Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  Up above, over our heads, was the same sound I’d heard not so long ago in the loft at the Carriage House.

  “Patty’s upstairs,” I said. “Come on.”

  We carefully climbed over more rubbish and went up the narrow staircase.

  “Will you look at all this stuff?” said Mum, pointing at the rows and rows of empty jam jars that lined either side of the staircase.

  A loud bang followed by a rush of cold air sent scraps of paper and plastic bottles clattering down the stairs.

  “What the hell was that?” Mum exclaimed.

  The small window on the landing swung open and shut as the wind picked up outside. I stared out into the darkness but couldn’t see a thing and pulled it closed.

  “Just the wind,” I said.

  Mum grabbed my arm tightly as we climbed over a mound of dolls with broken limbs and headless bodies. We stepped into a room that could only be described as a junkyard with boxes filled with old candlesticks, knickknacks, broken mirrors, tea trays, cups, and toys. There were brown carrier bags filled with wool and scraps of knitting.

  “Joyce and Patty used to do car boot sales,” I said. “This must be their stock.”

  We retraced our steps into what was probably Joyce’s bedroom. The curtains were drawn. The room smelled musty and damp. Paper was peeling off the walls. A large chest of drawers blocked another door in the corner.

  All around were mounds of linens, towels, and clothing. A framed photograph was just barely visible on the nightstand. It showed a severe-looking woman in 1960s dress with a young girl in pigtails holding a pet rabbit.

  “That’s Joyce with Patty.”

  “I used to braid your hair, too,” said Mum.

  “But I wasn’t allowed to have a pet.”

  Next to an unmade single bed was a steel-framed camp bed with a pillow and duvet on top. “You think Patty slept on that?” I said, horrified. “She didn’t even have her own room.”

  “At least you have yours,” said Mum, attempting a joke but I didn’t laugh.

  Something was bothering me. “Where is the bathroom?”

  Mum snapped her fingers and pointed to the chest of drawers. “Behind there.”

  “Patty!” We shouted again but there was no answer.

  “You take one end of the chest of drawers and I’ll take the other,” I said.

  “Someone deliberately moved this against the door,” said Mum anxiously. “Why?”

  We found Patty laying under a pile of clothes in the bath. Her mouth had been taped and her arms and legs bound with rope.

  “Quickly, let’s get out of here,” I said. “I don’t like it. Something is wrong.”

  We lifted her out and gently removed the tape bindings. Patty was in deep shock. She’d had a lot to deal with these past few days. We carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on the bed.

  “We’d better call an ambulance,” I said.

  “I don’t have my phone.”

  “Well, neither do I. You stay here, I’ll drive home.”

  Mum pulled a face. “Can’t I drive home and you stay here?”

  “I’ll be quicker.”

  Two seconds later, I was back, struggling to stay calm. “Mum, the house is filling up with smoke. I can’t get downstairs.”

  “What?” Mum bolted out onto the landing. “The smoke is coming up the stairs!” she shrieked. “We’re going to burn alive!”

  The roof was made of thatch and, along with all the rubbish, the entire place would become an inferno in minutes. There was a crash and boom as the fire took hold below.

  “The window,” I said. “Hurry.”

  We grabbed Patty and frog-marched her onto the landing that was already heavy with thick black toxic smoke. Thanks to her mother’s preference for nylon furnishings, if the flames didn’t get us, the smoke would.

  “You can slide down the roof,” I told Patty. “There’s an old mattress underneath. Quickly!”

  But she just hung on tightly to the sides of the window frames.

  Mum pushed Patty hard and she tumbled out into the darkness. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Mum skittered down the sliding roof with me right behind her. There was a roar and earth-shattering whomph as the thatch caught fire. A series of cracks and explosions suggested that the flames had found the empty glass jars.

  The three of us sprawled on the old mattress in a heap, winded and breathless.

  “Mum? Your bad hand?” I said. “Is it okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Mum. “I landed on top of Patty. I think I crushed her.”

