Dead Suited

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Her mother diverted her attention. ‘Would you like to come to a flower arranging party,’ she asked.

  She was tempted to say no, but on reflection decided it might be a good idea. Any place was improved with the addition of a large bouquet in a pretty pot or vase.

  ‘Let me know the when and where.’

  ‘I will.’

  They got as far as the pair from Vermont. ‘Are you English?’ they asked.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Honey. Her mother and daughter echoed their status; yes, they were English too.

  Honey had a premonition that this run in wasn’t going to be good. Even Mary Jane, who had floated past them after declining their invitation, stopped to hear what was being said.

  Anyone with eyes to see – especially female eyes - regarded Mrs Boldman as blonde bimbo – her husband certainly hadn’t married her for her brains. Her boobs however must have cost him a fortune!

  ‘Look, sweetheart, I was only saying that you should be more tactful...’

  It appeared Mr Boldman was doing his best. His wife stared at him blankly. Honey guessed she didn’t know what the word meant and certainly didn’t know how to spell it.

  ‘Chorley, honey, I’m just little old me...’ simpered the blonde wife.

  The tone was sickly. Honey felt like throwing up. OK, Mrs Boldman looked at least half his age, but she was no teenager. She’d probably had a face lift or two. It was hard to tell. She’d definitely had a brain by pass.

  ‘Chorley, honey pie. I’ve just one question for these people and seeing as they’re English I’m sure they’ll tell me how things hang around here.’

  Honey gulped. How things hang? What was the woman talking about?

  ‘Sweetie...’

  Sweetie ignored his honey pie. The woman turned to Honey.

  ‘All I wanted to know was what possessed your royal family to build Windsor Castle so close to Heathrow Airport. It must be a nightmare.’

  Grandmother, mother, daughter and Mary Jane headed for the door. Mary Jane looked as though she’d swallowed a wasp, eyes bulging, mouth firmly closed. Gloria looked long suffering. Honey and Lindsey were almost choking only just about managing to keep the laughter at bay until they were out of earshot.

  Mary Jane offered cakes and coffee in her room. ‘Although I do have something stronger. Armagnac I think. Cedric recommended it.’

  There was something oddly reassuring about a ghost who recommended French brandy. Lindsey commented that Sir Cedric must have had it smuggled in from France seeing as there was an ongoing war on the continent when he was alive.

  If indeed Sir Cedric did spend a great deal of time in Mary Jane’s room, he must have felt very much at home. He’d definitely feel at home with the furniture, bits and pieces that Mary Jane had added to the basic reproduction Regency style already in situ.

  Honey’s mother sniffed the air. ‘It smells lovely in here.’

  Lindsey sniffed too. ‘Jasmine.’

  Only Honey disagreed. ‘Brandy.’ Her nose WAS in the glass at the time.

  ‘Mr Boldman owns a chain of department stores,’ Mary Jane pronounced. ‘Candy is wife number five.’

  Lindsey, who was cradling her drink with both hands, shrugged. ‘What’s the point of getting married?’

  ‘He gets her and she gets his money,’ Honey pronounced. ‘Things wouldn’t be so cut and dried if they were merely lovers.’

  ‘I’ve known lots of men like him.’ Gloria pronounced grimly. ‘Their brain in their pants. And they spend a fortune on Viagra!’

  ‘Well that’s guaranteed to make the heart beat faster!’ Mary Jane proclaimed.

  ‘Sure,’ muttered Honey. ‘All the way to the grave!’

  On leaving Mary Jane’s room Honey decided to check if there was any dust on the window sills and on the table in front of the arched window. The cleaners sometimes forgot or would do if they thought she didn’t check.

  There was no sound from behind the closed doors along the landing yet not every guest was out sightseeing. Honey wondered at the quietness of it all. She was totally alone. Nothing was untoward except for the scent of jasmine. She looked for any flower displays that she might have forgotten about. There were none. It had occurred to her that the smell was confined to Mary Jane’s room – some upturned perfume bottle she’d forgotten about perhaps. If that had been the case the smell would have been left behind.

