Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 14

  “So I hear.” William went up a notch in my estimation. “What about your father?”

  “He’s always busy but he said he was going to take me to the RAF Museum in London for my birthday.”

  “You’ll love it. You’ll see real planes there—just like these models.”

  Harry beamed with excitement. “The Sopwith Camels and the Tiger Moths were built by Great-Uncle Rupert. This used to be his bedroom.” Harry gestured to a black-and-white framed portrait of a handsome pilot in flying suit and goggles. “I see him sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He likes to stand in the corner—oh!” Harry laughed with delight. “He’s there right now. Hello, Great-Uncle Rupert!”

  I spun around but of course there was no one there. “I can’t see anything.”

  Harry laughed again. “He’s right there! He’s giving you a salute.”

  “Well, say hello to Great-Uncle Rupert from me,” I said, happy to play along. “Are there any other ghosts here?”

  Harry grew serious. “The lady in blue with the funny big dress.”

  “Lady Frances?” I said. “Is she in one of the portraits downstairs wearing the pearl necklace?”

  Harry nodded. “Shall I tell you what happened to her?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure it was horrible.”

  “She was drowned by Cromwell’s men in the pond near the grotto,” said Harry with relish. “They held her under the water until her eyes bulged out and her head exploded—”

  “Okay Harry, that’s enough now,” I said. “Not something we want to think about before you go to sleep. Bed please.”

  Harry clambered into bed. “Can I have a story?”

  “Of course. Who usually reads you a story?”

  “Father sometimes, Gayla used to—and William. He makes it funny.”

  “You like William?”

  “Yes. He’s nice.”

  I sat on the end of his bed and we drank our milk and ate all the biscuits.

  “Who plays chess?” I asked.

  “Father, when he’s not too busy,” said Harry. “Gayla used to play but she never let me win. She wouldn’t let Father win, either.”

  “They played together?” I said, recalling Nicole, the antique dealer’s comment about Rupert’s wandering eye.

  “Yes, every night.”

  “Let’s have that story,” I said.

  Children’s adventure classics lined the shelves—The Famous Five by Enid Blyton, Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien, and of course, volumes of W. E. Johns and Biggles. My eye caught Polar, The Titanic Bear by Daisy Corning Stone Spedden.

  “What about this one?” I said.

  Harry pulled a face. “It’s about a boring old bear.”

  “I thought you liked bears,” I said. “Do you know the story?”

  “No.”

  I sat back on the edge of the bed and opened the book. “It’s about a very brave bear who belonged to a little boy who survived the sinking of the Titanic—”

  “I know about the Titanic. My great-great-grandfather died on the Titanic.”

  “The little boy in the story would have been the same age as you.”

  “Wait—” Harry flipped back the duvet and leapt out of bed. He lifted the lid of the pine blanket chest and dragged out a black bear.

  As I took in the bear’s red-rimmed eyes, my stomach turned right over.

  “Let me see,” I said, hardly daring to believe that this could be one of the rare Titanic mourning bears. The relatives of those who perished had purchased most of them. It was possible.

  “Granny says he’s named Edward after her grandfather,” said Harry. “He’s not very handsome, is he?”

  “That’s because he’s a hundred years old.”

  “As old as Granny?”

  “Probably not as old as Granny.” My mind was whirling with excitement. “Do you know if your grandmother has any other old toys?”

  Harry shrugged again. “I think Father has a train set somewhere but he won’t let me play with it.”

  To discover a private collection was a dream for any antique dealer and I made a mental note to talk to the dowager countess.

  “All right.” Harry sighed. “Let’s read about the stupid bear.”

  Fifteen minutes later I closed the book. “Did you like the story?”

  “It was sad,” said Harry. “The little boy dies anyway. And what happened to the bear?”

  “That will remain one of life’s mysteries.” I stood up and went over to the window, surprised that it was nine o’clock and still light outside.

  “Don’t make it dark,” said Harry. “I don’t like it.”