  We dragged Patty to relative safety at the edge of the garden and watched her home burn. In the flickering light, I looked over at her and saw a slow smile begin to creep across her face.

  “Benedict did this,” Mum said suddenly. “And now we’ll never be able to prove a thing.”

  On the horizon, lights flared. “Look!” I exclaimed. “There’s a car on Hopton’s Crest.”

  “It’s him.” Patty spoke for the first time. “It’s Benedict.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “That’s where he left his car,” said Patty. “I saw him walking across the fields.”

  “So no one would see him,” Mum said grimly.

  I got to my feet. “I’m going to stop him.”

  “Are you insane?” said Mum. “He’s a killer! We could all have been burned to a crisp in there if it hadn’t been for your quick thinking.”

  “All I’m going to do is block his escape,” I said. “The track dead ends at the bridleway, remember? He has to turn his car around to get out.”

  “At least wait until the police arrive, please, Kat,” Mum cried. “Wait—”

  But I was already running for my car.

  I sped up the hill and the moment I turned into the track was instantly engulfed in thick mist. At first, I thought it was coming from the cottage that was burning below where, in my rearview mirror, I could make out hazy orange flames shooting high into the air.

  The visibility along Hopton’s Crest was practically zero. I slowed down to a crawl and edged my way forward. All I could see in the distance were two headlamps rapidly coming toward me. Fast.

  I started to panic. I felt closed in.

  And then I saw it and slammed on my brakes.

  It was a large, black object that seemed to emerge from nowhere and almost floated just yards away in front of my car before being swallowed up into the mist. I sat there in utter shock and disbelief until a sickening crash of metal followed by a deafening car alarm snapped me back to my senses.

  As suddenly as the mist had descended, it vanished to reveal a brilliant canopy of stars and a bright moon.

  Benedict’s Prius was slammed up against one of the ancient oak trees with the hazard lights flashing. White airbags filled the windows. The alarm stopped abruptly, leaving an eerie silence.

  Trembling, I grabbed the Mace I always kept in the glove box—old London habits die hard—and hurried toward the car where Benedict was gripping the steering wheel, staring blindly ahead.

  I wrenched open the driver’s door. “The police are on their way,” I said, hoping they were. I primed the Mace and held it close to his face.

  Benedict slowly turned to look at me. His nose was bleeding profusely and a nasty gash sliced across his forehead. He looked terrified. He also couldn’t move. The airbags had him fully trapped.

  “You saw it, too, didn’t you?” he said in a tremulous voice. “It was him, wasn’t it—Sir Maurice, the phantom Cavalier? I thought it was just a legend.”

  “Yes, I saw something.” And I had and it had shaken me to the core.

  “My legs hurt,” he whispered. “They’re tingling.”

  In the distance I heard the comforting sounds of fire engines with their sirens blaring.

  Benedict slumped back into his seat. “Is Patty—?”

  “She’s alive but no thanks to you,” I said. “And so is my mother. Why did you do it?”

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nbsp; “I never meant any of this to happen,” said Benedict. “If Patty had just given me back Valentine’s mobile.”

  “Why was it so important?” I said. “It was just a phone.”

  Benedict gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, you know—all kinds of incriminating messages from me to Valentine. The bloody fool, the bloody, drunken fool.”

  “Valentine hit Joyce’s scooter, didn’t he?”

  “He swore he never touched her,” said Benedict. “He said he swerved to miss her but she just veered off the road.”

  “He didn’t think to call an ambulance?” I exclaimed.

  “And have everything come out?” said Benedict. “The driving ban—”

  “Everything would have come out anyway! I already knew about the driving ban.”

  “Yes. This is all your fault, Katherine Stanford,” Benedict said bitterly. “You’ve ruined everything. The moment Valentine realized that David Wynne would be asking questions, he wanted out. But there was too much to lose. I’ve spent years building up my company—”

  “Your fake company, you mean,” I said. “You might think that we’re just a tiny backwater down here where no one understands the Internet but I can assure you, the police are investigating all your little scams as we speak.”

