Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall Page 17

  I Googled Operation Bullet and was surprised to see that a website was already in place with StopBullet as a domain name. There was one of my many recycled headshots along with the usual publicity spiel that mentioned Fakes & Treasures. A donation link with a barometer showed that fifteen thousand pounds had already been raised. The fund-raiser auction announcement took up half the page. I felt really uncomfortable. As I feared, the whole thing had been positioned as if the entire campaign had been my idea!

  I turned my attention to Benedict Scroope but the only reference I could find was connected to the sale of the Thornton Park estate in 1995. Benedict was mentioned as the sole heir and—just as he had told us—had been forced to sell to pay the death duties. Benedict had then “gone abroad,” which was exactly what Lavinia and Eric had said.

  A quick check of my e-mails confirmed that my appointment with Colleen Fraser, my estate agent, was set for Saturday afternoon at 4 P.M. She’d sent a photograph of the details of the shop close to Spitalfields Market. It was a Grade II listed property that had been built in the early 1800s with large sash windows and plenty of light. The flat above had been “tastefully” renovated with the installation of a new kitchen/dining room on the first floor and two spacious bedrooms and a bathroom on the second. The attic had been extended into an open-plan sunroom with skylights in the roof and a tiny balcony. Colleen had said there were two other interested parties and urged me not to wait too long.

  Even though I suspected it was just a ploy to get me to put in a quick offer, I knew I wasn’t ready to leave Mum with Alfred quite yet. I stalled and sent back an e-mail saying that I had limited access to e-mail—which was true—and that I would call to discuss the property toward the end of the week. If it was sold in the meantime, so be it.

  I swiftly dealt with a dozen or so work-related e-mails including two requests for me to do valuations from collectors who would pay generously for my time and travel. Once again, I was annoyed at being put on the spot for the auction. My plan of returning to London seemed to be fading fast.

  I decided against checking my fan club e-mails because there was bound to be something scathing following my appearance in the Daily Post with my “new man.” I had thought, when I retired from television that all this hoopla would be over.

  Finally, out of habit, I checked my mother’s “Krystalle Storm” website. There she was, airbrushed to death with her coiffed platinum hair and a string of fake diamonds around her neck. If I didn’t know better, I’d never have recognized her in a million years. On Mum’s lap was a caramel-colored Pekinese she liked to call Truly Scrumptious—a dog that did not exist. Since Alfred had helped create my mother’s physical alter ego and now claimed to be her business manager, I knew I was making the right decision by staying in Devon a little longer.

  Mum’s home page on her website announced that following Vera Pugsley’s unexpected “fatal accident,” her husband Eric was determined to “live his beloved Vera’s lifelong dream” and visit her favorite author in “honor of Vera’s memory.”

  The three winning short stories were listed. I printed them off for Mum. Maybe she’d get inspired to spice up her current book from other lovers’ tales of lust and angst.

  Fiona—the barista—brought over a brown bag containing the baguettes and a carafe of coffee. She topped up my cup. “We’re so pleased that you’ve agreed to be the spokesperson for Stop the Bullet,” she said shyly. “Eric was in here yesterday,” Fiona went on. “He said the village is really determined to fight it.”

  “Eric Pugsley comes in here?” I said sharply.

  “He uses the Internet,” said Fiona. “He’s got an eBay account.” She pointed to her shoes—black Chanel pumps. “I bought these from him on eBay and Eric delivered them personally. I didn’t realize that Eric was selling shoes. I asked him if they fell off the back of a lorry because they’re designer but he told me there was nothing wrong with them. Aren’t they great?”

  “They’re very pretty” was all I managed to say.

  I was dumbfounded. Eric’s wife Vera’s collection of designer shoes had rivaled those of Imelda Marcos and Vera had had at least one hundred and fifty pairs. I had seen her collection at their cottage and calculated that Vera had to have spent at least thirty thousand pounds on shoes alone.