  I pulled the curtains closed but left a six-inch gap and switched on a night-light near the door.

  Harry wriggled down into bed. “Will it be dark in my dormitory at boarding school?”

  “Let’s hope not,” I said.

  “You are going to be in Gayla’s room, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” I propped the bear against his lamp on the bedside table. “Since Jazzbo Jenkins is still in enemy hands, Edward bear will keep watch tonight. We don’t want you kidnapped by Von Stalhein.”

  I kissed the top of Harry’s head, opened another connecting door, and stepped into the nanny’s room.

  It was furnished with a 1940’s satinwood bedroom ensemble—a single bed, vanity, and dresser. Regarded as “cheap” furniture before the war, a complete set now could fetch a high price at auction—although the mattress left a lot to be desired. I sat down and practically sank to the floor. Vera had not changed the duvet and sheets yet. They still bore traces of Gayla’s musky perfume. Draped over a wooden Victorian towel rail were two thin pink towels.

  On the matching satinwood side table was a small color television. A comfy armchair sat next to a Victorian fireplace that now housed a hideous three-bar electric fire. I turned the television on and discovered it had just four channels.

  Gayla would have been lonely living here in the middle of nowhere. It must have been rather bleak. The Honeychurch clan didn’t seem exactly warm and welcoming and I thought it likely that Vera would regard the young girl as a rival rather than a friend. Would she even frame her for theft?

  Since Shawn had been concerned with Gayla’s safety, I was surprised that her bedroom had not been searched yet.

  A rattan wastepaper basket was filled with discarded magazines—and surprise—a copy of Gypsy Temptress. But what intrigued me most was a small bamboo novelty box containing an assortment of random objects—a mechanical pencil, a box of matches from Gino’s Italian restaurant in Plymouth, a blue coat-check ticket, a single dead red rose, and most revealing of all, a lipstick kiss imprint on the corner of a crumpled white linen handkerchief with the initials R.E.H.

  They were the discarded trophies of an infatuated young woman and the only reason I knew was that I, too, had been that young woman. Not with David, but with another man long ago. Gayla had called Rupert “wicked” and I suspected it was because she felt she had been led on and then unceremoniously dumped.

  Knowing full well that Vera would clean this room, Gayla must have deliberately left these items to be discovered and hoped to cause trouble. I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad—proof that she was okay or evidence of something more sinister.

  I wondered if Lavinia would divorce Rupert for this indiscretion but guessed it was probably one of many. Rupert had leered at me, too.

  With time to kill, I settled into the armchair and flicked through Gypsy Temptress.

  She knew she would miss the wind in her hair, the feel of bare earth on her feet and the sounds of birds singing their evening song. She’d miss the warmth of a nighttime campfire and drifting to sleep beneath a canopy of stars. Would she be happy giving all this up for him? Would her kin ever forgive her? “I love you,” he whispered as he nuzzled her neck, sending quivers of delight down, down and into her innermost secret
place …

  “Good grief, Mother,” I muttered. “Innermost secret place?”

  Turning to the back cover I learned that the year was 1910 and it would appear that Lily’s family ran a traveling boxing emporium and it was rumored that they were really racketeers. An undercover agent who worked for the king was sent to investigate. Naturally he fell in love with Lily and naturally the consequences were fatal hence the birth of the Star-Crossed Lovers Series.

  I read for a good hour or more. There was a lot of quivering going on in Gypsy Temptress but again, to my surprise, it was well written and I found myself completely hooked. It was only the scream of a fox outside that snapped me back to the present. I had no idea what the time was, having left my iPhone in my tote bag in the kitchen. I checked on Harry who was fast asleep, and hurried downstairs to fetch it.

  The empty corridors were dark and ominous. Half the lightbulbs had burned out. I made my way toward the galleried landing and tried to forget Harry’s Great-Uncle Rupert and Lady Frances in the blue dress. I had never believed in ghosts. It was Mum who claimed she could read palms and tell fortunes in the tea leaves although Dad and I never put her to the test. The house was creepy though and I was glad to reach the relative familiarity of the grand staircase and descend to the main hall.

