Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  “We’re going to have a bath, aren’t we, boy?” Edith snapped her fingers and Mr. Chips leapt to attention. He took up his position close behind her feet. “And Kat,” Edith said. “Tomorrow, we will ride to Cavalier Copse and see what Harry was talking about. Come at eleven.”

  Edith strode off with Mr. Chips trotting behind her.

  “I’m frightfully sorry to put you in such a ghastly position,” said Lavinia. “Rupert feels there is no reason for Edith to know about this awful train business. It’ll only distress her. Ever since Vera’s frightful … accident … Edith has not been herself. I mean—” Lavinia lowered her voice, “She’s even been visiting William. In prison!”

  “I can’t see how she won’t find out,” I said. “There are flyers all over the village.”

  Lavinia bit her lip. “I know.”

  “And placards in the fields, too.”

  “What do they say?” said Lavinia. “Will she know what they mean?”

  “They’re pretty obvious.” I said. “HS3 CROSSES FROM HERE.”

  “I’ll talk to Eric. He can get rid of them tonight.”

  “Did you hear about the shooting incident?” I asked.

  “I heard Harry’s version of it,” said Lavinia. “Joyce and Patty are barking mad. Frightful people. Frightful.”

  I quickly filled her in.

  “Good heavens!” Lavinia actually cracked a smile. “Valentine Prince-Avery! What a name! It sounds like something from one of your mother’s novels!”

  “Mum and I got a laugh out of that one,” I said. “Valentine gave me his business card. Seems he’s a consultant who assesses properties for compensation. I think we should talk to him about our options.”

  “We could,” said Lavinia slowly. “But really, he’s the enemy, isn’t he?”

  “But wouldn’t it be helpful to know what we’re up against?”

  “No. I have a better idea. I wanted to talk to Iris about it, too. An old chum of mine—Benedict Scroope—is an environmentalist. Comes highly recommended and is frightfully well connected with all the right people. He even saved an entire village in Kent from being demolished when the Channel Tunnel was built in the early nineties. Managed to get the line diverted.”

  “That’s encouraging news!”

  “I think Benedict can be persuaded to take our case,” Lavinia went on. “In fact, I told Eric to get in touch with him. I believe he is organizing a meeting in the village but of course, I can’t possibly go. One needs to keep a certain air of mystery and distance from one’s people. It would be frightfully good if you could go on my behalf.”

  “I will if I’m still here,” I said. “My mother will definitely want to get involved.”

  “Excellent.” Lavinia hesitated for a moment. “I was hoping I could introduce Benedict to your mother tomorrow. We could meet at the Carriage House. Do you think she’d mind frightfully? Such a bore, I know.”

  “Why don’t you call and ask her?”

  “Obviously I can’t bring Benedict to the Hall because of Edith, and Mrs. Cropper can be a frightful gossip. And then there’s the new housekeeper, Parks. One must be circumspect.” Lavinia hesitated again. “And I’d rather you didn’t mention this to Rupert.”

  “Won’t he find out if you’re organizing a campaign?”

  “No.” Lavinia’s pale face turned pink. “Rupert is spending some time—” She made a peculiar gulping sound. “Rupert has had to go to London. On business.” She blinked back tears. “Goodness, a fly flew straight into my eye.”

  “It must have been hard saying good-bye to Harry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Lavinia looked startled. “Harry? Why? He’s fine. Ab-so-lute-ly fine. Has never been better, actually.”

  “I wanted to apologize,” I said firmly. “I should never have mentioned the local school option. I hope it didn’t cause any trouble between you and Rupert.”

  Lavinia’s face turned even pinker. She seemed horrified at being asked such a personal question. “Trouble? Why would it? Everything is perfectly fine. Ab-so-lute-ly fine.”

  “I’m sure you must miss Harry,” I persisted. “I know I do!”

  “Miss him?” Lavinia forced a laugh. “Well, one would but one’s so busy, isn’t one? To miss anything.” She gave a bright smile. “Must get on. Good night.”

