Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 3

  “Give them a little longer but I’m happy to call for you when I get to a landline,” I said. “Do you have the number?”

  “Please.” She handed me a business card for Bumble-Bee Cars.

  “Who shall I say called?”

  “Gayla Tarasova.”

  I recalled the conversation I’d overheard earlier between Muriel and Vera inside the general store and guessed this woman had to be the disgraced nanny.

  “You are very kind,” said Gayla. “You know Lady Edith?”

  “Not yet. My mother has just bought the Carriage House.”

  “You are Kat!” Gayla broke into a smile. “Your mother is a nice lady. Please tell her—” Gayla’s expression grew earnest. “She must go back to London. She must! She is in great danger here.”

  “Danger?” I said sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “Listen to me. Rupert is a wicked man who must be stopped!”

  Beep! Beep! Beep! The sound of a car horn startled us. Gayla’s eyes widened with terror. “Oh! It’s him! It’s Rupert! He mustn’t see me here. I must go.”

  Gayla’s fear was contagious. “Wait,” I cried. “I’m blocking the entrance. Hold on.”

  But Gayla dragged her suitcase back into the shadows just as a black Range Rover came barreling toward me. Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I muttered and reversed tight against the gatehouse wall. The Range Rover barely slowed down to make the turn into the lane.

  Without so much as an acknowledgement, the driver swung left—thankfully in the opposite direction from the horses. I caught a glimpse of a tweed flat cap, a neat military mustache, and a brown-and-white English setter in the front passenger seat.

  “And thank you, too,” I shouted at the disappearing vehicle.

  I called Gayla’s name but she remained hidden, probably worried that the Range Rover—driven by the “wicked Rupert”—would return. It’s none of your business, Kat, I told myself. Even so, I waited for a few more minutes.

  When Gayla still didn’t reappear I shouted, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call the cab company!” and set off down the long tree-lined drive.

  As I rounded a corner, the dense thicket on my left broke briefly to reveal a rusted, wrought-iron archway straddling a pair of wrought-iron gates topped by a metal cast of a galloping horse. The land beyond fell away and once again I caught a glimpse of the river.

  Ahead, I spotted soaring chimneys and mullioned windows disappearing and reemerging between the trees. Another break in the shrubs on my left revealed glorious parkland where a handful of horses grazed alongside—good grief—were those llamas?

  Just yards from the grass verge stood an ornamental lake covered with lily pads and framed with scattered clumps of pampas grass. At the top of a shallow bank that led down to the water’s edge stood a tall angel, arms reaching heavenward, carved in white marble surrounded by a sea of red roses—presumably a family memorial.

  Although I had been keeping an eye open for any sign directing me to the Carriage House I realized I’d gone too far up the drive. It split in two with the right-hand fork turning uphill into a newly paved road lined by post-and-rail paddocks. One side harbored a small outdoor sand dressage arena; the other was laid out with cavalletti jump poles. Ahead was a range of redbrick buildings with neat white trim and green roofs. An impressive archway with a clock tower in Roman numerals registered the right time—six-thirty-five—and marked a grandiose entrance to the stable yard. A large silver horse lorry with living accommodations over the cab and a hunter-green Land Rover were parked against an outside wall.

  I took the left fork that ended in a turning circle in front of Honeychurch Hall. In the center stood a large empty stone fountain featuring rearing bronze horses marooned in a sea of weed-infested gravel.

  I slowed to a stop under a bank of overhanging trees that bordered a wood. The house felt intimidating and unwelcoming. The architecture could be described as “classic revival” with its Palladian front and, judging by the four banks of tall chimneys topped with decorative, octagonal pots, I suspected it encased a much older building—most likely a Tudor manor house. The main entrance was a central porte cochere with Tuscan columns. Compared to the immaculate stable yard I’d just seen, the house was a shambles.

