Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (18 page)

Although Charlborough looked thoroughly embarrassed, Honey found it hard to pity him. The role of being lord of the manor was ingrained in him. This was hardly the first trophy wife to end up feeling trapped and disappointed with the older, richer man she had married.

‘I apologise for my wife’s rudeness.’ Sir Andrew’s voice dropped an octave or two and his apology seemed sincere.

‘We get on best when we’re apart,’ said Lady Pamela. ‘In fact I’m off to Spain tonight. My husband is footing the bill. Aren’t you darling?’

‘I trust they won’t have run out of Sangria by the time you get there,’ said Honey, her smile and tone as sarcastic as she could make it.

Pamela wagged a perfectly manicured finger. ‘Aren’t you presently playing at being a detective? I recollect you mentioned this when we met before.’

‘Yes.’ Honey maintained her smile. ‘I probably recollect it more clearly than you do.’

The inference was obvious but took a while to sink in. Once it did, the insincerity of her ladyship’s smile was echoed in her eyes.

‘Well that’s the way it is with trade, isn’t it? I presume one has to do everything one can to make ends meet.’

They left with arrangements fully made for the loan of the clock, Lady Pamela inviting John to stay at her private villa if ever he came to Spain. Honey was ignored.

‘Bitch,’ muttered Honey once they were in the car and heading back to Bath.

‘I think her husband is of the same opinion,’ said John.

‘A divorce in the making?’

‘You bet. I’ve been lucky in that respect. My ex-wife is very convivial.’

The slim, gorgeous creature? Honey had to find out. ‘Was that her …’

‘In the restaurant the other night? Yes. We’re still good friends. When either of us has a problem, we talk it through together.’

Honey’s interest in John Rees was instantly resurrected. He was just her type; good-looking, pleasant and available.

‘Your wife sounds like a decent sort – a lady in fact – which is more than I can say for Lady Pamela Charlborough.’

Chapter Twenty-nine 

The stables surrounding the yard to the rear of Charlborough Grange had been turned into garages years ago. Where past members of the family had kept their hunters, carriage horses and children’s ponies, the present incumbents kept their Mercedes saloon, their four by four and a variety of sports cars, all with dents in the bodywork, some complete write-offs. Lady Pamela loved speed almost as much as she loved men, money and booze.

Mark Conway was servicing the engine on Pamela Charlborough’s Mercedes Sports, which was presently the one with fewer dents than the others.

Slick with sweat, he pulled his T-shirt away from his body, pulled it up from his belly, and mopped at his face. The action hid his smile and even went some way to masking the smell of her perfume.

He knew she was watching him; had seen his bare torso, the line of hair that dipped down below the waistband of his jeans.

Her heels made a clicking sound as she crossed the concrete yard. Even without looking he knew her hips were swaying provocatively as she sashayed towards him.

She came up close, her hip brushing against his.

‘Darling,’ she breathed. ‘You are coming to Spain with me, aren’t you?’

The raised bonnet of the car threw a shadow across his face. It also went some way to hiding him from the house.

‘I’m wanted here,’ he said without taking his attention from the engine.

Despite his resolve not to cave into her, his blood raced when she touched him. She licked her lips as she ran her hands down his back, tracing his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

‘I want you in Spain,’ she said. ‘I want you all ways and which ways in Spain.’

His bare biceps were hard beneath her hands. She sucked in her breath. ‘You have such a beautiful body, Mark.’

‘I’m busy.’

Although he tried to shrug her off, she clung on. Her fingertips tantalised the nape of his neck. He smelled alcohol when she whispered in his ear.

‘Imagine making love on a deserted beach or high on a cliff top overlooking the sea.’

He turned his back to her while wiping his oily hands on a rag.

‘Your husband might not like that.’

‘I would like it,’ she breathed. ‘You know I would.’

Her fingers travelled along his jaw.

‘I thought you loved me,’ she said in a silly doll-like voice.

‘Then you got it wrong. I’ve made love to you. If you can call it that.’

‘Whatever. It’s enough for me. And I thought we’d agreed … you know … that afternoon. You agreed to get rid of him.’

‘I thought it was down to you to get rid of him – you know – divorce.’

‘The money, darling. The money. If you want to share the money with me, you have to get rid of him good and proper.’

He fancied she was mocking him, talking as though she hailed from the East End of London – like his family, coming to Somerset to settle for the good life.

‘And how do I do that?’

‘Fix his brakes,’ she whispered. ‘Make it look like an accident.’

He stared at her wishing he’d never given in to her, but also wanting her again. And again.

‘You really mean it.’

‘Of course I do. You look appalled, my darling boy.’ She sounded surprised.

With a look of disdain fractured with disbelief, he shrugged her hand from his arm. ‘I can’t believe you’re saying it. I can’t believe you’d want me to do it.’

