Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  “Oh. How kind! That would be lovely,” said Lavinia. “Thank you. I expect you’re too busy to join us, Katherine. And besides, your mother and I will be discussing my costume.”

  I was amused by Lavinia’s blatant attempt to get my mother alone. “As it happens, I do have time for a quick cup,” I couldn’t help but say.

  “But aren’t you taking Edith to the railway station?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “I think her ladyship wants to talk to me about her costume alone,” said Mum.

  “Do call me Lavinia, Iris.”

  And of course, this personal request to drop her title meant that something was afoot. “I know when I’m not wanted,” I joked.

  “Oh, but you are—” Lavinia seemed embarrassed. “It’s just … well…”

  “Private,” Mum declared.

  “But perhaps…” Lavinia hesitated. “I’d quite like Katherine’s opinion.”

  I shot my mother a triumphant look.

  We trooped back to the Carriage House and into the kitchen. Lavinia sat down at the table. I headed over to the counter and put the kettle on whilst Mum brought down three of her coveted coronation mugs. Her knowledge of anything remotely to do with the Royal family bordered on the obsessive.

  “I think Queen Alexandra for you this morning, Lavinia,” said Mum, brandishing a porcelain mug bearing the image of a rather severe Alexandra of Denmark. “She was married to King Edward the Seventh and he was a notorious womanizer, too.”

  “Mum!” I said, appalled.

  Lavinia crumpled and started to sniffle. “It’s true. Your mother is right. I think Rupert is having another affair.”

  Rupert’s indiscretions were legendary, but, though I don’t mean to sound unkind, Lavinia had to have known what she was letting herself in for. Their initial engagement was called off when he eloped with one of the staff during a New Year’s Eve dinner—between courses, no less—and subsequently married her. It was only following his first wife’s fatal accident that Rupert agreed to marry Lavinia to avoid being disinherited by his mother, the dowager countess—although whether he was or wasn’t remains a mystery.

  “Now, what makes you think his lordship is doing such a thing?” Mum asked.

  “He’s been frightfully kind to me recently. And this morning—you heard him—he told me I should rest three times.” Lavinia attempted to blow her nose but cried out in pain.

  “Have you found telltale signs like lipstick on his collar?” said Mum. “Or a lingering scent of perfume?”

  “I don’t need telltale signs,” said Lavinia miserably. “I told you. He’s just been too nice. When Jupiter kicked me in the face, Rupert even made me a cold compress. Well, he put a flannel under the cold tap, but he was gentle.” She began to sniffle again. “Usually he would have said, ‘Jolly bad luck, Lav.’ What if he leaves me? I think I’d die.”

  “Now you’re being silly,” said Mum firmly. “And besides, there’s no danger of him ever leaving you. He relies one hundred percent on your money.”

  “Mother!” I said again. “For heaven’s sake!”

  Lavinia brightened. “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course he does, but—no.” Lavinia bit her lip. “Since Daddy just passed the torch to Piers, it’s Piers who is now holding the purse strings.”

  “And why should this matter?” Mum asked.

  Lavinia struggled to compose herself. She swallowed several times. “Piers told me that if Rupert ever strayed again he’d cut me off without a penny.”

  “Maybe you’d be better off,” I said.

  “Are you mad?” Lavinia exclaimed. “Apart from the fact that divorce would shame the Carew name, what about poor darling Harry? He adores his father and…” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Besides, I love Rupert. He is my life.”

  “Can you guess how long this has been going on?” said Mum briskly.

  “A few weeks, but recently he’s been out an awful lot at night. He says he’s shooting rabbits in the Lower Meadows, but I’ve never heard the sound of a shotgun and I’ve kept all my windows open because it’s been so hot.”

  “I’ve not heard any guns at night; have you, Kat?”

  “No,” I said.

  “And he’s been playing a lot of music,” Lavinia went on. “A lot of Elton John.”

  “Elton John?” Mum exclaimed. “Oh dear. Then it must be serious.”

  “I think you should confront him,” I said.

  “I couldn’t possibly!”

  “You have two choices,” I said. “You ask him outright, or you let it go and accept that it’s just the way he is.”

