Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  “I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Leave me alone, please.”

  Mum was by my side in seconds. “I’m your mother. I know when something is wrong.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “So stupid. It was all so long ago. It’s not even about Valentine!” I exclaimed. “I’m not even attracted to him!”

  Mum gently pulled me down beside her and we sat together on the stairs. She put her arm around my shoulders and I felt a tear trickle down my cheek. What was wrong with everyone tonight? All these tears!

  “It’s bringing it all back for you, isn’t it?” said Mum gently.

  “So stupid,” I said again.

  Jem was my very first boyfriend and someone who, at age seventeen, was the love of my life. He had been on his way to pick me up on his motorbike but never arrived. He and I had had a childish argument earlier on the phone because Dad had forbidden me to ride pillion and Jem told me to choose between him and my family. I chose Jem of course because I was young and in love and couldn’t imagine life without him. I wrote my parents a note, packed a tiny bag, and sneaked out of the house planning to run away. For two hours I waited for Jem at the bottom of the road but he never came. I thought he must have changed his mind and slunk back home to face the music. Dad was furious and forbade me ever to see him again. The first I knew of Jem’s fatal accident was two days later when his mother called mine.

  “I have the same feeling of foreboding, Mum,” I whispered.

  “Then we’ll go to the police first thing in the morning,” she said briskly. “Come on. Let’s have a laugh. Walk of Shame: Celebrity Family Secrets Revealed is on in ten minutes.”

  “You certainly know how to snap me out of my misery,” I said dryly. “I hate that program.”

  Walk of Shame: Celebrity Family Secrets Revealed was a reality TV show hosted by none other than my nemesis, David’s estranged wife Trudy Wynne. The goal was to deliberately humiliate celebrities by exposing the skeletons in the family closet. It was mean-spirited and I flatly refused to watch it.

  “How would you like it if your past was broadcast to gazillions of viewers for everyone to laugh at?”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Mum said. “It’s all scripted.”

  “I’ve told you it’s not. Trudy would have a field day with me and all your dark little secrets—haven’t you ever thought of that?”

  “So that’s why you don’t want Alfred here,” said Mum. “You’re afraid that it’ll come out that you’re related to a criminal.”

  “But I’m not related,” I said, exasperated.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Well … maybe Trudy will expose the boxing emporium,” I said. “Oh! And find out that you’re really Krystalle Storm who is fond of taking little trips to the Channel Islands to smuggle money into the country.”

  Mum’s jaw dropped. “Well. Put like that, I suppose I wouldn’t like it. But darling, seriously, the celebrities she has on there are really awful. They’re just asking to be humiliated.”

  I got up. “Let’s agree to differ. Everyone has a right to their privacy.”

  “If you say so.” Mum paused. “But at least you are sounding a little brighter.”

  “I’m okay, honestly.”

  “Dinner is at eight. Alfred wants to cook.”

  “What are we having? Porridge?”

  Back in the sanctuary of my bedroom I sank onto the bed and wondered whether I should respond to Valentine’s brief text since he didn’t mention his walking cane. I decided it was better to let the whole thing go. Maybe he’d still come to the auction and I’d be able to return it there. I didn’t want to hang on to it. Maybe Alfred was right. Perhaps there was a weird energy about the wretched thing.

  My mind turned to Mum and her five thousand pounds. I’d have to resume my search tomorrow. Surely Mr. Chips had favorite places where he liked to bury his treasures. Perhaps Edith would know where they might be. But there was something I had to do first.

  I returned to the landing and listened. Cries of “Snap!” and shrieks of laughter were coming from the kitchen. Who on earth still plays Snap? But it was good to hear Mum so happy.

  I found the loft hatch pole behind Mum’s bedroom door and the wooden ladder laying flat underneath her bed.

  Quickly, I opened the hatch in the ceiling, primed the ladder, and heaved myself up. Mum had left a flashlight tucked in a cleft between the eaves. Plywood boards had been laid over the joists. It was horribly dangerous. Just one slip and Mum could easily fall straight through the ceiling.