She stroked his face and kissed him.

‘Believe it.’

Honey checked herself in the mirrored doors of the dining room. This evening she’d chosen to wear a white linen suit with a blue-and-silver rope belt and a dark blue silk top. Casual but classy, her favourite words when it came to fashion.

‘These earrings,’ said Lindsey who had insisted on helping choosing her clothes, had made up her face, and was now choosing her accessories. ‘And this bracelet.’

‘Whatever you say.’

Having someone make all the decisions was unbelievably wonderful.

‘And remember to be home before twelve,’ said Lindsey with a crafty grin.

‘Will I change into a pumpkin if I don’t?’

‘No, but you’ll be locked out if you forget your key.’

‘I promise I won’t sleep over.’

‘Just knock the handsome prince off his feet.’

‘Is there a sure-fire way to do that?’

Lindsey shrugged. ‘How would I know? You’re the one with the experience.’

‘You would tell me if there was anyone special in your life?’ Honey asked her. ‘As in Sam? Who is he?’

Lindsey tutted and shook her head. ‘You couldn’t resist, could you? You had to ask.’

‘I worry about you.’

‘Just take it from me that he’s a great guy. There’s a lot between us. Just how much, only time will tell.’

‘How old is he?’

‘I think that’s enough information for now.’

‘I know when I’ve been shown the red card.’ Honey held up her hands in mute surrender. ‘I am off to meet Prince Charming.’

‘Are you going out?’

Her mother’s voice! She’d arrived wearing Donna Karan and smelling of Chanel N° 5.

‘Yes,’ replied Honey through gritted teeth.

‘With a man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘Not really.’

Gloria Cross sucked in her breath.

‘It’s that bookseller! Or is it that policeman? Please don’t let it be that policeman.’

She made it sound as though going out with him would be tantamount to going out with Frankenstein’s monster.

It wasn’t easy, but Honey kept her cool.

‘It’s one of them. Possibly two in the same night.’

‘And what shall I tell Mr Paget?’

‘Mother, are you talking about the dentist?’

‘He earns a very good living.’

She said it as though pulling people’s teeth was as important as overseeing the International Monetary Fund.

‘And that, my dear mother, is reason enough not to be interested. I’ll look him up when I need a tooth pulled. Is there a specific reason for this visit?’

Her mother pouted her apricot lips. ‘Mary Jane’s séance.’

‘I forgot!’

‘Yes, you forgot, Miss Know All!’

She marched off.

With a sigh as heavy as a sack-load of old horseshoes, Honey slumped over the reception desk.

‘Come on, Mum. You’re going out.’

Honey raised her head a few inches off the desk.

‘Why does she make me feel guilty?’

‘It’s her way. Now come on. Your prince awaits you.’

Lindsey took hold of her shoulders and guided her to the door.

Her mother reappeared having merely paid a visit to the ladies room.

‘So you’re not coming to the séance. Well, how cruel is that? Mary Jane will be so disappointed.’

Honey looked at her daughter and whispered, ‘Mary Jane or John Rees? Should I flip a coin?’

‘You’re off. Never mind the séance. Grandma and I will go. Won’t we, Grandma?’

Gloria Cross glanced from daughter to granddaughter.

‘You’re conspiring against me. Don’t deny it.’

‘Grandma! I’m going to the séance with you. We’ll have fun. Let’s see if Grandpa comes through.’

Her grandmother rolled her eyes. ‘Heaven forbid!’

Union Passage is a traffic-free thoroughfare of specialist shops with narrow frontages; some unchanged since Beau Brummell was a lad.

Street musicians and jugglers rub shoulders with tourists looking for a bargain and office workers looking for a lunchtime sandwich. Despite the shops selling video games, mobile phones and computer graphics, it has retained its Dickensian charm.

Ideal for a bookshop, thought Honey, walking with confidence through the gathering dusk on a balmy July night.

John Rees had been lucky enough to lease a shop still retaining an old-fashioned frontage of Art Deco design. The theme of the framework supporting the window was taken across the glass in the form of a transparent Beardsley-type woman. Typically she had flowing tresses and gown, her willowy arms framing the central display.

A hum of conversation and the tinkle of glasses drifted out of the open door. With luck the night air would drift in. Few shops in Bath boasted air-conditioning and although linen was cool it creased easily.

Making up in depth what it lacked in breadth, the shop was choc-a-bloc with people jostling as if in a queue, wine glasses held tightly to chests.

Cut glass voices droned on about the meaning behind an author’s work or the reasons why women were forced –
forced
– into wearing corsets.

‘It was a man’s way of keeping a woman submissive,’ the dreaded Audrey Tyson Dix was imparting to a politely attentive John Rees.

Honey stood on tiptoe to ensure that their eyes met.