  It was dark as I headed for home along the former service road and through the pine forest. When I first took the shortcut, the muffled silence used to spook me. It wasn’t just the Hall that had ghosts-in-residence, but the grounds and surrounding fields, too.

  My thoughts turned to my life in London that seemed so simple compared to those at Honeychurch Hall. I thought of Mum and her secret identity and now, here she was introducing Alfred, her stepbrother, under false pretenses. Working with retired circus horses in Spain! She may as well claim that Alfred was a champion matador! Or better yet, said that Alfred had returned from the Himalayas! Then, there was the charade between Edith, Rupert, and Lavinia, each hiding something from the other. And mixed up in this was poor Harry, bundled off to boarding school.

  And what of Valentine Prince-Avery? My mother wouldn’t be pleased if she found out I was planning on meeting him tonight even though I had her best interests at heart. She’d be furious—unless I lied.

  But before I could give my social plans any more thought I left the pine forest behind me, slipped through the latch gate, and entered the courtyard to find Mum sitting on the top step of the stone mounting block.

  “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded.

  “I told you I was at the yard with the horses,” I said. “Why? What on earth’s the matter?”

  “Something terrible has happened.”

  Chapter Five

  “Take a deep breath and calm down,” I said.

  We were sitting at the pine kitchen table and Mum refused to say anything until she had poured us large gin and tonics. This “sun over the yardarm” lark was becoming a bit of a habit but I told myself that once I was back in London, I wouldn’t be reaching for the gin bottle every time the bird clock struck six or there was a problem that only alcohol could solve.

  “It can’t be that bad,” I said. “You haven’t run out of gin. Oh!” I spotted the mailing box labeled Goldfinch Press on one of the countertops. “Did they hate the manuscript?”

  “Of course they didn’t hate the manuscript!” Mum snapped. “Graham, my editor loved it.”

  “I just thought—”

  “I’ve got to make a few changes and spice up the tiffin—”

  “The what?”

  “The tiffin, darling. Nooky. Sex.”

  I sniggered. “I’ve never heard that term before.”

  “But that’s not the real problem.” Mum took a large sip and gave a heavy sigh. She pushed a sheet of heavily embossed paper with the logo of a goldfinch toward me. “Look at this.”

  “Let me see.” I read aloud. “Win a romantic weekend for two on the spectacular Amalfi Coast with Krystalle Storm, the international best-selling author of the Star-Crossed Lovers Series. Stroll through the gardens of her beautiful Italian villa, meet the delightful Pekinese, Truly Scrumptious—”

  “I know what it says!” Mum exclaimed.

  “So?”

  “Given that Vera had won the contest and now—well, she’s dead, isn’t she—why wouldn’t my publisher have canceled the prize out of respect?”

  I skimmed the rest of the letter. “Gosh. There were over five thousand entries,” I said. “I know! You’ll just have to rent a villa in Italy and borrow a dog.”

  “Not funny,” said Mum. “You obviously haven’t read to the bottom of the page.”

  “It says here that Goldfinch Press is awarding the prize to—good grief!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Eric,” I said. “Well. I suppose Eric was her husband. Mum, this is actually a good thing. He knows your secret. Why don’t you just pay him off? If your publisher wants publicity photos, we can get t
hem Photoshopped here. Didn’t you say that Alfred was good at forgeries?”

  Mum’s expression hardened. “I talked to Eric in Cromwell Meadows twenty minutes ago. I even took him a cup of tea!”

  “And?”

  “I said that instead of him going on a mini-break we could come to a cash arrangement,” said Mum. “I would simply tell my publisher that Eric preferred to make a donation to charity or something.”

  “So, you’d pay him off?”

  “He flatly refused! And when I asked him why, Eric had the nerve to say it was none of my business!”

  “Oh.” This was a surprise. Eric was notoriously hard up for money. “He really wants to go to Italy that much? Even when you told him that you didn’t own a villa there—or a Pekinese?”

  Mum suddenly seemed fascinated by her fingernails.

  “You didn’t tell him about the villa, did you?” I said. “Of course you didn’t.”

