Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (13 page)

She found herself in a conservatory where the greenery was as vigorous as in the Amazon rain forest.

‘Who the hell are you?’ A female voice.

Even before she turned round, Honey guessed she was in the presence of Lady Charlborough.

She was sitting in a wrought iron chair, her finger poised over what appeared to be a diary or address book. A gold sovereign hung from a chain around her neck. She wore a gold belt, gold high-heeled sandals and earrings to match. Despite the contempt in Mrs Quentin’s voice, Honey had expected a mature Chelsea rather than Essex girl. It was hard to keep the surprise from her voice.

‘Are you Lady Charlborough?’

The woman, whose hair was Scandinavian blonde, had a tan only obtainable from somewhere like southern Spain. She was holding a glass in her free hand. The liquid in it was clear and sported a slice of lemon. Gin rather than water.

Plucked eyebrows rose, and dusky rimmed eyes opened wide with a mix of street acquired caution and upper crust disdain.

‘Yes. I’m Lady Pamela Charlborough. Who the hell are you?’

‘Honey Driver.’ Her hand shot forward. It wasn’t taken.

Pamela Charlborough threw the book she’d been reading to one side. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

‘I suppose not. I really wanted to ask you about your brother. You know he’s dead, don’t you?’

‘My brother? What brother?’

‘You don’t have a brother?’

‘That’s right. I don’t.’

‘Ah! And I suppose you’re not the first Lady Charlborough?’

It was something else Honey already knew, but it seemed best not to let on that she’d been prying.

The expertly made-up face stiffened. ‘No! I am not. I’m the second wife,’ Lady Charlborough said. ‘The trophy wife you might say.’

The words chipped and tarnished trophy came immediately to mind.

Lady Pamela slugged back the remains of the cut-glass tumbler, took out the lemon and ate that as well.

‘So what the hell do you want?’

‘An American tourist was fished out of the river the other day. I was under the impression he visited you here. His name was Elmer Maxted, though he did sometimes call himself Weinstock. You might have him written down in your address book.’

Lady Charlborough tapped her pen on the chair arm, her glazed expression as brittle as old glass.

‘I’ve never had the pleasure.’

‘No?’ Honey sounded surprised. ‘So do you often go hob-nobbing over the church wall at the bottom of your land? Or were you just passing by? You were seen talking to him.’

The pink lips twisted into a snarl.

‘Old Mother Quentin. Nosey cow! Time she was pushing up the daisies in that bloody churchyard instead of putting them in pots!’

‘Were you having an affair with Elmer?’

Lady Pamela’s jaw dropped. ‘How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are!’

‘I’m working hand in glove with the police. I can’t help the questions being asked. The police will ask the same once it’s confirmed by Mrs Quentin that she saw you with him. Still. Your choice. Maybe it’s better if you told me the truth rather than them.’

‘You’re not the police?’

Honey didn’t flinch. OK, it was all bluff, but bluff might baffle brains, that’s if Pamela Charlborough had any.

For a brief moment the flesh beneath the made-up face squirmed as though Lady Pamela’s skin had got too tight to cope with. Telling the truth and saving face were fighting it out.

Honey hadn’t been too sure how long she’d take to snap, she just knew she bloody well would.

‘OK. I saw this bloke on the other side of the wall and we passed the time of day. There’s no law against that, is there?’

Honey shook her head. ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence. I would have believed your story except that Elmer Maxted married a cousin of Sir Andrew’s first wife. Now that’s what I call too strong a coincidence!’

Lady Pamela raised herself from the chair. Her botoxed lips curled back displaying perfect teeth.

‘That’s the way out,’ she snarled, wobbling slightly as her legs took her weight. ‘Now get out before I call the police!’

‘You can if you like, bearing in mind that I’ve already told you that I happen to be working with the police.’

‘Don’t care! Clear off! Go on! Clear bloody off!’

Honey paused. ‘OK, Mrs Charlborough. I’m off.’

‘
Lady
Charlborough, if you don’t mind!’

‘Are you kidding? As long as you’ve got two nostrils in your nose, you’ll never make a lady!’

Her ladyship clutched an empty wine glass. Honey shut the door just before the glass hit.

‘Temper, temper,’ she muttered to herself.

While retracing her steps through the warren of passages, she tapped in Steve Doherty’s number on her phone, determined to tell him all she knew. There was no signal. She needed to get outside. Surely in these spacious gardens there should be somewhere she could pick up a decent signal.

There was a kitchen to one side, an empty place with deep white sinks and the sort of atmosphere left over from the Victorian age when servants outnumbered the family they served.

Turning away from the kitchen and the house, she made her way down the path and out of the walled garden. On the other side of an arched door, turned silver by centuries of English weather, she found herself in a vegetable garden. A path led back round to the front terraces and she would have tried phoning again, but the greenhouses caught her eye.

