Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (11 page)

I looked at Mum to see if she’d recorded that snippet of information but she seemed preoccupied with an ornate portrait hanging over the vast marble fireplace. The nameplate said:

LADY EDITH HONEYCHURCH, NOVEMBER
10, 1950.

“That’s Lady Edith on her twenty-first birthday,” said Cropper.

“She was very beautiful,” I said.

Lady Edith was wearing a strapless sapphire-blue evening gown. She had dark blue eyes and pale skin—a classic English rose. Her brown hair was swept off her face in finger waves. Most striking was the exquisite seed pearl necklace with a delicate leaf motif and matching drop earrings.

Mum stepped up to take a closer look. “What unusual pearls.”

“They were presented to her ladyship on her coming-of-age birthday,” said Cropper. “They have been in the family since Elizabeth I.”

“Seed pearls were often given to young women to symbolize purity and innocence,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you more about them later.”

Mum whipped out her Dictaphone,
“Elizabeth I. Pearls. Purity.”

At the end of the gallery Cropper stopped in front of a closed paneled door and said, “Please wait here a moment.” He slipped inside.

“I hope you’re not going to use your Dictaphone in front of the earl,” I said.

“Did you notice the same pearl necklace was worn in all the female portraits?” said Mum. “How fascinating. I must use that in my book.”

Cropper reappeared and stood aside to allow us to pass into the library where an English setter sprawled in front of the fireplace fast asleep.

“Mrs. Iris Stanford and Miss Katherine Stanford,” Cropper announced, “The Earl Grenville, Lord Rupert Honeychurch—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Cropper, just plain Rupert will do,” said Rupert. He pointed to the dog. “And this is Oliver. He’s deaf, I’m afraid.”

Rupert was a good-looking man in his early fifties, slightly balding with a trim military mustache. Dressed in beige cords and a yellow shirt under a green tweed jacket he seemed the epitome of an English country gentleman—far removed from the impatient driver I’d seen yesterday in the black Range Rover.

Mum had already dropped into a deep curtsey and, to both our embarrassment, had to lean on me to get up.

“What on earth happened to you, Iris—may I call you Iris?”

“Yes. Please do. I had a car accident, your lordship … sir, I mean Mr. Rupert,” Mum said, flustered.

“What bad luck.” Turning to me he added, “And this is the lovely Katherine? You look very familiar. Have we met before?”

“Yes. My car was blocking the entrance to the driveway last night.”

Rupert flushed. “I’m sorry. I was in rather a hurry. You must think me frightfully rude.” With an ill-disguised leer he added, “I’ll just have to make it up to you, won’t I?”

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” I said dryly.

“Katherine is on the telly,” said Mum with a hint of pride. “
Fakes & Treasures
.”

Rupert snapped his fingers. “You’re Rapunzel! Rapunzel of ‘the Big Sneeze.’”

“I warned her that dress was too tight,” said Mum. “The press reported there were fifty buttons but there were actually only thirty-four,” said Mum. “I know, because I sewed them all back on.”

“I’m sure Rupert has better things to do than talk about my buttons,” I said.

He winked at me and said, “I doubt it.”

“Will you require some light refreshments m’lord?” said Cropper.

“Of course. I was forgetting my manners. Coffee? Tea? Sherry?”

Mum brightened. “Sherry—”

“Coffee will be fine.” I answered for the both of us.

Cropper withdrew from the library.

“Do sit down.” Rupert led Mum toward the burgundy leather Chesterfield sofa. On the carpet lay an animal skin. “Watch the tiger.”

“Oh goodness! It’s real!” Mum cried.

“No, very much dead, I’m happy to say,” said Rupert. “One of my ancestors was into big-game hunting.”

“No, I meant the tiger skin and Elinor Glyn,” said Mum. “‘
Would you like to sin: With Elinor Glyn: On a tiger skin? Or would your prefer: To err with her: On some other fur
?’ How exciting. I believe she stayed at Honeychurch Hall a few times.”

“You know a little history about our house, I see,” said Rupert. “Yes, Elinor Glyn often came here in the naughty nineties, as they were known. There were all sorts of wild parties.”

Mum shot me a look of triumph that said,
I told you so.
We sat down on the Chesterfield and Rupert took a cracked leather wingback chair.