  The eaves sloped right to the floor. Right at the back was a leather suitcase with presto combination locks. I carefully crawled toward it. Making sure to keep my head low and my knees on the boards, I dragged the suitcase out into the middle.

  I knew it was wrong but I just had to know what was in there.

  A sudden burst of laughter reached my ears followed by a Native American war-whoop from Alfred. Mind made up, I keyed in the date of Mum and Dad’s wedding day. The locks popped right open—Mum was so predictable.

  I opened up the lid and played the flashlight over the contents inside.

  “Oh. My. God!”

  The suitcase was packed with bundles and bundles of twenty, fifty, and hundred-pound bills. Tucked in a pocket at the side was a roll of empty blue self-sealing plastic bags secured with a rubber band.

  Mum had definitely made more than one or two trips to the Channel Islands. I couldn’t even begin to guess how much money was in there.

  Her writing endeavors were seriously lucrative and I felt proud of her.

  But, as I closed the suitcase, secured the locks, and pushed it back under the eaves, I began to realize just why Mum had been so freaked out about my going to the police. It was just as well that Dad never found out. No wonder he’d banned Alfred from Mum’s life—and now Alfred was back.

  I felt perplexed. How could I ever leave her and go back to London now?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning my bruised face had turned an ugly yellow but the swelling had gone down. Under great sufferance, I had allowed Alfred to administer a gypsy remedy the night before. This consisted of Mrs. Cropper’s raw steak slathered in a disgusting smelling herbal paste. I had to lie on the floor for an hour.

  Alfred was making a supreme effort to ingratiate himself. The night before he had cooked a rather delicious dinner, washed up, and then proceeded to massage Mum’s feet.

  I’d never seen my mother so cheerful and realized she probably had been lonely. In fact, I wondered if she’d been lonely for most of her married life.

  Mum claimed that Dad’s job as a tax inspector had prevented her from forging strong friendships that now, I didn’t believe for a minute. True, they weren’t the most social people. Dad had his allotment and the Rotary Club and Mum had her headaches that I now knew, of course, was her cover for writing her books.

  As I popped my laptop, mobile phone, and my lucky Jazzbo mascot into my tote bag, I decided I would stop in at the police station this morning—just for my own peace of mind. Someone might have turned in the money.

  My good humor dissolved the moment I got downstairs. Wedged in the narrow hallway with only a foot to spare, sat the sofa with what remained of Alfred’s makeshift bed.

  Alfred, dressed in a pair of Dad’s old work overalls with the sleeves and legs rolled up, emerged from the sitting room carrying a box of books. He dumped it on top of the duvet where it promptly slid off. All the books fell out onto the floor.

  “Morning! Glad to see your face is much better,” Alfred said cheerfully as he kicked the books under the sofa. “Look at her face, Iris.”

  Mum appeared holding a standard lamp and set it down at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Come and see,” said Mum.

  I followed her into the sitting room and stifled my dismay. Furniture had been moved into the center of the room and covered with old sheets. Boxes that Mum and
I had unpacked just weeks ago were repacked with knickknacks. Two black dustbin liners bulged with the curtains Mum had removed from the windows.

  “We’re clearing out as much as we can,” said Mum happily. “Alfred’s going to decorate.”

  “I thought he was going to work for Edith at the stables,” I said. “That’s a full-time job in itself.”

  “That’s not until Saturday,” said Mum. “Today is Wednesday. Anyway, he thinks he can do it in a day.”

  “A day!” I said. “I doubt it.”

  “There she goes again,” said Alfred, winking at Mum. “Always thinking the worst.”

  “But what about preparing the walls?” I exclaimed. “The wallpaper needs to come off for a start and that’s a big job. Who knows what their condition is like! They’re probably rotten and will need Polyfilla.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Alfred joked.

  “And look at windows.” I pointed to the paint-peeled frames. “They’ll need stripping and sanding right down. The skirting boards, too.”

