Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Read online

  Lavinia screamed. Mum and I collided. Shawn burst into the drawing room in a swirl of cape and feathers making all of us jump. I half-expected him to draw his sword.

  “I heard a crash and then a scream.” His eyes darted left and right. “What’s going on?”

  “God have mercy.” Mum sniggered, and began to shake with suppressed mirth. I daren’t look at her especially when I saw that Shawn was holding his trademark plastic shopping bag.

  “Shawn’s got the bag!” Lavinia shrieked. “Uh-oh. Someone’s in trouble!”

  Aubrey fixed Rupert with a glare. “I hope Lavinia’s not taking any drugs.”

  “Drugs?” said Shawn. “What’s all this about drugs!”

  “Lavinia got kicked by a horse,” said Rupert wearily as he helped Cropper out of the Gibraltar gong.

  Mum advanced to the sofa where Lavinia had retreated, still clasping her gown. “Come along, milady. Let’s try it on and make sure it fits.”

  Lavinia brightened. “Oh yes. It must fit. I want to look better than Jess.”

  Aubrey looked pained. Shawn was confused; and Rupert, embarrassed. I felt I was in the midst of a farce.

  Mum got hold of Lavinia and we steered her out of the drawing room.

  “Ms. Stanford—Kat?” Aubrey hurried after us. “Can we talk privately?”

  “You go ahead,” I said to my mother.

  Aubrey motioned for me to follow him to the far end of the hall and ducked behind a large potted palm.

  “I’m sure this will start rumors,” I said lightly.

  “I feel I must explain,” he said. “You must understand that I have a very good reason for not being completely honest with you.”

  “Antique dolls are quite a change from antique weapons,” I teased.

  “As I mentioned, the doll belonged to my late wife,” he said. “I was curious as to the value, but when I realized it was indeed valuable I decided against selling it. Sentimental reasons.”

  I often came across sellers who wanted to remain anonymous and told him so. “But why the secrecy with me?”

  “No secrecy at all,” Aubrey blustered. “I didn’t want to upset Jess. First wives and all that.”

  From the Jess I had met earlier in the post office, I found that hard to believe. She hadn’t seemed the jealous type.

  “Did she mention anything about the message I left on your answer machine?”

  Aubrey visibly paled. “You left a message?”

  “After lunch. When I found the doll in your car.”

  “But … I didn’t give you my telephone number!”

  “It was on my mobile phone,” I said. “My mobile phone logs incoming calls.”

  “Oh dear,” he said anxiously. “Did you mention the doll in your message?”

  “No. I just asked you to call me. Nothing more.”

  This was becoming stranger by the minute.

  “Good. Good. Thank you.” He gave a brief smile. “First wives and all that.”

  “So you said. Well, you can pick up the doll anytime. Just call first.”

  “I wish I had boobs,” came an anguished cry from the downstairs loo. “Why did God make me so flat chested?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if Lavinia was left by the fairies,” Aubrey said with a sigh.

  I decided I liked him after all. “I recognized your car in the hedge,” I said. “I drove around looking for you. I thought you might have been lying in a ditch somewhere.”

  “I cut across the fields to Carew Court,” said Aubrey. “Those old Volvos are built like tanks. Piers dragged her out with a tractor this afternoon. Apart from some scratches and a broken headlamp, she’s perfectly drivable.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt and the Jumeau is still in one piece. What happened?”

  “I was run off the road by a madwoman in a Morris Minor Traveller. She didn’t even stop to see if I was alright.”

  Since Violet Green was the only person in the area who owned a Morris Minor Traveller I told Aubrey it was most likely her.

  Aubrey frowned. “Violet Green? Violet Green. Now why do I know that name?”

  “Do you want to see this dagger or not?” Rupert called out from the oak refectory table where Shawn, wearing purple disposable gloves, was holding it.

  “Let’s go and torment my son-in-law.” And with a mischievous wink Aubrey gallantly took my arm, and we went to join them.

  Shawn offered Aubrey a pair of disposable gloves. “I must insist on these, sir.”

