Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 11

  “Sorry about that,” said Mum sheepishly. “It just came out.”

  “And why did you say that David was my fiancé?”

  “You’re too old to have a boyfriend,” said Mum. “Anyway, David should be your fiancé by now. How long have you been together?”

  Fortunately we’d reached the white angel memorial and it was the perfect time to change the subject. Stray rose petals scattered on the grass reminded me of Lavinia’s tantrum last night.

  Cut like a Rose in Full Bloom

  Only Good Night, My Beloved, Not Farewell

  Kelly

  July 31, 1982–August 26, 2005

  I studied the dates. “Twenty-three years old. She was young. They couldn’t have been married for very long. I wonder how she died.”

  “She was stung by a bee,” said Mum.

  “A bee?”

  “That’s what Muriel told me at the post office,” Mum said. “Apparently Lord Honeychurch’s first wife was allergic to bees. According to Muriel, Lady Kelly started life as one of the servants below stairs—”

  “And she married Rupert! What a scandal!” I said. “I bet that didn’t go down well with the dowager countess.”

  “They were star-crossed lovers,” Mum said wistfully. “He was tied by the duties of his class and what was demanded of him by his cold, heartless mother—”

  “Who, I noticed, also has a knack of getting names wrong just like you—Kylie, Carly, Kelly—Dylan, David?”

  “Surely you’re not accusing me of being cold and heartless?” Mum cried. “We mothers just want to protect our own, that’s all.”

  “So you say.” I turned my attention back to the memorial. “Wasn’t yesterday the twenty-sixth of August?”

  “Clever you,” said Mum. “So it was.”

  “That would make it the anniversary of Kelly’s death.”

  “How interesting,” Mum said. “How old is Harry?”

  “Seven next week—oh!” I exclaimed. “I see what you mean. Rupert didn’t waste any time marrying Lavinia, did he?”

  “The classic rebound,” said Mum. “And I suspect his lordship still loves his first wife. That angel memorial statue sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  “Poor Lavinia. It must be a constant reminder,” I said. “How awful knowing that your husband is still in love with someone else.”

  “Poor Rupert,” said Mum. “Losing the love of his life forever. Either way, their marriage is doomed.”

  “And then there’s Harry,” I added. “Packed off to boarding school.”

  “At least we didn’t do that to you,” said Mum.

  Back at the Carriage House, three boxes sat on the doorstep. “Oh, good. Parcels!” Mum gestured for me to deal with them. “I’ve been waiting for the postman.”

  I picked up the first box, and then the second. “These two are for Vera,” I said. “Shoes and—oh—goodness, one box is from Ann Summers.”

  “Isn’t that something to do with sexy lingerie?” said Mum with delight. “Let’s open it and look.”

  “No, we’re not opening Vera’s parcel!”

  “I wonder why they’ve been delivered here?”

  “Because that’s the address on the label,” I said.

  “I bet she doesn’t want Eric to find out what she’s been buying.”

  “The third box is for you. Something from a company called We-See-You!”

  Mum beamed. “That’ll be the surveillance equipment.”

  “I thought you were joking.”

  “Your bedroom overlooks the cow field,” said Mum. “We’ll get William to install it this afternoon.”

  “You can’t install a camera.”

  “Why not? The government has them everywhere…” Mum trailed off. “I hope I’m not wrong about Gayla. You hear about these quiet country villages harboring serial killers.”

  “All the more reason for you to come back to London,” I said.

  “I told you I’m going to catch Eric out,” said Mum, changing the subject. “I’ll have evidence to support my complaint—and that’s just the beginning of the end for old beetle-brows.”

  “Alright,” I said grudgingly. “But let’s leave William out of this. I will install the camera.”

  Carrying the three boxes into the kitchen, I said, “I’ll ring Vera and tell her to come and pick these up.”

  “Would you mind?” said Mum, already heading upstairs. “I must write something down before I forget.”

  “I’ll bring up lunch and my laptop and we’ll get cracking,” I said. “Presumably you don’t have the Internet here.”