They were huge but dominated by one in particular much bigger than the others. The greenery pressed thick and dark against the glass or plastic material that held it. Like plants from
The Day of the Triffids
, she thought, about to pull up their roots and escape.

Like the house, the place seemed deserted. Pots of fresh earth waiting for new bulbs or seeds for next spring sat on tables just inside the door. There were seed trays, specimen pots, cardboard boxes of plants, packets of seeds and bulbs pulled from the earth and nestling in brown paper bags tied up with string.

The smell of turned earth mingled with the stink of a compost heap. Mildewed cabbages leaves lay like a floppy hat on top the rotting pile.

Wrinkling her nose, she stepped past it and headed for the second greenhouse, then the third – the most interesting.

Sandbags were heaped around the door. She remembered they used to pile them around bomb shelters and gun posts in the Second World War. They were meant to protect a place from bomb blasts. A first aid box was nailed to a post which stood near to a jeep covered with a camouflage net – all terribly military.

The wall of sandbags hid a Perspex door. Sacks. She wondered if they had held something else before they’d held sand. There was no way she could check. Her attention turned to the door. It had a handle, and handles were meant to be used. Like Alice she pushed it open and entered Wonderland – of a sort.

Moist air hit her face like a damp blanket taking her breath away. The smell of vegetation growing thickly and roof high was so strong, the humidity was too thick to breathe – exactly like a jungle.

The effect was so real that she stopped and listened, half expecting the chattering of monkeys or the screech of parakeets.

‘Me Jane. Where’s Tarzan?’ she whispered under her breath.

She looked up. Thankfully there was no sign of beefcake wearing nothing more than a pillowcase around his loins.

The humidity seemed to solidify as the door slid silently shut behind her.

The narrow path between the tropical greenery petered out just a few feet from the door. If she was to go on, she would have to part the thick foliage Great White Hunter-style; a machete would have been useful.

No, she decided stepping back. It was too dark in there. Too real.

It suddenly occurred to her that Charlborough might keep wild animals in here. The Marquis of Bath kept a whole menagerie at Longleat; lions, tigers and leopards prowled the grounds. Who knows what you could keep in a small jungle!

‘Now’s the time to panic.’ She uttered the words in the weeniest whisper, and even that seemed too intrusive in this strange jungle hidden on an English estate.

Was it hidden? If so, why?

Backtracking was on autopilot. She could have turned round. Going forwards was always quicker than going backwards. But she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head and she
needed
to see what was behind her. Just in case …

‘Halt!’

Her breath stopped!

Her heart stopped!

Her feet certainly did. It was as though she’d backed into a barn door – one made of oak – big, hard and locked!

It took a big scoop of courage to make her turn round.

Facing this human barrier was worse than not doing so. Chiselled features, chiselled body, as though welded from sheets of steel and thus having no rounded corners. Being eye to eye with his pecs was disconcerting. Raising her eyes failed to improve matters.

‘You’re trespassing.’ His voice was higher than she’d expected, like a voice is when the larynx has suffered a severe blow. The two didn’t go well together. If her legs hadn’t been shaking she might have laughed. Instead she played the trump card, the acceptable excuse.

‘I’m working with the police with regard to the disappearance of an American tourist.’ She chanced a grin and a casual shake. ‘Just thought he might have wandered in here – you know how these Americans can be.’

She hoped he didn’t detect the trace of the accent she’d inherited from her father years ago.

‘What’s happening here?’

A draught of fresh air heralded the arrival of Sir Andrew. Alarm flashed in his eyes then was gone. His smile was controlled.

‘I thought you’d gone, Mrs Driver.’

Her heart stopped racing. Somehow she had no wish to tell the truth. A suitable excuse tripped from her tongue.

‘Mr St John Gervais wished to take one last look at your clock. He’s pretty upset about losing it. I said I would ask your permission. No one came to the door when I knocked, so I came around here. I thought I saw someone here …’ She threw a tight smile in the direction of metal man. ‘And I did.’

‘Trevor is my gardener, as well as my butler.’ He turned to the man. ‘That will be all, Trevor. Mrs Driver is just leaving.’

Sir Andrew took a firm grip on her arm. It wasn’t quite frogmarching, but not far off. She took a last look over her shoulder at the gardener. Did jungles need gardeners?

The question was suddenly of no consequence. She’d been aware that Trevor was carrying something, but hadn’t stirred up enough courage to look and see what it was. Now she saw him toss a small sack onto a pile of other sacks. It rolled off and something rolled out.

Trevor cussed.

Honey gasped.

Glassy eyes starred up at her from a severed head.

Her legs wobbled. Her head swam. She needed air. Fresh air. Right now!

