‘Her Ladyship came over to claim her part of the inheritance and realised immediately the value of the three reels of film. Her cousin Ashwell had entered them in an auction. Why would Lady Templeton-Jones withdraw them? Sentimental value?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve had a rethink. I asked myself why else would they withdrawn them – unless they’d had a very good offer?’
Doherty nodded. ‘That’s logical. But from whom?’
Honey stared ahead at the long road leading down into Bath. ‘She was on the ghost walk to meet the person who’d made an offer they couldn’t refuse. I’m presuming that for security reasons, first cousin Ashwell had the reels copied to disc. So they didn’t entirely trust whoever had made them an offer. But Her Ladyship decided to be extra careful. She never took her bag with her but left it in the care of Adrian Harris.’
‘For what reason, Miss Marple?’
‘Don’t call me that. It makes me feel frumpy.’
‘You’ll never be that.’
She liked his tone of voice. But this was no time for fooling around. There was serious stuff afoot. And something else had come to her.
‘She arrived by taxi.’
Doherty caught her drift. ‘And went straight off on the walk.’
‘So where was she between leaving the bag and arriving on the walk? Did she meet someone else? Someone who perhaps changed her mind about selling them at all?’
‘And presumed she had the reels on her.’
‘Which she did not.’
Chapter Fifty-eight
Honey tilted her head back and eyed the building all the way up to the guttering. ‘Disappearing is getting to be a habit around here.’
Doherty gave Ashwell Bridgewater’s front door another firm hammering. A strong wind was blowing down through the narrow gap between the terraced cottages and the building opposite. The effect was to mute the harsh racket, or at least it felt that way to Honey’s ears.
Inching along into the flower bed, she peered in through the ground floor window. The window was divided in three, had iron casements and a stone mullion frame.
The scene inside the cottage had changed little compared to before – though perhaps it was a little untidier, as though someone had been packing …
Shielding her eyes with her hands, she peered again. There was no dead body. She wasn’t quite sure whether to be grateful or sad. Cold-calling salesmen were such a damned nuisance.
‘No sign of life,’ she said, shaking the dirt from her heels as she stepped back on to the path.
Doherty made a murmuring noise – his thinking noise – a bit like a DVD player when it’s on standby.
‘He’s done a runner.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘Took the money and headed for the Costa Brava.’
‘Uh-uh,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t the Costa Brava type.’ She didn’t know why she was convinced of that. Some inner sight? Or the fact that he liked to be charming, and to impress? This latter was the most likely reason she’d jumped to that conclusion.
‘So where do you think he would go?’
‘He’s slippery-slimy. It has to be Thailand. He’s the sort that buys sex but never gets it for free.’
Doherty raised his eyebrows. ‘That bad?’
‘Trust me. He hides dark secrets.’
‘Do you?’
Honey thought about it. ‘I have been known to wander around with Queen Victoria’s knickers in my handbag.’
Doherty smirked and leaned closer. ‘Or a pair of bosom protectors – battle-wagon size.’
‘Down, boy! You’ll trip over your tongue.’
Northend was a dead end. Doherty radioed through for an alert to be put out at airports, ferry and bus terminals. ‘And get hold of his car registration details from the team in Swansea.’
The wide wheels rumbled back down the slope and on to the main A4. The traffic was light as far as the traffic lights at the bottom of the A46. A bulk carrier joined them from the Bradford-on-Avon road, Wallace and Gates Transport Services emblazoned across its rear end.
On its way to a landfill site?
It was reasonable to suppose that Wallace and Gates owned that too.
Doherty reflected her thoughts. ‘Spreads it wide, our Cameron.’
‘I take it that Associated Security Shredding is also part of the same group.’
‘Yup.’
‘And the copying facility next door to it?’
‘Yup. Got it checked out. It’s all on their company website.’
Of course it was. Why hadn’t she checked it herself? Because you hate computers, dunderhead! That was no excuse. And Lindsey loved the damned things.
