Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery by Amy Myers Page A

ownership if it was found again, and if not there was the insurance issue. Quicksand ahead. A foot wrong and I was sunk. Would that stop me? No.
    As I closed the Glory Boot door behind me, I sensed a waft of approval from its founder. OK, I told him, I’ll sleep on it, and if you really think it’s a good idea for me to stick my nose in, come back to me tomorrow.
    My landline promptly rang at eight a.m. the next morning. I detached myself from my coffee mug, padded over to answer it and received a boom in my ear.
    â€˜Jack Colby? Glenn Howell, Arthur’s son. Can you get over here right away? Dad wants to talk.’
    Phew, that was quick! I mentally congratulated my own dad. Whatever Arthur Howell wanted to see me about, it showed a degree of interest beyond the stolen car. Glenn made it sound as though he was conferring a favour, which remained to be proven. Arthur would hardly be consulting me on the future of Old Herne’s, but the stolen Porsche alone seemed an unlikely topic in the current circumstances.
    â€˜Can’t make it before eleven, I’m afraid.’ There was a delightful six-cylinder 1935 Wolseley Hornet Special with engine trouble booked into the Pits at nine thirty and Len wanted me to share the excitement of the diagnosis.
    A brief silence at the other end of the line. Then a slightly incredulous: ‘Sure about that? He’s real keen.’
    I said I was sure so, sounding somewhat disgruntled, Glenn said he would meet me in the Cricketers Hotel lobby. Another family on the horizon, then, which might have its own agenda. I could see Jessica’s position might become that of battering ram between two families. Which end would be wielding the power?
    Len spent so long discussing the Wolseley with its owner and then – the real fun – reaching his own diagnosis with me as an admiring stooge that I feared I wasn’t going to make it on time, but at last I managed to prise myself out of the Pits and into my Alfa. The trouble, he had informed me with pride, was faulty ignition timing advance. All this excitement took me away from the tragedy at Old Herne’s and why Arthur Howell wanted to see me. Whatever it was, it could be a valuable contribution to my job and judging by the speed of his summons it must be urgent.
    The Cricketers is a great place. It’s on the outskirts of Harrietsham, a village on the A20, and the hotel had acquired its name from the fact that the famous nineteenth-century cricketer Alfred ‘the Mighty’ Mynn lived locally and played for the Harrietsham Cricket Club. The hotel doesn’t possess a private cricket pitch but it does have plenty of old prints and paintings to celebrate the sport.
    I found not Glenn Howell but his daughter Fenella the Stunner awaiting me; she was the supercilious lady I’d noted at the concert. She did not look particularly pleased to see me and she was indeed a stunner. Slim as a beanpole, stylishly and expensively clad, and cool as a cucumber – the latter being a traditional remedy for sore eyes, as she was. The message she was putting over, however, was that whatever plans she had for her life they would not include Jack Colby. Fine by me, because inscrutable felines – and her mask-like face did give her this resemblance – aren’t my speciality. My welcoming smile relaxed the mask, albeit only by a millimetre or two.
    â€˜I saw you yesterday at the show,’ she informed me almost accusingly.
    â€˜It was a tough time for you as well as the Nelsons.’
    â€˜Especially my grandfather. He’s in one of his moods today, so we’ve no idea why he asked you to come here.’ She made it sound as though this were my fault. She took me up in the lift to a suite on the top floor, from which there was a glorious view of the Downs. I expected to find Glenn installed with his father but there was only Arthur Howell sitting by the window. Fenella too departed, presumably