Chapter Twenty-one

Andrew Charlborough couldn’t help chuckling at the woman’s reaction to one of the many props they used in their war games.

Longleat had its wild beasts and extensive grounds in which to keep them. Most of the estate surrounding Charlborough Grange had been sold off years ago. War games complete with a pretend jungle and pretend bodies provided a decent income, besides which, he enjoyed them. It took him back to other times and other places. He’d explained all this to Hannah Driver. He’d seen her recover, seen her blush and then seen her off the premises.

Amateur sleuths were the least of his worries. His features hardened as he watched her car pull away. Once it had gone, he went back along the corridor to the study. From his pocket he took a neatly folded cotton handkerchief, the initials LTC embroidered in dark red at its corner. Gently he wiped the handkerchief over Lance’s photograph before straightening it. He fingered its frame.

‘I miss you, Lance,’ he said his voice trembling with emotion.

Suddenly he became aware that he was no longer alone.

‘You’re an obsessive! Do you know that?’

Pamela’s strident voice pierced through his sorrow and his skull. She sashayed toward him, hips rolling, blonde hair clipped tightly around her pronounced cheekbones.

Anger flushed his face. ‘Get out of here!’

She dragged fiercely on the cigarette she was smoking.

‘It’s your own fault he stays away from here, you know. You’re too overbearing. The boy wants to lead his own life. And why shouldn’t he? What’s it to you, darling? Eh? If you really, really think about it, what’s it to you?’

Her husband’s eyes followed her as she walked around the room purposely tapping the corner of each framed photograph so it no longer hung straight.

She laughed as she did it.

‘You don’t answer!’ she said. ‘I’ve heard how you talk to him, insisting that he tow the line, or else … and the dear boy … he so loves his father … 
his father
!’

She laughed like a gurgling drain.

If eyes could be knives, Sir Andrew’s would have stabbed her twice.

She came closer and deliberately blew smoke into his face, then rested her hand on his chest. ‘What if he knew the truth? I wonder how much he would love you then? Because I know you know. I met Mary’s brother-in-law. He told me what you did. Now,’ she said, a red-painted fingernail tapping the matching colour on her lips. ‘Perhaps I should tell the police about this before I tell Lance. Or should I phone that woman and tell her?’ Her expression hardened. ‘What’s it worth not to tell either of them, Andrew? Eh? Fifty thousand? One hundred thousand?’ She shook her head. ‘Chicken feed. And this chicken deserves more than that, I think.’

Andrew clenched his jaw as he gazed down into his wife’s face.

‘Marriage to you has been torture, Pamela.’

Her eyes opened wide with feigned surprise. ‘What else did you expect? I didn’t marry you because I loved you. It was all for money. For your beautiful, beautiful money! What else! And when we divorce, I’ll take half of it with me.’

‘Over my dead body you will!’

‘Your dead body! Wonderful. Could you possibly arrange your death and I’ll forego a divorce. After all, I would much rather be a seriously rich widow, darling, than a moderately rich divorcee.’ She patted his chest. ‘How’s your heart darling?’ She laughed. ‘Silly me. You don’t have one. At least, not as far as your wife is concerned. You only love your son … if he was your son.’

‘Pamela, have pity …’

She stopped and pouted. ‘Pity has a price, darling. Think about it.’

She was still laughing when she left the room. Her husband stared after her, thoughts of what he’d like to do to her roaring through his mind.

Mark Conway looked up at the ceiling and tried not to breathe in her perfume. There was the smell of her and the smell of perfume. He preferred the smell of her. The perfume was too overpowering.

The room held only this bed, a chair and a low table. The rest of the house was divided up into flats. This was where they always met, where he would sate his physical desires and she would tell him of her contempt for her husband, his employer. He would listen but not comment.

Her fingers continued to trace circles over his chest. Her voice was low and huskily enticing. He knew the sex had been good for her. She’d told him so. Now she was saying other things, things that filled him with dread.

‘I wish he was dead. How easy would it be to kill him? You could kill him, Mark. Just think …’

Her lips were full, but cold upon his. Strange he hadn’t noticed that before.

‘If he were dead, we could spend all day in bed. All day. Every day. How easy would it be to kill him do you think?’

‘Easy,’ he said, because he knew it was the truth. ‘Very easy. But then, why should I? He’s very good to me. He’s always been very good to me.’

Her tongue flicked at his ear. ‘Because, my darling, if he was dead you’d have me.’

‘And you would have all his money.’

‘That’s right. Just me.’

‘What about Lance?’

‘What about Lance? No doubt he’d get something, but nowhere near what he’s been used to. I’d get the lion’s share.’

‘You sound very sure of that.’

She smiled like a cat as her hand slid down over his loins and did delicious things between his thighs.

‘Because I know something that you don’t. I know that all Andrew’s money could easily become mine.’