The library was beautiful—a man’s domain. The walls were papered with marbled pages from old books. The room smelled of cigars. One entire wall sported a mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with leather-bound sets. I was itching to take a look and see if there were any first editions.

Heavy dark crimson brocade curtains framed the two casement windows that looked over the parkland toward the ornamental lake and white angel memorial that seemed jarring when viewed from the house.

A captain’s chair stood behind a walnut partners desk. Oil paintings of animals—stags, dead pheasants, and shot rabbits—cluttered every empty wall space.

On top of a long mahogany dresser were display cases filled with carefully posed stuffed animals—a Victorian hobby that I never really liked or understood—badgers, foxes, ferrets, an owl, and various birds of prey. One glass case held a particularly gruesome bloodstained hawk.

Mum nudged me and whispered, “You see that last case on there? It’s the mummified hawk from the Crimea.”

“Well, what do you think about Sawmill Cottage?” Rupert said hopefully.

“Sawmill Cottage?” Mum frowned. “What about Sawmill Cottage?”

“Didn’t Lavinia mention it to you?”

“She mentioned it to me,” I said. “But I thought you could tell us what is going on.”

“What
is
going on?” said Mum.

“I’m afraid there has been a terrible mistake,” said Rupert. “My mother—Lady Edith—should never have put the Carriage House up for sale. She’s eighty-four and suffers from early dementia. Dreadful business.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mum, looking to me for an explanation but I was none the wiser. “I’ve already bought the Carriage House.”

“Through a sealed bid, I believe,” said Rupert.

“Yes, and through an estate agent,” Mum said. “It was advertised in
Country Life
magazine.”

“Ah, that would be Laney & Laney.” Rupert nodded gravely. “I thought as much. Old man Laney will do anything my mother asks. The thing is … it’s vital that we keep the estate together. It’s been in the Honeychurch family for six hundred years. It’s my son Harry’s legacy, you see.”

Mum’s jaw dropped. “You want me to sell it
back
?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Rupert quickly. “We’d like you to have Sawmill Cottage instead, Iris. A simple switch.”

“A
switch
?” Mum cried.

“My mother isn’t one of your tenants,” I said.

“Of course not,” said Rupert. “But Sawmill Cottage has central heating, a lovely view of the village green, and a pretty garden. Given your mother’s age and physical condition … Frankly, you’ve got yourself a bargain.”

“I don’t want Sawmill Cottage,” said Mum coldly. “And there is nothing wrong with my physical condition. Eric Pugsley is responsible for all these injuries.”

Even though I wanted Mum to move, I didn’t like Rupert’s patronizing attitude. I had a sudden thought. “Vera and Eric are under the impression that you promised the Carriage House to them. That’s hardly keeping the estate together.”

Rupert stiffened. “I have no idea why either of them would think that.”

“Eric Pugsley has been trying to force me to leave,” said Mum. “He closed off the tradesman’s entrance with razor wire and threatened to … threatened to
shoot
me for trespassing—”

I regarded Mum with surprise and suspected that threat to be an exaggeration. “What if my mother had needed an ambulance?”

“Exactly!” said Mum, eyes blazing. “And every night Pugsley turns off the water valve so we don’t have any water. And this morning, he was using that awful crushing machine. On a Saturday! It’s harassment, I tell you.”

“Eric has a permit for the car crusher from the district council,” said Rupert mildly. “And it sounds like the right-of-way was a simple misunderstanding that can soon be remedied. But as for the water valve…” Rupert shrugged. “Since he does lease that field, you’ll just have to reason with him.”

“Reason with Eric Pugsley?” Mum exclaimed.

I appealed to Rupert. “He’s your tenant. Can’t
you
talk to him?”

“And whilst you’re at it, ask him about those old cars? The field is full of scrap metal and tires…” fumed Mum.

“Surely that’s an environmental hazard,” I said.

“And a hearse!” Mum chimed in. “Eric has parked it in full view of my window. If that’s not a death threat, I don’t know what is.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Mother,” I whispered.

“Eric’s banger racing enterprise is very popular during the summer,” said Rupert.

“Banger racing?” Mum said faintly.

“And naturally he shares the profits with the estate.”

“You mean, with
you,
” I said.

“Yes, the first weekend of every month,” Rupert went on. “Surely you knew about his business dealings when the property went up for sale, Iris?” When Mum didn’t answer, Rupert added, “That’s why I really feel that Sawmill Cottage would be much nicer—and quieter. I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“What’s this about Sawmill Cottage?”