  “Even if your brother threatens to cut you off if you stay with his lordship,” Mum went on, “he’s still got too much to lose.”

  “But he doesn’t,” Lavinia wailed, then yelped in pain. “The Hall will go directly to Harry. Edith never changed her Will. There’s no reason for Rupert to stay with me at all.”

  I felt sorry for Lavinia but, at the same time, alarmed. Was her self-esteem so very low? True, she wasn’t the sharpest tool in the proverbial shed, but she was very sweet and kind and there wasn’t a mean bone in her body.

  “Men always go back to their wives eventually,” Mum declared. “Kat can shed some insight into being the other woman because she has been the other woman—”

  “I have not been the other woman,” I snapped. “David was already separated when we met. He told me he was getting a divorce and I believed him.”

  “But how do I know that Rupert hasn’t said the same thing to her?” said Lavinia.

  “Well, never mind all that,” Mum said quickly. “Do you know who it is?”

  “I think … I have a feeling it’s Jessica—but she likes to be called Jess.”

  “Who?” Mum and I chorused.

  “Daddy’s new wife,” Lavinia said with disgust. “Didn’t you know he married again?”

  “Well, we would have known if we’d been invited to the wedding—”

  “Why would we have been invited, Mother?” I said. “We’ve never met Lavinia’s father.”

  “Nobody was invited,” said Lavinia. “It was all very sudden. Piers is still livid.”

  “I didn’t realize you lost your mother recently,” said Mum. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh God, don’t be sorry,” said Lavinia. “It was ab-so-lute-ly yonks ago. Daddy’s been a widower for over twenty years. I mean … we’d never even heard of Jess until Easter Sunday.”

  “And you think that’s when the affair began?” Mum caught my eye and I could see she was thinking the same thing. Lavinia was being paranoid.

  “You think his lordship and Jess knew each other before she married your father?” Mum asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Lavinia frowned. “I believe she comes from the Midlands or somewhere ghastly. She tries to pretend she’s one of us, but she can’t hide her accent. Piers is convinced that she’s after Daddy’s money, but apparently, she’s got loads of her own.”

  “That would be pretty low, even for Rupert,” said Mum. “Are you sure there isn’t anyone else who might fit the bill?”

  “Like who?” Lavinia thought for a moment, then brightened. “Do you think Alfred could be persuaded to … well … follow Rupert for cash?”

  “Alfred? Why would Alfred want to do something like that?” said Mum just a little too heartily.

  I shot Mum a warning look. Unbeknown to everyone except my mother and me, Alfred was still on parole. He’d already had a few narrow escapes with the law and we didn’t want to tempt fate.

  “Alfred mentioned that he’d done some sort of security work in the past,” Lavinia went on—which I suppose was one way of calling breaking and entering.

  “Mum—”

  “But do you really want to know, Lavinia?” said Mum in earnest. “And once you do know, what are you planning on doing with the information? I thought you didn’t want to confront his lordship.”

  “I suppose I just want to know before Piers finds out.�
�

  “But I thought you said Piers would cut you off without a penny if he found out?” Mum looked at me with exasperation. “I do feel you should really think this through.”

  “Oh.”

  Poor Lavinia.

  “Well, let’s just take one step at a time,” said Mum. “I’ll talk to Alfred—”

  “You can’t tell him anything!” Lavinia squeaked.

  “Just the bare bones. I know.”

  Lavinia brightened again. “Good. That’s sorted. Can we talk about my costume now?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You must promise to make me look spectacular. I must look beautiful for Rupert.”

  “Well, let’s hope your bruise has gone down by then, and you really need to get that front tooth capped,” said Mum. “But meanwhile, come upstairs with me. I have something for you.”

  “Not the Vicodin?” I said. “You know it’s addictive.”

  “What’s addictive?” The dowager countess, Lady Edith Honeychurch, entered the kitchen accompanied by Mr. Chips, her tan-and-white Jack Russell terrier, who proceeded to tear around the room greeting everyone with excited barks.

  Edith was carrying a monogrammed overnight suitcase of pale-brown leather that I guessed was circa 1950. She was wearing a tailored suit of pale apricot with a white ruffled shirt, American tan-colored tights and light-brown lace-up shoes. Her hair carried the chemical aroma of the newly permed.

