Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) (11 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Casper St John Gervais enjoyed the good things in life. He took pride in running a superbly furnished and well-run hotel. He adored cashmere sweaters, tailor made jackets and trousers, and felt nothing could compete with a pure cotton shirt made by a skilled Indian gentleman in Saville Row, London.

His exquisite taste extended to his surroundings. His hotel had graced in-flight brochures and
Hidden Hotels of the World
magazine, and was frequented by the rich and famous, confident they would receive excellent service and absolute discretion.

He didn’t live there himself. He lived in a beautiful house, one of the impressive twenty-four that made up The Circus, that ring of mathematically produced elegance from the fevered brain of John Wood.

As with many Georgian houses, the ceilings were high and the windows large. The Georgians had excelled in letting in as much light as possible in the days before Edison lit up and invented the electricity bill.

The paintwork was finished in traditional colours; the furniture was even more elegant than in his hotel. Gilded mirrors reflected the star bright quality of the chandeliers, prisms of light flashing outwards.

Thick Turkish rugs hushed his footsteps. The only other sound, besides the beating of Casper’s heart, was the incessant ticking of his clocks. He had more in his home than at his hotel.

He was sitting admiring his latest purchase when the front door bell rang. Sighing, he put his single malt onto a silver coaster to avoid marking the small piecrust table near his chair, then walked along the passage to the front door. He opened it to find Simon Tye standing there.

‘Did you smell the cork out of the whisky bottle?’ he said casually.

‘If you’re offering, I’m accepting,’ said Simon and, without being asked swept past him, striding through the hallway purposefully as though bad news had come with him.

Simon was oddly quiet as Casper poured.

‘Enough?’ he asked raising the glass so Simon could inspect its contents.

Simon’s eyes were fixed on the porcelain clock, his brows furrowed as if he could see some flaw in it that he had not seen before.

‘Don’t say the woman who sold you it wants it back,’ said Casper as he handed him the drink.

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘But her husband does.’

Casper raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘It appears she never had permission to sell it.’ Simon clutched his glass with both hands and looked totally embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry mate, but Charlborough wants it back.’

Casper was all attention. ‘Charlborough? Do you mean who I think you mean?’

Simon nodded. ‘Yes, the same bloke who bid against you for the Chepstow long case up at Marlborough in the summer.’

Casper took a slug of whisky. So did Simon.

‘He reckons he’s goin’ to sue if he don’t get it back.’

Casper caught the caginess in the sidelong expression Simon threw him.

‘I told him I sold it to you.’

Casper groaned as he slouched back in his chair.

Simon shook his head mournfully. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He began to dig in his pocket. ‘Here’s your money.’

Casper eyed the bundle of fifties Simon placed on the table. They looked grubby, beneath his fastidious cleanliness. He would get Neville to gather them up, or otherwise use the pink washing-up gloves kept in the kitchen drawer.

‘I’ll take it now if you like, though you’ll have to help me.’

‘I don’t do lifting,’ said Casper with a shrewish pout. He gazed blankly into space. The thought of letting the clock go too quickly gave him great pain. Perhaps he could persuade Charlborough to let him keep it, offer him more, double what he’d paid Simon Tye. It was certainly worth a try.

He put it to him.

Simon shook his head. ‘No,’ he said resolutely. ‘It has to go back.’

Casper sighed and although there was still plenty in his glass, he set it dumbly down on the table. He nodded in tacit agreement. ‘You can count on me to make arrangements.’

His second visitor that night helped the situation along.

‘I’ve come to make my report,’ she said, breezing in more joyfully than Simon Tye had done.

She told him what the taxi driver had told her.

‘Couldn’t you get in trouble for withholding information from the police?’

Honey shrugged. ‘Doherty, the cop they’ve assigned to me, has his own theories. He’s adamant that the victim was murdered close to the river because that’s where they found him. I must admit, he does have a point. And he’s quite amiable about it.’

‘He’s trying to hit on you?’

‘Something like that. Anyway I thought I’d go along and ask the vicar what our American friend had found out about his family tree.’

She looked surprised when Casper stated he would go with her, though he didn’t look too pleased about it.

‘Two birds with one stone, my dear girl. We both have quests to perform at Charlborough Grange.’

Chapter Eighteen

The Warminster Road winds up a hill out of Bath passing substantial Victorian villas with far reaching views over the meadows dipping down into the AvonValley. Like a blueprint from history, a canal and a railway line run alongside the river. Together they span the centuries.