Honey mused on that remark. Ashwell Bridgewater worked for a division of Wallace and Gates. Simon Taylor had worked for a division of Wallace and Gates. There was a copying facility next door to Associated Security Shredding. That too was part of the group. The shop where Lady Templeton-Jones had been found murdered was owned by Wallace and Gates, as was the shop next door to it.
‘Wallace and Gates owned everything connected with this. I know that teamwork can do wonders, but can it also do death?’
‘You’re thinking the same as me. Wallace and Gates owned everything and employed the prime movers.’
‘It was the shops I was thinking of. The murder scene’s been re-let to my mother.’
‘The murder doesn’t worry her?’
‘Nah!’ said Honey, shaking her head. ‘But she’s getting Mary Jane to do a little sagebrush-burning around the place. It’s a kind of American–Indian version of feng shui.’
Doherty laughed. ‘A lot of bother to go through. She’d have been better off renting the shop next door now it’s empty …’
Honey sensed he was having a road to Damascus moment – though in this case as it was a road into Bath, and not half as spiritual.
Doherty’s voice trailed away. ‘Holy Shi … Smoke! The shop next door sold marine artefacts,’ Doherty said suddenly. ‘I looked in the window. There was a load of old marine bits and pieces in the window.’
‘But not now?’
He shook his head.
‘And the proprietor?’
‘Gone abroad. So I’m told.’
Honey ran her tongue over her lips. ‘I could do with a drink.’
They made for the Pump Rooms. A trio was playing Mozart.
Doherty’s gaze settled on the cellist, a lean girl with bright pink lips and long legs clutching a shiny cello.
Honey nudged him. ‘A penny for them.’
He grinned. ‘I was just thinking that if I did believe in reincarnation I’d come back as a cello.’
Chapter Fifty-nine
‘Honey Driver, you’re taking leave of your senses. Now either bloody well sort yourself out, or get out of my kitchen!’
OK, Smudger Smith was a great chum of a chef, but he was volatile. Nevertheless he worked for her and she could justifiably have told him to sod off. But no way. It was a chance she couldn’t take, for great chefs weren’t ten a penny. Anyway, she was making a mess of things this morning having just filled a jug with mayonnaise instead of cream.
She was preoccupied. Where were the film reels? That was all she wanted to know. Still, that was no excuse for mistaking mayonnaise for cream.
‘Sorry, Chef. Iron hard,’ she muttered, rubbing her neck. ‘Too much tension.’
‘Then get out of my kitchen and find someone to rub it for you.’
‘You offering?’
‘Out!’ He pointed at the door.
She scurried out, thinking that she needed more than a neck massage to sort things out.
What she needed was to lash out at somebody – at least with her tongue. Her whole body was stiff as a fence post. Unfortunately it would have to stay that way. She was filling in for an absent waitress tonight and needed to be courteous and of service. However, that didn’t mean she had to be servile. All it would take was an awkward customer who wished to wipe his feet
on somebody.
A certain Mr Edgar Seymour happened to be it, though he didn’t yet know it.
‘Didn’t you hear me? I said there’s a greenfly on my salad.’
Honey turned to the man with the speckled skin and ginger hair. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.’
‘Look,’ he said, pointing a square-ended finger at the tiny intruder. ‘I didn’t order protein with my salad.’
‘I’ll get you a fresh one.’
‘No need. You can deduct the cost from the bill. That’s four salads …’
‘You’ve been served four salads with greenfly?’
‘No, just mine, but my friends have all had salad …’
Honey eyed the three empty plates. ‘And ate them.’
‘That’s beside the point … And that coffee looks stewed.’
Honey glanced to where the coffee jug was gurgling away on its stand. Besides ordinary coffee they offered lattes, cappuccinos, and decaffeinated – a large choice for a small hotel.
She made a last effort to be polite. ‘I can assure you the coffee is fresh. It empties every few minutes so we have to make fresh.’
‘OK, but what about these salads?’
‘Leave it with me.’
