Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  “Here. Take them—and you can tell him that we disposed of the placards that he left in the boot.”

  “The placards?” I said sharply.

  “We had to jimmy the lock open,” said Susan. “Another expense.”

  “Did the placards say HS3 CROSSES FROM HERE?”

  “Is that something to do with the new railway line?” said Laurel.

  “Yes.”

  “We thought so. I’m against it, we’re all against it, aren’t we, Susan,” said Laurel. “And I thought, good for him for taking them down.”

  I didn’t want to explain that it had been Valentine who had put them up.

  “The placards were broken, weren’t they, Susan?” said Laurel. “All smashed—”

  “We chucked them in the skip out the back. If you want, I’ll show them to you.”

  “They were like that when we found them, honest,” said Laurel.

  “You’re welcome to take them,” said Susan.

  I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  “Do you want to take his gloves?” said Susan.

  I suppressed a sigh. “Yes. Of course.”

  There was an awkward pause until Laurel blurted, “Susan took the two bottles of wine. It looked really expensive.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, that was payment for the cracked headlight,” said Susan coldly.

  Now I was concerned. Valentine would definitely have been able to carry the wine on the train back to London.

  I hesitated for a moment. “Just one more thing. How did Valentine get here on Monday when he came to pick up the car? Did he come in a taxi?”

  Laurel shook her head. “He came in on Saturday afternoon,” she said. “He was a walk-in. I can tell you where he was staying if you like.” She shot Susan a smug look. “We like to get a local address when someone pays cash.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I know he was staying at the Hare & Hounds in Little Dipperton.”

  “Oh no,” Laurel exclaimed. “He definitely said the Dart Marina Hotel. He asked for the directions.”

  “You’re sure?” I said sharply.

  “Oh yes. Why? Is something wrong?” Laurel’s face was creased with worry.

  “No, not at all,” I said.

  Promising I wouldn’t mention the wine but I would ask Valentine for the car keys if I did see him again, I headed back to my car. If nothing else, the mystery of the missing placards had been solved.

  As I opened my car door, a scrap of paper fell from the sale catalog and fluttered to the ground.

  It was a newspaper cutting of me taken on my last day at Fakes & Treasures dated three months ago. “Honeychurch Hall” had been scribbled in the margin in black marker pen.

  I stared at it in confusion. Mum and I had met Valentine quite by accident on Monday afternoon down at Cavalier Copse. I thought back to Harry when he was in his tree house and claimed that Valentine had been “waiting”—that was Harry’s exact word—for Mum and me to arrive. Had our meeting been intentional? But if so, how had Valentine known we would have been there picking sloes? Even more alarming, how had he known I was staying at Honeychurch Hall?

  You’re being ridiculous, Kat! I was becoming paranoid. I also now had his wretched gloves to add to his walking cane. Maybe I would give them to Benedict after all and be done with it. I had much bigger problems of my own—Mum’s stolen money.

  It was time to talk to a professional.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The tiny police station that “operated Monday to Friday 9 to 5” was on the outskirts of Dartmouth.

  I stepped into the sparsely furnished waiting area comprised of an uncomfortable-looking bench seat and two hard chairs.

  The counter that divided the room was empty but next to an old-fashioned bell was a plaque saying, YOUR DESK SERGEANT TODAY IS: MALCOLM.

  I hit the bell.

  There was the sound of a loo flushing but instead of Malcolm emerging from the door behind the counter, I was startled to see it was Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper. He was holding a magazine called Railway Roundup. Shawn looked embarrassed.

  “You caught me on the hop. Malcolm’s got a doctor’s appointment,” he said by way of explaining his presence. “We’re short-staffed. As usual.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “How was the recital?” I said suddenly.

  “Very much what you’d expect from a class of five-year-olds,” said Shawn. “Off-key.”

  “You’re a good father,” I said and I meant it.

  “What happened to your face?” Shawn peered closely.

  “I fell off a horse.”