Further out, the villas are replaced by modern detached houses, and further out still the sunlight twinkles through battalions of tall dark trees standing sentinel at the roadside.

The road to Trowbridge branches off to the left, under a railway arch and into the village of Limpley Stoke. Some way up the hill, in the older part of the village, the church nestles amongst houses of its own age, built in the years of the Stewart kings.

Casper insisted they first return the clock before she made her enquiries of the vicar. He’d explained the situation to her and how he’d phoned Charlborough and offered more money, but had been refused. His mood was sullen and it was a fairly silent drive.

It was no trouble for Honey to alter her appointment. As she drove she rehearsed mentally the questions she thought relevant.

Casper was a picture of sullen resentment. He was brooding on the fact that he had to travel at all. That woman! That bloody Charlborough woman had upset his equanimity. He wished her ill. No, he thought, changing his mind. He wished her dead.

Pamela Charlborough had come back from Spain under duress and she was dead pissy about it.

If her husband Sir Andrew hadn’t discovered she’d sold the clock she would still be out there lunching in one of the smaller but more select quayside restaurants in Puerto Buenos, rubbing shoulders with the owners of luxury yachts. As it was, her personal bank account was sadly lacking so she was here in England and bored stiff.

‘I needed that money. You’re such a skinflint.’ Her comment and request for more money had been ignored. ‘You care more for that clock than you do for me.’

Annoyingly he’d agreed with her.

She paced the conservatory, which was an old and elegant structure erected by some Victorian antecedent of her husband’s. The man should have been named Midas but was more formally named Reginald. He’d spared no expense on this particular monstrosity. The place was filled with tropical plants from all over the world. It was lush, almost beautiful, but there was a wild carelessness about it. The plants were huge, thick-leaved affairs. Rather than the place being somewhere pleasant to sit among palms dotted around, it was the chairs that were dotted, the foliage that was over-abundant.

There were two views from the conservatory. To the rear were massive greenhouses full of even larger tropical plants. Huge leaves pressed against the glass as if trying to escape from the dank humidity that prevailed inside. She’d gone in there once. Once was enough.

From the other end of the conservatory she could look over the drive and the wide steps that led up on to the parapet to the front door. She sighed. The drive was empty and she was lonely. Oh for a bit of red-blooded company.

She took a red leather address book from her handbag, opened it and ran her finger down the letters of the alphabet stopping at the letter ‘P’. With one well-manicured fingertip, she flicked the book open at that page and smiled at the entry. She kept the book open, picked up her phone and dialled. It rang for a while then was answered. The sound of his voice made her go weak at the knees.

‘Well hello,’ she purred. ‘And how is my favourite little pussycat? Due for some well-earned leave yet? Spain is still very warm you know.’

The response on the other end of the line was negative. Her smile stiffened. Expensive heels of exquisite shoes dug into the tiled floor and her smile faded.

‘You haven’t got time? For me you should make time.’ She gritted her teeth and her lips felt stretched and dry.

He said something about their time together being long past. She scowled at that and regretted phoning.

Her tone turned sour.

‘Don’t worry about it darling. After all, you’re just a number on my list – just as I am on yours. One of my older numbers of course. Adios, amigo!’

She snapped the phone shut then flung it as far as she could.

‘Damn you!’

It bounced off the back wall and disappeared into the greenery. The sound of car tyres crunching on gravel made her look towards the drive. 

Chapter Nineteen

‘I smell money,’ said Honey.

Her eyes took in the fudge-coloured stone, the lead-paned windows set into stalwart mullions of stone. Elizabethan?

‘Old money,’ corrected Casper suddenly breaking his silence. ‘Enough of it to allow Sir Andrew to do more or less what he wanted in life. Started off conservatively enough – Eton, Cambridge, followed by the army, followed by some acting and then the writing of his memoirs.’

‘About his time wearing tights?’ asked Honey, determined to raise Casper’s spirits.

‘Don’t be facetious!’ He sighed. He ducked slightly so that his gaze could sweep unimpeded over the elegant façade. ‘Apparently the place was in danger of falling down back in the nineteen fifties. Annoyingly gorgeous now!’

Honey noticed that Casper kept his eyes averted from the clock draped like a beautiful woman on the back seat. Her car of course. He’d made perfectly relevant excuses as to why they couldn’t use his.

‘Darling, mine’s a two-seater. Isn’t yours one of those people-carrier contraptions?’

