Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  Aubrey’s cheeks turned pink, and judging by the way his eyes softened, it was obvious to everyone that he was enamored with his new wife and—supposedly—she with him.

  Aubrey took Jess’s hand and squeezed it—a gesture not lost on Lavinia.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Do you have to maul each other in public?”

  Jess laughed. “I’m sorry, Lavinia, but I think we do.” She kissed Aubrey again.

  “I think we’ll go, Rupert,” said Aubrey. “Leave you to this mess—and Ms. Green, I will be in touch, so don’t go leaving the country.”

  Violet looked as if she’d just been given a death sentence.

  The lovebirds left.

  Lavinia turned her attention to Pippa. “Where is Harry?”

  “Out exploring,” said Pippa. “You know what kids are like.”

  Lavinia seemed put out. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

  “They’re out somewhere.”

  “Out somewhere … who?” Lavinia said.

  Pippa looked puzzled. “Who?”

  Cropper stepped up to Pippa and whispered in her ear. “You’re kidding?” He whispered into her ear again.

  With a heavy sigh, Pippa said, “Master Harry and Max are out exploring, your ladyship.” She shot me a look of derision.

  “I’m afraid you’ve all had a wasted journey,” said Rupert curtly. “The meeting has to be postponed.”

  “Cropper filled me in on the theft, milord,” Mrs. Cropper said.

  “Theft?” Jess and Pippa chorused.

  “I’m afraid the money for payment of the marquees and the pig has been stolen,” said Rupert.

  “That’s frightful!” Lavinia exclaimed. “I knew we had a thief in our midst. My riding crop is missing.”

  “And my Crown Derby teapot,” Violet said again.

  “I’d like to take some details if I may,” said Shawn.

  “With due respect, milord,” Mrs. Cropper went on. “I don’t think we even need to have a meeting. Violet and I have done the Hog Roast for decades. We know what we’re doing.”

  “I’m afraid there is a change this year,” said Rupert, looking more than a little sheepish.

  “A change?” said Mrs. Cropper.

  “Pippa is overseeing the Hog Roast this year,” Rupert said. “She has some healthy options on the menu.”

  “But no one wants healthy options at the Hog Roast,” Mrs. Cropper declared. “We’ve never had healthy options.”

  “Exactly, so that’s why it’s time for a change,” said Rupert. “Pippa has generously offered her services for no fee.”

  “But we’ve never been paid a fee, milord,” Mrs. Cropper said stubbornly.

  “None of us have, milord,” said Violet. “Ever.”

  I saw a nervous tic begin to beat above Rupert’s right eye.

  “We don’t need any help,” Mrs. Cooper went on. “Especially from an outsider, do we, Violet?”

  “No. Definitely not from her.”

  “Let’s go, Mum,” I whispered. “All this bickering is making me tired.”

  “You can. I’m not. I’m thoroughly entertained.”

  “We need to cater to vegetarians,” Pippa said. “My quiches—especially the mushroom and artichoke—are hugely popular. Surely the goal is to make a profit? Not have everyone dropping dead of a heart attack.”

  There was a ghastly silence. Violet actually patted Muriel’s hand in sympathy and Muriel let her.

  “Oops,” Mum whispered. “She certainly knows how to put her foot in it.”

  Pippa seemed oblivious.

  “So let me get this straight,” said Mrs. Cropper, rallying the troops. “You’re buying the ingredients for your fancy quiches from the generosity of your heart?”

  Pippa turned to Rupert. “Can you just tell them I’m in charge?”

  There was a gasp of disbelief from Mrs. Cropper and Violet.

  “Excuse me,” chimed in Lavinia. “You’re being frightfully rude, Mrs.… whoever you are.”

  “Pippa. My name is Pippa. I’m Max’s mother. Harry’s friend.”

  Rupert took Lavinia’s arm. “Come on, darling; you’re not feeling yourself. Let’s get you upstairs for a proper nap. I’ll make you a cup of your favorite tea.”

  “Oh, Rupey, you’ve never made me a cup of my favorite tea.” Lavinia gave a heavy sigh. “I do love you. You know I love you, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes. But enough of all this nonsense.”

