The pub was at least four hundred years old, built at a time when people were shorter. The man behind the bar would only look comfortable if he were twelve inches shorter. He’d landed behind the wrong bar. In Honey’s opinion he would have better suited Regency or Victorian hostelry where the ceilings were higher and half his head wouldn’t have been hidden behind a rafter.
His smile was plastic. ‘Staying in the village are you?’ he said as he completed their order.
‘Seems a sleepy little place,’ said Doherty without answering the question. He took a sip of Ruddles County and found it to his liking. Honey noticed there was no lemon in her drink. No ice either. Like the beer it was warm.
‘It is usually,’ said one of the customers, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘Sleepy. Mostly it is.’
‘Is that so,’ said Honey, taking in the grey hair, the flaccid jowls and the colourless eyes.
Even without a glance at the amber coloured liquid in his glass, his ruby red conk was a dead giveaway for a cider drinker. ‘All happening tonight though!’ he exclaimed before taking a generous sip followed by a belch behind a cupped hand.
Noting the warning look on the face of the barman, Honey decided she’d found herself a loose cannon, somebody who could give her a blow-by-blow rundown on village gossip.
‘Did you see anything yourself?’ she asked him.
‘Not particularly.’ He almost pronounced ‘particularly’ without swallowing his tongue. ‘But it ain’t all about seeing things! There’s also knowing things, and I knows things that goes on in this village they wouldn’t want you to…’
The barman intervened. ‘I think it’s time you were going home, Abe. You’ve had enough.’
The drunk threw the barman a surly look. The barman counteracted, towering forward on clenched fists, his nostrils flattened and flaring; all in all a pretty good imitation of King Kong, thought Honey – though a lot skinnier.
‘Well if I’m not going to get any more...’ said the man, slamming down his glass hard enough to break it.
‘You’re not!’
The barman grabbed the glass.
The drunk wobbled.
‘Right. Then I’ll just hang around and talk to these nice people. Visiting ‘ere are you?’
‘On business,’ said Doherty.
The drunk fixed his gaze on Honey’s bosom.
‘Are you the business then?’
‘Would you like to pull your eyes out of my cleavage?’
‘Eh!’ He looked up at her face. ‘So what kind of business are you in? That was all I was asking. What kind of business are you in.’
She knew what was going to happen next – and it did.
Doherty got out his ID.
‘The vicar was attacked in the church tonight. Did anyone see anything?’
A posse of heads turned away and a lot of muttering proceeded to pass from one customer to the next.
‘We did hear word of what happened and we’re sorry, but none of us saw very much,’ said the barman, his words slowly measured. He shook his head. ‘I saw the vicar walking past, but that’s all.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About nine.’
‘She’d been to see Mrs Flynn. I saw her coming out of her place,’ somebody else added.
Someone laughed. ‘Wonder she didn’t come in here for a drink. Everybody needs a drink after spending time with Mrs Flynn!’
‘Indeedy,’ said another bar seated local. ‘The old bat is enough to drive anybody to drink!’
Doherty listened politely. He hadn’t felt it right to mention the domestic dispute at Belvedere House though surely they had heard the siren. He knew what villages were like. The fight between the couple living at Belvedere House was the stuff that fuelled gossip.
‘I’m also looking for Mr Harold Clinker. Has anyone seen him this evening?’
‘Clinker!’
The name brought forth a volley of exclamations and angry mutterings.
Doherty eyed them all coolly. He wasn’t going to be drawn into local politics, but he was going to listen.
Honey remained silent, but her eyes were everywhere, seeking something suspicious, or at least some reaction.
She noticed that three people – a couple who had been dining and just finished their coffee, and another leaning at the far end of the bar, got up and walked out.
It occurred to her that the couple might not have paid their bill. The other person, a red haired woman dressed as though she were going dog walking, had tensed at mention of Harold Clinker.
Seeing as they’d been quite happy to listen and observe – until Clinker was mentioned, it seemed a good idea to follow them out. Honey pushed herself away from the bar. It wouldn’t hurt to ask them a few questions.
The three people who had left the bar disappeared around the side of the building. Honey recalled seeing a path leading to a pub garden where a few dissolute fairy lights had been slung between trees.
Nothing could be more suspicious, she thought, than bunching together in a pub garden when the sun wasn’t shining. It was a place used in daylight, not late at night – not even for summer dining. After all, this was England.
Almost on tiptoe, but not quite, she kept close to the wall, feeling her way along. She was on her own; Doherty would think she’d gone to the little girls’ room. That is before he reasoned that she hadn’t drunk enough to pay a visit there just yet.
Bright lights fell onto the path from the frosted windows of the kitchen. The familiar clattering of pans and crockery mingled with jolly conversation and loud laughter. The chef and his staff were feeling good – quite normal – they always perked up once the shift was nearly over and they could grab a drink in the bar before making their way home to bed.
The threesome in the garden would have been a trio of silhouettes if it hadn’t been for the rainbow falling on them from the fairy lights. They spoke in low voices but gradually, as they warmed to their subject their tones became more heated, their voices louder.
A male voice was saying, ‘It was never any of our business.’
