Nipping up the steps on the other side, she found herself back in the car park. She backed away from the entrance, eyeing the parked cars, searching just in case John had spotted her and gone back outside.
No one was hiding between the cars, or if they were, she wasn’t seeing them.
Just as she made her way to the entrance, a sleek and very classic Austin Healey drew up, almost running over her foot. There was only one car of such salubrious quality in Bath.
Casper St John Gervais, chairman of the Bath Hotels Association, had arrived, and he’d seen her. There was no escape.
After easing himself out from the leather driver’s seat, Casper flicked his trousers into their already well-defined creases and straightened. He was wearing a mustard jacket over light lemon slacks. A dark red-and-mustard cravat erupted like a turkey’s gizzard at his throat. His shirt matched his trousers.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Honey said. She made it sound as though she had an official invite. Casper certainly would be in possession of one. He considered himself quite an art aficionado. Ditto acting, chamber music, and sacred arias performed by beefy Italian tenors.
He looked at her a little oddly.
‘Did you walk here?’
‘Yes,’ she said brightly. ‘How did you know?’
‘You look sweaty. Well, come on. We’d better go in.’
Casper’s comment stung big time. It made her wonder whether she smelled as sweaty as she looked.
‘I am informed that we are privileged to inspect tonight’s showing,’ he said. ‘There are people exhibiting here who show great potential for future investment. Now do be careful what you buy, and if you’re not sure about the artistic merit of any particular piece, I would be pleased indeed to advise you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Honey blustered, though investing in art was the furthest thing from her mind.
So that was it. Artists were showcasing their work. Was John one of those artists? She hadn’t even known he could paint. It just went to prove how little she knew him, and suddenly that worried her.
The restaurant consisted of one large room and a wide balcony overlooking the river where punts snuggled against a mossy green bank. There was even a duck alighting on the roof of an adjacent building, though on taking a second look she realised it wasn’t real.
On entry a tray of something white and sparkling was offered. They helped themselves.
Casper took a sip and pulled a face.
‘The things I do for art,’ he groaned. ‘This isn’t even proper Champagne.’
Honey didn’t have a clue whether the paintings were good or bad, but hey, she could play the part couldn’t she? Of course she could.
Adopting a serious expression she took a look, lingering over those that seemed different. Would Casper buy this kind of thing? Possibly those that were ‘different’ might be considered ‘skilled’. The more conservative – the scenes of French cafes on a wet street or a red-roofed Tuscan farmhouse were the ones that she really liked. She could see what they were.
‘So what do you think of this?’ asked Casper.
‘Well …’ she was about to comment on what looked like a piece of cooked liver entitled Heart of the Matter.
Casper had his own ideas and laid them out.
‘I prefer that which I can recognise – Old Masters rather than old mattress. Do you recall the Emperor’s New Clothes, so fine that they were invisible to all and sundry unless you were a fool? Nobody wanted to be thought a fool so nobody pointed out that the poor old chap was totally naked. Well, that’s how I feel about art. A dead cow is a dead cow. It’s not art. Art requires skill. A dead cow requires a butcher with a good set of sharp knives. Which brings Arabella Rolfe to mind. Do we know yet who had the good sense to do away with the wretched woman?’
Casper had a resonant voice. He didn’t shout, but he spoke as though he were addressing a meeting. Heads turned.
‘Not yet,’ said Honey, feeling slightly embarrassed. ‘Though we do have leads.’
‘The husband. It has to be the husband. A husband is always prime suspect, and rightly so.’
‘He’s missing.’
‘Well there you are, then. A sign of guilt if ever there was one. My, my, Honey, but one does get variety in murder. I wonder if this is a reflection of our modern society, influenced as it is by cheap drama and gory thrillers. Strangled and shoved up the chimney!’ He tutted loudly. ‘Still, thank heaven for small mercies. At least there wasn’t any blood dripping into the grate. It’s a very nice grate. It was decorated with Minton tiles if my memory serves me correctly.’