  The twelve-pane casement windows on the ground and first floors were shuttered. Paintwork was peeling and many of the cornices had fallen and lay broken and abandoned on the gravel. A forest of weeds and small holly trees emerged through the exposed roof on the east side of the building where sheets of black plastic had lost the battle to keep out the elements.

  Scaffolding had been erected up the side of the west wing where a section of the roof was partially hidden under a huge dark green tarpaulin. Tiles were stacked along the front of the house.

  Roof repairs to grand homes such as these ran into the hundreds of thousands of pounds. Often, the staggering cost of a new roof marked the beginning of the end for these country estates especially if they were listed buildings and had to comply with all kinds of complicated codes. I’d attended many estate sales and it was heartbreaking to see magnificent old properties such as this one, abandoned and left to their fate, slowly disintegrate.

  Turning my attention back to my own disintegration, I knew I had to change my stained, white capris before meeting my mother. I’d changed clothes in the backseat of the car before and, with no signs of life coming from the house, felt the coast was clear.

  Unfortunately, this was not the case. As I was squeezing between the front seats, a hammering on the window revealed “Biggles” in leather flying helmet and goggles with his face pressed against the glass.

  I wound the window down a crack. “Hello.”

  “Please get out of the car,” he said. “You’re trespassing and I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoot you.”

  Chapter Three

  The boy, who appeared to be about seven years old, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Name, rank, and serial number!” he demanded.

  “I’m Kat Stanford. And you are—?”

  “Harry.”

  “Really? I must have been mistaken,” I said. “I could have sworn you were Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth.”

  Harry broke into a huge smile. “Yes! I am! How did you know?”

  “Your fame is legendary, sir,” I said. “I believe all your friends call you Biggles. May I call you Biggles?”

  Harry grinned, “Yes, please.”

  “And my friends call me Kat.”

  Harry reverted to his alter ego and gave me a frosty look. “You do know that you could have been shot. There is a war on.”

  “I’m afraid I got lost, sir. I was looking for the Carriage House.”

  “I can show you the way but first, I must inspect your cargo.” Harry pointed to the boot of my car. “Open up, please.”

  Catching sight of the cardboard boxes of vintage teddy bears and Victorian toys in the boot, Harry gasped. “Wow! Bears!” He reached in and pulled out a tattered Steiff cinnamon bear. “This chap looks suspicious,” he said. “I’m going to have to take him away for questioning.”

  “He’s a bit fragile for questioning,” I said. “He’s already been interrogated. Can’t you see what happened to his paw?”

  Harry put him back. “Are you building an army?”

  “No, I collect them and sell them to nice people who will take care of them.” I moved Harry gently aside and closed the hatchback. “Do you have a special toy?”

  “I’m not allowed,” said Harry. “Mummy says I’m too old for silly toys.”

  “We’re never too old for bears.”

  “Do you have a special toy?” asked Harry.

  “Yes. Do you want to meet him?”

  Harry nodded.

  I whipped around to the passenger door and grabbed Jazzbo Jenkins off the dashboard.

  “Meet Jazzbo Jenkins,” I said. “He’s my lucky mascot.”

  Harry frowned. “Why
is he wearing a blue cardigan?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He always has.”

  “And where are his badges?”

  “What kind of badges?”

  “Places he’s visited. Seaside piers.”

  I regarded Harry with curiosity. “Do mice visit seaside piers?”

  “Of course they do! I need a mascot for one of my secret missions,” said Harry, reverting to his alter ego. “I need to borrow him. There is someone he must meet.”

  “Why don’t you show me where the Carriage House is first and then we’ll see.”

  “Alright,” said Harry. “But we have to go in the car.”

  “I can’t take you in my car,” I said. “What would your mother say?”

  “She won’t mind. We’ll only be a minute.” Before I could stop him, Harry had opened the passenger door, jumped inside, and buckled up.

  “Where is your mother?” I added as I joined him. “I suspect that wasn’t who you were riding with today.”

  “No!” Harry gave a snort of laughter. “That was Granny. Granny and William are putting the horses to bed.”

