He patted the lapels of his well worn leather jacket. It was black and scuffed in places, a little the worse for wear but still serviceable – a bit like its owner.
‘Talking of leather, Mr Papendriou is thinking of quitting his employment in order to set himself up making leather goods for the bondage market. He reckons he’ll do very well on line. Interestingly, Lee Curtis, the man who argued with Mr Roper who owns the Chocolate Soldier, owns a sex shop. Is that just a coincidence?’
‘You have been busy!’
‘Plus Mr Barrington was being given the push by his boss. Nigel Tern wanted to refurbish and make the shop more trendy – that included getting rid of those employees not likely to fit in i.e. our Mr Barrington. He’s been there for years.’
‘Let’s get this show on the road,’ murmured Doherty.
Once he’d phoned into the police station with instructions to locate Vasey Casey, they started walking, heading up the alley steps and onto high street level. Their footsteps took them into Sally Lunns. Honey ordered breakfast for Doherty and coffee for herself.
‘How did you know I skipped breakfast?’
‘You did, didn’t you?’
Doherty confirmed that she was right.
‘So what’s the word from forensic?’
He folded his hands in front of his nose, elbows resting on the table.
‘Nothing untoward on the DNA or fingerprint front. The shop assistants and Nigel Tern’s prints, plus another set which will no doubt turn out to belong to the window dresser, Vasey Casey. Bits of thread and fibre but seeing as this happened in a tailors shop, it’s only what you’d expect.’
A smile came to her face. ‘Vasey Casey. Hell of a name that. It can’t be his birth name – can it?’
Doherty shrugged. ‘Not everybody keeps the name they were given at birth. Things get changed. Hannah.’
Honey grinned. ‘Touche.’
She’d been christened Hannah, but it was only her mother called her that. Everyone else called her Honey.
‘Is that really the guy’s name or is it the name of a company?’
‘Whichever. We’ll enquire about both.’
The waitress set down Doherty’s breakfast. Doherty picked up his knife and fork. He was about to tuck in but feeling Honey’s eyes on him he paused.
‘What?’
‘That is a very big breakfast. Most of it looks fried. Bacon. Eggs and TWO sausages. You know a meal like that can clog your arteries don’t you?’
His gaze stayed locked with hers. ‘OK. You can have one.’
She pounced on a sausage. ‘Damn the diet. I’m starving.’
Arnold Tern cast his beady eyes over his assembled workforce and thought what a pathetic lot they were and how dependant on his largesse, the jobs he’d given them.
He also couldn’t help thinking how his son’s plans for a wider clientele base – clients who could walk right in without an appointment as had always been the case, kept his anger boiling.
It suddenly occurred to him that there was one person here who didn’t fit in.
‘Get out Grace.’
The woman in the wheelchair looked both surprised and offended.
‘What? Arnold. I really think I should stay and...’
‘No you should not. Get out,’
He did not raise his voice but his tone was cold and to the point.
A pink blush spread up the woman’s neck and over her face.
‘My father’s name is still above the door...’
‘And that, my dear, is your only connection to this business and property. I bought him out years ago. Now get out. Now!’
Four pairs of eyes turned in the direction of Grace Pauling, each showing various degrees of nervous surprise.
‘How come she’s staying?’ Grace Pauling threw a withering look at Edwina Cayford, the woman clinging to Arnold Tern’s wheelchair.
‘My choice,’ returned Arnold Tern in the same dull monotone with its undercurrent of firmness.
He didn’t look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the three men who had worked for the firm for varying lengths of time. At present they looked – again to varying degrees – like condemned men waiting for the axe to fall on their heads.
Behind him, Grace Pauling was gritting her teeth hard enough to grind them to dust. Her face was puce.
‘Right! Then I’m going.’
