Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  He barely gave me a nod of acknowledgment. My stomach was in knots. It was most unlike me. It wasn’t as if anything had happened between Piers and myself apart from that electrifying kiss, but—judging by Shawn’s haggard appearance—it was obvious that something had happened between Shawn and his pretty young strawberry blonde.

  “You left the door open, Iris,” said Shawn. “And you want to be careful. With the upcoming Skirmish there are a lot of strangers in the vicinity. Kat, I hope you have an alarm installed at the gatehouses.”

  “They’re installing them next week,” I said.

  “Working on a Saturday, Officer?” Mum beamed. “And all alone? Coffee? Tea? Me? That was a joke.” Mum laughed and showed too many teeth. “Alfred’s not here.”

  “Why do you think I need to talk to Alfred?” said Shawn.

  “D-d-don’t you?” Mum stammered. “I mean. I thought you might want to … talk to everyone who knows Muriel.”

  “What about Muriel?”

  Mum’s jaw dropped. “Well … I heard … I heard she had tried to commit suicide.”

  “Suicide?” said Shawn sharply.

  “What with losing her Fred,” Mum went on. “And the money for the re-enactment. I heard she was worried she was going to be evicted by his lordship.”

  “Who told you that she had tried to commit suicide?” Shawn demanded.

  Mum looked to me for help. I just shrugged.

  “Violet Green,” Mum said wildly.

  “Violet Green?” said Shawn.

  “From the tearoom.” Mum nodded furiously. “That’s right. As you know, she lives next door to Muriel. I suppose she found her.”

  “Mum, the ambulance—”

  “Ambulance, you say?” Shawn whipped out his notepad and pencil.

  “Ignore Katherine; she doesn’t know what she is talking about.”

  “You were right, though,” said Shawn. “It was Violet Green who found Muriel.”

  “Good.” Mum nodded.

  Shawn gave her a look I couldn’t fathom. “There was another break-in last night.”

  “Really? Wh-h-atever f-f-or?” Mum gave a hollow laugh. “What was taken this time?”

  “Nothing was taken from the post office or the general store.”

  “How odd,” Mum said.

  “That’s what I thought until I found this.”

  Shawn brandished his plastic shopping bag.

  “Here we go,” Mum muttered under her breath.

  Shawn donned disposable gloves and withdrew one of his much beloved Ziploc bags that contained a folded piece of paper covered in type. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table. “Does this look familiar, Iris?”

  Even I could see the traces of jam smudged in the margin.

  Mum looked to me in a panic.

  Shawn pointed to the top of the paper where the name Storm/Ravished was typed in boldface. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  “Why?” Mum whispered.

  “Seriously, Iris?” Shawn rolled his eyes. “You want to play the ignorance card again? Just tell me the truth. Do you recognize this extract from your novel?”

  “What page number is it?”

  “Page fifty-nine.”

  “Is that the scene where the squire takes the vicar’s daughter into the stables—?”

  “Yes.” Shawn’s cheeks flushed a little, but he steadily met her gaze. “Judging by the contents of that one page, I would like to congratulate you on the title. It’s a good choice.”

  “Thank you,” said Mum. “It was a toss between Conquered and Ravished, but I thought that Ravished had more pizzazz.”

  “Oh, Iris, what am I going to do with you,” Shawn said with a weary sigh. “You know very well that I am aware of who you really are. I am also aware of your desire for utmost secrecy, and that is why I have come here alone. You can’t carry on like this.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” I exclaimed.

  Mum looked miserable. “I don’t know who knows about me and who doesn’t anymore. I get so confused.”

  “I can’t vouch for the officers at other Devon & Cornwall Constabulary stations, but I can assure you that our satellite office has kept quiet. And I’m confident that those at the Hall are far too terrified of the dowager countess to let the cat out of the bag. But the truth now—did Muriel Jarvis find out?”

  Mum opened her mouth and shut it again.