  “Do you have a different color?” said Aubrey. “Unlike Prince, I was never fond of purple.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Shawn. “Please use these. We’re trying not to contaminate the item—”

  “But since you are holding it, the item has already been contaminated,” Aubrey pointed out as he pulled on a pair. “As has the grave, so I’m told. Have you contacted the authorities?”

  “Dr. Crane,” said Rupert. “Plymouth University of Anthropology. He’ll be here on Monday.”

  “Crane is a good man although a bit unconventional.” Aubrey nodded to Shawn. “The dagger please.”

  Rupert nodded and Shawn obliged.

  Aubrey studied the blade in earnest as we all watched the great man.

  Finally, Aubrey spoke. “This is an excellent example of a seventeenth-century parrying dagger.”

  “Of course it’s a parrying dagger,” said Rupert. “We’ve already established that.”

  “It would have been used in combination with a rapier,” Aubrey went on. “Historically, the dagger was wielded in the off hand of a swordsman, hence the name main gauche—French for ‘left hand.’”

  “We know that, Aubrey,” said Rupert.

  “This dagger was both a primary defense and a secondary weapon—a little brother to the rapier.” Aubrey ran his thumb lightly up the blade. “A double-edge blade of Toledo steel.” He turned to Shawn. “Toledo in Spain produced the highest-quality steel. It was known as the sword-making and steelmaking center dating back to AD 500. Roman legions were known to carry weapons from Toledo. These are quillons.”

  “Quillons?” Shawn’s voice came from behind my shoulder. I could smell bananas. According to Shawn, his mother-in-law did their laundry and it was the boys’ fabric conditioner’s scent of choice.

  “These two transverse members form the cross guard,” said Aubrey. “They’re designed to slow an opponent’s blade, to block the blows and also protect the hand. The main gauche is also used defensively to create a space so that a swordsman can strike—OUT!” With lightning speed Aubrey suddenly lunged at Rupert, who leapt out of the knife’s path, “Like so!”

  “Good God, Aubrey!” he exclaimed. “You almost had me.”

  “Steady on, sir,” said Shawn, who had leapt back a good three feet himself.

  “This is an exceptionally fine example with excellent craftsmanship,” said Aubrey. “It would have been highly prized by its owner. These daggers were custom-made—”

  “Rather like the wands at Hogwarts,” Shawn chimed in. “Sorry. The boys have finally discovered Harry Potter.”

  “The only thing missing is the sheath,” Aubrey went on.

  “Surely the leather would have rotted by now—unless,” Rupert said. “I think we may have a sheath in the Museum Room. Where’s Mother? She’ll know.”

  “I took Edith to the railway station,” I reminded him.

  “A soldier was married to his sword and dagger,” Aubrey went on. “He would never have left his weapons behind—unless he died, too.”

  “There was only one body in the grave,” said Shawn. “A female.”

  “There were female soldiers, Aubrey,” said Rupert.

  “Yes … there were, but…” Aubrey looked to Shawn. “Did you find other weapons in the grave? Wouldn’t she have carried a sword?”

  “She did not have a sword, sir,” said Shawn.

  “You’re the detective, Officer,” said Aubrey. “What do you think?”

  “We’ve a
lready assumed she was murdered,” said Shawn.

  “And it would appear that she wasn’t murdered by just anyone, Rupert,” said Aubrey grimly. “She was murdered by one of your ancestors.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “But that’s silly,” I said. “How do we know which side she was on?”

  “Thank you, Katherine,” said Rupert. “Maybe she was a Carew spy and deserved her fate?”

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” said Shawn quickly. “This is a cold case and it’s likely it will remain so—”

  “I don’t know,” said Aubrey slowly. “If it was possible to track down Richard the Third’s descendant in Canada—why don’t we take your DNA, Rupert?”

  “Why don’t we take yours?” said Rupert. “But frankly, what does it matter now?”

  “I must admit I’m curious as to who she was,” I said. “And my mother will be, too.”

  “Mrs. Muriel Jarvis and Ms. Violet Green,” boomed Cropper, putting an end to further speculation. Apart from her shocking-pink Crocs, Muriel was still dressed in black. Violet wore a pale-blue linen suit. Given the current state of their friendship, I was surprised to see them arrive together and hoped that Muriel had kept her promise to talk to Rupert about her financial predicament.