Mr Tern acted as though he hadn’t heard her. She belonged to a different department in his life. First and foremost he was here to sort out the mess his son had left behind. The boy was an idiot. Always had been. He showed no great remorse at his passing. He felt none. His son had never lived up to his expectations. He always got things wrong. He couldn’t even do it right and live longer than his father!
Angry at his treatment of her in front of staff, Grace wheeled herself to the shop door.
Edwina Cayford followed her, one hand reaching out to help push.
Grace bridled. ‘I can manage!’
Grace retrieved her hand. She opened the door just wide enough for Edwina to wheel her through. She thought about telling him that the will was ready for his signature, but it didn’t much matter now. The man who would have got the lion’s share of the inheritance was dead. The main heir to the new will would surprise everyone – if the old man went ahead and signed it.
Grace offered no thanks to Edwina for opening the door. Fully expecting Edwina to wear a gloating, triumphant expression, she didn’t look up at her either.
Resigned to how some disabled people and other patients could behave, Edwina closed the door softly. Normally she would have thought no more of it, but there was something disconcerting about Grace Pauling, something that niggled at the back of her mind.
She couldn’t recall meeting the woman before, certainly not at Mr Tern’s house. She knew the family solicitor did make home visits to the old man, but she had never been there when she’d called.
All the same she was sure she’d seen her before. It had to have been at the hospital; quite understandable of course seeing as she was in a wheelchair. But there was something else about seeing her, something irritating at the back of her mind and it wouldn’t go away.
She returned to stand behind Mr Tern’s wheelchair listening as he outlined his plans to bring in a team of interior designers to soften the stark modernism his son had inflicted on the grade II building. At least the outside had not suffered and for that he was grateful. But a suitably traditional and up market ambience had to be injected back into the interior.
He outlined this to his staff.
‘Our clients appreciate an air of tradition when they come in for a measuring or a fitting. It doesn’t matter that we farm our work out to master tailors in Saville Row etc., Our gentlemen clients appreciate the quality of our garments, our service AND our air of traditional continuity. They are not the sort of clients who window shop. They do not have the time. That is why we keep their measurements and fabric preferences on file. That is why they make appointments and do not call in on the off chance. They do not care for off chance encounters and neither do we!’
The looks of nervous apprehension lessened. If all that was going to happen was a bit of redecorating, well that was nothing to worry about, was it?
The two younger men, neither of whom had had much dealings with Mr Tern Senior, mainly because they hadn’t known him when he was still hands on, looked to Mr Barrington, the senior assistant.
‘I take it our jobs are secure?’ There was a new brightness in his eyes, a new lightness in his tone of voice.
‘No!’
Barrington looked as though he hadn’t heard properly, tipping his head to one side.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘There are going to be some changes.’
Barrington looked shocked. Papendriou looked only slightly ruffled after all he had his own plans if he were made redundant.
Young Rossini was making his own plans. If he got made redundant and depending if
there was a pay off, he would have more time to spend with Tracey, his girlfriend. Perhaps he’d get enough for a deposit on a flat; rented of course, but still...
Mr Arnold folded his bony hands in his lap and addressed Mr Barrington.
‘Mr Barrington...’
‘Cecil, Mr Tern. Do call me Cecil. We have known each other for quite some time...’
‘MISTER Barrington. You have given long and faithful service. However, I think it’s time that you hung up your tape measure. Your days here are done.’
‘But sir? I don’t understand.’
Sweat had broken out on Barrington’s brow. His tongue licked over his bottom lip leaving it wet and flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth.
‘It’s quite simple,’ said Arnold Tern, his tone as flat and cold as a tombstone. ‘My useless son had plans to make Tern and Pauling no different than any other shop in any high street, in any city. That is not and never was this firm’s way of doing things. We cater for a more discerning customer. We measure up princes. The fact is Mr Barrington, nobody thought to tell me what was going on here – including entering a decidedly downmarket, seedy little competition – and all for five thousand pounds!’
‘But I...’ Barrington looked at each of his colleagues, his expression imploring in his search for their support.