  Glancing at my watch I saw it was almost seven. The evenings stayed much lighter in the West Country than in London. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, too?”

  “It’s the school holidays, silly.” Harry gave Jazzbo a squeeze. “Anyway, Jazzbo says he wants me to come—just in case we’re attacked by Germans.”

  “How far is it?”

  Harry gestured back down the drive toward the gatehouses. “That way.”

  I turned the car around and we set off in companionable silence.

  “What a lovely place to grow up,” I said at last. “Were you born at the Hall?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. “But in twenty—no, nineteen days—I’m going away to boarding school.”

  “Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “How old are you?”

  “I’m going to be seven on September the first.”

  “Seven!” I never saw the point of having children if they were going to be shipped off to boarding school. “That’s awful, Harry. I am sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “Well—you’ll miss your family, won’t you?”

  Harry didn’t answer. Stealing a glance, I noted he was holding Jazzbo so tightly that his knuckles were white. Cursing my lack of tact I added, “On the other hand, just think of all the new friends you’ll make. What school are you going to?”

  “Blundells, then Stowe, then Cambridge,” said Harry. “Father went there, too, and my grandfather and my great-grandfather and my great-great-grandfather. And my great-great-great-grandfather and—”

  “And then you’ll come back here and run the estate just like they did?” I suggested.

  Harry frowned. “I don’t know. Mummy says yes, but Father says it’s a white elephant. I don’t see how a house can be a white elephant. I mean, where is its trunk?”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  He shook his head. “Mummy says I’m an only child and very special.”

  “I’m an only child, too,” I said. “And yes, we are very special.”

  As we drew alongside the white marble angel, a tall blond woman in jodhpurs and shirt picked up one of the floral arrangements.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Harry.

  “That’s Mummy!” He slithered down in his seat and ducked under the dashboard. “Quickly! She mustn’t see us! Drive fast!”

  To my astonishment, Harry’s mother carried the roses down the bank to the water’s edge and hurled them in—vase and all. “Your mother just threw the roses in the lake!”

  “Mummy didn’t like Kelly,” said Harry. “She’s glad she’s dead.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “Was Kelly a dog?”

  “No, silly! Kelly was a tart,” said Harry cheerfully. “She was attacked by killer bees who stung her to death with deadly venom.”

  “Goodness. Poor Kelly.” I glanced over at Harry dressed in his Biggles gear and wondered if his parents worried about their child having such a vivid imagination. I’d certainly worry if he were mine.

  “Stop!” cried Harry as we drew alongside the wrought-iron archway. Pointing at the dense cluster of thicket and overhanging trees opposite, he said, “The Carriage House is through there.”

  “Are you sure?” I said doubtfully.

  “It is, it is!” Harry insisted. “See? Look!”

  The entrance was barely visible. Nestled in the undergrowth was a weatherworn signpost that confirmed he was right—TO CARRIAGE HOUSE.

  “No one has been down here for years.” I eyed the partially cobbled track with dismay. “There has to be another entrance.”

  “Yes, but that’s miles away and I’m not allowed to leave the park,” said Harry. “Anyway, this is a shortcut.”

  I groaned. “Not another shortcut.”

  With deep misgivings I nosed my car through the undergrowth and—minutes later—realized it was a big mistake. In bygone years this almost certainly had been a service road linking the main drive to the Carriage House—but not today. The cobbled track soon fizzled out leaving nothing but deep furrows filled with muddy water.

  Every time we plunged into a rut, Harry squealed, “We’re flying! Turbulence! Whoa! Hold her steady!”

  “Is it much farther?” I asked desperately as my car struggled to move through cloying mud while filthy water splashed up the sides of the windows.

  “No. It’s over there,” said Harry. “See?”

  Praise the Lord, indeed it was. Peeping through the trees was a chimney top and horse weathervane.

  We rounded a corner and I gave a cry of alarm. Immersed in another deep rut was my mother’s MINI in Chili Red. There was no sign of her. “Oh, no,” I groaned again.

