Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  “Another time,” Piers shouted, and propelled me out of the restaurant to the waiting Mercedes.

  Piers walked so quickly I had to break into a jog to keep up, and yet even though I could sense he was agitated, he remembered his manners and opened my passenger door. He also took a moment to tip the valet parking attendant—quite generously, judging by the man’s happy smile.

  We sped away in silence.

  Slowly the full implication of what had just happened began to sink in.

  After a good ten minutes, he finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Kat,” he said. “I’m afraid my joke backfired.”

  “You’re telling me it backfired,” I said angrily. “You do know that Shawn will tell the manager who you really are.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s me who is going to look the idiot.” I was really upset. “They took my photograph for their wretched Facebook page. It will look like I scrounged a free meal.”

  Piers gave a snort of laughter.

  “It’s not funny!” I exclaimed.

  “Well … it is a little bit.”

  “No. Not even a little bit!”

  Piers stole me a sideways glance, but when he realized I wasn’t joking he seemed contrite. “Let me make it up to you.”

  “No. Just take me home, please.”

  “Of course. Right away.” He floored the engine and the car surged forward. I lost count of the number of times the police scanner beeped, but he didn’t seem to care.

  Finally, we turned off the A38 into the myriad of country lanes that led to Little Dipperton.

  “Look, I really am sorry,” said Piers again. “It was a stupid idea.”

  “Yes, it was stupid.”

  “Have dinner with me again and this time I swear I will book the table in my own name.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you would,” I said drily. “But the answer is still no.”

  As the village of Little Dipperton loomed, Piers slowed down a little—but not much. As we passed the entrance to Jess’s barn conversion, Piers narrowly missed hitting a man who was standing in the middle of the road. Just standing there! He actually had to vault over the low stone wall by the churchyard to get out of our way.

  “Careful!” I shrieked. “You nearly hit him!”

  “Bloody tourist,” Piers mumbled under his breath, but he did reduce his speed for just a moment. We crawled past St. Mary’s at a snail’s pace. I could have sworn I saw a light flickering in the chancel, but I couldn’t be sure.

  It was when we descended the steep hill to Bridge Cottage that Piers was forced to hit the brakes. Suddenly a black Range Rover swerved out of a concealed track and cut us off. It raced up the other side heading for Honeychurch Hall.

  We both knew who was at the wheel.

  “What’s Rupert doing out so late?” I said, and wished I hadn’t.

  “Why don’t we ask him?” Piers slammed his foot on the accelerator and we tore after him.

  “Piers,” I begged. “Please. Let him go.”

  But Piers ignored me. I was beginning to wonder if he was mentally unstable.

  Piers rode the Range Rover’s bumper and flashed his lights, but Rupert accelerated all the more. I kept my eyes closed and hung on to my seat. I didn’t care if Piers knew these lanes like the back of his hand … I was terrified.

  “Piers!” I screamed. “If you don’t slow down I’m throwing myself out.” I unbuckled my seat belt.

  We came to a screeching halt.

  “God. I’m so sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me. I just— Kat, forgive me.”

  “Take me home!” I shouted. “Now!”

  Without another word, we set off again. Piers turned into the tradesmen’s entrance and we bumped our way along the service road, trying to avoid the numerous potholes.

  All too late I remembered that I had left my Golf outside the gatehouse, but there was no question of me asking to be taken back there now. I’d have to collect the car in the morning.

  Moments later we had arrived at Jane’s Cottage.

  Piers cut the engine.

  “I won’t come in,” he said sheepishly.

  “Probably a good idea.”

  Piers got out of the Mercedes and came around to open my door. He walked me to the entrance and waited for me to find my latchkey.

  I turned to say good night.

  Piers leaned in and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me, but instead, he whispered in my ear, “I could easily fall in love with you, but don’t fall in love with me, Katherine Stanford.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said coldly. “I can assure you that there is no danger of that.”

  Suddenly he cupped my chin and then he did kiss me. He kissed me so fiercely that my head spun. I felt a rush of electricity that was so unexpected that I had to reach out to steady myself against the pillar.

  Piers broke away as abruptly as he had begun. And, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back to his car, leaving me with a racing heart and feeling more than a little confused. I stared after the receding taillights as the Mercedes sped away.

  But all thoughts of Piers vanished the minute I stepped inside my door.

  Someone was here, but this uninvited guest was human.

  I grabbed the fire poker and stood still. Listening.

  And then I heard a strange ping. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen.

  Gingerly, I crept forward and slowly peered into the tiny room.

  The blue light from my electric kettle glowed in the darkness.

  There was a creak overhead.

  I walked to the bottom of the spiral staircase.

  “Mother!” I shouted. “I know you’re up there.”

  “Are you alone?” came the reply.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Piers didn’t come in?” Mum descended the staircase.

  “How did you know I went out with Piers?” I said. “Are you spying on me?”

  “What? Oh—yes. No. Alfred saw you.”

  “Even for you that is pretty low—Mum?” Her face was deathly pale. She seemed upset. “Are you feeling alright? Whatever’s the matter?”