  Shafts of moonlight spilled through the domed atriums casting eerie shadows over the suits of armor. There were doors everywhere and I couldn’t remember which one was the kitchen.

  I tried the first on the left, flipped the light switch, and gave a squeak of surprise. Guarding the entrance was a life-sized stuffed rearing polar bear poised to attack.

  The room housed a small museum filled with a varied collection of antiquities and artifacts, presumably accumulated by the explorers of the family. There were African relics, rare ostrich and osprey eggs, maritime ship models, and scrimshaw. Butterflies and insects were displayed in glass cases. Arranged around the room were unusual curios including a nineteenth-century Polyphon music box, armadillo handbag, and a stuffed giraffe head. David would have a field day in here.

  Returning to the hall the next door revealed a downstairs loo that was far more elaborately painted than the one in the Carriage House.

  Framed “loyalty” portraits and photographs hung on each wall starting from the 1880s and spanning eighty-odd years. There were formal tableaus of the family and staff in uniform through the decades. Another set of photographs showed Bushman’s Traveling Boxing Emporium set up in the parkland in front of the Hall. There was something oddly familiar about these that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  In each of the annual photographs the same group of disheveled-looking children and youths flexed their muscles and posed for the camera.

  Just ten minutes ago I’d been reading about a traveling boxing emporium in Gypsy Temptress. I hadn’t even heard of them up until an hour ago and yet my mother obviously had.

  “I told you I destroyed them!” Someone was standing right outside the bathroom door. I froze—in a complete dilemma as to whether to reveal my presence.

  “I didn’t ask you to destroy them, Eric.” I recognized Rupert’s clipped voice immediately. “I told you to give them back to me.”

  “I—I—couldn’t. Vera turned up—”

  “Vera! What the hell was she doing there?” Rupert’s voice had gone up at least ten decibels.

  “You know how jealous she gets. She saw my car parked by the gate and stopped.”

  “She saw you with Gayla?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Eric. “I calmed her down.”

  “Vera will tell Mother, you bloody fool,” shouted Rupert. “I can’t trust you to do anything right.”

  “It’s not my fault her ladyship sold the Carriage House,” Eric exclaimed. “I’ve tried to get rid of that Stanford woman but she’s stubborn.”

  Anger surged in my chest. Mum had been right all along about Eric’s intentions but I’d had no idea that Rupert was involved, too.

  “The Stanford woman doesn’t matter anymore,” said Rupert.

  “You mean, she agreed to move into Sawmill Cottage, after all?” Eric said hopefully.

  “It’s not about Sawmill Cottage, you idiot!” Rupert yelled. “If Mother finds out the truth you can forget all about our agreement. It’s over.”

  “What about our investors?” Eric asked. “What about Baker?”

  “I told you to wait but you wouldn’t listen.”

  “I’ll have to tell him something.” Eric sounded worried. “What if he asks for the money back?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Get your hands off me—” There were sounds of a scuffle followed by a thunderous crash of metal, as if a dozen drum sets had been thrown into a hollow bunker. “Out! Out!” yelled Rupert.

  The voices receded and I heard a door slam hard, leaving me shaken and more than a little anxious. The fact that Eric had spoken to Gayla and that Rupert was upset about it confirmed my suspicions that they were all somehow involved in her disappearance.

  But I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Should I tell Shawn? But what if he and Rupert were really the best of friends? Everyone here was so interconnected.

  I counted to fifty before checking the coast was clear and emerged cautiously from the bathroom. The hall was deserted. I’d been right about the armor. It was scattered across the black-and-white marble floor in a gazillion pieces. Cropper certainly had his work cut out for him in the morning.

  I found the kitchen easily but promptly bumped straight into Rupert. “Katherine!”