  “Oh, bugger. That car is still stuck,” said Harry happily. “It’s been there for days!”

  “I’m not sure you should say that word, Harry,” I said. “But yes, oh bugger. We’re stuck, too.” There was no way forward and no chance of reversing or turning around.

  Exasperated, I cut the engine and clambered out sinking in glutinous mud. “I think I’d better walk you back to the house.”

  “No. Leave it to Biggles!” said Harry, scrambling out of the car—wisely wearing Wellington boots. Still clutching Jazzbo he added, “I’ve got a jolly good idea. We’ll go and get William.”

  “Harry—”

  “William is the strongest man in the world,” he said. “He used to work in the circus.”

  “Harry, don’t—”

  But Harry had vanished into the woods.

  “Oh great.” I stood there, perplexed. My poor car looked as if it had gone through a rally driving competition—and failed.

  I didn’t hold much hope for Harry’s return. With a heavy sigh, I retrieved my overnight case from the boot of the car and picked up the flowers, wine, and strawberries for Mum.

  Squeezing between the MINI and the bushes, I peered through the mud-smeared windows. The glove box and half the dashboard were covered in yellow Post-it Notes. I could make out a few words in Mum’s neat handwriting—“cherry red lips,” “grotto,” and “gas man.”

  Five minutes later, after walking through more mud, I reached a dilapidated five-bar gate propped against a dry stone wall. A pair of granite pillars marked the entrance to the cobbled courtyard of my mother’s new abode.

  So this was the famous Carriage House.

  There was no doubt the place had charm but … was my mother insane? Its condition was a hundred times worse than the main house.

  It was built in a quadrangle with a range of outbuildings forming two sides and a ruined barn stretched along the other. I use the word “barn” generously. It was missing half its roof, the upright wooden girders slanted at dangerous angles, and I suspected that the first good gust of wind would blow the whole thing down. Tucked in between the outbuildings and barn stood three metal dustbins overflowing with household rubbish. Next to one of the outbuildings was a lat
ch-gate that led into a pine forest.

  The cobbled courtyard was peppered with buttercups and ragwort. Two planks of wood lay over an open drain with an orange traffic cone serving as some kind of warning. In the center stood an old wishing well, a water pump, and a stepped mounting block.

  On the fourth side stood the Carriage House. Bearing the date 1830, it was a two-story redbrick building half-hidden under swathes of wisteria and Virginia creeper. The slate roof had gaping holes patched very much like that of the main house. Along the ridge and straddling the roof pitch ran a skylight smeared with green moss.

  Even though the place was run-down the architecture and attention to detail was exquisite. There were lunettes in the clerestory and small hatches led to a hayloft. An arched double carriageway door spanned both stories and carried a heavy iron bar and padlock rusted from years of neglect and disuse.

  Above the carriageway door was a small window trimmed in peeling blue paint—presumably the old grooms’ quarters—and above that, a timber cupola topped with an ogee dome and the horse weathervane I’d seen through the trees.

  I consider myself a practical person and up until this moment, had believed my mother to be so, too. Our house in Tooting had been almost sterile in its neatness. Dad’s love of Do-It-Yourself ensured the entire interior was repainted a bland magnolia every second year.

  I just couldn’t imagine Mum living here. I also wondered if she was aware that buildings such as this were usually listed and that structural alterations had to be approved by the district council.

  Hammering on the carriageway door I shouted, “Mum! It’s me! Hello?” But there was no answer.

  Putting down my suitcase and goodies, I stood back and surveyed the property. No windows faced the courtyard. Access to the grooms’ quarters would most likely be at the rear.

  I followed the line of the building and turned the corner. To my dismay, just a mere fifty yards farther on stood another set of granite pillars that marked the original tradesman’s entrance. A hideous makeshift corrugated iron gate had been erected between the pair with razor wire running along on top. Spray-painted in crimson was another warning, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. POACHERS WILL BE SHOT.