She’d told him that no, it was not, but owning up to a two-seater was no contest. Of course they’d have to use her car.

Casper slammed the car door as if banning the timepiece from his mind. She knew he would do his utmost not to look at it again.

Looking distinctly unhappy, Casper clumped up the mossy steps to the next level of gravel.

Italian terracotta pots lined each tread and terrace, containing a froth of straggling lobelia, nasturtiums and variegated ivy.

The front door opened as if by magic. Andrew Charlborough had white hair and strong features. The ruddiness of his complexion was indicative of a man who’d served in the army, climbed mountains, and tramped through the jungles of Borneo. Not too good on an actor perhaps, but his bone structure was good.

He wore a powder blue sweater and matching trousers. A crisp white shirt collar emphasised the colour of his complexion.

He glanced swiftly at his wrist. The gold strap of a very expensive wristwatch glistened.

‘You’re late.’

He addressed Casper, turning away once the words had been snapped.

Unfazed and mildly respectful of gentry, Casper replied. ‘Do accept my apologies, old boy, but due to circumstances beyond our control.’

‘The traffic was heavy,’ added Honey, suddenly irritated by Casper’s flowery words.

Charlborough barely glanced at her. Again he addressed Casper. ‘Have you brought it with you?’

‘Yes indeed, though the thought of returning such a wondrous object weighs heavy in my heart.’

It sounded like Shakespeare, but Casper had made it up himself. Honey raised her eyes heavenwards. Casper was doing everything to impress.

Charlborough was unmoved. ‘Bring it in here.’ He turned away. Casper looked as though he was about to blow a gasket.

‘I do not hump!’ he said, both hands resting on his silver-topped walking stick.

Honey looked down at her shoes in an effort to hide her grin. Did Casper realise what he’d just said?

‘My butler is not here today,’ said Charlborough, his expression unaltered. ‘I’ll see if someone else can give a hand. Perhaps you’d like some coffee while I arrange things?’

Casper grabbed the chance to have a nose round – just as Honey knew he would.

They stepped into a hall where the walls were lined with heavy oak panelling and the floor was thick with the rich colours of ancient Oriental rugs. There was a dark green tapestry along one wall where a hunter sat on a pale horse, his dogs and retainers around him. A falcon perched on his wrist. Against the tapestry and set on a long Jacobean table with barley twist legs was a display of eighteenth-century silver. It was an incredible collection, handed down rather than purchased.

Above a stone mantelpiece sat a skeleton clock, its workings suitably protected beneath a dome of Victorian glass.

‘Such exquisite items,’ breathed Casper, his eyes shining with delight. ‘Absolutely exquisite.’

All the clocks stated it was two thirty-five.

Honey checked her watch. They were quite correct.

Casper gave it one last try. ‘I came here to see if we could not come to some understanding. I’m willing to offer more than your wife was paid for the clock.’

Charlborough paused and eyed him as though he were considering the depth of Casper’s pockets. His eyes narrowed, their greyness only a shade darker than his hair. His jaw was strong, his features chiselled – like a Roman general or emperor.

‘Haven’t I seen you at Sotheby’s?’ Andrew Charlborough directed his question at Casper. So far he’d hardly glanced at Honey.

Casper visibly grimaced. ‘We’ve bid against each other on a number of occasions.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘In that case I’ll ring for refreshments,’ said Charlborough.

Honey asked if she could use the bathroom.

Charlborough hardly looked up as he indicated a corridor of panelled wood and more tapestries running off the main hall.

‘Take that passage, turn right then left at the end. It’s on the right.’

She cursed the elderflower concoction her mother had foisted on her at lunchtime.

‘The ginseng will put a spring in your step,’ her mother had told her.

It didn’t, unless you count having to move smartly in the direction of the nearest loo!

She heard Charlborough tell Casper that they would talk in the study.

After ogling and using the Delft-tiled bathroom, it was time to play hunt the study. It has to be off the reception hall, she told herself and began trying a few doorknobs. Some were locked.

‘Can I help you?’

She started. The thick carpets had smothered the sound of his footfall. He looked pleasant enough, around thirty. He was carrying a tea-tray.

She smiled. ‘I’m looking for the study.’

He smiled back. ‘Follow me. Andrew asked me to bring you tea.’

She wondered at his familiarity, calling Sir Andrew by his first name.

‘Are you a member of the family?’

‘I’ve been here for some time,’ he said, which didn’t really answer anything. ‘I suppose you could say I was. But I get paid for being here.’

