‘So she did you some good. I mean, she did care.’
‘Hmph! Not enough to let it affect her career – or how people perceived her. She’d done enough damage herself in that direction. That’s what she told me.’
‘Well, she had,’ said Honey. ‘There was a lot of bad publicity over her affair and marriage to Adam Rolfe.’
‘Of course there was. Sad Sam, he was. Never knew the truth until I told him who our mother really was.’
‘You told him?’ This was news. Sad news.
‘After I heard that Sean had killed himself.’
‘So despite the different names, Sean was your brother.’
‘Fox was his professional name. Sullivan was mine. Arabella thought it best that we didn’t disclose that we were brother and sister.’
A chill fear was creeping from the base of Honey’s spine, slowly meandering like a snake climbing a tree.
‘So what did he say?’
‘I didn’t tell him then and there. I left a message to meet him on Tuesday, the day we started setting up for filming here. There’s a little spot in the forest I know called Whitestone. I said I would meet him there, but …’ she shrugged. ‘He never turned up.’
‘Denise, darling! We’re waiting for you.’ Someone on the other side of the lighting equipment was waving her over.
Denise called back that she would be just a minute. She turned back to Honey.
‘And before you ask, I won’t miss my mother, purely because I never really knew her.’
Denise moved off through those assembled to form an audience toward the gateway and the stars of the show. One man stood out from the others. He was not just tall, he was imposing. Wearing a rain-soaked Barbour jacket with corduroy collar and cuffs, he had what those in the world of showbiz called presence. Even his peers, those he was appearing with, seemed to give way to his superiority, hovering around him like sparrows around a peacock.
‘Who is that?’ she whispered to Mary Jane.
‘Arthur King,’ said her companion and narrowed her eyes. ‘He’s got charisma, but I’m not sure he’s got the gift,’ she added, shaking her head.
Lifting her collar against the pouring rain, Honey fixed her attention on what was happening beneath the arched gateway. The four psychics were going through their spiel as avidly as actors in a Victorian melodrama.
Each one commented on what they were feeling, though none sounded so believable as Arthur King. Honey found herself spellbound at the sound of his voice, the hypnotic eyes. The man was mesmerising, so scary, she got to the point of being scared to look round – just in case the ghouls and ghosties were erupting like ragwort from the crevices, the lopsided doorways, the eerily dark battlements.
He was now reaching his crescendo. ‘I feel, I see the evil that happened here, the killings, the betrayals, the passion of lovers, the jealousy of those rejected …’
Mary Jane broke the spell. ‘Rubbish. All that was here was lukewarm soup!’
Soup? Honey was jerked out of her inertia. Where had that comment come from?
‘Soup. I can smell it,’ said Mary Jane. ‘Lukewarm soup. Gruel more like; made of barley with bits of cabbage stalk floating round in it. And a bit of rabbit. The innards mostly. That’s all that’s here. That’s all that went on around this gate; cooking. Just cooking.’
‘I should have known,’ Honey murmured under her breath. ‘If you want a genuine psychic to give you a reading, bring one with you.’
‘Cut!’
There were plenty of cuts and breaks to allow the cameras to be reset, the sound man to get his equipment in order, and the psychics to re-energise their batteries. It was during one of these that Honey approached Crispin.
‘I believe Arabella was scheduled to present this programme before she was killed.’
He nodded. ‘True. And Petra couldn’t make it either. She’s having an operation on an ingrown toenail. We were lucky to get Arthur offering to stand in at such late notice.’
The inverted toenail thing came as something of a surprise. Petra had been barefooted when she’d seen her last and her painted toenails had looked quite – well – stunning.
Her eyes went back to Arthur King. At first sight the name seemed incongruous – too old for the man standing there, holding the attention of every woman in the audience. Until she turned it round. King Arthur! Got it. In a past life he’d been King Arthur.
‘And I’m Guinevere,’ she muttered before asking Crispin another question.
‘Can I ask you, did they know each other very well – Arthur and Arabella?’
‘Arabella knew them all. She was into that sort of thing, that’s why she suited the show. She didn’t fake her responses. She was well up for it. I think Arthur might have had something to do with that. She followed his predictions and conclusions with great gusto. I think he was the only one she truly believed was gifted.’
In more ways than one, thought Honey. There it was, staring her in the face. Arabella had gone storming off the set following a partial shoot and a phone call.
‘I hear she stormed off the set just before she was murdered,’ she said.
Crispin acknowledged that that had indeed been the case. ‘She’d had her own facilities at The Greyhound Inn, the old haunted hostelry we were using that night.’
Honey’s eyes were on Arthur King when she asked the next question.
‘Did she and Arthur have rooms next to each other?’
Crispin frowned. ‘I believe so. I think she’d insisted that they did. Hang on. I’ll check with Cecil.’
He waved a come-over signal to his partner.
It seemed to take the long-legged man only six strides to be with them, though in reality it had to be more. Crispin asked him to confirm what he’d just said.
‘Absolutely,’ said Cecil, his rich voice flowing out from between pink lips. ‘Arabella insisted, though I must admit Arthur was taken back a little. I think Arabella had the hots for him.’