‘You know the place?’ This was the first time she’d had any inkling that he did.
‘I thought about buying it at one time in partnership with an old flame of mine. Then he jumped ship. Literally. He was in the Royal Navy. Got involved with a gaucho in Argentina from whence he sent me a dear John letter. Still, everything works out for the best. Culture versus cows, so to speak.’
Honey muttered an agreement, but she’d already spotted John Rees. He was out on the balcony, in urgent conversation with the same man she’d seen in the shop. She tried to recall his name …
Occasionally John or his companion, or both of them glanced to where a number of people were gathered around one particular piece of artwork that had only just been displayed. A piece of brown paper together with string was tucked under a woman’s arm, a woman who seemed to be in charge.
Honey frowned. ‘Casper, did Arabella paint?’
Casper snorted. ‘I believe she did daub a little.’
His tone was contemptuous. He hadn’t extended her the courtesy of being a painter, just a dauber.
‘Am I right in thinking that one of her paintings is being exhibited here?’
He raised his eyebrows. They were beautifully arched, plucked by a visiting beautician who also removed excess hair from places she’d rather not think about. Rumours of the most intimate variety travelled fast in Bath.
‘Indeed? I’m intrigued,’ he said loftily, inspecting the rim of his wine glass before allowing it to reach his mouth. ‘Lead me to it.’
‘Flowers,’ he said.
The flowers were white daisies set in a vase. It was ordinary.
Honey’s attention was drawn to the painting next to it – it was of the tumbledown stable block that the dead woman had been found in.
‘The outbuilding at Cobden Manor,’ she whispered. It had a desolate, haunted look about it.
Honey peered closer, narrowing her eyes so she could more easily take in the details.
Casper read out the title. ‘Intruder. Hmmm. An intriguing title. Not a bad painting. Acceptable in a suburban kind of way.’
His voice was sour with condemnation. Although the painting would look very good in a modern living room, it wouldn’t suit Casper’s taste. Anyway, he had the money for better.
Intrigued as much as anything else, Honey forgot she was in the company of local experts – everyone was an expert if they had money to spend – she gave her opinion.
‘I don’t think it’s that bad. Odd title though – or perhaps not,’ she added thoughtfully. She narrowed her eyes again as she studied a small square window next to the stable door. There was a face there, a face she recognised. The man she’d seen talking to John at J R Books.
The same man he was with now.
Casper’s attention was elsewhere. He was being asked for his opinion on an ink drawing with painted red inserts. He wouldn’t miss her.
Spotting John Rees, she headed for the balcony determined to ask him about his relationship with Arabella Rolfe and the whereabouts of her husband, Adam. She took a deep breath. This wouldn’t be easy. John was a good friend. But she had to.
As she approached, John straightened as though readying himself for some kind of onslaught, watching as she tripped in his direction.
‘John.’
‘Honey.’
‘I need to ask you some ques
tions. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘What if I’ve no wish to answer them?’
She got out her phone, holding it aloft so he could see what it was. ‘Then I have to tell the police that I believe you’re harbouring Adam Rolfe.’
Chapter Thirty
They made their way out on to the river bank. John walked thoughtfully, head bowed, hands jammed into trouser pockets. The grass was damp, the earth beneath it soft and spongy. The spindly-heeled shoes had done their worst and Honey had had enough of them. She walked barefoot, one shoe carried in each hand.
‘I promised Adam,’ John said at last. ‘He needs the money.’
‘So where is he?’
John sighed. ‘I don’t know – not for sure. He’s got a riverboat somewhere – on the Thames, I think. He phones me daily.’
‘John, you really have to get him to give himself up.’
‘I know, I know.’ He shook his head. ‘He didn’t kill Arabella. I can’t believe that he did. I won’t believe that he did.’
‘Where does he say he was that night?
‘Well. He likes opera … and he’s got this friend. They’re very close. She gave him a ticket.’