  She stood a moment in front of the arched window and sniffed. The smell was stronger here. Probably Candy Boldman had wafted along here earlier, she thought. That was before she reminded herself that Candy wore some pretty tangy fragrances, nothing as delicate as Jasmine.

  The smell was no more by the time she got to the head of the stairs where she paused and looked over her shoulder. She thought she saw the curtains at the arched window move, a gold tassel swing, the threads catching the light.

  Just a draught of course. The old place was full of draughts. Still, the smell of jasmine was a little unnerving.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was five thirty in the morning when Charlie York pushed his street cleaning trolley into Beaumont Alley. Daylight was drifting in like a lifting fog and if you happened to believe in that sort of thing, you could almost believe there were ghosts peering from the parapets and windows of the ancient houses.

  Charlie wouldn’t have noticed if a raving banshee was hanging from the windows. He was whistling along to Sounds of the Eighties on his ipod, a present from his daughter last Christmas. He’d downloaded the compilation of the music of his youth from a word of mouth pirate source.

  Not wishing to disturb anyone, he whistled less vigorously once he was in the heart of Beaumont Alley. The five storey buildings rose like sheer rock faces to either side of him forming a blank wall on either side. At the far end they curved round to form a cul de sac.

  Because Beaumont Alley was a block entrance sounds – any sounds – ricocheted off the Georgian buildings.

  A strip of sky overhead more or less matched the paved ground beneath his feet. He pushed his broom to the beat of the music, short sweeps in time with the backing tempo, a long sweeping action matching a held note or a strung out finale. He hummed instead of whistling, puffing between snatches of tune with the effort of sweeping and humming at the same time.

  Beaumont Alley had more than its fair share of rubbish this morning, most of it tucked into the gutter, but quite a pile outside Pauling and Tern.

  He hadn’t read the Bath Chronicle yesterday, so knew nothing about the celebration in Beaumont Alley. He grumbled to himself about the extra mess, but hey, Bath was a city worth keeping clean.

  His spirits were suddenly lifted by the next track on his ipod. Sometimes the work he did made him feel old; old and tired. He’d held this job down for some years now, never complaining about getting up early and walking miles to keep the city clean. Of late he’d been feeling more weary.

  ‘I should be thinking about retiring,’ he muttered. He couldn’t do that just yet. His pension pot just wouldn’t be enough.

  His miserable thoughts were suddenly shafted, exploded like fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night. His favourite music exploded into his ears.

  Adam Ant was singing the eighties hit, Stand and Deliver. They’d been one of the New Punk bands back in the early eighties, a bit girly compared to some, but he’d liked them a lot.

  He’d been a young man back then and a keen follower of the punk scene. The beat flooded his mind, taking him back to a time when he’d had no wife, no daughter, no rent to pay no car to get road taxed before he got nicked by the police. None of it mattered once Adam Ant was playing.

  ‘Yeah,’ he breathed. ‘Adam is back!’

  Adam and the Ants had been labelled romantic, more to do with their dramatic appearance than their music. The lead singer had looked and dressed a bit like Johnnie Depp playing Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. His hair had been slicked back into a thin pony tail, eyes lined with black make up and colourful stripes
across his face. He’d worn an old fashioned military style coat with brass buttons and braiding, a silk sash around his slender waist and another around his arm. His britches were usually satin or velvet, his leather boots had reached high over his knees – just like a real highwayman, and his hair had been dark, untidy and tied back in a pony tail.

  Back in the day, the girls had gone wild over Adam Ant and on that count alone Charlie would have copied the look if he’d had the money. Trouble was he’d never had the money back then in his youth. As for wearing that kind of stuff now; he chuckled to himself.

  His overalls were baggy, his coat was grubby and his steel toe capped boots were killing him.

  Bloody Health and Safety people and their rules and regulations; it wasn’t them that had to tramp over the pavements for six or seven hours a day.

