Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

The terraced houses lining the Batch dated from the late-seventeenth century. They were tall and thin, each at least three storeys, with stone mullion windows and slate mansard roofs. Number 17 had a well-kept garden with chocolate-box roses growing over a frame around the front door. Hollyhocks snuggled against the boundary walls. Purple, pink, and white border plants jostled for space either side of the path. It was pretty, in a Hansel and Gretel kind of way.

Lindsey asked, ‘Is this guy dangerous?’

‘Only on the other end of the telephone.’ Honey gritted her teeth. She told herself not to let those interrupted nights of soaking in the bath get to her. Bridgewater might not be personally responsible for them.

There was no doorbell, just a cast-iron knocker: a naked naiad bent like a horseshoe, her feet touching the back of her head.

Mother and daughter eyed it speculatively.

‘Sexist,’ said Lindsey.

‘Physically impossible!’

Honey gave it a stout rap, stood back and looked up at the first floor windows. A face appeared and disappeared; a pasty face. People who spent a lot of time on the telephone and in front of a computer were always pasty. Except Lindsey, of course. Lindsey was exceptional. But then I’m biased, thought Honey.

Feet descending stairs sounded from the other side of the door. Honey took a deep breath and mentally listed the questions she needed to ask. She pushed her opinion about telephone harassment to the back of her mind.

The door was stiff in its frame and juddered as it was tugged open. Ashwell Bridgewater was dressed in dark chinos, a pale shirt, and even a tie. He recognised her immediately. His smile was instantaneous, like someone had flicked on a lightswitch.

‘Hello. My, you’re lucky to find me here. Did the office tell you I was working from home today?’

Despite the molasses smile, Honey couldn’t help the feeling that he wasn’t pleased about her visit.

‘I took a chance,’ she said, matching his smile with one of her own.

She guessed he didn’t believe her. Woe betide any poor soul he suspected of telling her he was home. They’d be for the high jump – probably off the edge of a cliff.

‘Can we come in?’

For a moment his smile faltered. His eyes flickered as they darted between mother and daughter.

Suddenly he seemed smitten with the need to please.

‘Of course you can.’ Oozing enthusiasm, he stood back against the wall, waving them in. ‘Do come in. Would you like tea? Or coffee? The coffee’s filter. The tea’s Darjeeling.’

Mindful that the experience of Mary Jane’s driving could quite easily lead to even the strongest bladder vacating itself, Honey declined. Being a chip off the old block, Lindsey did the same.

The front door led directly into a single reception room. In the right-hand corner a wrought-iron staircase wound upwards.

‘It’s small but exquisitely built,’ said Bridgewater as though he’d just read her thoughts. ‘It still has character. I think character is so very important in a house. That’s why I like old houses.’

‘It was left to you by your grandfather?’

‘Yes, it was.’

He invited them to sit down. As she did so, Honey got out her notebook and tried not to covet the lovely old furniture, the paintings, and the porcelain. Shabby chic sprung to mind. All this stuff had been handed down. It all needed sorting out, throwing out, refurbishing, reupholstering, or repolishing. And there was far too much of it, giving the cottage an overstuffed feel.

She noticed a few cardboard boxes on the floor to either side of a small oak table. Old cameras spilled over the top of one box. Old film reels filled the other. Another reel sat on the table, barely discernible through bubble wrap.

His steely gaze followed hers.

‘My grandfather collected old cameras and projectors. I’m sorting them out. He left the house to me, but it was full of bric-a-brac. He particularly liked old cameras and suchlike – anything to do with early movies as opposed to photographs.’

‘But you’re not so inclined?’

His low laugh was something between a chuckle and a cough, and was rather unnerving. ‘Not at all. Besides, I need more room. I only have two bedrooms, one on each floor above here.’ He casually pointed at the ceiling. ‘And a bathroom of course. Think chocolate-box prettiness. No one could fail to fall in love with it.’

He spoke with an easy amiability, typical of those involved in telephone marketing companies. A salesman through and through.

‘It’s a very pretty cottage,’ said Lindsey. ‘How come you’re selling it?’