  “He’s a horrible man! Why does he have to make my life so difficult?”

  “He knows you don’t like him.”

  “I suppose we did get off on the wrong foot this evening,” Mum admitted. “You’ve heard that wretched tractor! Every morning he’s outside my window digging out that ditch. It makes a terrible noise and I just can’t concentrate. I asked him nicely but he got in a huff and said to take it up with her ladyship if I had a problem. Something about rain, drainage, and flooding.”

  “If Edith told him to dig—”

  “Why can’t he dig somewhere else when I’m trying to write?”

  “So you had another falling out?” I said wearily.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Now that Dad is gone, why can’t you come clean? With everyone,” I said. “Tell Eric there is no villa or Pekinese dog. And whilst you’re at it, tell your publisher—”

  “Graham. His name is Graham Goldfinch—”

  “That your husband was not an international diplomat, nor did he die in a tragic plane crash, among other things.”

  “It’s too late for that now.”

  “Graham won’t care about your background,” I said. “It happens all the time in publishing. Look at J. K. Rowling? She wrote under a pseudonym.”

  “I’m not J. K. Rowling.” Mum gave another sigh. “Alfred would have done such a good job transforming that wall into the Amalfi Coast.”

  “Now that he’s no longer taking care of retired circus horses in Spain?”

  “Oh, her ladyship told you. I couldn’t say that Alfred has spent the last decade in Wormwood Scrubs prison,” Mum said with scorn. “But Alfred will be very useful to our protest group. Just you see.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Lavinia is going to call you about an old friend of hers—Benedict Scroope—”

  “That’s a good name, too. I must write it down—”

  “He’s an environmentalist. Well connected apparently,” I said. “Even managed to save an entire village in Kent from demolition when the Channel Tunnel was built. They want to meet here.”

  Mum brightened. “Here? Not at the Hall?”

  “Lavinia feels—I quote—‘One needs to keep a certain air of mystery and distance from one’s people.’ Basically, she wants to get involved but doesn’t want to mix with the rabble.”

  “What an honor.” Mum’s face flushed with pleasure, then she scowled. “Will Eric be coming?”

  “Lavinia said it would be just the three of you.”

  “Not even his lordship?”

  “He’s gone to London.”

  As if on cue, Mum’s phone rang.

  “I bet that’s Lavinia, now,” I said.

  She snatched up the receiver, said, “Yes, m’lady” several times, “I promise I won’t say a word to his lordship,” then, “Lovely. Tomorrow at nine-thirty.”

  Mum put the phone down and turned to me. “Why can’t we mention this to his lordship?”

  “Rupert told Lavinia not to interfere.”

  “Of course he’d say that,” said Mum with scorn.

  My mother did not have a particularly high opinion of Lord Honeychurch ever since we learned he’d tried to sell the estate to an adventure playground development company. Mum still didn’t trust Rupert’s change of heart and believed it was because he hoped to be reinstated as Edith’s heir. I had to admit I thought she could be right.

  “Rupert drove Harry back to school and then went on to London,” I said. “Lavinia was pretty upset about it. Not that I’m gossiping.” But I realized I was!

  “Gossip! You must! What happened? They argued over Harry? They separated?” Mum’s eyes widened. “Has he met someone else? I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s such a cold fish. And the way she wears her hair under that hairnet all the time. So unattractive.”

  “I’ll leave all that to your imagination,” I said. “I’m going to take a luxurious shower in your wonderful new bathroom.”

  “I had that shower put in especially for you.” Mum looked at the bird clock. “Do you mind getting your own supper tonight? If I’m expecting the gentry tomorrow I need to get cracking on these notes straight away.”

  “I was thinking about going to the Hare & Hounds.”

  “Why?” Mum said suspiciously. “Isn’t that where that Valentine person is staying?”

  I felt myself redden and agonized over whether to lie. “They make a good steak and kidney pie.”

  “You’re a hopeless fibber,” said Mum. “You’re going to see him, aren’t you? You’re going to talk to him behind my back!”

  “Why don’t we just hear what he has to say about your options?”

