Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G. Goodhind Page A

though a curious one for a city more than twenty miles from the sea.
    Still, he thought, Bristol wasn’t that far away, and hadn’t the Matthew sailed from there just three years after Columbus got to the West Indies? And at least the Matthew had reached mainland America.
    On the spur of the moment he took it in his head to stroll over and look in the old bow-fronted shop window. Three brass lanterns hung in the centre of the window. He took it that the middle one carried a white masthead light. The ones on either side would carry the red of port and the green of starboard. On the right of the window a very intricate sextant perched half-in half-out of a mahogany box. The price tag said ‘German, 1940, £675’.
    Three plain-looking plates sat on a ledge on the left-hand side of the window. They were each priced at three thousand pounds. Doherty leaned closer and narrowed his eyes so that he could see better. Three thousand pounds seemed a lot for a very plain plate – until he saw the logo printed in the middle: RMS Titanic . A note underneath said ‘ not verified.’
    He blew a low whistle through his teeth. The value of articles from a sunken ship was amazing, yet somehow, in the case of the Titanic , the cost seemed justified. Such a terrible tragedy. A tremendous loss of life. And everyone knew about it. If they were genuine, he thought, they were probably worth even more.
    A brass candleholder sat forward of the lanterns, similar to the one in the window of the empty shop. It had no price tag and didn’t look as though it were worth much. Still, who knows? The most rubbishy-looking stuff went for a fortune to the right bidder – someone like Honey Driver, he thought with a smile, though she collected antique underwear.
    Setting aside vivid daydreams, he stepped back and looked up at the blank windows above the shop. He tried the door. It was locked and a black and white closed sign stared him in the face.
    He looked around in an effort to see the man who had come out of the shop selling marine artefacts. He’d only caught a glimpse of burgundy anorak and a dark-coloured holdall. Probably long gone. To his surprise he found it was not so. The same anorak was standing on the edge of the onlookers peering at the crime scene from a distance.
    ‘You,’ he said, as he elbowed aside a senior citizen who immediately elbowed him back.
    ‘Back of the queue, sonny! I was here first.’
    Doherty flashed his warrant card. ‘I think I have priority, madam.’
    She made a little sucking sound, surprise etched all over her powdered face. ‘Well, of course, officer! Of course!’
    Doherty flashed his card at the man in burgundy. ‘Can I have a word?’
    The colour drained from the man’s face, or perhaps he was already pale. ‘Why?’
    ‘Just routine.’
    The woman he’d elbowed nudged herself and a friend much closer. Their eyes were piggy in pink faces and their red lips were slightly parted. One woman nudged the other.
    ‘He’s asking this man questions.’
    The man appeared more alarmed by the two women than he was by Doherty.
    ‘A private word I think,’ said Doherty taking the man’s elbow and moving away.
    The two women looked peeved. The man looked relieved. He was tall, mid-fifties or so, and wearing spectacles. The lenses of the spectacles were as thick as bottle bottoms and made his eye colour indistinguishable. Poor soul, though Doherty. He must have trouble seeing his own feet without them – or for that matter seeing anything of interest in between. His clothes were casual but work-oriented; downmarket as far as antiques went, though the prices in the shop were hardly bargain basement.
    Saved from the curious onlookers, the man turned peevish. ‘Can we make it quick? I do have another job to go to.’
    ‘The shop isn’t yours?’
    The man shook his head. ‘No. I had to do a repair for the owner. The sink in the back was leaking.’
    ‘Seems both these properties need work doing on them. Is