Blood and Broomsticks: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9) Read online

  Blood and Broomsticks

  A Honey Driver Mystery

  Jean G Goodhind

  An old friend of Honey Driver's is unfortunate enough to have her birthday at Hallowe’en, and can't resist making it a fancy dress party. Honey had planned for DCI Doherty, her policeman boyfriend, to go with her; he might have done if he wasn’t more than a bit peeved that she’d smashed up his sports car.

  So Honey attends the party at Moss End Hotel alone. The food is awful, the booze practically non-existent, and the complaints are loud and clear. The owners, Mr and Mrs Crook – amateurs who think themselves better than the professionals – are nowhere to be seen and all the doors are locked. The Crooks are eventually found, but are in no condition to deal with complaints. They're dead – and Honey and Doherty must team up again to investigate.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty one

  Chapter Twenty two

  Chapter Twenty three

  Chapter Twenty four

  Chapter Twenty five

  PROLOGUE

  Gavin Whitmore parked his Royal Mail van directly opposite the pedestrian access to Moss End Cottage Guest House, grabbed the parcel to be delivered from the passenger seat, and sprang into action. A backward kick, the van door slammed shut, and he was off like a greyhound, bouncing across the road on Reebok trainers with two-inch soles.

  Usual routine for the postie with the mostie: up the path, wedge the parcel between chest and stone pillar of porch, hammer on the door, and wait.

  Nobody answered. Not a sound. Enough to make you swear. And he did. Though silently. Just in case there was anyone at home. Three times he’d tried to deliver this bloody parcel, and still no answer.

  If it hadn’t been imperative to get a signature confirming parcel received, he would have dumped it beneath one of the ridiculously huge urns placed either side of the door. The previous owner of Moss End, Ginny Porter, had been an auction fiend. What had possessed her to purchase these monstrosities was beyond Gavin. They were as tall as he was with nude figures running around the side. He eyed them as he waited and ran a figure over a nubile Greek breast; well, it looked like Greek. Historic anyway. And naughty. Might have been fun to know those Greeks.

  One more try. Bang, bang, bang.

  Chilly old place, he thought stepping back and looking up at the three storey facade. The house was old; nothing too different about that. A lot of houses in and around Bath were old, but this one had a creepy look about it, being set apart from the rest of the village behind walls that wouldn’t have looked out of place surrounding one of Her Majesty’s prisons. Even the decorative scrolls of the wrought iron gate behind him were covered by a metal sheet made too large to fit comfortably. The proximity of the plating against the hinges caused it to squeal, metal against metal when it was pushed open – the sort of sound that put your teeth on edge.

  There it goes.

  ‘Nobody’s there, postman.’

  He knew who it would be even before she spoke. Mrs Hicks lived in one of the cottages across the road, a place as old as this one though nowhere near as large.

  She was using her whole body to keep the strong spring of the gate from closing, both hands firmly grasping her walking stick. Bright blue eyes sparkled in a face creased with the pain of arthritis. Gavin conceded it must have taken some effort for her to cross the road.

  Peregrine, a grey cat with orange eyes, curled his tail and whole body around her ankles. The cat followed her everywhere.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Hicks?’

  ‘My usual self. Old age isn’t for wimps, you know.’

  Gavin grinned. ‘Years in you yet, Mrs Hicks. Years in you yet.’

  She chuckled and her eyes twinkled with pleasure.

  Gavin stooped down and tickled the cat behind its ears. ‘And how are you, Peregrine, me old mate?’

  The cat purred with pleasure.

  The postman jerked his head sideways in the direction of the big old edifice opposite. ‘Nobody in again.’

  ‘You could wait for them at my place. Just in case they appear,’ she said, her face shining in the hope that he had some time to spare. ‘And if they don’t appear – well – you can do what you usually do.’

  Gavin smiled. Except for the cat, the old dear lived alone. Most of the residents of Northend were commuters, so she didn’t get much company – not in the day anyway. Probably not at night either, seeing as most people would just come home and collapse in a chair with a gin and tonic, or saunter up to the Northend Inn for a bit of banter and beer with the landlord – or some bell-pulling at the church. Funny how townsfolk took to village pursuits that the real locals had no time for.

  ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ urged a beaming Mrs Hicks.

  Thirsting for a cuppa, he glanced at his watch. ‘I s’pose I could for a while, but only if you’ve got a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

  ‘Kettle’s already boiled.’

  Mrs Hicks, the cat, and the postman trailed off in single file across the road.

  Once the tea and biscuits were inside him, he asked her if she wouldn’t mind signing for the parcel and giving it to the new owners of the old place across the road when she saw them.

  ‘Not at all. Anyway, it’s time I introduced myself,’ she replied, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of somebody to talk to.

  ‘You mean you haven’t yet introduced yourself to the new owners of the old place? That’s not like you, Mrs Hicks, party-going little raver that you are!’

  The old lady tittered at his teasing. She always did, loving it when she had to take in a parcel for one of the neighbours. Gavin usually gave delivering a parcel three tries before leaving it with someone – usually Mrs Hicks. So far not one complaint of non-delivery.