Honey was straight in there. ‘Did he have the hots for her?’
Cecil placed one elegant hand on an equally elegant hip and shook his head.
‘Not one iota. Arthur likes them young. The younger the better, though not a cradle snatcher mark you. He just doesn’t go for women closer to his own age. Denise was about as old as it gets.’
Honey could feel herself going cold. Even her teeth were beginning to go on edge as a hideous truth presented itself. Arabella Neville had been dressed to the nines because she’d made a play for Arthur King. King had rejected her. Not only that he’d probably put it plain; she was too old for him. She was married. Whatever, like any really good performer. As Mary Jane had intimated, his supernatural pronouncements were total tosh. He was concocting a story, telling lies as easily as some tell the truth. At the same time, he had done his homework, researched into some of the old legends surrounding the place. Later on in the programme he would select a member of the audience and give them some facts about their own lives, their own ancestors. This would take the form of somebody local. The truth was that previous to the programme he’d been given a list of names and addresses. From that list he’d selected a few likely options, gone online, phoned neighbours, family and friends, and listed the bits of information in a believable order. Arthur King was thorough. He was now also her main witness to the death of Arabella Neville.
She looked up at Crispin. ‘I have to speak to that man. Now.’
Without waiting for his response, she pushed her way through the crowd, Crispin and Mary Jane following close behind. Mary Jane was muttering the word charlatan under her breath.
Honey tapped Arthur King on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’
He looked down at her. She couldn’t help the butterflies in her stomach. He was the sort who can make your toes curl up with one flash of his eyes. His eyes, she noticed, were dark blue; deep pools of intensity.
His smile and the smooth, gentlemanly way he took her hand were designed to make her go weak at t
he knees. ‘Let me see. Are you Angharad Jones?’
Honey gathered herself in, stopped the toe-curling and concentrated.
‘No. I’m Honey Driver and I work with the police. We’re currently investigating the murder of Arabella Neville. Can you tell me what happened on the night Arabella stormed off the set?’
To his credit, Arthur King didn’t bat an eyelid. Neither did his face freeze as most folks do when they’re being asked a leading question.
‘I understand you had rooms next to each other.’
His smile went from oily to wet cement in the process of setting.
‘We did. Both had stout locks on the doors. Arabella was a married woman. And before you ask, nothing untoward was going on between us. We worked together. That’s all.’
Out of the corner of her eye, somebody moved into focus. Denise Sullivan had thrown her hood back. Her eyes were on Arthur at first, then they switched to Honey, though only briefly. That look said everything. Crispin had said that Arthur liked them younger.
‘My mother was out of order. But she couldn’t help it. She didn’t know about Artie and me.’
‘Denise, Denise! You don’t need to say anything.’ Arthur rolled his eyes skywards.
‘Yes, I do, Artie.’ Her eyes swept back to Honey. ‘Artie … Arthur had nothing to do with it.’
‘Denise! There’s no need to go on. There’s a good girl.’ Arthur King’s smooth veneer had faltered a little, but his voice was still like molasses.
To Honey’s ears, it sounded like a loving father chastising his beloved daughter, not two lovers. Despite that, it was pretty obvious that Arthur didn’t like what Denise was saying. He turned to Crispin who was looking totally dumbfounded. ‘Crispin. My audience is close at hand. A little privacy wouldn’t come amiss.’
It seemed to Honey that even Crispin was not immune to Arthur King’s charm. On the other hand that was part of his job – keeping the stars happy.
Crispin was all waving arms and avid attention. ‘Certainly! Certainly!’
He ushered them to a stone-clad alcove that at some time might have been a guardroom beside the turnstile where the paying public entered. Behind it was a shop with a counter which had a huge mirror behind it. Their reflections were mainly wet and soggy – with the exception of Arthur King’s, as he had been furnished with a golfing umbrella, courtesy of Marriott Hotels.
Limp with apologies, Crispin attempted to make amends. ‘Arthur, I am so …’
‘Of course you are. That’s your job.’ The timbre of Arthur King’s voice had a voluptuous resonance. Crispin was positively grovelling and knew when he’d been dismissed. Mary Jane exited too. ‘I can’t abide the company,’ she growled. The mean look was for Arthur King.
Denise Sullivan, on the other hand, looked up at him adoringly. ‘He told my mother how it was. That she wasn’t in with a chance. That Artie and I …’
‘Are very good friends,’ said Arthur, his eyes deeply penetrating, almost as though he were willing Honey to believe anything and everything he said. ‘I told Arabella that my relationship with her could only ever be professional. I’m afraid she’d arranged for a romantic dinner to be delivered and consumed by just the two of us in one of our rooms. I told her how it was. Denise overheard and confirmed the relationship between us. Arabella was like a latter-day Queen Victoria, I’m afraid. She was most definitely not amused.’
The truth had finally been laid bare. Honey felt for the girl; felt for the mother too. This case was not so simple as husband kills wife. That’s how it was in families. Nothing was ever straightforward or happy ever after.
‘So she stormed off, upset that her daughter had upstaged her – or that as a mother she disapproved of her daughter’s choice of man,’ stated Honey as the truth was finally laid bare.