  The trials and tribulations of working for Bath and North East Somerset flew from his head. This morning nothing of that mattered.

  Legs spread, shoulders back, he heaved his broom to waist level.

  To an onlooker it was still a broom. To him it was a Fender Stratocaster and he was strumming it.

  Eyes half closed and pursing his lips, similar but not quite like Adam, he strutted his way further into the alley, echoing every note with the movement of his fingers.

  In his mind he was no longer Charlie York, a sanitation operative – posh speak for street sweeper - wearing big boots and scruffy working clothes. He was snake hipped eye candy to all those screaming young girls out there. He could see their hands, fingers splayed as they attempted to touch him, to feel the magic and the body of their pop idol.

  When he came to he found himself standing in the gutter outside Pauling and Tern.

  The hand that had mimicked the final flourish was still raised above his head.

  His half closed eyes slowly reopened. The smile of satisfaction fell from his lips.

  If he’d been drunk or high on drugs he might have thought his dream had become reality. But Charlie hadn’t indulged in none of that stuff, not back then and not now. Still, he couldn’t help questioning whether he’d had too many beers last night.

  ‘What the bloody hell...’

  Slowly the guitar returned to being a broom as he blinked to get a hold on what he was seeing.

  The sweeping brush made a hissing sound as he dragged it behind him. He paused, took a few steps closer. Then stepped back.

  ‘Bloody hell! It’s Adam!’

  Still considerate of the neighbours, he’d kept his voice down. His eyes felt as though they were bulging out of his head. Adam Ant was in the window! Adam Ant!

  No. He couldn’t be.

  He pulled off his ipod and ran his thumb over the off switch silencing its tinny note.

  The scene before him held his gaze, his eyes growing rounder as he took in all its details – including the other body hanging from a noose just behind the highwayman’s head.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, and rummaged for his mobile phone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The atmosphere in Bonhams’ Auction Rooms was tense. Good stuff was going under the hammer at reasonable prices. There were not so many people bidding as there should be. Some blamed the fact that Bath rugby team were playing a tense match in France. Half the city had gone with them, or at least that was the way it seemed. Whichever way the match went, the wine in France would be flowing. There were plenty in the auction room who wished them all good luck. They wished themselves good luck too. The low prices kept rolling on!

  Honey Driver had done pretty well so far, but there was one more lot to go. She was on a high. One nice corset and another in the offing. Her hand was in rocket mode, ready to shoot up when the time was right.

  Then Doherty phoned.

  ‘Honey.’

  ‘Doherty. Steve. How do you fancy a Victorian corset?’

  ‘Not my style.’

  ‘It might grow on you.’

  ‘Only if you were wearing it.’

  She smiled into the phone. ‘Something up?’

  Doherty had a distinct tone when he had something serious on his mind, differing from when he was being playful, romantic or simply tired out.

  ‘I understand you were involved with this window display competition.’

  Her attention on what was happening in the auction room was diverted.

  ‘I was one of the judges. Somebody suggesting bribery and corruption?’

  ‘Worse than that. One of the window displays has seen some live action – or rather dead action depending on how you view it. There’s a dead body swinging on a rope behind Dick Turpin.’

  Honey sucked in her breath. Had she heard right?

  ‘The highwayman! The one in the window of Pauling and Tern.’

  ‘Right. Bespoke tailors. Expensive tailors. I certainly couldn’t afford a sports jacket from here – if I should ever want one that is.’

  Honey couldn’t visualise Doherty in a sports jacket. Leather jacket, yes. It was almost easier to visualise a man hanging from a noose behind the highwayman, though far more shocking of course.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Nigel Tern, the proprietor. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not really. I only met him at the presentation.’

  ‘First impressions?’

  ‘He was coming on strong. I declined his various offers.’

  Nigel Tern had not appealed to her at all, but there were bound to be women who he did appeal to. She expressed her opinion to Doherty.