  “You’ll never prove a thing,” said Benedict.

  “The police have your shoes,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The shoes you were wearing the night you killed your friend.”

  Benedict gasped. “You think I killed Valentine?” he cried. “No. Never. It was an accident. He was drunk. Angry. There was a struggle. We fought—”

  “You hit him with one of those placards,” I said.

  “He hit me first.”

  “What is this? The school playground?” I said.

  “No. No. It was an accident. I told you.” Benedict shook his head with horror. “God. It was awful. Valentine just stumbled off. I couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t reach him. He told me it was a mistake coming down here. He told me that my feelings for Lavinia got in the way of our plan. He was right.”

  “Yes. And then there is Lavinia,” I said. “You almost destroyed her marriage.”

  “She chose money over love,” said Benedict quietly. “I suppose in some way, I wanted to get my own back. Wanted to see Rupert suffer.”

  “She didn’t choose money over love,” I said. “Lavinia has always loved Rupert. And there was no Honeychurch money. There never was. Lavinia felt guilty for leading you on all those years ago.”

  A panda car came screaming toward us with its blue light flashing. Shawn leapt out of the driver’s seat and rushed to my side. “Kat! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes. Fine. Just a bit shaken,” I said and realized I was trembling and tears stung my eyes.

  To my surprise, Shawn took me in his arms and even when Roxy turned up, he didn’t let go.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “You were gone for hours!” Mum exclaimed as I strode into the kitchen having had a wonderful ride.

  “Edith took me to look at Jane’s Cottage,” I said, removing my riding helmet. “Let’s just say it’s got potential.”

  “What on earth have you done to your hair?” Mum sounded appalled. “You’re morphing into one of them!”

  I touched the old-fashioned slumber-net that Lavinia had insisted I try. “I know, I know. Hat hair and all that, but it really does keep the hair in check—what’s going on? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

  “Speaking of canaries,” said Mum. “Alfred is moving into William’s old flat—but I don’t want to talk about him—” Mum handed me a brown paper bag. “Look inside.”

  “It’s money!” I exclaimed.

  “Five thousand pounds, to be exact,” said Mum. “It was Eric who found the cash in the bridleway near Bridge Cottage. He had no idea it belonged to me and said he thought he’d found the end of the rainbow.”

  “Wow. Eric is full of surprises.”

  “And he took the blame for Lavinia’s mess with Scroope—although of course, he’ll be using Lavinia’s money to repay the villagers.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Which just goes to show you can’t judge a man by his eyebrows.” Mum laughed at her own joke. “He’s in an awful financial mess. Up to his ears in debt having spent all that money on that stupid Massey Ferguson tractor, which was why he’s selling all Vera’s shoes and—you’ll never guess…”

  “Don’t make me.”

  “It was Eric who sold your photograph to the Daily Post. Angela took it but he sold it. He even admitted that she begged him not to.”

  “Oh, no.” I groaned. “So not only did I accuse Patty of stealing the money, I was wrong about Angela, too. I owe them both an apology. Maybe I’ll go into Totnes this afternoon and take them some flowers. Do you want to come?”

  “No.”

  To my astonishment, Patty had booked herself into a private room at Totnes Hospital. Not only that, when she saw me, she smiled. For once she looked clean and wore a smattering of lipstick.

  “You’re looking better,” I said. “Nice room.”

  It turned out that Patty’s mother had not just been frugal but she’d been smart with her money. Bridge Cottage had been heavily insured meaning that Patty had inherited a large sum of money.

  “Enough for me to buy a little flat down in Dartmouth by the river and not feel guilty about my mother anymore.”

  “You can start a new chapter,” I said firmly.

  “Can I show you my iPhone?”

  Patty then admitted that the afternoon I’d seen Benedict at her cottage he’d been asking if she’d found Valentine’s phone and had become very threatening. She was so frightened of him that she lit the Rayburn and tried to burn it. It certainly explained the odd smell of plastic that Mum and I had detected.