Bridgewater’s implacable expression changed to alarm. Pink spots flashed on to his cheeks and leaked colour. ‘How did you know that?’

Lindsey pointed at the window. ‘There’s a man putting a
For Sale
sign up in your garden.’

Honey fanned a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. Full marks, Lindsey. If the man putting up the sign had seen Bridgewater’s expression, he’d have legged it. But why react like that? Why shouldn’t he sell if he wanted to?

She dived in with her own question. ‘Did your cousin travel a lot?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. She only stayed with me a short while, so I couldn’t really say whether she’s adventurous in that way, though it runs in some members of the family.’

But not in you, Honey decided. Ashwell Bridgewater had nothing adventurous about him. Honey wondered at the propensity of genes to scatter indiscriminately. Someone in his family clearly
had
been adventurous.

‘So how come you’ve got an American cousin?’

It was the obvious question. The answer, whatever it might be, intrigued her.

‘My great-grandfather went over at the beginning of the last century. One son stayed there, the other came back. The other was my grandfather, the man who owned this house.’

‘And collected old movies and suchlike,’ Honey added.

He nodded. ‘That’s right.’

The sound of the
For Sale
sign being beaten into the ground was short-lived.

‘Why didn’t she stay with you longer?’

His sigh hovered on the edge of a teeth grinding jaw motion. ‘I’ve already told you. She wanted to be in the city centre so she could see all the sights.’

‘Did you like her?’

‘I didn’t know her well enough.’

He didn’t blink when he said it.

She didn’t ask him when he’d last seen his cousin.

Their interview at an end, there was nothing to do but leave. She wanted to leave. The atmosphere in the cottage touched a raw nerve. Or it might not have been the cottage. It might have been him. Basically she’d asked him the same questions as before, so why was she here? The answer came swiftly; she wanted to observe his behaviour on home ground – and have a snoop if by chance he’d been out. No chance of that now.

Steeling herself to stay that bit longer, she asked if he was taking the old cameras and film reels to auction.

‘Yes. They’re not worth much, but I need to de-clutter.’ He said it with a smug smile.

Honey remembered the auction catalogue. Were these the items that hadn’t made it? Or were there similar but more valuable items?

‘Tell me,’ she said, adopting as much of a smile as he deserved, ‘did your cousin place anything for sale at auction?’

He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Were you joint heirs?’

‘Yes, and before you ask, her demise means that I do indeed inherit everything.’

‘Thank you for that, though I wasn’t going to ask.’ Because I didn’t really need to, she thought. I’d already guessed.

The door knocker rattled as he shut the door behind them.

Honey shuddered. ‘That man gives me the creeps.’

‘It’s a nice cottage though,’ said Lindsey, looking back over her shoulder. She frowned suddenly.

Lindsey’s expression jerked Honey out of her brooding. ‘What is it?’

‘I can see him through the window.’

‘Is he watching us? I bet he is. The pervert.’

Lindsey glanced back again. ‘He’s not looking at us. He’s got something in his hands. He looks as though he loves it.’

‘There! I told you. A pervert!’

‘So did you get anything new, Mother?’

‘No. I just like hassling people who cold call and get me out of a hot bath.’

Chapter Thirty-nine

Hugging the film reel to his chest, Ashwell Bridgewater congratulated himself on handling things so well. Now the women were gone he adopted his true smile, the one of self-satisfied smugness. The other smile he’d given them was the plastered-on false kind, the one that matched the smarmy voice he used at the call centre. This smile, his real one, was lop-sided and twisted. Only one side of his mouth stretched into it properly. The other half jerked against a paralysed muscle. No one looking at him would be aware of his facial deformity simply because he took care they never did.

Stupid women! There it was lying there in front of their eyes, loosely covered with a scrap of bubble wrap. He’d seen her glance fall directly on it. She’d paid it no more attention than the other stuff – the rubbish. But even the rubbish was worth a few hundred. But this one! He patted it feeling the warmth of the bubbles beneath his fingers. Stupid woman! She had no idea!

