst out laughing. ‘A ghost walk! Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Mary Jane’s birthday. My treat.’

  A lie, but necessary. She’d bought Mary Jane a pale pink cameo brooch for her birthday. The walk was part of her new lifestyle – walk whenever you can and the weight goes with it. Seemed a good mantra. It was working. Along with keeping away from rich, creamy sauces.

  He continued to laugh.

  ‘This isn’t funny. Anyway, there could be life after death.’

  ‘No one’s ever come back to confirm it, have they?’

  The laughter reduced to a gurgle deep in his throat.

  Her phone rang. She checked the number. ‘Casper.’

  Steve met her eyes. The amusement died. ‘You’re unnerved.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Casper on your back?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not yet. He must have only just found out. He’ll want the details.’

  Casper St John Gervais was Chairman of Bath Hotels Association. It was Casper who’d appointed her as Crime Liaison Officer for the Association. The City of Bath depended on tourism for its living. The association had a vested interest in preventing crime from soiling its worldwide reputation.

  ‘Don’t phone him back. I’ll call in and brief him on my way home. No problem.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re very subdued.’

  ‘This is the closest I’ve ever got to a murder. I was the last person to see her. The last person …’

  ‘I can understand that.’ He cleared his throat, lowered his eyes. ‘On another note, we’ve kind of cooled. Is that what you want?’

  Seemingly of their own volition, her lips did a kind of hula dance as she considered an answer.

  ‘You mean we only see each other over a dead body.’

  Steve shrugged and went back to listing and speaking each item.

  ‘Set of keys. Purse.’ He opened the latter and began listing the contents. ‘Fifty pounds in denominations of one twenty, two tens, two fives …’ He began listing credit cards. ‘And a key ring,’ he said finally, tipping up the plastic tab so he could see the motif more clearly. ‘HMS Titanic. Hmmm. Our victim had about as much luck as the Titanic. Sinking on her maiden voyage. A diary,’ continued Doherty. He began leafing through. ‘She’s got the ghost walk pencilled in for the evening … followed by a squiggly doodle. During the day she went to …’

  The fact that he paused attracted her attention. He was chewing his lip. She sat up. Leaned forward almost overbalancing the chair. ‘Well, go on. What did she do during the day?’

  She tried to read his expression, but he was keeping it deadpan. Just to annoy me, she thought.

  ‘Steve! Are you going to tell me or what?’

  He flipped her a sideways grin. ‘You’re curious?’

  She glared daggers at him. Being the daughter of Gloria Cross meant that Honey had her angry looks down to a T.

  Doherty took the hint. ‘She had an appointment at some place with the initials ASS.’

  ‘An unfortunate name.’

  ‘I kid you not. There’s a phone number.’ Honey took the diary and scrutinised the details herself.

  Doherty went on talking. ‘You’re looking good. Have you been going to the gym or just declaring war on the croissants?’

  Honey blushed. ‘Ditto. I mean … you’re looking good too. Been jogging or something?’

  He stumbled over his tongue.

  ‘Shall I phone the number?’

  Doherty looked blank. ‘What?’

  ‘The telephone number.’ She jerked her chin at the diary and reached for the desk phone. The tone trilled about five times before being answered.

  ‘Assured Security Shredding. How may we help you?’ He sounded young.

  Honey thought on her feet. ‘Hi. We have a delivery to make. Can you give me your full address please?’ She wrote the details down as she spoke. The fact that the vans of any decent delivery firm would have satellite navigation wasn’t questioned, not to mention that the guy on the phone hadn’t even asked what company she was calling from. ASS obviously weren’t quite as big on assured security as they made out.

  Honey put down the phone. The address was recognizable as being on a trading estate between Bath and Trowbridge.

  ‘Do you know it?’ Honey asked as Doherty studied the details she’d written down.

  ‘Assured Security Shredding? Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘ASS for short. Unfortunate choice for a company name.’

  He was frowning and didn’t smirk at her comment. A bit unfair seeing as she’d smirked when he’d said it. On the other hand, she could guess what he was thinking. What would an elderly American woman who’d bought an old English title want with a security shredding firm near Bath?

  Doherty was good at his job and could withdraw into himself when he had a lot of thinking to do. He was doing that now; there was a closed look in his eyes, as though he couldn’t possibly let in any trivialities until he’d got rid of the serious stuff. All banter was dead in the water for the time being.

  ‘I’ll pay them a visit. Let’s get the formalities out of the way first.’ Pen in hand, he was ready for her to make her statement.

  They went through the details: what time she and Mary Jane had left the hotel, what time they’d arrived outside the Garrick’s Head.

  ‘Are you sure of that? How did you get there?’

  ‘I’m sure. We walked – obviously.’

  He looked up. ‘On a night like that? Why didn’t you drive?’

  ‘Hah!’ She smiled, waving the idea aside. ‘It was a short walk.’

  He didn’t pursue it. Just as well. The truth was delicate. When she’d relocated to England, Mary Jane had brought over her most cherished possession from the good old US-of-A: a two-door coupe Cadillac convertible – a pale pink Cadillac convertible. One ride and Honey had dreaded going out in it again. The colour was not too much of a problem. Mary Jane’s driving was. Ghosts were far more scary, but Mary Jane was a sensitive soul and Honey had no intention of spreading the word – intentionally or otherwise. Instead she went on to explain that by the time they’d arrived the theatre crowd had already passed and were seated beneath the vaulted gilt ceilings of the Theatre Royal next door.

  ‘So it was definitely around eight fifteen. There wasn’t a single soul around – except us.’

  ‘A bun
ch of nuts on a ghost walk. Right.’ He wrote it down.

  She gave him the evil eye. ‘Two out of ten for your terminology. I resent you calling me a nut. It was a fun thing. Anyway, some people really do believe in all that stuff.’

  He raised his eyes without raising his head, pen still gripped and ballpoint fixed to the notepad. ‘Some kids still believe in Santa Claus.’

  ‘So are you calling me a nut, or merely immature?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Anyway, I was there at Mary Jane’s invitation, remember.’

  ‘Now she is a nut,’ Doherty said. He leaned closer. ‘What I meant is, that there you were, out in the pouring rain on my night off when you could have been tucked up somewhere warm.’

  She leaned forward too, her chin butting his nose as she smiled into his eyes. ‘Well. You’ve left it long enough.’

  He jerked his head away. ‘You told me you were busy.’

  ‘So were you. Anyway, I was getting myself into shape.’

  ‘For what?’ He spread his arms, palms facing and shrugged his shoulders. ‘For what?’

  ‘No need to shout. I heard you the first time.’

  She sniffed and folded her arms. She could turn on Miss Huffy at the drop of a hat if she wanted. ‘I wanted to achieve something.’

  He grinned. ‘So did I.’

  ‘Have you ever thought about taking more exercise?’

  ‘I’m fine as I am.’

  She sensed a change of tone. He wouldn’t be drawn towards making a confession about being out jogging. But she’d find out. In time she’d find out …

  He turned serious. ‘First things first.’

  Pen and statement were reintroduced. He rested the paperwork on his knees, which meant drawing them both together like a maiden aunt’s.

  ‘Right. So where were we?’

  Step by step, sentence by sentence, she led him through the puddles and pavements of the ghost walk all the way to the alley sloping down past the antique shops on to George Street.

  ‘I heard something. I looked over my shoulder.’

  ‘Who was it?’