‘Don’t tell me. Sofia Camilleri.’
‘She’s quite a firebrand.’
‘Her husband thinks so too. She thinks he’s having her followed by a private detective. She thought it was me. She’s also being squired by a sexpot in Spandex. Funny how that brings out the lust in middle-aged ladies.’
‘Husband and wife are apart a lot, but it isn’t quite …’
Honey wasn’t listening. ‘I can see where things might lead.’
‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said to her.
They came to a stop on the riverbank. Honey threw him a direct look. ‘I knew Adam had money worries, but I didn’t realise he was having an affair.’
John looked at her. ‘They weren’t. It’s about painting. Sofia is into watercolours. Adam let her have the run of Cobden Manor.’
‘The picture,’ said Honey, pointing back over her shoulder.
‘That’s it, but you were right about Adam’s investments. He’d done pretty well investing in property. Made a fortune in fact. But then he invested in a Spanish development, a really big one, too big for him to raise the finance on himself. So a consortium was arranged and other people were brought on board. Unfortunately, it all went wrong. The land they’d started building on turned out not to have permission and not actually to belong to them. On top of that, when the losses began to mount he found that he’d laid his personal possessions on the line. Everything collapsed like a pack of cards.’
‘I suppose Arabella didn’t help.’
His wry smile went with a sidelong look that hinted at chastisement. ‘Arabella was not quite the bad bitch everyone makes her out to be. She gave him her own money. Apparently she had quite a nest egg. Family money.’
Certain alarm bells began to ring in Honey’s head. ‘From her father?’
He shrugged and slid his hands into the pockets of his cords. ‘I suppose so. I don’t rightly know.’
‘Did you know she used to be called Tracey Casey?’
‘Really?’ His eyebrows rose high and an amused smile lightened his features. ‘Her parents should have been shot.’
‘Then she became Mrs Dwyer.’
‘She was married before? I didn’t know that either.’
‘So you didn’t know she’d been married before, so consequently you never heard of her having any children.’
He stopped in his tracks, the willows across the river forming a back drop to his lean frame. There was no doubting his surprise.
‘I never knew. I thought she hated children.’
Honey frowned. Why would a woman who may have been a mother actually hate her husband’s children? Or perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she just hated the fact that he had access to his children and she had no access to hers. She might have been banned from seeing them, taken away from her long ago. By her father-in-law? Was that it?
‘Dominic thinks his father did it. The boy’s pretty het up about it.’
He sucked in his bottom lip, looked at her then looked away. Some spot on the other side of the river seemed to have caught his attention.
John shrugged. ‘Adam sounds to be in a bad way. He’s worried and I don’t think it is just about his son.’ John frowned. ‘I think there’s more going on here, but I don’t know what. He loves his kids. You know that, don’t you?’
Honey frowned. ‘Where is he?’ You could be held as an accessory to murder. You do know that, don’t you?’
A whole host of emotions crossed his face before he nodded. ‘He’s got hold of a new mobile phone. I’ve got the number. I don’t think anyone else has.’
‘Get him to turn himself in. It’s the only way to prove his innocence and the only way you’re going to avoid six months inside. Your phone can be confiscated and the number traced. You know that.’
The shadows of overhanging trees obscured the light from the restaurant, flickering in a disconsolate fashion over his features. She held her breath. She saw him nod.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do. But he didn’t do it, Honey. He hasn’t got the guts to do something like that. And he’s scared. I don’t know what of, but trust me. He’s scared.’
Honey shook her head, soft wisps of hair blown around her face by the water-driven breeze. She thought she knew who he was scared of, although he might not know the reason why. It had to be something to do with Arabella’s past. It just had to.
She looked at John. ‘That’s for the law to decide, John. They’re not infallible, but it’s all we have. You’ve got until tomorrow morning.’ She turned abruptly and walked away.
‘I’ll walk you home,’ he called after her.