Chapter Forty

Mary Jane was away and burning rubber before they had a chance to fasten their seatbelts. Honey checked the address given to the hotel the Georges had checked out of.

‘Winsley,’ she ordered. ‘It’s down a lane behind the Seven Stars.’

Unlike the cottage in Northend, this was of later vintage, and only two storeys high. Instead of stone-edged mullions it had a large bay window. A purple-blossoming wisteria clambered up around the door and across the roof of the bay. A yellow climbing rose formed a barrier between the parking place and the rear garden. There was a small drive in-between the cottage and its ramshackle garage. The garage was constructed of corrugated tin with a concrete apron in front of it. The cottage was still recognisable as such. So far no development fanatic had ripped out its old windows or sold the lead from its slate roof.

The small garden was chock-a-block with old-fashioned flowers; pimpernel, foxgloves, cabbage roses, and lavender. What looked like a rental car was parked outside. Mary Jane parked close enough to be out of the lane and only inches away from the rental.

Honey slid across the back seat and got out of the offside door. Lindsey slid out of the right-hand passenger seat. Not keen on being left behind this time, Mary Jane clambered across the prop shaft housing to get out the same side.

A face appeared at the cottage window and then disappeared.

Honey told daughter and chauffeur to wait  while she headed for the door. They did so reluctantly.

‘I could be your sidekick,’ said Lindsey, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘You never know when you might need somebody to kick down a door, or wrestle somebody to the ground.’

‘I couldn’t do that,’ said Mary Jane, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t been physical for years.’

Honey and Lindsey looked at her for further explanation. None was forthcoming.

‘So?’ said Lindsey.

‘So nothing,’ said Honey. ‘I reason that three’s a crowd, two is unnecessary, and as I’ve already met Mr George, I do not foresee any trouble, so one is enough.’

As at Northend she left Mary Jane with explicit instructions not to let anyone get away if they came running out.

As a result of recent updates, this cottage had a doorbell; not as provocative as the naked nymph in Northend perhaps, but far more efficient. As the face she’d seen at the window hadn’t come to answer the door, she pressed the bell.

The top half of the door was formed by leaded light panels in a leafy design. The pattern altered in response to the shadow falling across it from the hallway.

Honey felt a fluttery feeling in her stomach. As shadows went, it seemed a bit slim for Mrs George, who she remembered as being rather more chunky. A crash diet was out of the question: no one could lose that much weight that quickly. She should know; she’d been on practically every diet known to woman.

She plastered on a friendly smile. The door opened. The smile froze on her face. This was not part of the script. There before her stood a woman dressed in something slinky and silky. Her dress was silvery-grey, sleek, and figure-defining. Her eyes matched the dress and her brandy-brown hair fell straight and sleek around a face she vaguely recognised.

Honey frowned and pretended to be puzzled. ‘Do I know you?’

A faint haze of colour leaked over the pale white cheeks below eyes that were big and brown. She smelled of flowery perfume. She’d smelled of wet umbrella before! What the hell was going on here? What was more, she could tell by the woman’s blushing cheeks that she too had been recognised.

It might have been the perfume. It might have been the pollen floating in from the garden, but suddenly Miss Slinky sneezed. It was the opening Honey needed.

‘I remember! You were the guide on the ghost walk. Pamela Windsor,’ Honey added with a click and a pointing finger. My, but she was good at this acting.

Hamilton George ambled up to fill the gap between her and the door surround.

‘My wife’s dead,’ said Mr George, before she had chance to accuse. ‘She had breathing difficulties. She suffered from asthma.’ He glanced at Pamela. ‘Pammy helped me make all the arrangements.’

There was something about the way he said Pammy. He should have called her Pamela.
Pammy
was far too intimate for two people of brief acquaintance.

Honey made an instant judgement. These two had a lot more than ghosts in common, and they couldn’t be that newly acquainted.

Chapter Forty-one

Mary Jane leapt to her feet. ‘Hey,’ she shouted, waving the tyre iron above her head. ‘Remember me?’

Hamilton George did not wave back.

Mary Jane’s bottom lip quivered in a disappointed pout. ‘He didn’t wave back.’

