Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (21 page)

Chapter Fifty-seven

Alistair from the auction room happened to know a retired projectionist who still dabbled with old film.

‘Sly Ellis is a wee bit eccentric, but knows his stuff. He will be able to tell you if it’s genuine.’

‘It’s on disc. It appears Her Ladyship had a copy made of the original reels.’

‘But you don’t know the whereabouts of the original reels?’

‘No. But we’d like to take a look at the footage – me and Doherty, that is.’

After reporting to Casper, his name was added to the viewers. Lindsey also expressed an interest. So did Gloria Cross.

‘I love anything to do with the
Titanic
,’ said her mother. ‘Especially Kenneth More.’

Kenneth More?

‘He was in that black and white film,
A Night to Remember
,’ explained her mother on seeing her expression. ‘Poor chap! He had
such
responsibility.’

‘That was just a film of it, Mother. Kenneth More wasn’t really on that ship.’

Gloria Cross looked quite taken aback. ‘Well I never!’

‘This footage would have fantastic historical value,’ Lindsey added. ‘I suppose the man who shot the film is long dead.’

‘Drowned,’ said Honey. She realised she was telling the truth, but still a vexed question remained. Who had got the film to safety? How
had
Ashwell Bridgewater’s grandfather got his hands on it?

Sly Ellis had a shed in his back garden. The shed was in the deluxe bracket of shed land; made of stone with double-glazed windows and chairs set out in rows.

OK, the screen wasn’t exactly up there with Leicester Square or Broadway, but it was big enough.

Their host was happy to be in the driving seat and interesting to meet. His costume was pure Hollywood glory days: worsted cap worn back to front, checked pullover, striped shirt and tie, and all coupled with a pair of tawny-coloured plus fours, long socks, and golf shoes.

Doherty assumed the same as she had.

‘There was no need to turn out in costume for our benefit,’ he said.

‘I didn’t … Take your seats, everyone!’

Casper had come along with Alistair.

‘I’ve brought popcorn,’ said her mother. She proceeded to hand around a large bucket of pink and white fuzziness. Most declined. Honey’s eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline when Casper peered curiously into the bucket and extracted a sticky mass of popcorn.

All eyes fixed on the screen. The picture was grainy, black and white, the figures promenading in double quick time.

Alistair whistled through his teeth.

Casper’s jaw stopped chomping and practically dropped on to his silk cravat. ‘The dead walk again.’

Honey leaned forward so she could see past Casper. She addressed Alistair.

‘Is there any doubt?’

He shook his head, his eyes fixed on a pair of able seamen smiling from the flickering screen. Their Guernsey sweaters said it all: RMS
Titanic
.

There was absolute silence once the film had finished. The truth hit them all. Almost without exception, those people strolling or lounging on the decks, were all dead. So many people had died on that ill-fated voyage. The whole world knew the great tragedy of the ‘unsinkable’
Titanic
.

Honey was the first to find her voice. ‘How much is it worth?’

The question was purely academic, but Honey couldn’t help asking.

Casper put forward the absolute truth. ‘However much someone’s willing to pay for it.’

Alistair burrowed his fingers into his beard, sending the stiff hairs into upright tufts. Then he smoothed them down. He did this a few times, his eyes lowered as he spoke in a dark, thoughtful voice. ‘A while back, a ticket for the launch of the ship fetched around thirty thousand pounds at auction. In London or New York I think. The disc has some value, but the film reels would be priceless.’

His comment brought a tightness to Honey’s chest. The film reels were priceless. Priceless enough to cause a string of murders.

She recalled a conversation she’d had with Lindsey earlier that day. Her daughter had remarked that Honey and Doherty were like ships in the night with no lights on. They kept missing each other. Slightly miffed, Honey had answered, ‘Better than ending up on the rocks I suppose – or hitting an iceberg.’

Well, here was the real McCoy.

Doherty had stayed silent but shifted position. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, eyes narrowed.

Honey did the same. Her eyes remained thoughtfully fixed on the screen. ‘I wonder who the cameraman was.’

‘No point in wondering,’ said Casper. ‘We know where to find him – many fathoms beneath the North Atlantic.’

Gloria Cross slammed the lid back on to the popcorn bucket. ‘That wasn’t exactly a full-length feature.’