  He reached out and touched it gently. For a split second our eyes met and I found myself blushing. “If you speak to your grandmother before I do, please thank her for the steak.”

  Shawn sprang back. “Of course. Yes. Definitely. Good old Gran and her remedies.” He flashed me a smile. “What can I help you with today?”

  “I’m in a dilemma and I need your advice.”

  “Go on…”

  “It’s about Patty,” I said. “I know that she worked for your grandmother at the Hall for a while.”

  “I don’t think Gran has quite recovered from the ordeal,” said Shawn. “Let’s say that Patty can be rather challenging.”

  “Would you know why she was let go? Was she honest?”

  Shawn seemed a bit taken aback by the question. “I think it was more a clash of the titans, so to speak.”

  “We call it creative differences in the entertainment world,” I said. “So basically, they didn’t get along.”

  “It wasn’t that. Patty’s priority was taking care of Joyce,” said Shawn. “And Gran got fed up with her leaving early or just not showing up at all—”

  “What will Patty do for money?” I said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I know she used to do the car boot circuit with her mother,” I said. “But … have you ever been inside Bridge Cottage?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It’s more of a hovel. There’s no central heating.”

  “According to Gran, they lived frugally,” said Shawn. “Joyce didn’t believe in heating or wasting money. Why?”

  I began to have second thoughts but after a moment’s hesitation plunged in. “I’ve lost some money and I have a feeling that Patty might have found it.”

  “Presumably, you’ve asked her?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She denied it.”

  “What makes you think she found it?”

  “It’s a bit of a long story but Mr. Chips—”

  “The Jack Russell?”

  “Is there another Mr. Chips?” I joked but Shawn just looked stern.

  “Carry on—”

  “He found a small packet of money and ran off with it.”

  “I see.” Shawn stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Obviously you gave chase?”

  “Of course, but he was too quick for me.”

  “Perhaps he buried it?”

  “I wish he had but—” I hesitated again. “I found the packet in one of the black bin liners outside Patty’s cottage. It was empty.”

  “And you’re sure it’s the same packet that Mr. Chips had taken?”

  “Positive,” I said. “It’s very distinctive.”

  “So you’re saying that either Patty removed the money—”

  “Or Mr. Chips spent it.” I laughed but he didn’t.

  “This is a very serious accusation,” he said. “How much money are we talking about?”

  I cleared my throat. “Around five thousand pounds.”

  Shawn’s eyebrows practically disappeared under his hairline. “Around five thousand pounds or exactly five thousand pounds?”

  “Around. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “I’d certainly know if I had lost five thousand pounds.” Shawn regarded me with suspicion. “So it’s your word against Patty’s?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Shawn frowned. “Can y
ou describe this small packet?”

  “I can show it to you.”

  “You have it with you?”

  “Of course I do.” I pulled it out of my tote bag and was about to hand it over but Shawn raised his hand.

  “Wait a moment.”

  He disappeared through the door behind him and returned wearing a pair of disposable gloves and carrying a box of plastic wrap.

  “Really,” I said. “Does it have to be this big thing? I just want you to ask her.”

  “It is a big thing.” Shawn neatly tore off a section of plastic wrap but he couldn’t get it to lay flat on the counter. He scrunched it into a ball and pulled off another piece.

  “Do you want some help?” I said.

  “No. I’ve got it.” This time Shawn managed to smooth it out flat. “Give that to me.”

  He carefully laid the bag onto the plastic wrap and studied it. “There’s some wording on the bottom. But I can’t see what it says.”

  “Here!” I took my jeweler’s loupe from my tote bag and handed it to him. We were leaning quite close together—he on one side of the counter, and me on the other. I was aware of a smell of bananas—something I always noticed when I was around Shawn.

  With his head bent over the plastic bag, I saw that he had the most gorgeous, tousled hair—almost boyish in the way it fell forward. It reminded me of a passage from Forbidden—one I knew by heart having typed it up for my mother a gazillion times.