  She swallowed hard. “Something awful has happened to Muriel. I think she’s dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “What do you mean, you think she’s dead?” I said. “Did you call for an ambulance?”

  “Now calm down,” said Mum. “It’s not all bad.”

  “Calm down?” I exclaimed. “And what do you mean, it’s not all bad! You just said Muriel was dead.”

  “Alfred said she looked it.”

  “Did he feel for a pulse?”

  “I’ll let Alfred tell you what happened— Alfred!” Mum shouted. “You can come out now!”

  Alfred emerged from the downstairs cloak cupboard.

  “You did call for an ambulance, didn’t you?” I said.

  Mum and Alfred exchanged looks. “Of course he did,” she said, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. “We need to talk to you. I put the kettle on, but I think—no, we all need a brandy.”

  “Sit down. I’ll get it.” I retreated to the kitchen and took out my emergency bottle of brandy that seemed to be used so regularly these days that the term no longer qualified.

  “Just bring out mugs,” Mum called from the living room. “We don’t need your fancy glass.”

  “Just like we don’t need your fancy coronation china to drink our tea.” I brought out my fancy glass—three Pall Mall brandy balloons with the Lady Hamilton pattern—set the tray on the table and sank into the armchair. Even though I was shattered from my own disastrous evening, I was filled with such anxiety I hardly knew what to think.

  “I know you didn’t walk here,” I said. “So where is your car?”

  “We parked in the undergrowth,” she said. “I didn’t want to cramp your style if … well, you know … if
Piers—”

  “How can you even be thinking about my social life after dropping such a bombshell.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Mum. “You were. You asked me if I had walked up here.”

  “I have this weird sense of déjà vu,” I said. “The three of us drinking brandy in the middle of the night following a catastrophe masterminded by you. And you’re certain that Muriel is alive?”

  “He didn’t hang around, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Mum. “We had nothing to do with it this time, did we, Alfred?”

  There was a long silence. In fact, Alfred didn’t say a word. I realized he was dressed entirely in black and was clutching his balaclava. I guessed what must have happened.

  “Alfred broke into the post office. Muriel caught him and fainted from shock,” I said.

  “Nothing like that,” said Mum. “But at least I now have proof that Muriel read my manuscript.”

  “I thought we had already established that.”

  “He found the missing pages.” My mother took a big swig of brandy and grimaced. “I still prefer gin.”

  “Where were these pages?” I asked.

  “In her kitchen. Under an armchair.”

  “So Alfred not only broke into the post office, he also broke into her flat?”

  “The door wasn’t locked, Katherine,” Mum said, “So technically, no. He just let himself in. Actually, Alfred saved her life.”

  “I’m confused. You just told me Alfred thought she was dead.”

  “You won’t believe this,” said Mum. “But Muriel was trying to do herself in.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Muriel tried to kill herself. She was going to put her head in the gas oven.”

  “What!” I was truly horrified. It wasn’t what I expected to hear at all. “Oh. But that’s terrible.”

  “And she left a suicide note on the kitchen table, didn’t she, Alfred—?”

  “Not exactly.” Alfred scratched his head. “It was the start of a suicide note. It just said, Dear Friends. I’m sorry, but I can’t … and that was it.”

  “Can’t what?” I said.

  Alfred shrugged. “I suppose the fumes just got to her before she had a chance to finish it.”

  “Alfred couldn’t risk being seen,” said Mum. “That’s why he had to leave in a hurry.”

  I thought for a moment. “But how can she have written a suicide note with her head in the gas oven?”

  “Her head wasn’t in the gas oven,” said Alfred. “She was lying on the floor on her back next to the gas oven.”

  I was more confused than ever. “But the oven—?”

  “Door was open.”

  “Didn’t you smell any gas?”

  “Nope,” said Alfred. “But the kitchen window was open as well.”

  “Wait a minute … the kitchen window was open?”

  “Why are you repeating everything Alfred says?” Mum demanded.

  “Just the top bit was open,” Alfred continued. “On a latch.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Let me think.” I tried to steady my racing thoughts. Something didn’t feel right to me. I thought back to one of my English literature classes when we discussed the suicide of Sylvia Plath. “Doesn’t the room have to be sealed up?”

  “And the door to the hall was wide open,” Alfred went on. “Come to think of it, there was quite a breeze. And she was only wearing one shoe.”

  “One shoe,” I said.

  “Shocking pink, it was,” said Alfred.

  “Maybe it was a cry for help?” Mum suggested.

  “Poor Muriel,” I said. “We must call the hospital in the morning.”

  “Whatever happens,” said Mum, “I thank God for the suicide note—”

  “Which was unfinished,” I pointed out.

  “Doesn’t matter. Alfred is off the hook.”

  “Was he ever on the hook?”

  “And he didn’t take anything else, did you, Alfred?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” said Alfred. “I left all her electronics and whatnot. You’ve never seen so many new appliances. A bloody enormous TV for starters.”

  We fell quiet. Mum reached for the brandy bottle and topped us all up.

  “Why the gas oven?” I said suddenly. “Why not take pills?”