  “Goodness, Edith,” Lavinia remarked. “You’ll boil to death wearing that in London.”

  I gestured to the suitcase. “I would have come and picked you up at the Hall.”

  “Nonsense,” said Edith. “I may be the wrong side of eighty-five, but I’m not in the grave yet. It’s as light as a feather, and since I’m going to be stuck in a stuffy conference room all weekend, I need all the exercise I can get.”

  Mum cleared her throat. “Lavinia—her ladyship, I mean—mentioned that you … well … you might actually be speaking to HRH The Princess Royal.”

  “Anne is the Royal Patron of the Pony Club,” said Edith, “so yes. She’s a personal friend. Why?”

  Mum’s jaw dropped. “You say she’s a personal friend.”

  “Did you want me to give her a message, Iris?” I detected a twinkle in Edith’s eye, although she kept a straight face.

  Mum turned pink. “Can you find out if she will be the mysterious Royal who will be attending the Skirmish next weekend?”

  “Anne? Here?” Edith seemed surprised. “Attending the re-enactment? What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “Muriel at the post office told me that every year a member of the Royal family is the guest of honor,” said Mum. “We don’t want Emma Bunton.”

  “Who is Emma Bunton?” Edith demanded.

  “She’s one of the Spice Girls,” said Lavinia, adding, “You know, ‘Tell me what you want, what you really, really want.’ It was top of the charts for ages.”

  “Ah yes.” Edith nodded. “I wonder if she still doesn’t know what he wants.”

  “Emma is one hundred and third in line to the throne,” said Mum helpfully. “I mean, beggars can’t be choosers and if we get Emma c’est la vie, but I’d much prefer to snag Anne.”

  “Quite,” said Edith, giving me a wink.

  Glancing at the clock, I said, “What time is your train?”

  “Eleven-o-five,” said Edith.

  “We must go!” I exclaimed.

  I picked up Edith’s suitcase—it weighed a ton—and staggered to my waiting car.

  Chapter Four

  “I’m glad we left when we did, Edith,” I said.

  We’d been parked along the main drive for the past ten minutes waiting for an enormous marquee rental truck to navigate a narrow five-bar gate into the field in front of the Hall. There was a hive of activity as a team of men in white overalls scurried around erecting an assortment of tents. Nearby, a flatbed lorry was unloading a row of Portaloos and lining them up along the fence.

  Preparations for the Skirmish had begun.

  “Should I turn around and take the service road instead?” I said anxiously. We’d had to drop Mr. Chips back at the stables where Alfred would be caring for him in Edith’s absence and were already cutting it fine.

  “He’ll be through in a moment,” said Edith. “I told Rupert to use the gate along Cavalier Lane, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  There was an ugly crack of splintering wood as the truck clipped the gatepost and bore it away attached to the bumper along with copious bits of hedge, brambles and earth.

  Edith gave a heavy sigh. “There. I knew it. This whole thing is a nightmare, and if the weather breaks the park will resemble the Western Front.”

  “I heard that the re-enactment is an annual tradition,” I said as we were finally able to continue our journey. I took in the beauty of the mile-long drive that was lined with rhododendrons, azaleas and camellias bursting in a rainbow of colors. “The village has talked of nothing else for weeks.”

  “Oh yes, my grandfather started it when he came back from the Boer War in 1902,” Edith said. “And of course Rupert acts like a little boy. Any excuse to show off his skills with the rapier— Oh how infuriating!”

  Eric’s tractor was parked and partially blocking the entrance between the gatehouses. A small trailer held a ladder and colored bunting. As we squeezed through the gap I saw he was putting the finishing touches to a large billboard in front of the West Gatehouse.

  THE ROUNDHEADS ARE COMING TO HONEYCHURCH HALL!

  MAY 22–23

  IT’S 1643 AND THE SECOND YEAR OF THE BITTER ENGLISH CIVIL WAR

  COME AND SEE THE CONFLICT UNFOLD, WITH PIKE, MUSKET, CANNON AND HORSE

  HOG ROAST 6:30 P.M. IN HONEYCHURCH PARK (£7.50 PER HEAD)

  BILLETING (£5 PER TENT)

  PARKING (£10)

  SPONSORED BY: LORD & LADY HONEYCHURCH

  LIKE US ON FACEBOOK AND FOLLOW US ON TWITTER!