  Eric selling his dead wife’s shoes was a macabre idea but although it was something I could never imagine doing, I wasn’t surprised to hear he was.

  The moment Fiona was back behind the counter, I signed into my own eBay account. It took me less than a minute to find Eric Pugsley.

  “Oh. My. God,” I whispered.

  It wasn’t just Vera’s shoes that Eric was selling.

  MEET WORLD-FAMOUS AUTHOR KRYSTALLE STORM AT HER LUXURY HOME IN ITALY

  TAKE YOUR LOVED ONE OR A COMPANION ON AN ALL-EXPENSE-PAID TRIP TO THE AMALFI COAST

  TIME TO GO: 2DS 23 HRS

  STARTING BID £2000

  CURRENT BID: £6,575

  I was flabbergasted. Eric was auctioning off Vera’s prize!

  Mum was going to have a complete meltdown when I told her.

  Wearily, I turned off my laptop, gathered up my belongings and the bag of baguettes, and went back to my car to head home.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled into the Carriage House courtyard to find my mother waiting for me outside. She was huddled in a winter coat and perched on the top step of the stone mounting block.

  I opened the window. “You know what they say happens if you sit on a cold surface.”

  But Mum didn’t laugh. She got into the passenger side and slammed the door.

  “Did you buy any lunch?” she demanded.

  “Yes.” I handed her the brown bag.

  Mum peered inside. “Why did you buy three?”

  “One is for Alfred.”

  “Sod him.”

  I took one look at her face and knew something had happened.

  “I’ll give it to him,” I said. “I have to get my catalog anyway.”

  Inside the Carriage House the mess was indescribable. There was even a hole in the plaster where a chair leg had punctured the cob wall. It was impossible to get to the kitchen without scrambling over the furniture that now completely blocked the hall. The other option was to walk out of the front door, around the building, and in through the kitchen. Primrose-yellow paint was splattered everywhere.

  “Here,” I said, handing Alfred his baguette. “I’m afraid I can’t get to the kitchen to get you a napkin.”

  “Iris isn’t very happy with me,” said Alfred. “But I swear on my mother’s grave that this will all be cleared up by the time you get back.”

  “I hope for your sake it is.”

  I dashed upstairs and got my catalog and returned to the car where Mum was sitting, arms folded with a long face. We drove off, back in the direction I had just come from.

  “Did you see it?” Mum said finally. “Did you see all that mess?”

  “Alfred said he was going to clear it up. He said, I quote, ‘I swear on my mother’s grave.’”

  “Of course he’d say that. Aunt June didn’t have a grave. Her ashes were scattered over Lake Windermere.” Mum gave a heavy sigh. “Frank was so tidy. Frank wore overalls and put down dustsheets. Frank took great care with his paintbrushes.” Mum bit her lip. “Why isn’t Frank here?”

  I reached over and squeezed Mum’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m sure Alfred will do just as good a job.”

  “He’s not even using a primer!” she wailed. “Are you sure you can’t stay longer? I know it’s your life and I don’t want to be a bother, but—”

  “It’s okay, Mum,” I said gently. “Of course I’ll stay a bit longer. At least until Uncle Alfred finishes painting the sitting room.”

  “That means you’ll move back permanently.” She cracked a small smile. “But I don’t want him in your bedroom.”

  “Nor do I!”

  “You know what I mean!” Mum said. “It’s all coming back to me now.
Getting old is a funny thing. I’m remembering odd things about Alfred now.”

  “It’s called selective memory,” I said. “And believe me, I have that, too.”

  “He was always messy when he was a boy,” Mum grumbled on. “He’s only got a few things in that horrible old duffel bag but somehow, he’s just spread himself out.”

  “We’ll just have to force him to take William’s flat,” I said.

  “What happens if William comes back?”

  I stifled a groan. “It’s highly unlikely but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Alfred may hate it here and leave of his own accord.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  Mum stared out of the window at the countryside speeding by.