  Shawn frowned. “This page was found in Muriel’s sitting room under the sofa. I put it to you that you went back there to look for it. This is obviously a page from your manuscript and—given the typos and Wite-Out—I suggest it has not yet been published and is therefore of the utmost value to you.”

  Again, Mum stayed silent. She had absolutely no defense whatsoever.

  “Mum,” I said finally. “Please … can’t you be honest for once?”

  My mother took a deep breath. “Oh alright. It’s true. Ravished is my latest novel and you are quite right, it has not been published—you’re such a clever detective.”

  “And?” Shawn prompted.

  “I have a horrible new editor who doesn’t like me very much. When she told me that the manuscript arrived with pages—a page actually—missing, I was very upset.”

  Shawn picked up the sheet of paper and inspected it closely. “This was written on an old typewriter.”

  “Yes. I always use my late husband’s Olivetti,” said Mum.

  “Don’t you use a computer?”

  “No.”

  “So this page here—” Shawn flapped it at my mother. “Is the original? It’s not a carbon copy? Presumably there is a copy of the entire manuscript somewhere?”

  “No, there isn’t,” I chimed in.

  “Now don’t you nag me, too,” said Mum. “When I got a phone call telling me that the book never arrived, of course Katherine here—tell him, Kat—”

  “I tracked the package,” I said. “It never left Little Dipperton post office. I asked Muriel. She swore she’d sent it. The next day the package arrived minus the pages.”

  “Pages?” said Shawn sharply.

  “Page!” Mum put in. “Page, Katherine. Page!”

  Ignoring my mother’s eyebrow gymnastics that were clearly telling me to keep quiet about Alfred’s nighttime mission, I told Shawn what I could.

  “So if this sheet of paper is missing in the manuscript, it would be a great loss to the story.”

  “But it’s not missing,” said Mum brightly. “You found it!”

  “Look, Iris, we know that Muriel had a habit of opening everybody’s post.”

  “You knew?” Mum and I chorused.

  “Everyone in the village knew that, but no one could ever prove it. No checks were ever reported stolen and the post might well be slow, but it always reached its destination in the end.”

  “That’s disgusting!” Mum fumed. “I hope you’re going to press charges!”

  “You have a lot to lose, Mrs. Stanford.” Shawn’s voice hardened. Whenever Shawn dropped the friendly “Iris” and substituted “Mrs. Stanford,” he meant business. “Did she ever attempt to blackmail you?”

  Mum’s jaw dropped. “Blackmail!” I could practically hear the cogs in my mother’s brain turning.

  “Where were you last night?” Shawn demanded.

  “Alfred and I were home playing Snap,” said Mum.

  Shawn’s eyes narrowed. “Alfred Bushman was with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now that is interesting,” said Shawn. “Because according to Lady Lavinia, Alfred spent the evening with her caring for a sick horse.”

  “That’s right,” said Mum quickly. “And then he came over for a quick game of Snap, didn’t he, Katherine?”

  “I don’t think your daughter will be able to help you, Mrs. Stanford,” Shawn said coldly. “She was otherwise engaged all night.”

  “It wasn’t all night,” I protested. “It was just dinner.”

  “Dinner with a certain Roger Matthews. Food critic of th
e Air France in-flight magazine?” Shawn’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  My heart sank. Shawn had confirmed my worst fears. He knew everything.

  Mum rounded on me. “Who is Roger Matthews?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I said wearily.

  “Did you go to the post office last night, Mrs. Stanford?” Shawn asked.

  “No. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “I’m sorry, but what is really going on here?” I exclaimed. “I thought you said that Muriel was going to be okay.”

  “I said nothing of the sort,” Shawn exclaimed. “I just said she didn’t commit suicide. Muriel Jarvis was murdered.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Murdered!” I exclaimed.

  Mum gave a small cry. “No!” She pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down heavily. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I’m having another cup of tea—Mum? I’m making one for you, too.” I could see Shawn watching my mother like a hawk. “Shawn? Another cup?”