‘You are the senior assistant, Mr Barrington. It is you who should have told me. But you did not.’
‘But you were ill...’
‘Yes. How convenient,’ said Mr Tern, interlacing his fingers in front of his face, his eyes viewing down over the pointed central as though he were focusing through a gun sight. ‘You remained silent whilst my son tore this place apart. It’s not good enough, Mr Barrington. Not good enough at all. You’re dismissed, Mr Barrington.’
Mr Barrington blustered and drew himself up to his full height. ‘I shall demand severance pay.’
‘You will get what you’re entitled to. No more, no less. Miss Pauling will deal with the details. Now please. Get your things. You can go. You,’ he snapped, turning to Mr Papendriou. ‘You’re in charge, at least until after the decorators have finished putting some character back into this place. I am prepared to overlook your domestic arrangements – at least until this place is put back to its original state.’
Gustav Papendriou was a picture of humility, bending his head, hands clasped in front of him. A cautious man, he said nothing about his plans. He had a house to sell. Once it was sold the ball would be in his court. He would choose his time.
Whilst all this was going on, Edwina Cayford busied herself tidying up the tea things, returning everything to the tea tray then taking it out into the kitchen. She’d espied the kitchen through a gap in the door marked private when Mr Barrington had gone out.
She didn’t actually dislike Mr Tern because he always appreciated everything she did for him. OK, his eyes did focus on certain aspects of her curvaceous anatomy, but at least his hands didn’t wander. She’d had some of that behaviour in the past. She didn’t like it. She was an upright respectable woman and as long as Mr Tern acted the gentleman, she would remain in his employ.
Whilst wiping up the tea things, Mr Barrington came out to take his things from the cupboard, namely his sandwich box and a supply of tablets he kept there. He looked totally dejected and she felt immensely sorry for him.
‘Mr Barrington. I’m so sorry,’ she said, lightly touching his upper arm once she’d put the tea things down.
He didn’t appear to notice. His head was bent at a forward angle and the curvature of his upper back seemed more pronounced than usual. Edwina guessed he had joint problems. In a short time she would have a dowager’s hump, an affliction that occurred in men as well as women, though not quite so often.
When he finally looked up she saw malice in his eyes. His mouth was set like a bulldog, the corners of his mouth downturned, his lower lip protruding over his upper.
‘My loyalty has been tossed aside, Miss. I have been thrown onto the rubbish heap without a fair hearing, without a by your leave. Thus my loyalty to this establishment is null and void.’
With a flurry of a plump, short arm, he reached for his raincoat and an old fashioned, but very handsome trilby hat. He set the hat on his head and threw his raincoat over his arm.
‘On my way home I shall pop into the police station and speak to the officer who was here earlier. I shall drag all the skeletons I know of out of the Tern and Pauling closet. Thus I will have my revenge, my dear lady. Thus I will have my revenge!’
CHAPTER TEN
The Green River Hotel was situated in a side turning just off Great Pulteney Street. Honey had fallen in love with the place at first sight, not just because of its undisputed grandeur, but also because it was within walking distance of the shops at one end and the Holbourne Museum at the other.
Her belief was that if she felt it attractive to be within walking distance of both the Palladian frontage of the Holbourne Museum at one end of Pulteney Street and Robert Adam’s Pulteney Bridge at the other, then the tourists would think so too. OK, she wasn’t actually situated in Pulteney Street itself, but the Green River was as near as damn it and the side road just that bit quieter than the famous street itself.
The building wasn’t bad either. A grand portico stood astride the entrance. The rectangular windows were set in neat rows, one above the other all the way up and along the building except for the arched window situated immediately above the main entrance.
Attending the scene of the murder, she’d forgotten about the woman who’d looked as though she were about to fall out of the window. On entering reception at the Green River Hotel, she was immediately reminded of it.
‘Mum, Mary Jane is camped out on the landing. She says she intends to keep vigil all night.’