  “Mum…” I began tentatively. “There’s something else I found out today.”

  “Don’t tell me,” she muttered. “You’ve discovered that Alfred is a serial killer.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “It’s just … when I was in Dartmouth I went on the Internet—”

  “If this is about me and my website, I don’t want to hear it—”

  “Eric is auctioning off his trip to Italy on eBay.”

  “What!” Mum shrieked. “He’s what!”

  “I just thought you’d like to know. Maybe you can talk to your publisher. After all, they’re funding the trip. Surely they can say he can’t win the holiday and then sell it.”

  “How much is he selling it for?” Mum said suddenly.

  “The bid is at six thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds and there is still two days to go.”

  “You bid for it.”

  “Why don’t you bid for it,” I retorted. “No one will connect Iris Stanford with Krystalle Storm.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. My publisher wants photographs of the winner having dinner with me. You have to bid for it. We could build a fake terrace and have Alfred Photoshop us drinking Prosecco.”

  “And I’ll be recognized and everyone will think I’m a Krystalle Storm fanatic.”

  “You are a fan, aren’t you?”

  “Fine. If it makes you happy, I’ll do it but first, call your publisher and tell him what’s happening. Maybe he can prevent it.”

  “Oh God! This is going to kill me! All this worry! I can’t write when I’m worried,” she wailed again. “The last thing I can think about is tiffin—did you find my money?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” I said. “I would have told you if I had.”

  “That dog must have buried it somewhere,” Mum said with a wail of dismay. “It could be anywhere!”

  I decided against telling Mum that I’d found the empty bag in Patty’s rubbish. I’d wait and see how Shawn got on with questioning Patty before sending my mother off the ledge.

  “As long as we keep it quiet,” Mum went on. “I had visions of someone finding all that cash and turning it in to the police.”

  “Oh,” I said weakly. “Would that be a problem?”

  “Of course it would be a problem, Katherine!” Mum exclaimed. “The plastic bag alone would prompt all sorts of questions.”

  “Surely not,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Aren’t you overreacting?”

  “No, I’m not overreacting,” said Mum. “I mentioned to Alfred that I needed to draw some money out and he told me I had to wait until he’d talked to his contact. I may as well be back living with your father. I hate asking for permission! It’s my money!”

  “Yes. Of course it is.”

  “So. I met with her ladyship this morning and we gave Benedict some money,” Mum went on.

  “I thought you were going to stall?” I said.

  Mum waved her hand dismissively. “He’s very optimistic. And I’ll tell you something else, I was right about them having a little bit of hanky-panky.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I was outside in the barn looking for a paint roller to give to Alfred when they turned up together,” said Mum. “They didn’t know I was in there. He grabbed her and said, ‘I know you still love me’ and then she said something which was really infuriating because I couldn’t catch it.”

  “Didn’t you ask her to repeat it?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I told you so,” said Mum. “Why else did Rupert go to London?”

  Mum didn’t wait for me to reply.

  “I asked Lavinia what his lordship thought about our little campaign group and she said she had no idea,” my mother continued. “She hasn’t spoken to him since Monday. I bet they’re already separated and that’s why Harry was sent off to boarding school.”

  “Alfred is right when he says you have a vivid imagination.”

  “Speaking of lovers,” said Mum. “Is your Valentine coming to the auction today?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I haven’t heard from him since I got that text.”

  Fortunately the majestic entrance of Chillingford Court came into view and Mum dropped the subject.

  “Would you look at that!” she exclaimed.

  A huge banner announcing AUCTION TODAY stretched across the matching gatehouses. I felt instantly depressed. Here was the end of yet another beautiful country estate.

  Viewing had taken place over the previous weekend. I’d already been twice but Mum had not and I was relieved to see her mood lift as she was taking in her surroundings.