  “Lady Amelia trembled violently as she sat on the rough-hewn chair in her gamekeeper’s cottage. It was all she could do not to run her fingers through Shelby’s hair as he kneeled at her feet, his hands cradling her injured foot. ‘’Tis but a sprain,’ Lady Amelia protested but he took no notice and wouldn’t let go. Shelby was so close to her that she could smell his manly scent—a mix of musk, pine and earth that sent her senses reeling. Lady Amelia was filled with confusion. He was not of her class nor even of her kin…”

  “What do you think?” said Shawn, snapping me back to reality. “Are you feeling alright?”

  “Yes! Fine!” I exclaimed. “Sorry.”

  He handed me the loupe. “Take a look at that.”

  I did so and my heart sank. I hadn’t even noticed the miniscule line of print running along the bottom of the bag.

  “It says Jersey National Bank, St. Helier,” said Shawn with a degree of satisfaction. “Yes, this is definitely a bank-issued money bag from the Channel Islands.”

  “Oh, really? I had no idea.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Do you bank in the Channel Islands?”

  “No,” I said and this was true, I didn’t.

  “Were the notes inside this bag from the Channel Islands?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “My mother went on a short trip to Jersey—one of those mini breaks. She probably got the bag when she was there. Like a souvenir?”

  Shawn’s eyes narrowed and he looked stern. “So the money that was in this blue bag does not belong to you?”

  “The money belongs to my mother,” I said. “You know. I think I’m wasting your time. I’m sure it will turn up.”

  “Tell me exactly what Patty said,” Shawn demanded.

  “She denied it and claimed that anyone could have found the money and discarded the bag in her rubbish.”

  “That area is very popular with ramblers,” said Shawn. “Patty could be right.”

  Shawn bent down to retrieve a very heavy—judging by a pained groan—incident ledger. He opened it, flicking over to a clean, empty page and picked up his pencil.

  I was dismayed. “Do we have to record this?”

  “Of course we do,” said Shawn. “I will go and speak to Patty but as I mentioned, it really is her word against yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chuffah-chuffah-chuffah-chuffah.

  “I think that’s your phone,” I said. “The Scarborough Spa Express from Wakefield Westgate to Ardsley Tunnel?”

  Shawn cracked a smile. “I’m impressed!”

  Of course I’d heard the ringtone before and in this case, once heard—never forgotten.

  Shawn fumbled in his pocket, as the chuffing ringtone grew louder, reaching its crescendo with a loud whoop, whoop, whoop. Shawn hit the answer button. I wondered if he always waited for the entire sequence to play out.

  “D. I. Cropper here,” he said and walked into the small room behind the counter. I couldn’t catch the conversation.

  Moments later Shawn returned. “That was Patty on the phone calling from the Hare & Hounds,” he said. “She wants to file a complaint against you for harassment.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “She said you burst into her house and made all kinds of threats.”

  “But that’s not true,” I exclaimed.

  Shawn moved to the ledger. He pulled out a stool and sat down.

  “You’re not writing that down, are you?”

  “Police procedure.” He picked up his pen. “Patty suggested you should talk to Valentine Prince-Avery. Apparently, after he bolted from the pub, he was seen hanging around Hopton’s Crest.”

  “I did consider speaking to him,” I said. “But he returned to London.” I hesitated again. “I know this sounds strange but I found his ox bone cane in the field next to Cavalier Copse.”

  Shawn regarded me thoughtfully. “And?”

  “I went to the Hare & Hounds to return it to him but he’d already left. I thought that a bit odd especially as he didn’t return his rental car, either. It was left at Hopton’s Crest and had to be towed back to Ogwell.”

  “Of course you must be worried about him.” A faint pink flush coated Shawn’s cheeks.

  “Not really. Just curious.”

  “That’s not what the newspapers say.”

  I noticed a copy of today’s Daily Post at the far end of the counter. Clearly, Shawn had seen the photograph, too.