Gently but firmly, Lindsey stopped her from going to the house.

‘The tyre iron might have had something to do with that.’

Mary Jane hardly seemed to hear her. ‘That’s not his wife, you know. It’s a trollop – an out-and-out trollop. How could he treat her so bad? And he never bothered to wave back. Don’t you think that’s just too rude?’

‘Some people are like that.’

Mary Jane’s face turned poker-straight, her eyes like slits in silk. ‘That’s the tour guide.’

‘I think my mother knows that,’ Lindsey replied.

Even from this distance Lindsey could see her mother’s expression. Dracula’s victims take on the same one when they see the blood dripping from the count’s pointy teeth.

Mary Jane shrugged suddenly. ‘I may be prejudging here. It might not be physical attraction. They’re both into computers so they do have that in common. Wonder where his wife is, though?’

An absent wife, a murder, and two people suddenly together who shouldn’t be together. Telling Mary Jane to stay put, Lindsey was off up the garden path. Literally. She couldn’t be sure that Mr George and this new woman in his life had murder in mind, but she wasn’t willing to take the chance.

OK, thought Lindsey, so her mother was far from perfect. Like Grandma Cross, her mother was never going to grow old gracefully. She was never going to be a size twelve, no matter how many diets she went on. And she really did need to pick more suitable men.

But she only had one mother and didn’t intend losing her.

A series of old flagstones, like stepping stone set in loose gravel, formed the path to the door.

Honey heard her coming and looked over her shoulder. Her expression was one of relief.

‘My daughter,’ she said. She went on to introduce Hamilton George and Pamela Windsor.

Lindsey gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to each and managed a lip-curling smile.

‘Mr George has just lost his wife,’ Honey explained. Mr George hadn’t gone into detail as to how he’d found Pamela so she couldn’t pass this on.

Lindsey expressed sympathy. At the same time she took in her mother’s expression. Shocked. Also a little disappointed. She made a brief stab at what the problem might be. Sleuthing was a nosey business. Her mother needed to get in the house. No one had invited her in. The old standby was called for.

‘I need to use the bathroom. Do you mind?’

Lindsey could charm the birds off the trees. She’d never done drugs, she never got drunk, and she wasn’t promiscuous. Sometimes she was just too good to be true. And, thought Honey proudly, lots of women wanted their babies to grow up like her.

And Pamela Windsor was no different from anyone else who encountered Lindsey. She pointed vaguely upwards. ‘Upstairs. First on the left.’

Lindsey looked for the stairs but couldn’t see them. Old cottages were quirky like that. Nooks and crannies and things on the periphery in a new house could be anywhere in a cottage.

Lindsey adopted her Sunday-best smile. ‘Do you have any stairs?’

Pamela huffed and puffed her exasperation, but did the polite thing. She led her to a simple plank door, almost invisible set as it was in wainscot panelling. A steep staircase spiralled upwards. Lindsey thanked her warmly.

She was only on the third stair when the door slammed behind her. At first she thought it was Pamela conveying her temper. Then she saw the strong spring. In the past someone had got fed up of asking people to shut the door and had fitted this. It was creepy having the door spring shut like that. Like having live-in ghosts. Never mind. It wasn’t past occupants she was concerned with.

The stairs creaked underfoot and turned back upon themselves. By the time she got to the top she was facing the opposite way. The landing was dark and narrow. Pamela had told her the second door on the right, but today she would take a leaf out of her grandmother’s book. Today would be her ‘forgetful’ day. All the doors were identical to the one at the bottom of the stairs. She wondered if they had the same strong spring. Now which door should she try? Earlier Mary Jane had been gabbling on about reading signs before you do anything in life. She said this just as they’d run a red. She’d also run over a hedgehog.

‘Look for the signs. You’ll know them when you see them.’

She took a deep breath, pitying the poor hedgehog hadn’t received the same advice.

Old paintings lined the walls and filled gaps where nothing else would fit. For the most part they were late Victorian landscapes, probably bought fairly cheaply at auction. There was only one portrait, larger than the others. The subject was far from catwalk quality. He had fiercely cultivated whiskers and pale, staring eyes; not the most  pleasant subject but probably a lot of painting for the money.