  Mum grabbed the box containing her manuscript and headed for the kitchen door. “I hope you will both be very happy together. After all, he lives in London. You live in London…”

  And then it hit me. I don’t know how I had missed the obvious. “Would you like me to stay here a little longer?” I said gently. “At least until Alfred has settled in?”

  “It’s up to you,” said Mum but I saw a flash of hope in her eyes and it made me feel like an idiot. As the time for my departure drew closer we’d been bickering more than usual. Why hadn’t I realized that my mother was going to miss me, too? For the past forty years I’d practically lived in her back pocket.

  “I suppose Alfred could sleep on the sofa in the sitting room,” she said.

  “It’s still more comfortable than a jail cell,” I said. “Edith mentioned Alfred could have William’s flat in the stable yard.”

  “I’m not sure if he’ll agree to that,” she said darkly.

  “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  I pulled Mum into my arms and said, “I’m going to miss you, too, but I’m not going to the moon.”

  “You smell.” Mum wriggled free.

  I looked down at the clothes I had been wearing all day. I sported manure stains on my jeans and the cuffs of my sweater were brown with mud from our tumble in Coffin Mire.

  “Wait! I’ve had a brilliant idea!” Mum broke into a smile that had devious written all over it. “You can be our spy!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Yes! You must meet Valentine, tonight. I’ll bet he’s privy—”

  “Privy?” I snorted.

  “Stop snorting. Yes, privy, to all sorts of confidential information that we can pass along to Mr. Scroope. You are going undercover!”

  Mum retrieved a Dictaphone from the kitchen drawer. “Here, put this in your handbag.”

  “I think it’s a terrible idea,” but I took it all the same.

  “But don’t put on that awful patterned skirt. It makes you look so frumpy.”

  It had been exactly what I’d planned to wear.

  “I won’t wait up,” said Mum with a knowing wink.

  Chapter Six

  One hour later, dressed in the patterned skirt that Mum thought frumpy, I drove the mile and a half from Honeychurch Hall to the village of Little Dipperton. It was a typical chocolat
e-box Devonshire village consisting of whitewashed, thatched, and slate-roofed cottages with a handful of shops and a seventeenth-century pub. There was also an abandoned forge, a greengrocer, a tearoom, and a general store that doubled up as a post office.

  At one time the Honeychurch estate owned the entire village of Little Dipperton but now only a handful of cottages were tenant-occupied with their doors and window frames painted a distinctive dark blue.

  Mum and I had walked to the village many times for a lunchtime drink at the Hare & Hounds or stopped in the tea shop for a cup of tea and homemade cake.

  My initial six weeks of helping my mother out with her broken hand had turned into eight. Dad had been right to ask me to keep an eye on her and I had to admit I was conflicted about our upcoming separation. It was only now that I was beginning to really get to know my own mother.

  Dad and I would groan at her constant “headaches,” which kept her in her bedroom for hours. Neither of us had known about her secret writing life and I definitely had had no knowledge of her colorful past on the road with the traveling boxing emporium. For whatever reason, my parents had kept me in the dark about the latter, and far from being intrigued and excited, I felt as if my childhood had all been a lie. Why couldn’t they have told me? I had asked my mother many times and her answer was always the same. “We didn’t want the neighbors to find out. It was a different time. There was a stigma attached to fairground folk.”

  As I drove down the hill toward Bridge Cottage, my thoughts turned to HS3. I found it hard to believe that one day this area could be an ugly railway cutting. I still hadn’t given up hope that Mum would move back to London and stick to our original plan of working together.

  Only this morning I’d heard from my estate agent in London that a shop with a two-bedroom flat above had come up for sale just off Brick Lane in Shoreditch close to Spitalfields Market. I was excited about the location. Spitalfields was named after a hospital and a priory known as St. Mary’s Spital that was founded in 1197. The market itself was established in the 1680s and was a huge tourist attraction—the perfect place to start my new antiques business. I decided to drive up on Saturday anyway to take a look, stay in my flat at Putney Bridge overnight, and return to Devon on Sunday.