  “Can Iris and Kat take me upstairs for my nap?”

  “Of course, milady.” Mum paused at the door. “Oh—Muriel, why don’t you let me take you home afterwards? I’ve got a burning desire to understand how the British postal system works.”

  “No thank you,” said Muriel. “I am perfectly content to wait here for Violet.”

  “You’ve changed your tune,” Violet replied. “I thought you couldn’t stand my driving.”

  “I’ll take you home, Mrs. Jarvis,” said Shawn wearily. “I’d like you to show me where Mr. Jarvis kept the biscuit tin.”

  “But wait—” Muriel came up to me and slipped a pale-lavender envelope into my hand. “Thank you, again.”

  Ten minutes later, Mum and I had helped Lavinia out of her pinned-up gown and were tucking her up in her own bed in her own room. She began to snore immediately.

  “I can’t believe they don’t share a bedroom,” Mum said. “Oh wait, I remember now. Doesn’t his lordship suffer from—?”

  “Something like that,” I said hastily. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to visualize Lord Rupert Honeychurch’s nightly bathroom habits.

  Mum took in Lavinia’s bedroom. “What a mess! It looks as if a tornado has been through here.”

  Lavinia’s bedroom was chaotic. There was a saddle on the back of an armchair, Horse & Hound magazines stacked on the floor along with piles of unfolded clothes. A beautiful walnut dressing table held a set of monogramed silver brushes, old-fashioned glass perfume bottles and used tissues.

  Two framed photographs sat on Lavinia’s night table. One showed a much younger Rupert dressed in polo-playing attire; and the other, of Harry kitted out in his Biggles regalia looking adorable.

  “Don’t they have a housekeeper anymore?” said Mum in a low voice.

  “Someone from the village comes up once or twice a week,” I said. “They tried an agency, but it seems that no one stays for very long. Apparently Edith is very demanding.”

  “Ah-ha! A fan!” Forbidden, Mum’s latest book in her Star-Crossed Lovers series, lay open, spine up on the floor. She grabbed it. “Lavinia’s dog-eared the pages,” she whispered. “Let’s see what parts fascinate her ladyship.”

  “Mum!” I hissed.

  “Ah yes.” Mum nodded. “I thought so. Look.” She jabbed a finger at a paragraph. “That love scene in the stumpery took me a long time to write—oh God.”

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “I should have forced Muriel to talk to me,” she said. “She would rather drive home with Violet than talk to me. That’s guilt. What if my manuscript never shows up?”

  “It will,” I said firmly. “Did you call the publisher?”

  “Yes.” Mum nodded. “They are going to have another look in their mailroom. What if whoever stole the club funds found my manuscript and stole that, too?”

  “Now you’re being silly.”

  Ten minutes later we pulled into the Carriage House courtyard and found an old blue Mercedes parked on the forecourt. It was in dire need of a wash. Someone had traced the words “Please Clean Me” on the rear window.

  Mum frowned. “It looks like we have visitors.”

  “Perhaps it’s the ME or Dr. Crane the anthropologist?” I suggested, although I doubted it.

  “Or we’re being robbed.”

  “You’re so dramatic.”

  Back in the kitchen, we heard peals of laughter.

  “It’s coming from Cromwell Meadows.” Mum opened the rear door
to the field and pointed to a white canopy and screen that now stood over the grave. “Over there.”

  “Mum … I think that could be Harry and Max. They shouldn’t be there. I’ll go and see.”

  As I drew closer, I also heard a male voice.

  I stopped and peeped around the side of the tent. A man in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt was hunkered down in the grave. I couldn’t see what he was doing because Harry and Max were blocking my view.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Startled, the man sprang upright, Swiss Army penknife in hand. He slipped something into his pocket.

  “It’s Kat!” Harry cried. “Come and see a real skeleton! It’s wicked, isn’t it, Max? A real skeleton!”

  Max grinned in agreement. Both boys were in their flying outfits, but I noticed that Harry’s white scarf was missing.

  “I’m Kat Stanford,” I said. “You must be Dr. Crane.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The man was in his early forties and handsome in a rakish kind of way with shoulder-length dirty-blond hair. He gave me a mischievous smile.