  The irony was that even though Benedict had set the fire to destroy the cottage, only one thing had survived—the cast-iron Rayburn. And inside was Valentine’s iPhone that would be totally salvageable. Benedict would get his just desserts after all.

  “Where did you find Valentine’s iPhone?” I asked.

  “It was in the hedge,” said Patty. “And it worked. I thought that if I answered your messages no one would find out that Valentine had lost it.”

  “I hope your texting skills improve,” I said.

  Patty grinned. “I’m getting the hang of it, now.”

  “What about Valentine’s overnight bag?”

  Patty’s face fell. “He found that. He came back for it. That’s why he was there the afternoon you stopped by.” For a moment, she seemed small and very alone.

  “It’s over now, Patty,” I said briskly.

  “Will you come and see me again?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  It was a good feeling knowing that Patty faced a brighter future—although I suspected my next visit would not be so uplifting.

  Angela lay in a packed geriatric ward. She had to be the youngest patient there by fifty years.

  I found her sitting up in bed flicking through a copy of The Stage.

  “What do you want?” she lisped. “You’re not therpothed to be here.”

  “I owe you an apology,” I said. “It was Eric who sold the photograph to the Daily Post. I’m really sorry.”

  “Look!” Angela opened her mouth wide and pointed to two stumps. “I need crownth put on theeth but I can’t afford them. I’m going to mith my audithion.”

  “Are you suing me so you can get your teeth fixed?” I said bluntly.

  Angela nodded miserably. “Thrudy won’t pay,” she said. “Thee told me that I didn’t keep up my end of the bargain.”

  I thought for a moment. “Tell you what, I’ll pay for your orthodontist.”

  “Oh. My. God. Really?”

  “Yes. You’re a very talented actress,” I said. “But just tell me one thing, why did you agree to spy on me?”

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sp; “Thpy on you?” Angela looked confused. “Thrudy thaid we could fluth out the real Krythalle Thorm. Thee got a tip-off from Vera the houthkeeper before me. Do you know who it could be?”

  I felt a huge wave of relief. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Angela sighed. “Oh well. Let Thrudy do her own dirty work. They’ll thoon find out who Krythalle Thorm ith anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Thrudy won Ericth prithe on eBay.”

  “She what?” I whispered. I’d put in my final bid with just five minutes to go. “You mean … Trudy’s going to meet Krystalle Storm in Italy?”

  I was too late. It looked like Trudy Wynne had won after all.

  Half an hour later I pulled into the courtyard with a heavy heart to find Mum, perched on top of the mounting block.

  She hurried over and yanked open the passenger door. “Thank heavens you’re back. Awful news.”

  My heart sank. “You’ve heard about Trudy Wynne and the contest?”

  “What? No. Harry’s missing,” said Mum. “The school called Lavinia this morning. He ran off again in the night. What’s more, Thunder is missing from his stable.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Rupert had threatened to sell his pony if he ran away again.”

  “Where shall we start to look?”

  And then I knew.

  We sped back down the service drive, past the burned-out shell that—along with the Rayburn—was all that remained of Bridge Cottage.

  “Where are we going?” Mum exclaimed as we passed the bridleway entrance to Cavalier Copse.

  “You’ll see.”

  Up on Hopton’s Crest I stopped the car just yards away from the spot where Benedict had hit the tree. Only two deep grooves gouged into the surface marked the accident.

  “What are you doing?” Mum demanded as I got out of the car.

  “You’ll see,” I said again.

  I was right. On either side of the track were two wide gaps in the hedgerows. Both bore the signs of fresh hoofprints and on one side, there was a small mound of horse manure.

  “You’re kidding,” said Mum when I told her my theory.

  “I’m sure it was Harry riding Thunder last night. He would have crossed over Hopton’s Crest to get down to Cavalier Copse and with all that mist…”