She waved at him over her shoulder. ‘Not tonight,’ she called back. She swallowed the lump in her throat. A special friendship had been tainted and she wasn’t sure it would ever recover.
Steve Doherty was up and about, refusing to admit that he wasn’t fully mended.
Via her mobile phone, Honey told him that she had a really good lead regarding the whereabouts of Adam Rolfe.
‘But I need to confirm his whereabouts before I can give you the information. Did you know that Arabella painted? I saw her painting at a gallery last night.’
‘Was it good?’
Honey frowned. ‘No. Anyway, I was drawn to the one next to it. It was of the outbuilding where we found her. The artist was that mad opera singer that came to see me. It was spooky.’
‘Arabella’s could be valuable now she’s dead.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘That bad?’
She nodded. ‘That bad.’
Doherty groaned as he turned over.
‘Be careful with that back,’ Honey warned. ‘It needs a lot of TLC.’
‘I’ll count on you to give it that. See you tonight.’
She phoned Casper to apologise for shooting off from the boating station without saying goodbye.
‘But I’m glad I attended,’ she said to him. ‘It resulted in a very important lead in this murder case.’
‘Spare me the details, my dear girl! Suffice to say that I look forward to the regaining of our self-respect.’
It occurred to her that he sounded like a second-rate actress who’d been caught doing topless glamour.
For her part, Honey was less than happy, but the promise of meeting Doherty later at the Zodiac Club helped lift her mood.
‘I’ll tell you how it goes,’ she promised.
Things were buzzing back at the Green River where the Newbourne Nannies were holding their annual conference. Honey asked Lindsey how things were going.
‘According to Mary Jane, they’re not a patch on Mary Poppins,’ Lindsey replied, ‘though personally I think they are.’
Fresh-faced young women, dressed impeccably in navy blue uniforms decorated with red piping at c
ollars and cuffs, poured out of the conference room. Trained to look after the children of the very wealthy, the nannies were in great demand all over the world. The Newbourne Nannies had been established way back when anyone who could afford it left their babies to young women and a strictly followed routine.
On catching sight of her, Adelaide Newbourne, granddaughter of the agency’s founder, Matthias Newbourne, beamed broadly and marched over. A big-framed woman, she positively glowed with efficiency.
‘Mrs Driver. Newbourne Nannies salute you. Impeccable presentation. Nothing overlooked. Though Earl Grey would have been preferred. Or Darjeeling. My girls are used to rather select beverages, as are their employers.’
Honey thanked her for the compliment about everything. She also promised to ensure that the preferred tea was available at future ‘nanny’ events.
Adelaide Newbourne grunted her satisfaction. ‘Praise where praise is due. To this young lady too. Very commendable,’ she said, aiming a curt nod in Lindsey’s direction. ‘If ever you consider a career change, young lady, do give me a call.’
To anyone else the sudden tightening of Lindsey’s features might have passed unnoticed, but Honey was her mother.
‘So how do you like children?’ Ms Newbourne asked cheerily, her rustic cheeks as shiny as polished apples.
Lindsey smiled. ‘Preferably at a great distance.’
Chapter Thirty-one
The Zodiac Club was a hive of activity, though bees from a hive would have had trouble breathing or flying in the smoky blue atmosphere. Steaks, sausages, and garlic-smothered prawns were sizzling on the grill. Waitresses were skirting tables, a platter of food carried aloft in each hand.
Honey and Doherty were discussing the pros and cons of the case, starting with Adam Rolfe’s first wife, Susan, who had not remarried but had left Bath and lived in Bradford-on-Avon.
‘Funny her living in Bradford-on-Avon,’ said Doherty. ‘In my opinion, too close for a woman scorned. I would have thought she’d have wanted to get clean away. Start a new life and all that.’
‘I thought that too. But then they do share three children. The husband has access rights. Not that he was allowed to exercise those rights by his second wife. According to John Rees she hated the children and he didn’t know anything about her first marriage or that she might have had children herself.’
Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9) Page 20