Honey rolled her eyes. ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

Lindsey had been totally engrossed in the film. Now she was frowning thoughtfully. ‘Whoever converted those reels onto disc has to have the correct equipment. Right?’

Everyone agreed.

‘It needs a computer plus some pretty hi-tech equipment to do the job. And it’s not cheap.’ She patted her mother’s shoulder. ‘I’ll take Grandma home now before she asks for her money back.’

Doherty ran his fingers through his hair, flattening it back from his forehead. ‘Methinks another visit to “Sir” Ashwell Bridgewater is in order.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘You’re welcome – and you’re frowning. Problem?’

Honey smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘Must stop doing that. More frowns, more furrows. Wrinkles,’ she said in response to his puzzled look.

‘I’d totally forgotten that Bridgewater had endowed himself with a title.’

‘And you’re thinking he bought it from the same source as Lady Templeton-Jones?’

‘Simon Taylor.’

She pulled the door of the low-sprung car shut behind her. ‘Simon worked at Associated Security Shredding. They also run a “copying” service. I’d presumed copying meant photocopying …’

‘But it might not.’

Doherty’s expression said it all. Like the bits in a kaleidoscope, all the chips of glass were forming a pattern. It might not be the end pattern, but it was a pleasing scene nonetheless.

The film screening had taken place at Marshfield, a stone-built village some miles out of the city and uphill all the way.

‘He’ll be at work,’ said Honey as Doherty turned the car towards Cold Ashton and the narrow ‘B’ road leading down to Northend.

Stone chips flew skywards as Doherty did a U-turn back to the main road.

‘So where does he work?’ Honey asked him.

He looked blankly over the steering wheel. ‘Hold on.’ He fetched out his cell phone.

‘That’s illegal.’

‘Needs must.’

He spoke into the phone. ‘Can you go to the Lady Templeton-Jones file and give me the work address of Ashwell Bridgewater?’

The person on the other end did as ordered. Eventually came back.

‘Oh. That’s interesting.’

Honey looked at him. Something quite telling had been said.

‘So?’

He grinned. ‘The company he works for is part of the Wallace and Gates group. Same building. Second floor.’

Honey sat back. She was having so many exciting thoughts. Like: wouldn’t it be interesting if APW Marketing, and Associated Security Shredding were all part of the same group?

As it turned out, there was no joy at APW Marketing.

‘Ashwell hasn’t turned up for work,’ said a plump blonde with star-spangled fingernails and a slow word delivery. ‘You can try him at home, but I don’t think he’s there. I did give him a ring earlier. No reply though.’

‘I’m beginning to get this,’ said Honey as she slid her bottom back on to the bucket style seat.

Doherty started the engine. ‘And?’

‘Her Ladyship came over to claim her part of the inheritance and realised immediately the value of the three reels of film. Her cousin Ashwell had entered them in an auction. Why would Lady Templeton-Jones withdraw them? Sentimental value?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve had a rethink. I asked myself why else would they withdrawn them – unless they’d had a very good offer?’

Doherty nodded. ‘That’s logical. But from whom?’

Honey stared ahead at the long road leading down into Bath. ‘She was on the ghost walk to meet the person who’d made an offer they couldn’t refuse. I’m presuming that for security reasons, first cousin Ashwell had the reels copied to disc. So they didn’t entirely trust whoever had made them an offer. But Her Ladyship decided to be extra careful. She never took her bag with her but left it in the care of Adrian Harris.’

‘For what reason, Miss Marple?’

‘Don’t call me that. It makes me feel frumpy.’

‘You’ll never be that.’

She liked his tone of voice. But this was no time for fooling around. There was serious stuff afoot. And something else had come to her.

‘She arrived by taxi.’

Doherty caught her drift. ‘And went straight off on the walk.’

‘So where was she between leaving the bag and arriving on the walk? Did she meet someone else? Someone who perhaps changed her mind about selling them at all?’

‘And presumed she had the reels on her.’

‘Which she did not.’

Chapter Fifty-eight

Honey tilted her head back and eyed the building all the way up to the guttering. ‘Disappearing is getting to be a habit around here.’