  “Violet Green!” Aubrey spun around. “We meet again. I hope your car came off better than mine.”

  My heart sank. It had been me who had mentioned Violet’s name to Aubrey.

  “Do you or do you not drive a green Morris Minor Traveller?” Aubrey demanded.

  Violet’s eyes widened. She turned white.

  “Not only did you hit my car with your appalling driving; you left the scene of an accident.”

  Shawn stepped forward. “Would you like to press charges, milord?”

  “Oh, please, please,” whimpered Violet. “It’s my glasses. They’re cracked. I couldn’t see properly. I … I…”

  “You should press charges,” Muriel declared. “I took my life in my hands this afternoon. She’s a maniac on the road.”

  “And that’s the thanks I get for giving you a lift,” fumed Violet. “I should have let you walk.”

  “I wish you had!”

  Clearly, Muriel’s love affair with her bicycle had been short-lived.

  Aubrey regarded the two women with displeasure. “And a good afternoon to you, Mrs. Jarvis. I hope you two ladies followed the orders of the court and made up your differences.”

  “Unfortunately not, sir.” Muriel’s expression was pure spite. “Violet still hasn’t paid for Fred’s hard work. I’m certain it was the stress that did him in.” She pointed to Violet. “It’s her fault that my poor Fred had a heart attack.”

  Violet’s eyes blazed. “I don’t have that kind of money. I’ve only got my pension and what scraps I make from my tearoom.”

  Shawn patted his doublet, obviously searching for his policeman’s notebook and pencil.

  “No need, Shawn.” Aubrey waved him away. “Let me handle this.”

  “She keeps coming up with excuses,” Muriel went on. “And me with my money problems.”

  “Oh yes, those problems,” said Violet childishly. “The next thing you’ll tell us is that all the money for the Skirmish has been stolen. Just like your car.”

  Muriel gave a cry of distress and, reaching blindly behind, sank—as luck would have it—onto a Dutch marquetry chair.

  “Mew?” Violet rushed forward, concern etched on her face. “Are you—?”

  “Muriel?” Rupert cut her off. “Cropper, bring Muriel a glass of water.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, but Cropper had glided off with surprising speed.

  “I’m alright, really; well, actually, no. I’m not alright at all.” Muriel put her face in her hands.

  “Is it your heart?” said Violet anxiously. “Tummy? Rheumatism? Phlebitis?”

  “Don’t you think we should call a doctor?” I suggested.

  Muriel finally looked up. “Oh … milord, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m so upset.”

  “You can tell me, Muriel. We’re family.”

  “Violet is right.” She swallowed hard. “All the money for the Skirmish has been stolen.”

  Violet’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

  “I just … I just—” She opened the clasp of her handbag and pulled out a clean lace handkerchief. “I only just realized half an hour ago.”

  “All of it?” Rupert exclaimed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Violet cried.

  “Why would I?” Muriel shot back.

  “Because … because … we’re friends.”

  “Are we?”

  Their feud was clearly back on.

  “All of it,” Rupert said again.

  Shawn finally produced his notebook. “When was the last time that you saw the money?”

  “Just before Fred passed.” Muriel began to sniffle into her handkerchief. “He kept it in a biscuit tin.”

  “A biscuit tin?” Rupert cried. “Not under lock and key?”

  “Keeping cash in a tin is asking for trouble,” said Shawn.

  “That’s what I told Fred,” Muriel agreed. “But he wouldn’t listen. He’s been the treasurer since 1982 and has never had any problems before.”

  “Why didn’t he put the money in the post office safe?” Shawn asked, which was exactly what I had been thinking myself.

  “He didn’t like to mix post office business with his treasury responsibilities.”

  “And you’re certain he didn’t put the tin somewhere else?” said Shawn. “Perhaps Fred moved it before he died?”

  Muriel shook her head. “It was always in the bottom drawer in the kitchen along with the saucepans. I’ve looked high and low.”

  “I think it best if you come down to the station and we’ll file a proper report. Perhaps you might like to check for anything else that might be missing—jewelry, perhaps? Unfortunately, since you don’t know when the money was stolen, there is no point dusting for fingerprints in the post office or in your kitchen. It’s too late for that now.”