  He got her to sign the electronic device that recorded signatures on its dull grey screen.

  ‘I’ll just fetch my specs.’

  ‘Now you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

  ‘None at all,’ she said, with a shake of her silvery head. ‘Anyway, you’ll never catch them during the day. I’ve never seen them during the day, though I know they’re in after dark. I’ve seen the lights go on. Don’t think they get many paying guests though. Strange that. Miss Porter used to do quite well.’

  Gavin thanked her profusely and went on his merry way, his head full of tunes from his iPod and his thoughts with his live-in girlfriend, Rita, who he was considering making his wife.

  When he looked back at Mrs Hicks’ cottage, the orange-eyed cat was sitting on a stone pillar to one side of the gate. It stared at him all the way across the road. Once he was safely seated behind the steering wheel, it appeared to lose interest. Washing one fat paw called for serious attention.

  The following week he called in at Mrs Hicks’, meaning to tell her the good news that Rita had accepted his proposal of marriage. The old girl was an incurable romantic and
had asked him to keep her informed.

  There was no answer. Peering through the windows he saw no glow from the old Parkray she used to heat her house. OK, it wasn’t that cold at the moment, but she was getting on a bit and kept it burning all year round, though low so she didn’t get through too much coal. Neither did he espy the gleam of an electric light which he knew she needed if she was reading, which she did quite a lot. She liked reading The People’s Friend which he picked up for her when it was due from the newsagents down on the main road that dissected Northend from the rest of Batheaston.

  More worryingly he couldn’t see any sign of Peregrine either. Either she was in hospital or perhaps a relative had suddenly remembered her and taken her on holiday. Not likely though. She never saw her relatives, although he knew she did have some. And she wouldn’t go away without making arrangements for the cat. If she was away it had to be in a cattery.

  He looked around the front garden for any sign of the cat. Nothing doing. On the off chance that the cat was in the back garden, he took the path at the side of the house. A wooden door set in a rickety wooden frame divided the front garden from the rear. He’d never been through it before. He knocked on the mossy green wood just in case Mrs Hicks was round the back doing a bit of weeding or hanging out her washing.

  The gate hung loosely on its rusty hinges and scraped the flagstone path as he pushed it open. There was nobody in the garden, just a small shed and a dustbin. A broom, the sort made of willow twigs and used for sweeping up leaves, was propped up behind it.

  No sign of Peregrine.

  Being an upright chap, he’d done his duty checking that she was all right. But she wasn’t there so he couldn’t, but never mind. Someone in the village would enlighten him as to where she was. The worst case scenario that she might have passed away, saddened him. Still she’d had a good innings, he thought, then laughed at the saying. Nobody he knew played cricket nowadays. How about saying that she’d shook it up well on the dance floor. Dancing would be far more likely than cricket. But then, somebody in the village would have told him if she’d snuffed it. And the cat wasn’t around. That fact above all else was the crucial one; where Mrs Hicks went the cat went too.

  He paused before getting back into his van to cast a look across the road at Moss End Cottage Hotel. The wall surrounding it was so high that only the upper floor windows could be viewed, the ground floor hidden behind the high wall and the filled in gate.

  No lights showed in the upper windows either and although he’d put some letters in the letterbox today, there’d been no sign of anyone being at home. He wondered whether they were taking paying guests yet. It didn’t seem like it given the vacant look of the windows, doing nothing but reflecting the cottages with which it was surrounded.

  ‘I’ve not seen a soul there yet and according to Mrs Hicks she’s not seen any sign of life during the daytime,’ he said to Rita when he got home. ‘The old lady said she only saw a light go on at night.’

  ‘Like vampires,’ said Rita. ‘I expect the new owners are vampires and they sleep in coffins down in the cellar during the day, and only come out at night.’

  Gavin guffawed and put his arms round her. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous! Now give us a kiss, but gently now. Don’t draw blood.’

  Chapter One

  Following an invitation from an old friend, Honey Driver, hotelier and part time Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of Bath Hotels’ Association, was doing the ‘ladies who lunch’ thing at the Pump Rooms. The tablecloths were white, the atmosphere convivial, and a three-piece orchestra was strumming something by Handel.

  Overall, it was a good place to lunch. In the eighteenth century the social networking was done over a beaker of warm water and a dip in a thermal pool. Today it was razor-thin cucumber sandwiches, cakes glistening with icing, and fruity scones oozing Cornish clotted cream and strawberry jam. The tea was too weak for Honey’s taste but at least it was served in a china pot with a tea strainer and sugar cubes. Giving the tea a good mash in the pot with a teaspoon was a forlorn hope. Adding a few extra lumps of sugar, she decided, might be the best course of action.

  She eyed her old friend Alison Brunton over the rim of her cup.

  ‘You haven’t changed since we were at school together.’ She drowned the half-truth with a mouthful of tepid tea and tried not to grimace.

  Laughter better suited to the teenager Alison used to be bubbled forth from lips that had been Botoxed and plastered with pink lipstick. ‘No. Haven’t lost my youthful looks, have I?’ she gushed, preening like a teenager.