  “Oh everyone used to do it in the old days,” said Mum dismissively. “It’s quite painless.”

  “So if you’re not worried, why did you come up here in the middle of the night to tell me all about it?” I demanded.

  Mum looked to Alfred, but he kept quiet. He seemed distracted, lost in his thoughts.

  “Just in case … just in case Alfred needs an alibi … we thought we might say we spent the evening with you.”

  “Well, unfortunately, that won’t work,” I said. “Because I saw Shawn tonight in Plymouth and he saw me with Piers. Sorry. This time you’re on your own.”

  Mum brightened. “Was he jealous?”

  As I bundled the pair of them outside, Alfred stopped. “You go and get in the car, Iris. I’ll be with you in a tick.”

  “Don’t tell her anything,” said Mum.

  “I know you don’t believe in the spirit world, Kat—”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe in the spirit world, Alfred,” I said. “I’ll believe it when I see it with my own eyes.”

  Alfred nodded. “I have a message for you,” he said. “You must take care. Someone is not who they seem.”

  “I think that goes for everyone I know,” I said drily.

  “Shush!” Alfred cocked his head and listened, then nodded.

  “Now you’re going to tell me you can hear voices.”

  He looked puzzled. “She says you can’t help who you fall in love with.”

  My heart lurched. “That makes no sense to me,” I said. “But I’ll bear it in mind. Good night, Alfred.”

  But of course Alfred’s message did make sense, but it seemed too far-fetched to be real. Alfred’s channeling was infamous, but weren’t all psychics just extra-sensitive and able to pick up on people’s emotions? Call me a cynic, but that’s what I believed to be true. Mum and Alfred knew I’d gone out with Piers, who was completely unsuitable. There was no danger of me falling in love with him at all. But what about the tragic love story between Eleanor Honeychurch and Piers’s ancestor Nicholas Carew?

  Unexpectedly, a rash of goose bumps raced up my spine just as my birthday cards toppled onto the floor, one by one. There had been no wind—not even a draft—and the front door was closed.

  She came to me a few hours later. A sudden crash sent my bedroom window flying open. Startled, I sat up in bed, shivering with cold despite the mildness of the night. Once again I was overwhelmed by the distinctive scent of sweet honey mixed with the salt of the ocean.

  This time I called out her name, “Eleanor. Is that you? Oh for God’s sake, Kat, don’t be ridiculous.”

  I felt foolish, but I was scared.

  I switched on the lamp, got out of bed and closed the window. The smell vanished. I daren’t go back to sleep for fear of having the same horrific dreams returning from the night before. Grabbing my pillow and the duvet, I went downstairs and spent the rest of the night on the sofa with all the lights on, falling into a deep sleep just as the dawn chorus began.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “The police are coming,” Mum’s voice shrieked on the other end of the line.

  Once again I’d spent a miserable night, only this time I was stiff from sleeping on the sofa. My neck was killing me.

  “I told you you’re on your own on this one.”

  “It’ll be Shawn. He likes you. You like him.”

  And that was all the reason for me to stay away. He was the last person I wanted to see after my humiliation of the night before.

  “Please,” Mum said. “I promise I won’t ask you to do anything like this ever again.”

  “This makes me all the more suspicious, but alright. Put the kettle o
n and I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Can’t you get here sooner? Why twenty minutes?”

  Of course I’d left my car at the gatehouse “It’s too complicated to explain,” I said. “Did you find out if Muriel is okay?”

  But Mum had already hung up the phone.

  I was about to pull on a pair of jeans when I remembered that Saturday mornings I usually rode out with Harry. I put on jodhpurs instead. They were quite a struggle to get into. I had to lie flat on the floor to get the zipper all the way up to the top. I really needed to go on a diet. Fortunately, the polo shirt was long, so I wore that tucked out rather than in. On an impulse, I put on mascara and a dab of lipstick, then brushed my hair. I slipped my slumber net into my pocket. Shawn and I might well be finished before we began, but I didn’t want him to think I was a complete slattern.

  As I strode into the kitchen Mum gave me a knowing look. “Makeup for Shawn?”

  “Pearls for Shawn?” She was wearing a smart Marks & Spencer dress that looked as if she were about to open the village fete. “Where’s Alfred?” I demanded.

  “I told him to stay away.” Mum looked worried. “Why would the police want to talk to me?”

  “Well, we’ll soon find out why, won’t we? I’m going to have some toast.”

  “One piece, Katherine,” she said. “Judging by the state of your jodhpurs, I don’t think they could accommodate two.”

  I busied myself in the kitchen and made some tea and toast—two pieces—whilst my mother paced about the room.

  “And make a cup of tea for Shawn,” said Mum. “Give him the Duke of Edinburgh mug—the nice one. We need to soften him up.”

  “Soften who up?” came the familiar voice of Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper.

  Mum and I both gave a guilty start.

  Shawn looked terrible. Dark rings sat beneath his eyes. He seemed exhausted. As he was wearing his trench coat over his uniform trousers, shirt and tie, this was clearly an official visit, and this official visit was marked by his trademark plastic shopping bag that always seemed to contain incriminating evidence.