  ‘An ageing Romeo; well that’s something to bear in mind.’ His tone was caustic.

  ‘So you’re interviewing all the judges, including moi? Anyone else?’

  ‘The street cleaner who discovered the body. I’m also currently interviewing the staff. The highwayman is not a suspect.’

  ‘Why hang somebody in full public view? It’s pretty obvious it won’t take long to be discovered.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from. Most killers go out of their way to hide their victim.’

  ‘Unless they’re your standard weirdo who feels he has to make some kind of statement.’

  ‘I agree. The victim was hanging in full public view, though nobody noticed it until about five thirty this morning when the body was spotted by a passing street cleaner. I understand you attended the presentation for best window display yesterday along with the other judges.’

  ‘That’s right. All three judges were invited. I don’t know who the other two judges were. The organisers didn’t want us to know. All in the interest of fair play so I understand.’

  ‘We’ve got the names of the other judges. We’ll be interviewing them too.’

  Had John Rees been one of them? She didn’t like to ask. Doherty ground his teeth whenever John was mentioned. He tried not to, but he did. That’s how she knew he loved her.

  ‘Can you tell me who they were?’

  ‘In time. It sounds as though a good time was had by all. I understand John Rees was there.’

  There it was; John Rees, her second choice if ever her relationship with Doherty floundered – though she was sure it would not.

  ‘I told you I was doing it and did ask if you wanted to come but you were previously engaged.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Doherty replied sullenly. ‘I was. Chief Inspector’s orders. I was required to attend a talk by somebody from the unsolved crime unit about bonding with other agencies in order to better coordinate historical information.’

  He didn’t sound impressed, the statement delivered in a dull monotone.

  ‘Shame. You would have enjoyed it. We drank champagne.’

  ‘Really? We had tea and biscuits.’

  ‘I take it they weren’t chocolate digestives.’

  ‘There were some, but I was late arriving. Some numpty clamped my car.’

  ‘Whoops.’

  He paused before another comment came.

  ‘So the highwayman won. I’m guessing you were swayed by the tight fitting britches.’

&nbs
p; ‘And the mask. If I’d been wearing one of those tightly corseted dresses from the eighteenth century my bosom would have heaved and then I would have swooned.’

  ‘Don’t do it just yet. You’re a witness. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘I dare say you do.’

  Her attention hovered between what he was saying and what was happening at the auction. She had already won an all in one corset and brassiere from the forties, the kind that used to be called a ‘corselet. Now she was after another one, not really for her collection, but to wear. It was amazing what an old fashioned corset did for the figure. Reinforced with elastic and sliver thin strips of metal, it smoothed lumpy bits and added shape where none existed. This one was made of satin and the bidding had reached forty five pounds. She dropped her hand, surprised at herself for not yet asking the obvious question.

  ‘Any leads so far?’

  ‘No. No obvious enemies, though rumour has it that he didn’t get along with his father. From what you say, and from other sources, there could be a few scorned women in the background. We’ll have to check.’

  ‘He asked me to a party to celebrate his winning, but I had to decline due to a previous engagement. I didn’t like him much.’

  She didn’t add she was out having dinner with somebody else. She didn’t need to. Doherty was the ‘somebody else’.

  ‘You didn’t mention him asking you.’

  ‘What would be the point? I declined.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  Honey recalled that he didn’t seem that upset that she’d turned him down. Not surprising. He’d struck her as the sort of man who keeps a little black book. She mentioned this to Doherty.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he also gave them marks out of ten. A low score can upset people,’ she added. It wasn’t just Nigel Tern she was thinking of. She wondered about retailers unimpressed because they hadn’t won.

  ‘Your comments, though ever so slightly cynical, have helped. Anyway, somebody didn’t like him. I need to speak to everyone who was at the presentation and also those who attended the party later. I understand they held it at the Cricketers Wine Bar.’

  Honey wrinkled her nose. ‘In that case I’m glad I didn’t go.’