“Mother!” Rupert jumped to his feet as Lady Edith, dressed in a midnight-blue riding habit swept into the room followed by a highly energetic Mr. Chips.

Mum and I jumped to our feet, too.

“I thought you were out riding!” said Rupert.

“You thought wrong,” said Lady Edith. “Cropper informed me we had guests.”

The dowager countess seemed even smaller on foot but just as formidable. Although her face was heavily lined and she could benefit from a trip to the dentist, Lady Edith was still a beautiful woman.

Mum gave another awkward curtsey but Lady Edith took no notice of us; however, Mr. Chips did and made continuous lunges at Mum’s purple pantaloons, barking like a maniac.

“For goodness’ sake, Mother,” said Rupert. “Can’t you control that dog?”

“Mr. Chips!” commanded Lady Edith. “Here! Sit down. Now.” The Jack Russell obeyed instantly. Lady Edith regarded Mum and me with suspicion. “Who are these people and why are they here?”

I stepped forward and offered my hand. “I’m Katherine Stanford and this is my mother, who has just bought the Carriage House.”

Lady Edith broke into a yellow-toothed smile. “Ah, yes. Good. I trust you will be happy there.”

“So there
isn’t
a problem with the Carriage House after all?” I said. “Rupert—”

“Of course there isn’t,” said Rupert quickly.

Mum and I exchanged looks of confusion.

“What has my son been saying now?” Lady Edith demanded.

“A simple misunderstanding,” blustered Rupert. “All sorted.”

“I suppose my son also told you that I was losing my mind and should be locked in a lunatic asylum?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,” said Rupert.

“Have you offered our guests some refreshments, Rupert?”

“I asked Cropper to bring us some coffee,” said Rupert tightly. “But don’t feel you have to stay.”

“And miss more of your lies?” Lady Edith sat down primly on the edge of a wingback chair. Her back was so straight I wondered if she was wearing a corset, too.

There was an ugly silence.

“You’ve got a beautiful home,” said Mum suddenly. “So much … history. We were admiring the family portraits—especially the one of you wearing that beautiful necklace and earrings. We would love to see them, wouldn’t we, Katherine?”

Lady Edith’s eyes practically bugged out. “I
beg
your pardon?”

“Perhaps another time,” I said hastily then whispered, “Not now, Mum.”

“The seed pearls were stolen, unfortunately,” said Rupert, seemingly relieved to steer the subject into safer waters. “Along with a few valuable paintings.”

“But wait,” said Mum, turning to me. “You should get David on the case.” Mum beamed. “Katherine’s
fiancé
David Wynne flies all over the world recovering stolen art and antiques. I’m sure he could help.”

“How very interesting,” Lady Edith said. “However, the police did all they could, thank you.”

“I think it’s all a bit passé, now,” said Rupert. “They were stolen years ago. Probably gone to America where everything seems to end up these days.”

“But perhaps your fiancé could look into my missing Meissen snuff boxes—in particular, the one with an elephant painted on the lid,” said Lady Edith suddenly. “If, indeed, they
are
missing and not just squirreled away in my son’s bedroom.”

Rupert bristled. “I keep telling you to call the police if you’re that worried.”

There was another awkward silence. Lady Edith’s gaze rested on Mum and me. I smiled politely.

“Rupert?” said Lady Edith. “Who are these people and why are they here?”

I was momentarily taken aback. “I’m—”

“You’ve already asked them, Mother,” said Rupert, shooting me a pained expression. “Mrs. Stanford has just bought the Carriage House. Remember?”

“No. I do not remember,” said Lady Edith. “But I trust you will be happy there.”

It was a relief when the library door opened and Cropper shuffled in with Vera. She was carrying a silver tray bearing bone china cups and saucers, a coffeepot, milk jug, and a bowl of sugar cubes with delicate silver tongs.

I hardly recognized her. Dressed in a plain black, long-sleeved dress and with her hair drawn severely up into a tight knot, Vera seemed like a different person. Gone were the leather trousers, plunging V-neck top, and Louboutin shoes. Instead she wore sensible pumps and no makeup.

“Vera, do see to our guests,” said Lady Edith.

Vera set the silver tray on the coffee table and poured each of us a cup as Cropper, with painstaking slowness, passed them around.