  As we turned into Cavalier Lane another flatbed delivery van—this time jammed with chairs and trestle tables—turned up and we had to stop again to let it pass.

  Edith pointed to Jazzbo Jenkins, my vintage Merrythought Jerry mouse and lucky mascot who always sat on my dashboard. “Well, he’s not doing us any good today, is he?”

  Perhaps it “wasn’t my place”—to quote my mother, who remained in awe of the gentry, as she insisted on calling the dowager countess and her ilk—but I just had to ask. “It must cost a fortune to host the re-enactment.” I knew for a fact that it was a constant struggle to keep the vast estate and the little village going.

  “It does cost a fortune,” Edith agreed. “And because of the government enforcing all these new health and safety insurance requirements, this could be our last year—unless we make a profit or at the very least break even.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Of course, our local English Civil War society holds fund-raisers throughout the year, but most of the money comes from people who, for some extraordinary reason, love to dress up and play ‘let’s pretend.’”

  We threaded our way through the narrow country lanes toward Little Dipperton, following the stream down through a leafy tunnel of overarching trees and skirting Coffin Mire.

  I always got the creeps at the bottom of the hill where the burned-out shell that used to be Bridge Cottage sat dank, neglected and forlorn. The cottage was one of the few that no longer belonged to the estate. It had been on the market for months, but the location was so depressing, there had been very little interest.

  Parked in an adjacent bridleway stood Rupert’s black Range Rover.

  “Now what’s he doing here?” Edith mused.

  “Perhaps he’s thinking about buying Bridge Cottage?” I said. “Wouldn’t it give you some of your land back? Even if you never rebuilt the house.”

  Edith looked surprised. “Ah, I see the Honeychurch charm has worked its magic.”

  I smiled. “How can you not love it here!”
/>   As if to echo my sentiments, we crested the stone bridge and entered a typical chocolate-box Devonshire village with one narrow through road that snaked around the village green and past the Norman church of St. Mary’s with a plethora of ancient yew and cedar trees. A series of whitewashed cottages in dire need of re-thatching and a coat of paint formed a crescent around the church. None had front gardens. Their doors opened directly on to the road that overlooked the churchyard that was encompassed by a low stone wall. One of the last working red telephone boxes stood under the shade of a horse chestnut tree.

  As Muriel had remarked earlier, the properties that were owned by the Honeychurch estate had their doors and windows painted a distinctive blue—including an abandoned forge, a tiny greengrocer, Muriel’s post office, which doubled up as a general store, and Violet Green’s tearoom.

  In preparation for the re-enactment, the village looked particularly cheerful. Window boxes were filled with red, white and pink geraniums; colored bunting hung from rooftops and, on every available surface, flyers announcing the Skirmish ensured that no one passing through could be in any doubt that next weekend was going to be one of the most important events in Devon.

  But today the tranquility of this normally peaceful village was broken by Violet Green and her dark-green Morris Minor Traveller. Not only was she blocking the street; she also had stopped outside her own tearoom with her hand firmly on the horn making a terrible racket.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, now what!” Edith exclaimed.

  “I’ll see what’s going on.” I stopped behind the car and got out. I had a soft spot for poor old Violet. Her sister, Lavender, had died of pneumonia months ago and Violet was completely alone. Village gossip claimed that the pair had lost fiancés in the Korean War and thus had never married.

  Violet was sitting in the front seat and looked visibly distressed. I tapped on the glass. The moment she saw me she came off the horn and opened the window.

  I took in her usual attire of a neat skirt and matching cardigan. Behind Violet’s bottle-top glasses that had been heavily repaired with sellotape, her eyes flashed with fury.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” I said.

  “That … that trollop has taken my parking spot!” Violet declared. She jabbed a finger at a white Vauxhall Astra that was parked on a patch of hardened mud sandwiched between her tearoom and the adjacent Honeysuckle Cottage. A hand-painted sign said: RESERVED FOR ROSE COTTAGE in red lettering.