  Mum paused, “Do I look as if I would?”

  “It’s the twenty-first century. I’d like to see your website. It’ll give me an idea of what your books are all about.”

  “I don’t get involved in that side of things,” said Mum quickly.

  “But you must have a website.”

  “Why are you asking, Katherine?” Mum sounded irritated. “Does it matter?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter, I was just curious. You must get a ton of fan mail.”

  “I told you, the publisher handles that,” said Mum. “Are you making egg sandwiches?”

  “Eggs again?”

  “Just watch the mayonnaise. You always put too much in.”

  I boiled some eggs and made the sandwiches, found some crisps, a couple of apples, a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate, and put the lot on the tray.

  I knocked on the door to Mum’s office and stepped into the gloom. The room was lit by one naked lightbulb. Mum was perched on a three-legged stool in front of the corkboard adding Post-its Notes to the Honeychurch family tree.

  “Why on earth don’t you have the curtains open and let the sunlight in?”

  I set the tray on the top of the filing cabinet and moved to the window.

  “Don’t!” shouted Mum, but it was too late.

  “Good grief.” I stared at the full horror of Eric’s scrap yard in the field beyond. An old hearse was parked next to a wide band of raw tree stumps that marked the boundary line. Some of the stumps had pieces of paper pinned to the bark. “What happened there?”

  “I used to look out on a beautiful bank of old trees,” said Mum, joining me at the window. “And then one day I came home from the shops and Eric had cut the lot down.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “Why would he do such a thing? Judging by the size of the stumps, they must have been pretty mature trees. What are those pieces of paper?”

  Mum gave a bitter laugh. “Of course I reported Eric to the council. They are restraining orders to prevent him from cutting down any more trees.”

  “It’s a bit late for that!”

  “He just got a small fine.”

  “Oh, Mum,” I said. “It’s going to be awful here when the banger racing starts. If you’re determined to stay in Little Dipperton are you sure you don’t want to look at Sawmill Cottage?”

  Mum shook her head. “Why would Lady Edith allow banger racing here? Do you think she really is losing her marbles?”

  “Rupert seems to think so.”

  “Did you notice how she kept repeating herself?” asked Mum.

  “Yes, but afterward she winked at me.”

  “No!” Mum exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

  “Frankly, I think Lady Edith knows exactly what she’s doing. I think she just enjoys tormenting her son—rather like you enjoy tormenting me.”

  “I’m such a terrible mother,” said Mum. “I am surprised you still talk to me at all.”

  “Let’s eat,” I said. “I’d like to get started on the typing since we are going to the hairdresser this afternoon and, thanks to you, I’m going babysitting tonight.”

  “You said Harry was adorable,” said Mum. “Just watch your purse.”

  “You really think he’s a thief?” I asked.

  “So William implied as much. How much is one of those snuff boxes worth?”

  “It depends. I’ve known some to r
each six figures at auction.”

  “You should sell snuff boxes in your new shop.”

  “Our new shop,” I said. “Oh Mum, please come back to London. How can you be happy here with all the drama?”

  “But it’s all so exciting. Have you any idea how bored I used to be?” Mum picked up a sandwich, took one bite, and pulled a face. “Mayonnaise.”

  As we ate our lunch I studied the corkboard in more depth. Mum had written, “Seed pearls Elizabeth I,” on a Post-it next to EDITH ROSE B. NOVEMBER 10, 1927.

  “You were going to tell me about the pearls,” said Mum.

  “The official name is parure,” I said. “Very popular in Elizabethan times and then again, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were handed down from mother to daughter. Along with the necklace and earrings we saw in the portrait, there was often a corsage, a tiara, bracelets, rings, and brooches. Obviously far more valuable as a suite though I suspect it’s been split up by now. Pity.”