  “Alright. Thank you.” He sat at the table, too. I made more tea and brought out what was left of the packet of McVitie’s chocolate digestive biscuits. Shawn dived in, adding apologetically, “I didn’t get much to eat last night.”

  I was tempted to ask him why not, but my mother cleared her throat and said, “What happened to Muriel?”

  “We’re waiting for the results from the autopsy,” said Shawn.

  “Won’t that take weeks?” I asked.

  “I have a friend who can get things done quickly,” he said, reaching for his third chocolate digestive. “She’s doing me a favor.”

  I thought back to the pretty strawberry blonde from the night before and was astonished to realize that I actually felt jealous.

  “Well,” said Mum, rallying around. “I’ve already given you my alibi. Thank you for bringing back that page. I had no idea that it was missing. What are you doing?”

  Shawn put the page back in the plastic carrier bag. “We’d like to hang on to it for a little bit longer, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” said Mum. “Please. I’ve never asked you for anything, but having that page is very important to my career.”

  “I’ll tell you what, I will photocopy it and you can send that off to your publisher. That’s all I’m prepared to do.”

  “Thank you,” Mum gushed. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You can thank me by telling me the truth.”

  “I have.”

  “Not even about your red MINI—”

  Mum blinked.

  “That is your car, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re not going to insult me by telling me that someone stole your car?”

  “Muriel’s car was stolen,” said Mum.

  “Muriel’s car was repossessed,” said Shawn. “We learned that this morning.”

  “So not stolen at all,” I said.

  “It seems she was in some financial straits.”

  “Actually, Muriel asked if she could borrow some money,” I put in.

  “You never told me that!” Mum exclaimed. “I hope you said no. Remember what your father said, ‘neither a borrower nor lender be’?”

  “I gave her three hundred pounds,” I said.

  “Very kind of you, Kat,” said Shawn.

  “Are you suggesting that she staged her own robbery?” Mum said. “Do you think she buried that old tin in her husband’s grave?”

  “It’s something we are considering,” said Shawn. “It looks like Fred Jarvis was heavily in debt.”

  “You think he spent the money for the re-enactment?” I said.

  “We’re exploring all lines of enquiry,” said Shawn in that annoyingly pompous way he had.

  “Poor Muriel,” I said, and I really meant it. “And you think she was trying to hide it?”

  “But let’s get back to you, Mrs. Stanford,” said Shawn. “Your MINI was seen in the car park at the Hare & Hounds pub last night, but I have already spoken to Stan and Doreen Mutters and no one saw you there.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you were seen in the churchyard,” said Shawn.

  “The churchyard?” Mum’s astonishment was genuine. “Why would I go to the churchyard? Who told you that?”

  “Violet Green’s cottage overlooks the churchyard,” said Shawn. “She saw two people moving around.”

  Mum was incredulous. “Well, that was definitely neither me nor Alfred.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s your word against Ms. Green’s.”

  “She’s as blind as a bat!” Mum exclaimed. “And what time did she say she saw something?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “I did see some lights inside the church,” I said suddenly. “That would have been around midnight, wouldn’t you say, Mum? You and Alfred would have been at Jane’s by then.”

  “Jane’s?” said Shawn. “Why would they be waiting for you at Jane’s Cottage?”

  “I know this sounds hard to believe, but Snap—you do know the card game I assume?” said Mum—“it’s addictive. Kat just had to play a quick game before bedtime.”

  Shawn gave a heavy sigh. “I know you are hiding something, Iris. Luckily for you, this is Little Dipperton; otherwise I would have you in the back of my car and you’d be down at the police station in Dartmouth, where they would not be treating you so leniently.”

  “But I haven’t done—”

  “There is also the problem of the re-enactment,” Shawn went on. “Unfortunately, his lordship is adamant that the festivities go on next weekend. We’ll be keeping this under wraps for the time being.”

  “You mean no one knows that Muriel is dead?” I said.

  “We’re suggesting that she died of natural causes until after the Skirmish is over.” Shawn regarded my mother with open disdain. “You might want to think about getting a solicitor, Mrs. Stanford. In fact, perhaps you should keep a solicitor permanently on call given your track record for getting into trouble.”