  I felt a flash of irritation. “It’s an antique cane and Valentine had told me that it belonged to his great-grandfather. I thought he’d want it back.”

  “Do you want to file a missing persons report?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  Shawn looked directly into my eyes and for a moment, I was startled by the intensity of his gaze. I had to look away. A silence stretched between us as I struggled to think of something intelligent to say.

  “When did you last have contact?” Shawn said, all business once more. “Let’s start with that.”

  “I received a text on Tuesday—look, never mind,” I said. “I honestly hardly know him. I’d better get back. Mum and I are going to the auction at Chillingford Court—”

  “Shawn! You’ll never guess what!” Roxy entered the station positively bursting with excitement. “Old Reggie from vehicular recovery has been looking at Joyce’s scooter and found—oh, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Thanks Roxy,” said Shawn quickly.

  That same feeling of foreboding hit me anew. “What’s wrong with Joyce’s mobility scooter?”

  “A lot,” Roxy declared. “We’re talking suspicious circumstances.”

  “We’ll discuss that in a moment,” Shawn said. “Kat was just leaving.”

  “In what way are they suspicious?” I said sharply.

  “Why?” Roxy stared at me. “What do you know?”

  “Mr. Prince-Avery left his rental car at Hopton’s Crest, apparently,” I said. “He would have driven by Bridge Cottage.”

  Roxy’s eyes widened. “And he left the meeting in a hurry. Where is he now?”

  “He went back to London,” I said as I realized exactly what Roxy was implying. “There is something else,” I went on. “Ogwell mentioned that one of the SUV’s headlights had been broken.”

  “We’ll want to see that,” Roxy said. “Bastard must have run Joyce off the road.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Shawn.

  Much as I didn’t want to agree, I had a feeling that Roxy could be right
. I’d seen the skid marks on the road myself. It would certainly explain Valentine’s hasty disappearance.

  “Thanks,” said Shawn. “You’ve been really helpful, Kat. Roxy—we’d better get down to Ogwell and take a look at that car.”

  I headed back to my Golf feeling very unsettled. If Valentine had hit Joyce’s mobility scooter, why would he then go and remove the placards, leave his ox bone cane in the field, and abandon his SUV on Hopton’s Crest? Wouldn’t he have at least called an ambulance? Pulling out my iPhone I tried to call Valentine one more time.

  To my astonishment, this time it connected.

  “Hello? Valentine!” I exclaimed. “It’s Kat. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  There was a long pause. I knew someone was there. I could hear the sounds of breathing. “Hello?” I said again. But with a click, the phone went dead.

  I was completely baffled. What on earth was going on? Why would Valentine answer and then promptly hang up?

  Frustrated, I tossed my mobile into my tote bag, switched on the ignition, and set off for Dartmouth.

  I’d just had a brilliant idea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At Buzz Café in Dartmouth, I ordered my coffee and bought three baguettes for Mum, Alfred, and me for lunch.

  After settling into my favorite corner, I jumped on the Internet and started to search.

  Valentine Prince-Avery’s name popped up in several places and, yes, it would appear he had been listed as a consultant for several projects with the Department for Transport but the last entry was dated in 2012. There was, however, an article on a horrific car accident that he had caused that led to his being banned from driving for four years.

  Things started to fall into place.

  On Monday night, Valentine had not only been driving illegally, he’d been driving drunk as well. Little wonder he’d not reported Joyce’s accident and simply rushed back to London.

  I was disgusted. What a coward. I doubted he’d show his face in Little Dipperton again.

  I turned my attention to finding out all I could on HS3. A paragraph confirmed that a bid for a high-speed line from Cardiff to London had been submitted to the Department for Transport. There was no mention of an “extended line” to the West Country but that didn’t mean anything. When the highly controversial HS2 was first discussed, the long-term goal to have the route continue all the way to Scotland had been a closely guarded secret.