He was placed to one side of a door like a pictorial ‘No Entry’ sign. His eyes said it all, but staring eyes were easily avoided. Stop looking at them and they’ll stop looking at you. What better room to go fishing in than the one with a warning notice – or rather a warning painting outside?

The bedroom had a low ceiling sloping down almost to floor level. A small, square window with a deep ledge let in some light. The walls were pale pink and the curtains were scattered with tiny rosebuds. At one end was a bed with frilly covers. At the other was a computer sat on an old pine dressing table. The red ‘standby’ light blinked enticingly.

Lindsey flexed her fingers.

She moved the mouse. The screen came up.
The Noble Present. You too can be lord of the manor, lady in title and in deed  … 

Lindsey pulled a face. ‘Hmmm!’

She was not impressed by old titles. That’s exactly what they were. Old. Worn out. Done and dusted. Blasts from the past.

‘A rather lucrative way of making a living,’ she muttered. She closed in on the screen, her face becoming bathed in its blue light. She scrolled down. Looked at page one. Dipped in to page two.

Favorable Prices! From only $3000

Favourable? Or
favorable
, since it was clearly aimed mainly at those from over the pond, thought Lindsey. In any case, these prices were only favourable to the vendor by the looks of it. Why work for a living when there were deals like this to be done simply by playing with a keyboard?

A third page was reserved for testimonials from satisfied clients, merry middle-aged faces smiling out from passport-sized photographs. She recognised the name: Lady Templeton-Jones. Her smile was as wide as anyone’s, but there was one big difference. The captions beneath the other photographs only mentioned initials, not full names. In Wanda’s case it gave both her full name and where she came from. The title had been bought from this site, though not from Hamilton George. Lindsey recognised a name that her mother had mentioned. Simon Taylor was a franchisee based in Bath.

Overjoyed to have got this far, she punched the air and mouthed a silent ‘Yes!’ which somewhat defeated the object of the action. She needed to get back downstairs, but not before pulling the flush. The sound would be heard downstairs. Her cover would hold.

In a last effort to glean as much information as she could, she rummaged through the pieces of paper on the desk. Most of it was receipts printed out, for services rendered online.

Lindsey frowned as she fingered the lightweight paper. It wouldn’t be advisable to take any with her. Receipts could be missed. Shame she didn’t have time to copy them.

As she flipped them down on to the desk, a catalogue for Bonham’s Auction Rooms caught her eye.
Marine Collectibles and Nostalgia.

She thumbed through. There was nothing there that caught her eye, nothing medieval that is. The Middle Ages were of particular interest to her and lately she’d got very interested in the Tudor period. But the items in the catalogue were all nineteenth and early twentieth century. There was nothing here brought up from Henry the Eighth’s
Mary Rose
, a ship named after his sister. That was the historical period which interested her.

After a quick flip through, she began retracing her steps, turning the pages, but more slowly, taking her time. Again, nothing interested her at first, until she read the heading:
Authentic
Titanic
Memorabilia
.

She thought she heard a sound. Perhaps someone was coming up the stairs? She put the catalogue back where she’d found it.

Now for the bathroom.

Like in the bedroom, the bathroom ceiling sloped like a ski jump. The loo was at the lowest point. Put in by a dwarf, she wondered. Or a woman; a final act of revenge for a man who constantly left the lid up?

Using the bathroom had been an excuse. She hadn’t intended to use it. But she did now. There was time to be authentic, thanks to her quick discovery of Her Ladyship’s recommendation on The Noble Present’s website.

She went back downstairs. All heads turned her way. Her mother’s eyes fixed on her for a half-beat longer than was necessary. Lindsey couldn’t help looking smug. Her mother would see that. Her mother would know.

‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ Honey called over her shoulder as she and Lindsey alighted on the moss-covered stone path.

‘Thanks a bundle,’ said Hamilton.

‘So kind,’ said the one-time ghost-walk guide. Her expression was insincere. Too sugary a smile. Too self-satisfied.