Then a second male voice. ‘Come on. We couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.’
‘You think below the waist. That’s your trouble.’
Honey grunted quietly to herself; the third voice belonged to a woman.
‘Someone had to stick up for her. Strikes me there’s too much idle gossip going on in this village – and we all know where that comes from!’
‘Are you saying…?’
‘It’s your bloody wife. Too much lip that one and I don’t care if you do knock my lights out for saying it!’
There was the sound of a scuffle.
‘Why you…!’
‘Now stop it you two…’
Honey stepped from the shadows and into the light. ‘Ahem! Excuse me for butting in, but I find this conversation very interesting. I would like to know more. Can I have your names?’
The note book in which she’d intended recording first impressions regarding the church, the vicar and how she would feel marching down the aisle, came into its own. She had plenty of room to jot down their names and add her own requirements for flowers and order of service later.
Three surprised faces turned her way. They could ask her to show her id in which case her plan would be scuppered. However, she had caught them on the hop not giving them time to think straight.
The first man heaved a big sigh. Honey caught the smell of an expensive aftershave. He was dressed well too.
‘I’m Nicholas Thompson. This is my wife, Hermione. We live at The Laurels. The big house with the brick chimneys? You probably saw it on your way in,’ he said in the manner of somebody who frequently boasts at being better off than everybody else.
Honey thanked him and said that she’d seen a lot of chimneys on the way in, but couldn’t say for sure that she’d noticed his.
The other woman, who looked as though she should be walking a dog rather than lingering in a pub
, had a square chin and a dark scowl. A harder nut to crack, thought Honey, but now she’d started, she had to brave it out.
‘And your name, madam?’
Deep wrinkles spread out like the rays of the sun from the woman’s pursed lips. Honey knew a smokers’ bow mouth when she saw it. Even a reformed smoker couldn’t smooth out those wrinkles.
‘Janet Glencannon.’
‘Is that Mrs or Miss?’
‘Mzzzzz!’
She sounded like a bumblebee.
‘And where do you live?’
‘Bobby’s Bottom. And before you make a comment about the name, I run an animal sanctuary. It used to be called Brindley’s Bottom. I altered it. Bobby was my dog. He’s dead now. I thought it very apt to name my animal sanctuary after my dog.’
‘Your place, your choice,’ said Honey, still scribbling like crazy in her notebook.
‘Why are you questioning us?’ asked the man who had introduced himself as Nicholas Thompson. He was frowning, a definite sign that he was likely to check her credentials. She could do without that, simply because she didn’t have any.
‘I haven’t questioned you except to ask for your names and addresses,’ she said. ‘I’m only requesting that you assist with enquiries.’
Even to her own ears, she sounded pretty sure of herself. ‘However, I couldn’t help noticing that you left the bar pretty sharply when my colleague flashed his badge and mentioned Mr Clinker. Do you know where Mr Clinker is?’
Hermione Thompson pushed forward. ‘Dead, I hope!’ She almost spat the words up into Honey’s face.
‘Would you like to explain yourself?’
Taking a deep breath, Hermione Thompson’s head seemed to rise a few inches up from the collar of her crisp white shirt.
‘When Harold Clinker first came to this village, he was all charm and sunshine. He insisted on getting involved with everything that went on here, including attending church, getting voted onto the parish council, joining the horticultural society. You name it, he did it. He was even chairman of the carnival committee at first. Not now though. The veneer of respectability was that thin,’ she said, an inch of space between finger and thumb. ‘After that, it was downhill all the way. He began to make fun of us, telling us how superficial we all were, how we didn’t know how to make the best of either the village or ourselves. Called us a load of fools. The opportunities were there if only we cared to look. But we didn’t, so he was the one doing all the looking, upsetting people, blackmailing, telling lies...’
Mrs Thompson was trembling, her bottom lip quivering.
‘Hermione...’ Nicholas Thompson laid his hand gently on his wife’s arm, the consequence of which was that she burst into tears.
‘He tried to change everything,’ said Ms Janet Glencannon. ‘He made it his business to search out old deeds and lay claims to tracts of land that people had been using for years. That included the church. He had it in for them most of all. The Reverend was beside herself, especially when he had a writ served on her regarding the state of the road outside the church.’
‘I take it, Ms Glencannon, that your animal sanctuary covers quite a lot of land. Did he try and claim that too?’
Janet grimaced. ‘He tried to serve a writ on me. I set the dog on him. Not Bobby who was a terrier. I let Gertrude at him. Gertrude is a Great Dane and she’s very protective of her territory. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
Janet Glencannon bid a terse goodnight, her wellingtons making sucking sounds against her strong calves as she marched off.
‘Us too,’ said Nicholas Thompson.
‘One more question. Mr Clinker and Miss Hopkins were married, but she hadn’t adopted his name. Was it a good marriage do you think?
‘I wouldn’t know,’ snapped Mr Thompson, turning to go.
Honey followed for a few steps. ‘There are rumours of an open marriage, would you...’
He spun round on her. It might have been the fairy lights, but his face looked red and angry.
‘I’ve already told you. I do not make a habit of interfering in other peoples’ business. Now. If you’ll excuse me; come along Hermione.’