His smile was disarming.

‘In here.’ He indicated a door. She opened it.

The study was as impressive as the rest of the house. Rich spines of old books lined packed shelves; there was a white marble fireplace of a later age than the house and an over mantel above it of later age still. The clock was of black marble, round and nestled on a mock carriage of gold ormolu and decorated each side with fat bottomed puttees.

Bunches of carved grapes wound in fertile splendour up and around the huge mirror hanging above the mantelpiece. Honey mentally assessed its height at around eight feet and it was about the same across.

There were a few pictures on the wall; black and white snaps and one or two coloured; family shots, a wife, a child. And later, just a young man, the child grown up perhaps? But no wife. No woman at all.

Sir Andrew did not acknowledge the young man who’d brought the tea. He left with as much deference as he’d entered.

‘Would you like to pour?’

Honey realised Sir Andrew was directing the question at her.

Her first inclination was to say no, but she changed her mind, aware that Sir Andrew was eyeing her.

There were only two cups on the tray.

‘No tea for me,’ said Charlborough, and got to his feet. Three decanters sat on a silver tray on the sideboard. He pulled out the stopper and began to pour himself a drink.

Casper and Honey exchanged contemptuous looks. Tea for them, brandy for him.

‘I admit to being disappointed,’ said Casper as Sir Andrew seated himself behind a desk that was almost big enough to be a dinner table. ‘I bought the clock in good faith.’

‘I apologise,’ said Charlborough. ‘My wife had no business selling the clock.’

‘But would you reconsider …?’

Honey was surprised. She’d never known Casper wheedle to anyone. He was certainly wheedling now.

There was an awkward silence during which she allowed her gaze to drift. Even once conversation resumed, she was not included.

Out of boredom as much as anything else, she got up and paced the perimeter of the room.

Charlborough was spouting his personal history.

Latching on to the subject, Honey interrupted.

‘Had quite a career in the army, sir?’ She nodded at a line of photographs that covered a good footage of panelling. They were black and white, unmistakably in foreign parts and full of smiling soldierly faces. Most of those pictured looked boyish. Charlborough, who she just about recognised, looked more head boyish and a touch superior.

He seemed pleased that she’d noticed, his voice booming.

‘Indeed yes. Great days. Great boys.’ Charlborough’s jowls drooped with nostalgic sadness.

He was on his second glass from the decanter.

‘Do you know Jeremiah Poughty?’ She adopted her sweetest voice. ‘West Indian parents, born in Gloucester, now runs a spice stall in the Guildhall Market.’

If Charlborough was taken by surprise, he didn’t show it.

‘I’ve never heard of the man.’ His voice was even.

‘He deals in spices and plants. You invited him here to talk about plants, I think.’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I did. I don’t recall the name.’

‘You might recall what he looked like. He’s very …’ she paused for the right word. There was only one. ‘Colourful! Both in skin tone and clothes. A bit of a peacock you could say.’

Charlborough remained as cool as his powder blue sweater. ‘Oh yes. The plants. I don’t handle the domestic side of running this place. Anyway, what’s that got to do with my clock?’

‘Nothing really, except that the sacks …’

Uneasy with the line of questioning, Casper got to his feet. ‘Look I’m sorry about this, we really have taken up too much of your time, but if you should ever reconsider …’

‘The clock is not for sale – at any price! And now …’ The glass was slapped down.

Honey recognised the sign for goodbye. Sir Andrew had had enough.

He pressed a buzzer fixed to his desk. ‘Mark will show you out.’

The young man who’d brought the tea quickly appeared looking as though he’d swapped the kitchen for the garage.

Honey eyed the black T-shirt, the tight-fitting jeans. He smelled slightly of oil.

‘Ah! The butler.’

‘Hardly,’ he said with a smile as he accompanied them to the door. ‘It’s Trevor’s day off, although he’s probably around somewhere. I’m the back-room boy. I take care of anything mechanical.’

Casper pouted all the way down the steps to the car. As he walked he swung his silver-topped walking cane.

‘Careful,’ cried Honey, ducking to one side. ‘You look as though you’re going to bash someone with it.’

‘That man! Why couldn’t he indulge his wife a little, let her sell the clock and spend the money at will? I could swear, I really could!’

He slumped in the front seat and slammed the door.

Honey got behind the driving wheel and turned the key. ‘Don’t do that, Casper. We’re off to see the vicar next.’