Just the word vigil was enough to set the alarm bells ringing. Honey’s vibrant footsteps halted abruptly. She did a quick left turn heading towards the reception desk.
Lindsey, her fresh faced daughter, looked up at her a bemused expression on her face. Her eyes were twinkling. Honey felt an immediate sense of disquiet.
‘Blow it. Running a hotel is hard enough without playing host to a committed ghost hunter!’
‘Before you accuse me, mum, I didn’t tell her you’d seen a ghost. Blame Smudger.’
‘I didn’t say I saw a ghost,’ Honey protested. ‘I said that I thought I saw a woman looking as though she were about to jump. I did not say I’d seen a ghost.’
‘There was nobody on the landing mum. Plus that smell of jasmine in Mary Jane’s room; it had to be something to do with it occurring so suddenly as it did. Come on, you did smell the jasmine, just as the rest of us did.’
‘It doesn’t prove anything. It might not have been down to her. I mean, a woman about to throw herself out of the window wouldn’t douse herself in perfume first. She’d leave that to the funeral directors or whatever…’ She stopped herself from going any further.
‘Mum, you’re waffling.’
Lindsey tapped something into the computer. When it came to computer technology, Honey stood back and let her daughter get on with it. It sometimes unnerved her that Lindsey could browse the world so easily leaving her feeling like a dinosaur. That’s how she felt now, as though she was being left out of the loop. What was Lindsey looking for?
The glow of the computer screen lit her daughter’s face. Her eyes were positively dancing with amusement and a secretive smile hovered on her wide pink lips.
Unable to think of anything else to say, Honey side tracked. ‘How come Smudger told Mary Jane about the ghost?’
‘I think Mary Jane was at a loose end. Her beloved caddy is in for a service. To her it’s like mislaying a friend. She’s been wandering around here kicking her heels. Unfortunately she made the mistake of wandering into the kitchen. Smudger was not amused, but Mary Jane made the excuse that she was writing a book on ghosts and did he have any experience of the supernatural. In other words, had he ever seen on
e?’
‘And he said...’
‘He spoke without thinking. I think he was in the middle of making meringues. If he doesn’t get them right they end up looking like sick pads! Flat and gooey instead of fluffy and light.’
Honey grimaced. Like the majority of chefs, Smudger Smith was very sensitive about his cooking. He was rubbish at taking criticism and furious if things didn’t work out to a certain standard. Flat meringues would not be tolerated. Not wishing to shout at her as he did most of the unfortunates who ventured into his kitchen, plus the kitchen staff of course, he’d told her that the boss had seen a ghost looking out of the arched window at the top of the stairs.
‘Are you going to tell her that there is no ghost?’
There was an unspoken message in Lindsey’s eyes. It was easy to read. She’d found evidence on line.
‘Who was she?’
‘Opinions differ. Some say she was the wife of a nobleman who had put her aside for a younger model.’
Honey thought of Candy Boldman. It was more than likely she had replaced an earlier older model. No change there then!
‘And the other theories?’
‘Daughter of a nobleman, mistress of the Prince Regent, kitchen maid…’
‘She was too well dressed to be a kitchen maid.’
‘OK. We’ll discount that one. Others that she’d escaped from an asylum and murdered the man she’d been sharing a room with.’
Honey shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone being murdered here.’
‘I can check if you like.’
‘I don’t think I want to know.’
‘If Mary Jane gets wind of the possibilities – especially that somebody might have been murdered here, she won’t let go until the puzzle is solved. I think, mother dear, it might be best to let sleeping dogs lie. Let her camp out and do things in the old fashioned way. Pretend it just isn’t happening.’
Honey thought about it. Getting involved in murders in an investigative capacity was one thing because the murders happened elsewhere. Having one happen in the hotel was another matter entirely. It could affect trade. Nobody wanted to sleep in a room where murder had been committed.
Dead Suited Page 9