  I pointed to another Post-it: EDWARD RUPERT B. 1870 TITANIC. “Did you know that after the Titanic sank in 1912, Steiff made six hundred special mourning bears to commemorate the tragedy?” I said. “One sold for eighty thousand pounds at Christie’s.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Mum. “You were there.” She reached down and picked up a copy of the Daily Post from a basket at the foot of her chair. “William brings me the morning newspapers.” She opened it to Trudy Wynne’s wretched Star Stalkers column and pointed to a photo of me emerging from a janitor’s cupboard. Someone had Photoshopped my handbag and replaced it with a floor mop. The caption read NO MORE FAKES & TREASURES? RAPUNZEL SWAPS HER SPINNING WHEEL FOR CINDERELLA’S BROOM.

  “What on earth were you doing in the janitor’s cupboard?” said Mum.

  “Avoiding Trudy Wynne,” I said wearily.

  “Hell hath no fury, dear.” Mum reached over and patted my knee. “Just think that she wouldn’t be doing that if she didn’t feel you were a threat.”

  “Threat for what? He left her—and don’t start that again. I’m going to get my laptop.”

  Moments later I was sitting at Mum’s desk. “It’s going to be hard coming into the middle of the book when I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Just jump right on in,” said Mum. “All I need you to do is type it up.”

  “I might have comments.”

  “I don’t want your comments.”

  “How will I print out the pages?” I said. “Is there somewhere in Dartmouth? A printing place I can use?”

  “I have no idea.” Mum yawned. “Now you know why I don’t have a computer. With a typewriter, you just type, pull out the paper, and it’s done.”

  There was little point in arguing.

  Mum settled into the wingback armchair. “I’m going to take a nap.”

  I read the first sentence and cringed. Odors of sweat and love mingled with the smells of damp wood and sun-warmed grass. Inflamed with desire, Shelby the gamekeeper wanted to ravish her here, out in the open in broad daylight.

  “Mother,” I said. “This is so corny.” But she didn’t answer. I glanced over to find her eyes closed, snoring gently.

  I read on. He kissed and licked her salty neck, unable to get enough of her; not wanting to ever let her go. Lady Evelyn lay still, floating on a river of passion.

  “Leave the old earl,” he demanded. “Come away with me.”

  “I love you but you know I can’t,” she whispered. “I love my brother. It would break his heart.”

  “Are we destined to meet in secret forever?” he said angrily.

  She began to cry. “Don’t torment me, you know my life is here. I could never leave the Hall.”

  A horse whinnied close by and there was a shout. “Evelyn! Where are you? Are you in the spinney?”

  Lady Evelyn turned white. “It’s my brother! God help us.” She scrambled to her feet, her face ashen. “Quick, get Jupiter. We can never meet again.”

  Mum’s love scenes were steamy and extremely graphic yet they had a compelling sensuality about them that made me hot and bothered. No wonder Mum didn’t want Dad to know about this.

  My thoughts drifted to David and our somewhat predictable sex life. When we first met we couldn’t keep our hands off each other but not anymore.

  Reading Lady Evelyn’s adventures brought back those early days with David. Although I couldn’t quite recall “floating on a river of passion,” I vividly remembered a trip to New York City when we didn’t leave our hotel room for five whole days. What had changed between us?

  Mum awoke with a loud, grunt. “Goodness,” she said. “What’s the time?”

  “Time to go to your hair appointment.”

  “How are you getting on?”

  “I think I need to take a cold shower,” I said. “Seriously Mum, this is very hot stuff. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Everyone was young once.”

  As we shut the front door behind us and headed for the courtyard I said, “By the way, you may want to do a word search on the phrase peaked nipples. I counted five in forty pages.”

  “Pairs, I presume?” said Mum.

  We took my Golf. I opened the corrugated iron gate and drove on through Eric’s scrapyard. He was standing outside his caravan polishing the shiny red Massey Ferguson.

  “I bet he’s fiddling the books,” said Mum. “Do you know how much those tractors cost?”

  “No, but I suspect you do.”

  “Tax evasion,” Mum declared. “I’m sure of it. A nice hefty fine will take care of old beetle-brows.”

  “Just be careful and remember that what goes around, comes around.”

  “Tonight, we’re setting up that surveillance camera,” said Mum. “Pugsley won’t know what’s hit him.”