  “Rubbish,” said Alfred. “They look alright to me.”

  “I’ll dig out Frank’s paint tray and brushes,” said Mum. “I knew they’d come in useful.”

  “Dad would take weeks to decorate a room even this small,” I protested.

  “Katherine! For goodness’ sake! Stop whining.” Mum glowered. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?”

  “If we can get past the obstacle course, yes.”

  The Carriage House had an L-shaped floor plan with the front door opening into a narrow hallway and flight of stairs. The sitting room was on the right. At the far end stood the kitchen and a small dining room that was still full of unpacked boxes from Mum’s old house. Entrance to the carriageway itself was through a door situated in the elbow of the L. As well as room for four carriages, the stalls could house twenty-four horses. There was also a downstairs loo and a grooms’ sitting room with a winding staircase leading to sleeping quarters above.

  Mum and I squeezed past the sofa, past an empty bookcase and upended coffee table, and went into the kitchen.

  “Do you want to live in this mess?” I asked.

  “I’m used to it,” said Mum. “Don’t you remember how your father was always decorating?”

  I remembered alright. Our house always smelled of fresh paint and turpentine. The moment Dad finished decorating one room in his favorite shade of magnolia he’d start on the next. Our home was immaculate and I knew Mum liked it that way.

  “What happened to the painters, Messrs. Baxter and Sons?” I said. “Didn’t you pay them a deposit?”

  “Alfred insists,” said Mum. “It’s his way of saying thank you. Katherine are you—”

  “Yes. I am going to look for your money.”

  “Maybe Eric picked it up—or Patty?” said Mum. “Mr. Chips is always hanging around that end of the estate.”

  “It’s more likely to be down a rabbit hole.”

  “Can’t you ask Patty?”

  I gave a heavy sigh. “Fine. Yes. Okay.”

  “I’m supposed to give Benedict the retainer today—”

  “Don’t you think you should wait for him to give you an estimate of how much this is all going to cost first anyway?”

  “I trust him.”

  “He’s talking about hiring a helicopter,” I said.

  “I know. It’s an excellent idea. I’ve never been in a helicopter before.”

  “Have you consulted your business manager about this?”

  Mum hesitated. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Alfred is bound to find out about your … donation … especially when he gets involved in the campaign.”

  “Oh.” Mum’s face fell.

  “And you’ll obviously need to get more money from Jersey,” I said slyly. Judging from what I’d seen in Mum’s suitcase she wouldn’t need to go there for a very long time.

  “What do you think I should do?” Mum said.

  “Why don’t you stall until you’ve talked to Alfred?” I said. “Tell Benedict you can’t get the money quite yet. Lavinia said she had a trust fund. Let her part with her money, first.”

  Mum gave a heavy sigh. “Alright. I’ll phone her ladyship and tell her I’ve hit a snag.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later.”

  “Oh—wait.” Mum picked up a letter from the dresser. “This came for you this morning.”

  I looked at the handwriting and postmark on the envelope. “It’s from Harry,” I said. “He must have written it the moment he got back to school.”

  Harry’s letter was very short and to the point.

  Stanford, send help quickly. The guards are cruel. My fellow prisoners are spies. My bed is hard and my pillow is lumpy. I hate it here. Biggles. P.S. Please look after Thunder and the mice.

  “Poor kid,” I said, handing Mum the letter. “I wish—”

  “Don’t get involved, Katherine,” said Mum. “He’s not your child. Just write a bright and breezy letter back.”

  I knew Mum was right but it still bothered me.

  We clambered over the furniture and boxes and made our way to the front door.

  “Where are you off to now?” Mum demanded.

  “I told you. I’m going to find your money.”

  “Shh!” Mum exclaimed, gesturing to the sitting room. “Keep your voice down.”

  “And I’m also going to Dartmouth,” I said. “I didn’t get there yesterday as you know. The estate agent e-mailed me about that property in Shoreditch.”

  “Did you hear that, Alfred? Shoreditch!” Mum shouted. “Can you imagine anyone wanting to live in Shoreditch?”