Two of her regular waitresses had phoned in sick. Lindsey was doing her bit to help out and so was Dumpy Doris. Dumpy Doris was built like a bulldozer with black hair and piercing black eyes. And she knew everybody. Honey could never figure out how come she knew so many people. She was hardly the Ivana Trump of Bath. Sometimes, though, such information came in useful – like now.
Doris’s doughy face was twitching as though she’d just stuck her finger into an electric plug. She resembled a wonky, overweight automaton.
Commanded as such to attend, Honey did as ordered.
Doris’s eyes narrowed, and were focused on the greenfly grumbler.
Honey explained. ‘They’re complaining that they had a greenfly on their salad.’
‘And he wants you to discount for all four, I suppose. Bleeding typical. They’ll find something wrong with the main course as well; and the dessert; and the char and coffee. They do it in every restaurant they go in. I knows ’em. Common as muck. ’E thinks ’e’s Lord Bleeding Muck, and she’s all fur coat and no knickers!’
‘And the greenfly?’
‘Old Harry there grows roses. Say no more.’
‘So what about that greenfly?’
A speckled ginger man appeared at her elbow, brimming with over confidence.
Honey folded her arms over her chest. ‘Well, you know what they say if you want to find a greenfly in your salad, don’t you? Bring one with you!’
The man frowned. ‘How dare you!’
The day’s events had left Honey in no mood for composure. ‘Get out of my hotel, you downmarket upstart!’ She controlled the urge to shout. Controlled the urge to clench her fist and fetch him a good one on the nose.
The rest of his party looked horrified.
A woman wearing black polyester trousers and a black and red flowered top got to her feet. Tossing her head high she sniffed like a dowager duchess. ‘We’ve never been treated like this before!’
‘Well, that isn’t what I’ve heard!’
She felt Doris’s heavy presence behind her, and then heard her voice. ‘All right, Maureen? Still buying yer old man’s underpants from jumble sales?’
The colour drained from Maureen’s face. She was standing half out of her chair, as though not sure whether to sit back down or run for the exit.
‘Ed,’ she said softly, tugging at his sleeve.
Ed was obviously short-sighted or overly adventurous. He stood swaying slightly.
‘And another thing …’ He was pointing a sausage-like finger.
Doris elbowed forward. ‘Sod off, Edgar.’
He looked at her, his jaw and slack lips moving in slow motion.
Doris braced her fists on her hips and edged closer. ‘You heard me. Sod off.’
The couple accompanying them, cowed up until now, suddenly jerked to their feet.
‘I’m sorry about this.’ He sounded downright embarrassed. ‘Here’s what we owe. Or as near as, dammit.’
Honey took the money. She kept a straight face. Inside she was bubbling with laughter.
Doris showed the foursome to the door and flung their coats out after them. ‘And don’t come back.’
The rest of the clientele seemed to have appreciated the floor show. Most clapped.
Honey concentrated on clearing the table. It occurred to her that Doris was taking her time. She craned her neck and sidestepped so she could see better. She saw Doris standing very still, watching something on the other side of the door.
‘Your mother’s here,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And she’s not alone.’
Doris stood aside as Gloria Cross’s head poked through the door. ‘I’ve got Mary Jane out here. She’s getting rid of any bad spirits that might be hanging around my shop. Margaret gets the willies about the place.’
Honey thought on her feet.
‘I’d like to come as well.’
This had nothing to do with Mary Jane and this Native American mumbo-jumbo. It was all about blackmail, murder, and the sinking of the Titanic.
She cast an experienced gaze over the restaurant. It was gone ten o’clock. Things were winding down.
‘OK. Give me a minute. I need to speak to Chef.’
She peered cagily around the door. ‘Smudger, I need to go out. You OK till I get back?’
‘I’m not a total idiot, you know!’ A meat cleaver came down at the same time, dividing a lamb chop from the main carcase.
Lindsey was waiting with her coat on. ‘I’m coming with you. Grandma said I could.’
She looked defiant. Honey was in no mood to argue: in fact she was feeling quite excited.