Nicholas Thompson wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Mrs Thompson shrugged it off, her pale face abruptly facing straight ahead.
Honey slid her notebook into her copious bag. As it dropped to the bottom, she noticed the sound of rustling wrapping papers. Food! She remembered the toffee éclairs she’d slipped in as emergency rations – just in case they didn’t get home for supper. Thank goodness I planned ahead, she thought as her searching fingers found what she was looking for. Once the wrapper was off, she popped it into her mouth.
Doherty’s long dark shadow fell along the pathway before his lean form came into sight.
Placing both hands on her shoulders, he pulled her close to him, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.
‘You taste of toffee. What are you eating?’
‘A toffee éclair.’
‘I want one.’
‘We’ll have to share it.’
‘You’ve already ate one. The remaining one is mine.’
‘I’ve got two left and they’re both mine. I have a big appetite.’
He grinned. ‘So have I.’
‘You’re not talking about food,’ she said returning his grin.
‘They’re related. Come on. Feed me.’
Wrapper discarded, she held the toffee between her teeth and smelled the fresh, earthy smell of him as his nose touched hers, his lips wrapping around his half of the toffee.
When his hands slid down her back she arched her back and pressed her front against him. Still holding the toffee éclair between her teeth she yelped and wriggled her hips when he squeezed her bottom.
Her grip on the toffee loosened, he gulped back the lot.
She pushed him away. ‘That was unfair strategy!’
‘All is fair in love and war. Go on,’ he said once the toffee éclair was tumbling around his mouth, his hands still on her bottom. ‘Tell me what you found out.’
‘What makes you think I found out anything?’
‘Three people left the bar with wings on their heels. You followed them.’
‘I didn’t realise you noticed.’
‘I miss nothing,’ he said, giving her bottom another squeeze. ‘You’re not wearing pants,’ he said looking somewhat surprised.
‘I am. Kind of...’
She’d only lately taken to wearing thongs after Lindsey had informed her that such underwear made one’s buttocks look more pert.
‘Promise me you’ll wear them beneath your wedding dress.’
‘Of course I will,’ she said then clamped her lips to his as much for the toffee as for the kiss.
On their way back to the car she repeated what the Thompsons and Ms Glencannon had told her.
‘Not the most popular man in the village, though I got the impression that Mr and Mrs Thompson have their off days.’
‘Doesn’t everyone? That’s marriage for you.’
‘He got angry when I asked whether he knew anything about the Clinkers marriage. In fact I dared to mention they might have an open marriage. He didn’t like that. He got very protective of his wife suddenly.’
‘It’s a village. Being a small city Bath is close knit enough, but that’s nothing compared to a village. Villages are incestuous. I mean it.’
‘I didn’t ask Ms Glencannon, the woman in wellies about Mr Clinker’s marriage. She didn’t seem the sort that would know – or care.’
‘You can never know for sure.’
‘First impressions count. Ms Glencannon is a more doughty type. She runs the local animal sanctuary. I get the impression that if Mr Clinker tried any funny business with her, she’d set the dogs on him.’
‘We could do with dogs – if the attacker is still around that is. He could be anywhere.’
Honey looked around. The village was pretty dark, which was only to be expected. There were few streetlights
and a village green divided the houses on one side of the road from the other.
She was just about to comment that they probably played cricket on the green, or danced around the may pole, when she spotted a blob of diaphanous whiteness moving through the centre of the green.
‘That’s not cricket,’ she mumbled.
‘Cricket?’
Doherty, who had been phoning Mr Clinker’s details into HQ, looked to where she was looking.
‘No. It looks like a runaway bride. Did you see the film?’
‘What?’
‘Well the bride liked weddings but didn’t like marriage. She liked the dressing up, but not the domestic bliss – or drudgery – depending on how you look at it.’
‘That was only a film.’ He suddenly stopped in his tracks. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’
She pointed. ‘There. A figure in white. I’m sure she’s dressed as a bride.’
‘Perhaps the local transvestites are having a theme night. Everyone has to come dressed as a bride.’
Honey pursed her lips as she thought it through. ‘You’re being flippant.’
‘Sorry.’
There was now no sign of the figure whoever and whatever it might have been.
‘Might be something special to this village, some kind of traditional thing – you know – like maypoles and Morris dancing.’
Doherty shook his head solemnly at the thought of men prancing about to the sound of bells, decorated with flowers and brandishing a sheep’s bladder on the end of a stick.
‘Well that’s villages for you. Dig deep and they’re all a bit strange.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
It should have been a perfectly ordinary day at the Green River Hotel. Breakfast had been served and the first of the guests was checking out.
A sweet little Chinese couple had just left. A red-faced Frenchman was approaching. One glance and Honey could tell she had trouble.
‘There was a worm in my porridge.’
Seeing as she was in a pretty good mood, her initial response was to say that porridge was pure carb and proteins were extra. However, judging by the gnashing teeth and fire red complexion, she guessed he wouldn’t find it funny.
Being able to adopt a look of apologetic surprise at a moment’s notice was a perquisite for surviving in the hospitality game. After a while it came naturally.
Marriage is Murder Page 6