  Alfred peered out of the sitting room. “Stone the crows! People would give their right arm to move out of the East End, not in.”

  “I think you’ll find things have changed in the past ten years,” I said. “The shop is close to Spitalfields Market.”

  “Spitalfields Market!” Alfred shook his head in presumed disbelief. “Bloody hell. Jack the Ripper’s old stomping ground! What is the world coming to?”

  Telling Mum I’d pick her up at noon for the auction, I made my escape.

  It was another blustery day with clouds scudding across a watery blue sky. On the horizon was a rainbow.

  I remembered persuading Dad to chase a rainbow once. I was eight. We were on holiday in the Lake District. Mum had one of her “headaches” so it was just the two of us that afternoon. Even at eight I knew there couldn’t be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow but Dad humored me and off we went. At every hill we crested, there it was before us, a spectrum of colors of visible light—an illusion, always tantalizingly out of reach. Yet even still, I hoped we could catch it and I would be the first person alive to prove the legend was true.

  I made a wish. Please let me find Mum’s money.

  As I drew closer to Bridge Cottage, I recognized Benedict’s Prius parked a little farther up the hill next to the gate Edith and I had ridden through yesterday.

  I parked my own car outside Patty’s cottage. Heaving the wicket gate aside, I noticed a black dustbin liner had been dumped in the corner and there, carelessly balled up on the top was a flash of blue plastic.

  My stomach turned right over. I snatched it up, dismayed to discover the bag was empty. It was definitely my mother’s.

  I knew that Patty had been hiding something although it occurred to me that she wouldn’t have known that the money belonged to my mother. And given that she’d just lost her own, it was horribly awkward.

  I rapped smartly on the door half-hoping she wouldn’t be at home. In less than a minute, the door flew open.

  For the very first time ever, Patty smiled.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Come in,” she said and stood back to let me pass.

  “I just stopped by to see how you are.”

  Attired in another hand-knitted outfit—this time a garish turquoise, I stepped into what I could only describe as a hoarder’s paradise.
My senses were immediately assaulted by the smell of cabbage, cooked bacon, and damp.

  “Is that the wonderful Katherine?” came a familiar voice from behind the door.

  “Oh! Hello.” I was startled. Although I’d seen Benedict’s Prius, I hadn’t expected to find him visiting Patty.

  “Your face looks so much better this morning,” said Benedict. “It looks like we’ll be able to forge ahead with our little photo shoot on Friday, after all. Shall we go through to the kitchen, Patty?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” said Patty. “This way.”

  Patty had lived with her mother in a dingy two-up, two-down cottage not helped by the fact that the curtains were partially drawn at the front window, preventing what little light managed to find its way through to this depressing location.

  Now I realized why Harry had called them “bag ladies.” Furniture, clothing in black plastic dustbin liners, boxes, suitcases, and just an array of useless objects were piled high around the room and covered every available surface. Set against the wall was a rather nice Victorian credenza that was virtually swallowed by stacks of newspapers including the Daily Post and the Dipperton Deal. I caught a glimpse of a dusky pink velveteen sofa underneath bolts of curtain material and yarns of wool. A narrow pathway had been created that passed by an open latch door—leading to upstairs—and ended in the kitchen.

  “Lead the way, Patty,” said Benedict, shooting me a look that clearly implied he, too, was as horrified as I was at Patty’s living conditions.

  The kitchen was marginally better. Along the back wall was an ancient coal-fueled Rayburn that couldn’t have been working because the cottage was freezing cold.

  Next to the Rayburn were two tattered armchairs—one held a bag of knitting—and a small table holding the TV remote and a pile of catalogs. On the kitchen counter sat an ancient television set broadcasting QVC, the home shopping channel. Judging by the numerous boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner, someone had been a keen shopper. Under the counter stood a fridge and a washing machine that was speckled with mildew. On top was an electric kettle next to a tray with two chipped mugs, a box of PG Tips, and an open bottle of milk.