  Muriel nodded. She looked miserable. I glanced over at Violet, who was watching her former best friend with an expression I just couldn’t fathom.

  “And you mentioned your car was stolen as well?” Shawn said. “Why didn’t you report that?”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

  “How much money was stolen, Muriel?” Rupert demanded.

  After some hesitation, Muriel cleared her throat. “Eleven thousand, five hundred and forty-eight pounds.”

  “WHAT!” Rupert tore off his hat—and wig—and raked his fingers through his short hair. “But that’s an astronomical sum. Surely, not all raised by local jumble sales and church fetes? I had no idea!”

  “The Totnes Rotary Club put money in, I believe, milord,” said Shawn. “And the Hare & Hounds fronted some hoping to get the funds back from the ticket sales to the Hog Roast.”

  “This is very serious!” Rupert exclaimed. “The balance of the marquee equipment must be paid for today; and the pig, tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure we can find a solution to this,” said Aubrey. “You know I’m always happy to bail you out. Again.”

  I caught the implied dig and winced.

  “No thank you, Aubrey,” said Rupert stiffly. “This is a Honeychurch matter.” He turned to Shawn. “Perhaps you can send in a few officers to give Muriel’s premises a thorough search immediately.”

  “I was thinking the same thing only we’re a bit short-staffed,” said Shawn. “Roxy is on holiday in Majorca.” He frowned. “But given there were no signs of a break-in, I can’t help thinking someone knew where to find the cash. What do you think, Ms. Green?”

  Violet’s eyes widened. “Are you accusing me?”

  “Not at all,” said Shawn. “But we know you’re observant. Perhaps you saw something—or someone—suspicious.”

  “Well … I did notice a strange man in the churchyard this afternoon. I expect he’s stayi
ng at the Hare & Hounds. And of course, we have newcomers at Honeysuckle Cottage.”

  “Oh?” Shawn turned to Rupert. “Isn’t that a tied cottage?”

  “Pippa Carmichael and her son, Max,” Violet went on. “He’s quite a handful.”

  “Yes,” Muriel said suddenly. “Violet’s right. I caught him stealing some sweeties yesterday right under my nose. And to be honest, milord, and forgive me for saying this, I don’t think Max Carmichael is a good influence over Master Harry—”

  “And someone stole my Crown Derby teapot,” Violet added. “It’s always been on the windowsill in my tearoom and now it’s vanished.”

  “Hardly something a boy would take surely, Ms. Green,” said Shawn, pencil poised.

  “Maybe not Max, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was his mother. She wants to put me out of business, you know.”

  “Your mother is a genius,” Lavinia cried as she threw open the door to the downstairs loo and drifted into the reception area in her dark-burgundy gown. She looked quite lovely despite her battered face and the fact that the bodice bore enough pins to sink a battleship.

  Mum joined me. “Just a few tweaks needed to the bust.”

  Lavinia circled Rupert and swished her skirts.

  “Not now, Lav,” said Rupert crossly.

  Lavinia stroked Rupert’s arm and then went on to circle her father.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “What’s Muriel doing here? Good. I want a word with her—”

  “Pippa Carmichael and Lady Jessica Carew,” boomed Cropper. “And Mrs. Cropper.”

  The trio filed in. I saw Violet stiffen and glare at Pippa. She mumbled something that sounded distinctly like “trollop.”

  “Good heavens,” said Mum. “Quite a party.”

  I was struck by Pippa’s tidy appearance. She had redone her blond hair in a neat French plait and even wore a smidgen of lip gloss. A pale-yellow shift dress showed off her curvaceous figure and tanned legs. She’d swapped her Edwardian button boots for red ballet flats.

  Mrs. Cropper was wearing her usual pink-and-white-striped pinafore over a white linen short-sleeved dress. A mobcap completed the resemblance to Mrs. Patmore from Downton Abbey.

  Jess seemed even smaller than usual sandwiched between Pippa Carmichael and the cook. She greeted everyone with a smile—giving me a friendly wave— before slipping alongside Aubrey and planting a kiss on his cheek. “I hoped I’d find you here, darling.”