  ‘You look good for your age,’ said Honey, not quite truthfully, but Alison was an old friend and flattery was part of the must-have survival mechanism for the over forties.

  The truth was that Alison looked like a life-size Barbie doll, all pointy boobs, lacquered hair, and clothes erring towards eighties glamour. It was all there, from her purple eyeshadow to her Baywatch hairstyle; plus she was wearing platform shoes with four-inch heels. Honey had seen her standing up and was amazed at how well she walked in them.

  How did she do that?

  It was a wonder her legs don’t snap, thought Honey, who much preferred comfy shoes with low heels. You could go faster in low heels, better still in trainers. Who cared if she wore them with a skirt rather than jogging bottoms? Not that she ever went jogging. She had an aversion to it.

  High heels were for looking at not working in. In his off-duty moments, DCI Doherty, he of the leather jacket, black T-shirt, and tight pants, liked looking at her legs. He liked looking at them when he was on duty too.

  Alison, who visited the gym three times a week, did her best to impose on Honey what a great place it was for meeting people; specifically of the male gender.

  ‘That’s where I met Maurice. Maurice Hoffman. Big, bold, and beautiful. Oooh, yes! What a man! Abs to die for.’

  Honey thought of Doherty’s abs. They had the consistency of blockboard, but she sure as hell had no intention of dying for them.

  Alison was dabbing a paper napkin at each corner of her Botoxed lips, to which traces of Brigitte Bardot pink clung on regardless of the cream cakes she’d scoffed.

  ‘Maurice has organised everything. My birthday’s on the thirty-first of October. I’m holding it at Moss End Cottage Hotel. For some odd reason they refused at first. They said they’d only just taken it over and weren’t ready to hold functions or take guests. However, my beloved, hunky chunky Maurice insisted he’d booked it ages ago with the previous owner. They still refused to honour the booking, but Maurice is a lion when he’s roused … grrr.’

  Alison made lion’s claws her hands. Her interpretation of a lion’s roar was distinctly on the tame side.

  Honey gritted her teeth. The ‘Maurice the Lion’ thing was bad enough; the hunky-chunky thing made her want to puke.

  Alison never noticed. ‘Anyway, my darling Maurice, the most muscular man I have ever had the pleasure of …’ She tittered and pretended to blush. ‘Oh my. I am naughty. Now you know what the two of us have been doing.’

  Honey resisted the urge to inform Alison that it was no big deal that she and the new man in her life had been playing more than footsie in bed. Instead she said, ‘So your friend Maurice the lion threatened them with a lawsuit for compensation and they relented accordingly?’

  ‘Maurice Hoffman, not Maurice de Lyon. And that’s exactly what they did. You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Honey, before Alison resorted to bending down on her knees and imploring her to come. Mentally she reworked the hotel rota so she could get away. In doing so she absentmindedly sprinkled salt into her tea.

  Alison noticed what she’d done and made a pained expression as though it was on the same level as having an arm amputated. ‘Honey, poor you! Shall I get you a fresh cup? I say! I say,’ she shouted, waving her hand at an overburdened waitress who was presently serving a party of Americans at the next table.

  Recognising a ready-ma
de excuse to pass on the tepid tea, Honey gently patted Alison’s arm back to earth. ‘I’m not that thirsty. Anyway, I’m all agog to hear more about your birthday party. What is it you’ve got planned?’

  Keen to indulge her favourite passion, talking about herself, Alison wiggled her bottom as people do when they’re over-excited. Either that or her knickers were too small and too tight. On the other hand she might have merely been making herself more comfortable, but Alison was determined to hold onto her youth as long as humanly possible so it was possibly a yes to a pair of lacy thongs.

  Eyes sparkling, her tone verging on the secretive, out it came.

  ‘A themed party especially relevant to the date of my birthday.’ She giggled. ‘Guess the theme.’

  Honey did her best to look as though the theme of Alison’s birthday party seeing as it occurred on the October 31st, would be a total surprise.

  ‘Vicars and tarts? Naughty schoolgirls, naked men?’

  Alison shook her head at both of Honey’s guesses, though she did pause and look as though she were considering naked men.

  ‘None of those.’

  ‘Not even the naked men?’

  Alison licked her lips and looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps next year. But this year …’

  She let out a ‘ta-ra-ra’ sound that was supposed to resemble a fanfare. From Alison it was kind of squeaky, as though a mouse had got trapped inside a trombone.

  ‘Hallowe’en,’ she squealed in the same irritatingly excitable voice she’d had as a teenager.

  ‘Cool. That’s really cool,’ said Honey. ‘Predictable’ was more like it, but the woman was almost wetting herself with excitement – like a five year old about to tuck in to a chocolate trifle.

  ‘And you’re a definite yes,’ said Alison. Not waiting for Honey’s answer, she dived into her handbag – a flashy concoction of leopardskin with an overabundance of brass buckles and zips.

  Out came a pink notebook. Pages rustled as she flicked it open with pink-painted fingernails. She produced a pen – pink of course. Worse than that, it was adorned with a miniature pink fairy which wobbled as she scribbled.