  Chapter Eleven

  We turned onto the narrow two-lane highway and joined a long stream of holiday traffic crawling toward Dartmouth.

  “This is painful,” I said. “We’ll never get there in time.”

  Finally we crested the brow of the hill where the magnificent building, home to the Britannia Royal Naval College, afforded a spectacular view of the fishing port below.

  “Agatha Christie had a summer home called Greenway just up the river from here,” said Mum. “I’m thinking of volunteering for the National Trust as a docent.”

  “I think you should wait until you’re looking better,” I said. “You don’t want to frighten the tourists.”

  As we inched our way down the hill, colorful bunting was strung between the houses and shops and large banners pronounced it was Dartmouth Royal Regatta Week. The River Dart was full of all manner of sailing vessels and the entire town was heaving with activity.

  Parked cars lined the narrow one-way streets. We passed three pay-and-display areas but each one said PARKING LOT FULL. Pedestrians spilled off the pavements and walked in the road without a care.

  “We’ll never park,” I grumbled as yet another wave of people ambled across in front of our car. I slammed my hand hard on the horn garnering more than a few glares. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! This is worse than London.”

  “No wonder!” Mum tapped the dashboard. “Where’s our lucky mascot? Where’s Jazzbo? Don’t you always keep him up here?”

  Mum’s comment on Harry being light-fingered hit me afresh. I hesitated, wondering if it was worth the lecture about being careful whom I loaned my things to and decided it wasn’t.

  “I left Jazzbo at the house,” I lied. “I thought he’d like to hang out with some of his old furry friends.”

  “Oh well, we’ll have to do without him. Turn right on Mayor’s Avenue.”

  “But won’t that take us away from the town?”

  “We’re parking in Marks and Sparks.”

  We passed the police station and then turned into Marks & Spencer. Apart from six disabled parking spots, it, too, was packed. “I knew this would be a waste of time.”

  “You have to trust me, dear.” Mum reached dow
n into her handbag and brought out a blue disabled parking placard. “There are some perks to frightening the tourists.”

  As we got out, a dirty Ford Focus zoomed into the empty space beside us, only narrowly missing my open door. Vera jumped out. Dressed in a short skirt and wedge heels, she, too, produced a blue disabled parking placard from her handbag and fixed it onto her rearview mirror.

  “Hmm, great minds think alike,” I said to Mum.

  “But I am disabled—”

  Vera slammed the door then spotted us. With a quick nod of acknowledgement, she walked off with an affected limp.

  “And Vera is not,” said Mum.

  I grabbed my tote bag and double-checked I’d brought my laptop. I made sure to stand close to Mum’s injury as we fought our way upstream to the hair salon in Zion Place.

  Tucked down a side street, nestled between the Old Curiosity Shop and an art gallery, the salon was called—unimaginatively—Snipxx.

  We walked in to be greeted by a sullen girl in her early twenties sporting leggings and a nose ring. A name tag pinned to a plunging V-neck top said STACEY and was embellished with star stickers.

  Vera was already seated at one of the washbasins that lined the rear wall with her eyes closed.

  “God! I hope I won’t get stuck next to her all afternoon,” groaned Mum. “If she mentions Pugsley once I’ll scream.”

  Mum was hustled into the changing room. I told her I’d collect her in an hour and a half and left the salon.

  I looked into the diamond-leaded window of the Old Curiosity Shop. Inside, a handful of browsers poked and prodded around but I sensed no one was really interested in buying, which was no surprise. A glance at the price tag for six beaded curtain tassels was double that of London.

  There was French country furniture, rich velvet and brocade fabrics, copper bedpans, and glass showcases offering the usual vintage jewelry, cut crystal paperweights, and bone china. A Steiff bear made of white mohair caught my eye.

  Behind the counter a petite woman in her early forties with a sleek black bob was perched on a stool leafing through a copy of Paris Match.

  “Excuse me, I wondered if I could look at the Steiff bear in the glass cabinet,” I asked.

  “It’s very expensive,” she said and continued to flip through her magazine.