  “I could be Dr. Crane, I suppose.” The man winked at the boys, who started to giggle.

  “Detective Inspector Cropper should still be at the Hall. If you go now you just might catch him.”

  Max continued to snigger. Harry was practically in convulsions.

  Something felt off to me. Dr. Crane wasn’t wearing any foot coverings, disposable gloves—or even the white coveralls that I would have expected him to wear. There was no telltale bag of tools, either. Although my knowledge of forensic anthropology was limited, I did know that the area was supposed to be tagged and labeled in a specific way.

  “Harry, perhaps you could run to the Hall and tell your father that Dr. Crane is here?”

  “Perhaps you should.” Dr. Crane grinned again.

  “Yeah,” said Max. “Go on, Harry.”

  Harry and Max exploded with laughter.

  “Okay, boys, enough,” said Dr. Crane. “The joke is over.”

  “What’s going on?” I said. “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s not Dr. Crane!” Harry squealed. “It’s Uncle Piers!”

  “Oh. Hello.” I didn’t know what else to say. I felt a bit of an idiot.

  “Biggles has told me everything about you, Flying Officer Stanford.”

  Piers deftly stepped up and out of the hole. He offered me his hand to shake. I took it, stealing a glance into the grave behind him. It was just as I feared. Piers’s footprints were everywhere.

  He followed my gaze and shrugged. “I suppose I’ll be court-martialed for contaminating a site of historical importance,” he said, not sounding remotely concerned.

  “We thought we might find some more treasure,” Harry enthused. It hadn’t been that long ago when Rupert, Eric and I had finally uncovered the missing Honeychurch silver in the old privy next to Jane’s Cottage.

  “And did you find any treasure?” I was quite sure that Piers had put something into his pocket.

  “Unfortunately, not,” said Piers. “But of course if you don’t believe me, I’m always up for a quick frisk.”

  A frisk? I didn’t know how to respond to that, at all. Despite my discomfort, there was something endearing about his boyish charm and wicked sense of humor. What had Edith called Lavinia’s brother? A twit?

  “But we did find something, Uncle Piers!” Harry exclaimed. “The helmet, silly! Look, Kat. You see the soldier? He’s still wearing it.”

  Piers caught my eye. A look passed between us and I knew he knew that the helmet was a scold’s bridle and, like me, thought it better if Harry did not know its true purpose.

  “But don’t you think he should have a sword?” Harry went on. “All soldiers have swords.”

  “Your father found a small dagger,” I said.

  “A dagger?” said Piers sharply. “Where?”

  “In the grave. Aubrey has taken it, I believe.”

  “Were there any markings on it? A crest?” Piers’s entire attitude had changed. There was no playfulness now. He was deadly serious. “It’s important.”

  “I’m sure Aubrey and Rupert know more than I do,” I said carefully. “You should talk to them.”

  “Here’s Father now!” Harry clapped his hands with delight. “Oh look! He’s a musketeer!”

  We all turned to find Rupert striding toward us looking slightly ridiculous in his seventeenth-century dress. His face was like thunder.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

  “Rupert,” said Piers smoothly. “Good afternoon.”

  “You’re trespassing.”

  Harry looked anxiously to his father and then to his uncle, whom it was obvious he adored.

  “Father! Uncle Piers has shown us the dead soldier,” said Harry desperately. “Kat says you found a dagger?”

  “The lovely Katherine here mentioned you discovered a dagger, Rupert,” said Piers smoothly. “I’d like a look at that.”

  Rupert gave me a filthy look. “I think we should move away from here, don’t you? We don’t want to interfere with Dr. Crane’s excavation on Monday.”

  “Uh-oh. Looks like I’m in trouble,” I heard Piers whisper to the boys. They giggled again.

  Rupert shepherded us away from the white tent. “There is a reason why this area has been cordoned off.”

  “Why does the tape say Crime Scene?” Harry asked. “Shouldn’t it say Battle Scene?”

  “The tape doesn’t mean anything,” I said quickly. “Shawn had it handy in his pocket. He just wanted to keep people out until Dr. Crane came.”