  “Sorry. You’re back! Hello,” I stammered. “I didn’t hear you come in because I was upstairs. Just got here actually to—” I gestured to the tote bag I’d left on the kitchen chair. “Just ran down to grab that. Harry is sleeping soundly by the way.”

  But Rupert didn’t seem bothered by my garbled explanation. He looked tired and drawn and just gave a brief nod. “Thank you. You may go now.”

  “I’ll just pop back upstairs,” I said. “I left my book and of course I’ll check on Harry again.”

  “Thank you. I will be up shortly.”

  I set off, aware that Rupert must have decided to escort me after all. In fact, he followed so closely behind that I started to feel a little freaked out. When I reached the landing, I felt his cool breath on my neck and spun around. “Rupert—” I gasped in confusion.

  Rupert was nowhere to be seen. I was completely alone.

  A cold rush of air passed on by. Every nerve ending tingled and the hair on the back of my neck literally stood up.

  “Rupert?” I called out again and hurried to look over the gallery banister into the hall below. It was empty.

  Dad used to say we should fear the living, not the dead but I was thoroughly spooked. I ran to the nanny’s room and grabbed Gypsy Temptress. Took a peek at Harry—who was snuggled up to Edward bear—and ran.

  No wonder Harry was afraid of the dark. If I’d just encountered his Great-Uncle Rupert I didn’t like it one bit.

  The evening’s revelations had left me unsettled. Now, more than ever, I was determined to take my mother away from here—by force, if necessary.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I walked quickly through the pinewoods, anxious to get back to the safety of the Carriage House.

  Reaching the latch-gate, I slammed into Vera coming from the opposite direction.

  She was hysterical, taking in great gulps of air and sobbing her heart out. The light from the full moon shone down on a face, blotchy with tears and streaked with mascara. Her dress was plastered in mud and she carried her leopard print Louboutin shoes in one hand.

  My stomach turned over. Judging from what I’d overheard at the Hall, Eric and Vera must have just gotten into a fight. “Good God, are you hurt?” I asked.

  Vera shook her head. “Where is he? Where’s my Eric?” Her voice was slurred. She was clearly drunk.

  “He was at the Hall with Rupert,”
I said.

  Vera poked my chest with her finger. “You’re after him now, aren’t you?” she said. “Just like that Russian tart.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Calm down.” Then I remembered. “Weren’t you and Eric supposed to have a romantic dinner date tonight?”

  “Eric didn’t show up.” Vera dissolved into another crying jag. “I sat there in that bloody expensive restaurant like a bloody idiot for an hour with everyone staring at me.”

  She sank onto a tree stump and flung her Louboutins to the ground. Her despair was so heartbreaking I actually felt sorry for her.

  “Perhaps you went to the wrong restaurant?” I suggested.

  “I’m not that stupid.”

  “Or got the wrong day? I’ve done that myself before,” I said. “Did you check that Eric made a reservation?”

  “Yes—no, wait, I didn’t,” said Vera, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “I just walked in and sat down at a corner table. He’s always late.”

  “Why don’t we call the restaurant—it’s probably still open.”

  “I don’t have the number.”

  “It was Crumb, wasn’t it?”

  Vera nodded. “Bloody stupid name for a restaurant.”

  I brought out my iPhone, Googled the number, and called them. “They said the reservation is for tomorrow night.”

  “Oh, God,” she wailed. “I’m such a fool.”

  “All sorted,” I said. “You see? And Eric need never know what happened.”

  “I’ve ruined everything. Oh, God. Everything.”

  If this was what passion looked like, I wasn’t interested. “Of course you haven’t.”

  “Eric will kill me,” Vera said in a small voice. “Once he sees his precious tractor, he’ll kill me.”

  “Tractor? Why? Whatever have you done?”

  “I’ll go home and get my Wellies,” said Vera. “Yes—that’s what I’ll do. And William. He’ll help me find the keys, I know he will.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. “Please don’t tell anyone about this.” And she fled before I could say another word.

  Back at the Carriage House I discovered that Mum had locked me out. I hammered on the front door for what seemed like ages.