  The gravel drive wound through well-manicured borders with banks of rhododendrons, azaleas, and camellias—all dormant now because of the season, but I could imagine how magnificent they would look in bloom.

  Parking had been set up in the field behind the stable block and cost ten pounds for admission that I thought was a bit steep. Attendants wearing fluorescent-orange vests and waving batons directed the steady stream of cars into a field that was already rutted with mud and puddles. The place would be a quagmire by the end of the three-day event.

  “I’ve brought the wrong shoes,” said Mum with dismay.

  “Don’t worry. I put our Wellies in the boot this morning.”

  “I’m sure when you were with Fakes & Treasures you had a special parking area and wouldn’t be slumming with the peasants.”

  “Yes. In the good old days.”

  “Don’t forget to take Jazzbo for luck.” Mum picked the toy Jerry mouse off my dashboard and dropped him into my tote bag.

  The main auction was set up on the front lawn but to get there, we had to cut through the former stable block. People were milling around a variety of tractors and all manner of farmyard machinery that were displayed in the courtyard. There were five cars—one being a Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow—and a stunning barouche.

  The nineteenth-century four-wheel carriage was in excellent condition with brasses and lamps burnished to perfection.

  “I think I’m going to buy that for Lady Edith,” said Mum suddenly. “Do you think she’d like it?”

  “I’m sure she would.”

  “She can keep it in my carriageway.” Mum pulled a face. “Don’t you feel like we’re vultures feeding off the bones of another time? This is all so sad.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want this to happen to Honeychurch.”

  “Nor do I, Mum.”

  The largest marquee housed the action where the main lots were going under the hammer. It was already filled to capacity with many people spilling out onto the grass. A jumbo screen ran a live video feed so those outside could watch the bidding inside.

  Porters dressed in uniform bearing the name LUXTONS EST. 1850 were transporting furniture, paintings, and carpets from the house on dollies and carrying the smaller items on foot into a covered holding area.

  Five smaller tents acted as a payment office, shipping station, communal meeting area, VIP bar, and general refreshments.

  I greeted a lot of familiar faces and introduced Mum who soon got caught up in the excitement of it all and kept telling anyone who would listen that the barouche was hers—as was the mink that had belonged to t
he Countess of Athlone. My friends Leigh and Rachel Gotch, toy specialists from a rival auction house, were there. Leigh was an authority on automatons and even though I knew deep down that Valentine would not be coming in person to bid on George—he could still make a phone bid—it was a shame he wouldn’t get the chance to talk to a true expert.

  “I thought the auction would be in the house,” Mum grumbled.

  “Some of the bigger items are.” I told her that the fittings and fixtures, fireplaces, doors, and kitchen appliances would stay in situ but they would appear on the viewing screen.

  “The porters may bring in a few pieces of wainscot paneling from the library,” I went on.

  Mum was horrified. “You mean they are stripping the walls as well? That’s cannibalism!”

  It was true. It happened a lot. William Randolph Hearst, the newspaper magnate, was famously guilty of that crime and to this day there are still millions of pounds’ worth of church roofs, exquisite paneling, and centuries-old fireplaces kept in storage in vast warehouses across the USA. Even now, despite rules and regulations having been introduced to protect much of our British heritage, those with enough money could still snap up an entire room that was built in Jacobean times for a cool twenty-five thousand pounds.

  “There was a beautiful Tudor house called Agecroft Hall in Lancashire,” I said. “When the city of Manchester was developed, the whole house was bought by an American, dismantled, and shipped out to be reerected in Richmond, Virginia.”

  “What are they going to do with this place?”

  “It’s going to be converted into flats. The west wing, which you can’t really see from here, was partially destroyed in a fire and has already been demolished.”

  Mum went quiet for a moment. “We can’t let this happen to Honeychurch Hall, Kat,” she said again. “I can’t. I won’t!”

  I took her hand and squeezed it but she stopped dead and gasped. “Oh! I don’t believe it! Why am I not surprised?”