‘I’ll get my coat. That place is bound to be chilly at this time of night – unless Mary Jane sets it alight.’
Dumpy Doris and Anna in reception were happy to clear up if she and Lindsey weren’t back at the end of the shift.
Mary Jane, an ephemeral vision in pink chiffon, floated towards the door. ‘I’ve got the car outside.’
The right foot that Honey had so firmly put forward now hovered above the rough sisal of the welcome mat. Her mother’s hand swiftly cupped her elbow.
‘Did I tell you about this interesting guy I met? He’s a widower and owns a number of businesses nationwide. Now, don’t get uppity if I tell you that he’s looking for a wife of about your age …’
Her foot went into instant reflexive action. A death-defying adventure in Mary Jane’s car was preferable to hearing her mother wax lyrical about a suitable man.
Pedestrians parted as she scuttled to the pale pink coupe, opened the door to the front passenger seat, and shot in.
Mary Jane was already seated. She looked at Honey with some surprise. ‘My, but aren’t you the keen one? You don’t usually like to travel at the front.’
‘Can’t wait,’ she said, clipping on her seat belt.
If she thought she was getting with it that easily, she was very much mistaken. Gloria leaned forward from the back seat next to Lindsey. ‘He’s got a chain of retirement homes all over England.’
‘Great.’ The word came out. Her desire to puke stayed in. A retirement home! Was her mother thinking of her own long-term future here?
As they pulled away Honey wondered whether her will was up to date. A motorcycle swerved, barely avoiding the front wing. A taxi squealed to a stop. Cruising the rest of Pulteney Street was fine. In a build-up of traffic at the end, Mary Jane squeezed the Caddy coupe between a hot dog trailer and a bus.
Honey took a deep breath in an effort to make herself a very small target as they squeezed through with only a layer of paint to spare.
Mary Jane looked over her shoulder. ‘Is someone shouting at me?’
‘Eyes front, Mary Jane.’
‘That man’s smeared in mustard and
onions,’ Gloria observed.
A few more death-defying manoeuvres and they pulled in.
Honey pointed out the fact that they were parked on double yellows.
‘It’ll be OK,’ said Mary Jane. ‘Just think positive and nothing negative will happen.’
‘Like a fifty-pound fine,’ muttered Lindsey.
Mary Jane swooped on her bag of tricks and sprang from the car. ‘Let’s move.’
They followed her like a clutch of baby ducks.
‘Does she know where she’s going?’ Lindsey sounded as though all this was one big joke.
Gloria shrugged.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Honey asked her.
‘Instinct,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I can find it purely by instinct.’
Chapter Sixty
Mary Jane stopped by the right one. ‘Looks real good,’ she said, eyeing the shop window. ‘More colour would be good. Pink especially.’
‘It’s not in vogue,’ said Gloria.
Mary Jane stated the obvious. ‘It is with me.’
Mary Jane began untying her bag. It was made of canvas, had wooden handles and a large drawstring holding it shut. It was pink of course – with psychedelic swirls in pistachio green.
Gloria’s gold bracelet, earrings, and necklace jangled and flashed with brilliance as she wrestled with the ancient lock.
‘Let me.’ Lindsey took over. Placing her ear against the door, she fingered the key with a surgeon’s light, dextrous skill.
The door opened.
Not for the first time, Honey Driver wondered about her daughter’s hidden talents. Where had they come from?
Mary Jane swooped in first and stood twirling in the centre of the shop.
‘Strong smell,’ she said, sniffing the air like a true blue bloodhound.
‘Paint,’ said Gloria. ‘I had to freshen up a bit – or rather I had a guy freshen it up for me. He came cheap.’
Honey smelled more than paint. It was faint, but definite. ‘I smell perfume.’
‘Mine. Chanel No.5. Marilyn Monroe wore it to bed, you know. No nightwear. Just the perfume.’
‘The only perfume we want in here is from this little beauty,’ said Mary Jane. She took a bunch of sagebrush from her bag and waved it. ‘Anyone got a light?’
Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 23