Arthur tossed his head, his hair falling dramatically around his face. ‘Before you ask why we didn’t report any of this to the police, we didn’t think it had any bearing on the case.’
‘Besides, we didn’t want to get involved,’ said Denise.
‘And the handbag?’
Denise frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Your mother had details of her contacts and possible contracts in a notebook. She left it here when she stormed off. Whoever kept it phoned the production company, got in touch with the right people. You had that book, Arthur, and when it became obvious they wanted a female presenter, you put Petra Deacon forward for the job knowing you’d get to be the numero uno psychic star. Right?’
‘Yes. I did.’
Denise gasped and looked up at him. There was surprise on her face, but as yet she was still enamoured, though not, thought Honey, for long.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said lamely.
Arthur looked down at her, one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘One must grasp opportunity when opportunity raises its head. My timing was perfect. Arabella had a reputation for throwing tantrums. She’d thrown one too many. I saw my chance and took it.’
‘Ah,’ said Honey. ‘Isn’t that just what the Midas Club is all about?’
Arthur nodded, his smile undiminished.
A small frown had appeared on the forehead of the girl who Honey now knew for sure was Arabella’s daughter.
‘How did you find out that Arabella was your mother?’ Honey asked Denise.
Denise hugged herself and her voice went quiet. ‘We used to watch her on television when we were children. Our grandmother wouldn’t allow us to visit her.’
‘Your grandmother Dwyer brought you up?’
Denise nodded, her eyes alternating between being downcast and gazing adoringly at Arthur King.
‘She blamed her for our father’s death. She took us away from our mother. It was supposed to be punishment for what she’d done. It never occurred to our grandmother that we were the ones being punished. We lost touch with each other.’
There was no point in asking what the hold was that grandmother Dwyer had had over the girl who used to be Tracey Casey. Rumour had it that Arabella’s father had done the dirty deed. The grandparents had had their reasons. If Tracey – Arabella – had fought to get her children back, her father would have ended up in prison where he would likely have died.
Arthur King scrutinised his watch. ‘Right. We’re due to restart. Do excuse us.’
Denise, the director’s assistant, trailed out behind Arthur King, the star of the show. Honey wondered just how long the relationship would last. How long would it be before Denise saw through his handsome persona to what lay beneath?
Having been an hotelier for a number of years, Honey had met fibbers, thieves and plenty of liars, including people who could tell lies like they were telling the truth. Up close and personal, Arthur King was one of those people.
‘The police will be in touch,’ Honey called after them.
She looked around the shop. There was the usual stuff you might find in a tourist shop, though being a castle some were a little different than others. Even though they were plastic, daggers, swords and maces were safely ensconced in glass cabinets. Not that she was really taking them in. Her mind was with Arabella’s chaotic family history.
Once outside she filtered through the audience who were still milling around, waiting for the action to recommence.
Mary Jane was still conversing with the Chinese woman they’d met at the Mall.
Honey grabbed her attention. ‘I’m going outside. I need some air and I need to phone Doherty.’
Chapter Thirty-six
Cold air blew through the archway where an iron portcullis had once secured the keep against the enemy. The rain was coming down in sheets. The light flooding out from behind her was turning it silver.
Halfway through the archway she tried her phone. Nothing happened. On reaching the other side, the tried again. The screen stayed blank. The bleeping sound told her the battery had gone flat. She swore under her breath.
On the other side outside the dark archway, t
he cobbled driveway shone like molten blobs of metal. A few technicians were huddled around their vans, disappearing into the open doors at the back of the vehicles when they’d done what had to be done.
‘I wanted to speak to you.’
The sudden voice made her start. To her right a large woman in a billowing raincoat stood with one hand in her pocket, the other holding a lit cigarette.
Honey recognised Faith Page, Arabella’s agent.
Faith Page looked at her through eyes narrowed against the rain.
Honey pretended she hadn’t been startled. It was the fault of the castle. Creepy.
‘I guessed there had to be some reason for sending me those tickets,’ she said, sounding brave even if she didn’t feel that brave.
Faith’s expression stayed stony and wet, rain trickling from her bare head and down her face.
‘Stupid cow. She thought she could do better by herself. New agent. New man in her life. It didn’t work out. She really blew it.’
Faith turned abruptly away.
‘Blew it? Why do you say that, Faith? Why do you say that she blew it?’
Flicking the still lighted cigarette into the grass, Faith strode away into the rain and the darkness.
Honey followed.
The path was slippery and ran high above grass-covered embankments. The rain was relentless.
Eventually the path terminated against a flying buttress. It was a case of go back, stop or slide, down the slippery grass of the embankment. Faith Page stopped where she was and watched as Honey approached.
‘Cigarette?’ She offered an opened packet.
Honey declined. ‘I don’t smoke.’
Faith lit herself a cigarette, cupping the lighter’s flame against the driving rain.
‘Nasty night,’ she said, blowing out a plume of smoke.
‘What is it you want to tell me?’
Water dripped from around the brim of Faith’s hat. It was leather – Australian drover style. The collar of her coat was turned up around her face.
Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9) Page 23