  “And he was right. We should,” said Rupert. “Kat, will you take Harry and Max and walk on ahead? I need to talk to Piers.”

  “No need for that, Rupert,” said Piers. “We’re all walking in the same direction.”

  Harry skipped alongside his uncle and took his hand. Max took the other.

  “The appeal for dead bodies has been pretty successful,” said Piers.

  “Perhaps it’s the Scrumpy,” Rupert said. “Which I did not agree to, incidentally.”

  “I’m providing the Scrumpy,” said Piers. “So yes, perhaps it is. I seem to have tapped into the eternal life of the zombie and it’s attracted a lot of the younger members.”

  “How does this zombie-soldier thing work?” I said. “In practice.”

  “We hold a lottery in advance. Every man knows how he is going to die ahead of time and how long he has to wait until he can rise again,” said Piers.

  “My mum lets me watch The Walking Dead,” said Max.

  “The Walking what?” Rupert demanded.

  “It’s a zombie show on TV,” said Max. “It’s awesome, isn’t it, Harry?”

  Harry didn’t answer.

  “I can’t say I’ve ever seen it,” said Rupert. “What’s it about?”

  “Zombies!” the boys cried.

  “That show is far too old for you,” said Piers. Personally I didn’t think the boys were old enough to watch such a violent show, either.

  Max thrust out his jaw. “My mum says I can watch it. I watch loads of horror stuff.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t scare me.”

  Piers ruffled Harry’s hair affectionately. “And I know it wouldn’t scare Biggles, but it certainly scares me!”

  Harry looked up at his uncle, clearly relieved.

  “And who is your mum, Max?” Piers asked.

  “Her name is Pippa,” said Max. “We’ve just moved into the village.”

  “Ah. So you’re Pippa Carmichael’s son. And you’ve moved into the village.” Piers fixed Rupert with a look filled with contempt. “Fancy that.”

  “Run along to the car, boys,” said Rupert suddenly. “I need to talk to Uncle Piers.”

  The boys dashed off. I felt as if I should have gone with them so walked on ahead. Even so, I couldn’t help overhear snatches of their conversation.

  “And before you give me a hard time,” I heard Piers say, “Harr
y and Max were already at the grave when I arrived.”

  “How did you hear about it?”

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” said Piers. “You can’t protect Harry forever, and besides, kids don’t regard death the same way as we do.”

  “Regardless, I’d rather Harry continued to believe it’s a soldier in a helmet.”

  “If you say so,” said Piers.

  We walked around the side of the Carriage House and into the courtyard where Rupert’s Range Rover was parked next to Piers’s Mercedes. Harry and Max were jumping on and off the stone mounting block. Mum stood watching them from the carriageway entrance not looking particularly thrilled. She shared my father’s old-fashioned view that children should be “seen and not heard.” When Max accidentally kicked over a terra-cotta pot of geraniums and it smashed on the cobblestones, she clapped her hands, yelling, “That’s enough now, children. Time to go home. Chop, chop, chop.”

  Rupert piled the children into his Range Rover and drove away.

  “Is that your mother?” Piers asked.

  “Yes.”

  He took his arm into mine. “Then please, will you introduce us?”

  Mum’s eyes widened as we approached. Her curiosity was now replaced by a silly smile, the one I’d seen her adopt when she was once introduced to Bradley Walsh—quizmaster of The Chase and someone she has a huge crush on.

  Piers reached out a hand for my mother to shake whilst firmly keeping hold of mine. “Piers Carew. A pleasure.”

  “So you’re Lady Lavinia’s brother!” Mum was agog. “But you look nothing like her. Did you have a different mother?”

  “Mum!” I exclaimed.

  “I was joking. I can see the resemblance with Lord Aubrey—he has that same twinkle. I’m Iris. Pleased to meet you.”

  “You certainly don’t look old enough to have a daughter,” said Piers. “You both could be mistaken for sisters!”

  “Oh God.” I groaned.

  “Corny but true!” Piers grinned, but Mum fell for that tired old line and turned pink with pleasure.

  “Would you like to come inside and have a cup of tea—or something stronger?” she said. “It’s never too early for a gin and tonic.”