John saw her and smiled, swiftly introduced Audrey to someone else and eased himself in her direction. He managed to grab a glass of wine en route.

‘Glad you could come.’

‘It’s a tight squeeze,’ she said. As she said it a woman with a bookshelf bosom and belly to match squeezed between them. Despite the fact that she’d eased through sideways, Honey ended up with her wine glass pressed against her nose.

John grabbed her hand.

‘Follow me.’

Holding her wine glass high, she did as she was told.

‘There’s steps here,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Three steps.’

She tottered forward, feet unseen.

‘And some more.’

Her feet seemed to sprout eyes and feel their way.

‘Another three.’

Eventually, they were at the back of the shop and had room to breathe.

John nodded towards the area where the crowd was thickest. ‘Never mind the culture, you can see what they’ve really come for.’

Sadly, he was right. The wine and food had been placed on a table at the front of the shop on the lowest level. That was where the crowd was thickest. From where they were standing at the highest point at the far end of the shop, they could see it all.

She smiled up at him and clinked her glass against his. ‘There are always exceptions.’

He smiled back. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Would you care for a look at the exhibits?’

‘OK.’

First stop was her own property.

‘Yours of course.’

‘Not literally,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They might have been OK for Queen Victoria. Passion killers, still they can’t have put Albert off. They had nine kids I believe.’

‘I suppose it all depends what turns you on. Big though.’

‘You’re right there. I barely saved them from one of my foreign waitresses who presumed they were a tablecloth. My mother calls them
Harvest Festivals.
All is safely gathered in.’

‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’

Her eyes strayed to Sir Andrew’s clock. John followed her gaze.

‘He insisted I insure it.’

Honey frowned. ‘I’ve only met the owner a few times, but already I get the impression that it’s the love of his life.’

John tilted his head to one side as he observed it. ‘Not exactly. I hear he idolises his son, Lance.’

‘Is that so? I haven’t met him.’

‘He’s at Harvard, though, I get the impression, unwillingly. It was his grandfather’s wish and a provision in his will that Lance finished his education there. The old man left all his money to his daughter, but when she died everything went to him. Seems he was only a kid at the time, not much more than a baby.’

‘I wonder what she was like in comparison to Lady Pamela?’

‘A bit more of a lady, I think.’

‘I can believe that. I don’t see her here, I thought she might put in an appearance seeing as there’s free wine on offer.’

‘I understand she’s leaving for Spain. Sir Andrew phoned me earlier. He’s promised to show up later but made apologies on his wife’s behalf.’

Honey’s gaze slid to the horde of hungry guests.

‘He’ll have to squeeze himself in.’

John looked at his watch. ‘He did promise.’

‘Well I doubt that he’s accompanying his darling wife to Spain. I think he must hate Spain as much as he does her.’

John shrugged and took a slug of wine. ‘Understandable. He was living there when his wife died in a car crash. Head-on, just her and the boy. Luckily Lance survived.’

They moved slowly along the exhibits: the books, memorabilia, lace mittens, bonnets, old tools, etc.

‘Look at these,’ he said. He indicated a few sheets of newspaper preserved behind glass. ‘Do you know it’s only in the last hundred years or so that newspapers were available to everyone? Facts were shouted out by town criers and passed mouth to mouth. Truth could be mighty distorted between source and target audience back then.’

Honey squinted to read the tiny print of the oldest newspaper he had there. ‘It’s a wonder any news ever got through.’

‘Great battles and occasions; it all got through OK. My dad kept old newspapers covering the war years. He used to bring them out now and again just to remind himself of what he’d gone through.’ John’s voice took on an aura of sadness. ‘It’s surprising how reading an old newspaper can jog the memory.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured, still squinting. ‘Old newspapers can be …’ Suddenly it hit her. Old newspapers. Old news, forgotten by some but interesting to others.

‘That’s it!’

John frowned at the glass she’d shoved into his hand.

She felt elated and guilty; elated at what should have been obvious – newspapers. Old news. And having to leave the party.

‘I have to go.’

‘Was it something I said?’

‘Yes,’ she groaned, touching his face with her fingertips. ‘John, would you think I was too forward if I told you that I wanted to take you to bed?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful. But I can’t hold you to that just yet. There’s something I’ve got to do. Can you keep it warm for me? I can’t say I’ll be back tonight, but imminently. What do you say?’

‘That’s good for me.’

He looked happy when she kissed him on the cheek. ‘A consolation prize,’ she said to him. ‘Bear with me.’

Every step to the shop door was painful, not just because it was slow but because business was overriding pleasure.

She had to get to where it had all began, and clocks had nothing to do with it. A few steps along Union Passage and she recalled what she’d said to John Rees and almost flipped at how forward she had been. You’re a mature woman, she reminded herself. You can do anything you want.