  “I’m innocent!” Mum exclaimed.

  Shawn got to his feet. “Thank you for the tea. I’m off to have a word with Alfred now. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into his trench coat pocket. “I brought you today’s newspapers. They were outside your front door. I’ll see myself out.”

  The moment Shawn was out of earshot, Mum said, “I wonder if there are any more pages still at Muriel’s? The assistant told me there were only five missing, but she was obviously wrong. And that Violet Green is such a troublemaker. Why would she say she saw me in the churchyard?”

  I stared in dismay at the front page of Star Stalkers, the trashiest newspaper in the country, and one I was all too familiar with.

  “Katherine?” said Mum. “Are you listening?”

  “I thought you canceled this newspaper!”

  “I didn’t think I needed to,” said Mum. “You gave all that glamor up when you moved down here. Why?”

  I pointed to the headline.

  “Oh dear,” she said.

  Splashed over the front page was:

  SCROUNGING A FREE MEAL?

  EX–TV HOST OF FAKES & TREASURES CAUGHT IN PRANK WITH NEW BOYFRIEND!

  5-STAR MICHELIN RESTAURANT FOOLED!

  There was a photo of me standing with Mr. Roberts smiling for the camera along with “Roger Matthews” and a quote: “I’ve personally admired Kat Stanford for many years, so of course I accepted her friend’s credentials on trust.”

  I was stunned.

  Mum snatched the paper up. “Piers called himself Roger Matthews?” She skimmed the article. “A seven-course meal estimated to cost two hundred pounds a head—good heavens! No wonder those jodhpurs are tight!”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Blah blah blah … tour of the kitchen?”

  “That bit is untrue,” I protested. “We didn’t go—”

  “Blah blah blah … half a dozen bottles of wine for … wait a minute … reviewer … Air Fra
nce?” She began to laugh. “I didn’t think you had it in you!”

  “It’s not funny!”

  “Ooh … what a change from stuffy old David Wynne and pompous Shawn,” Mum said gleefully. “And see here … Piers is described as an international playboy. Listen to this—”

  “No thank you.”

  “Viscount Carew, son of the Earl of Denby, is well known for his pranks among the European jet set.”

  “Great.”

  “But how nice to see you on the front page again, darling,” Mum said. “Although why you wore that old T-shirt? You’ve got plenty of other nice outfits. You don’t want to let yourself go, especially if Piers is used to going out with models.”

  “I’m not going out with Piers ever again,” I said. “He told me we were going for a quick drink. I did it for you in fact.”

  “You’d better tell me the whole story,” said Mum. So I did.

  Before long we were both laughing. “Serves them right if they are too caught up in their own self-importance not to check the facts!” Mum tossed Star Stalkers aside and picked up the weekly local paper that came out every Saturday. “I wonder what the Dipperton Deal has to say. Let’s see.”

  “It won’t be in there yet, Mother.”

  As expected, there was no mention of Muriel’s murder given that it had happened after the newspaper had gone to print. A national tabloid could easily have done so, but the Dipperton Deal didn’t have that kind of modern technology.

  The front page was devoted to the upcoming Skirmish, with a warning to keep all valuables safe given a spate of thefts in the area. There was a paragraph on the discovery of a skeleton in Cromwell Meadows with the promise that the illustrious Dr. Crane from Plymouth University would be sharing his findings in next week’s edition. In fact, the Dipperton Deal promised a one-page “splash.”

  I turned to page 2. “What about this?” I said. “You could have blamed your MINI being parked in the Hare & Hounds car park on him.” I showed Mum a photograph of a clean-cut, good-looking man in his early forties wearing a suit and tie. He grinned mischievously at the camera. “Danny Coverdale,” I read aloud, “leader of an international car theft ring, is still at large following his escape from Ford Open Prison in West Sussex.”

  “At large?” Mum mused. “Do they still use that old-fashioned term?”