Doherty gave Ashwell Bridgewater’s front door another firm hammering. A strong wind was blowing down through the narrow gap between the terraced cottages and the building opposite. The effect was to mute the harsh racket, or at least it felt that way to Honey’s ears.

Inching along into the flower bed, she peered in through the ground floor window. The window was divided in three, had iron casements and a stone mullion frame.

The scene inside the cottage had changed little compared to before – though perhaps it was a little untidier, as though someone had been packing …

Shielding her eyes with her hands, she peered again. There was no dead body. She wasn’t quite sure whether to be grateful or sad. Cold-calling salesmen were such a damned nuisance.

‘No sign of life,’ she said, shaking the dirt from her heels as she stepped back on to the path.

Doherty made a murmuring noise – his thinking noise – a bit like a DVD player when it’s on standby.

‘He’s done a runner.’

‘You don’t know that for sure.’

‘Took the money and headed for the Costa Brava.’

‘Uh-uh,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t the Costa Brava type.’ She didn’t know why she was convinced of that. Some inner sight? Or the fact that he liked to be charming, and to impress? This latter was the most likely reason she’d jumped to that conclusion.

‘So where do you think he would go?’

‘He’s slippery-slimy. It has to be Thailand. He’s the sort that buys sex but never gets it for free.’

Doherty raised his eyebrows. ‘That bad?’

‘Trust me. He hides dark secrets.’

‘Do you?’

Honey thought about it. ‘I have been known to wander around with Queen Victoria’s knickers in my handbag.’

Doherty smirked and leaned closer. ‘Or a pair of bosom protectors – battle-wagon size.’

‘Down, boy! You’ll trip over your tongue.’

Northend was a dead end. Doherty radioed through for an alert to be put out at airports, ferry and bus terminals. ‘And get hold of his car registration details from the team in Swansea.’

The wide wheels rumbled back down the slope and on to the main A4. The traffic was light as far as the traffic lights at the bottom of the A46. A bulk carrier joined them from the Bradford-on-Avon road,
Wallace and Gates Transport Services
emblazoned across its rear end.

On its way to a landfill site?

It was reasonable to suppose that Wallace and Gates owned that too.

Doherty reflected her thoughts. ‘Spreads it wide, our Cameron.’

‘I take it that Associated Security Shredding is also part of the same group.’

‘Yup.’

‘And the copying facility next door to it?’

‘Yup. Got it checked out. It’s all on their company website.’

Of course it was. Why hadn’t she checked it herself? Because you hate computers, dunderhead! That was no excuse. And Lindsey loved the damned things.

Honey mused on that remark. Ashwell Bridgewater worked for a division of Wallace and Gates. Simon Taylor
had
worked for a division of Wallace and Gates. There was a copying facility next door to Associated Security Shredding. That too was part of the group. The shop where Lady Templeton-Jones had been found murdered was owned by Wallace and Gates, as was the shop next door to it.

‘Wallace and Gates owned everything connected with this. I know that teamwork can do wonders, but can it also do death?’

‘You’re thinking the same as me. Wallace and Gates owned everything and employed the prime movers.’

‘It was the shops I was thinking of. The murder scene’s been re-let to my mother.’

‘The murder doesn’t worry her?’

‘Nah!’ said Honey, shaking her head. ‘But she’s getting Mary Jane to do a little sagebrush-burning around the place. It’s a kind of American–Indian version of feng shui.’

Doherty laughed. ‘A lot of bother to go through. She’d have been better off renting the shop next door now it’s empty …’

Honey sensed he was having a road to Damascus moment – though in this case as it was a road into Bath, and not half as spiritual.

Doherty’s voice trailed away. ‘Holy Shi  … Smoke! The shop next door sold marine artefacts,’ Doherty said suddenly. ‘I looked in the window. There was a load of old marine bits and pieces in the window.’

‘But not now?’

He shook his head.

‘And the proprietor?’

‘Gone abroad. So I’m told.’

Honey ran her tongue over her lips. ‘I could do with a drink.’

They made for the Pump Rooms. A trio was playing Mozart.

Doherty’s gaze settled on the cellist, a lean girl with bright pink lips and long legs clutching a shiny cello.

Honey nudged him. ‘A penny for them.’

He grinned. ‘I was just thinking that if I did believe in reincarnation I’d come back as a cello.’