Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (25 page)

“And what about my mother?” I said. “When Dad reported one of their neighbors for tax evasion she got hate mail for months.”

“You surprise me,” said David. “Your father would be disappointed in you. I’m convinced that a crime was committed here. Fraud was committed here. This is my job. This is what I do. I work on commission, Kat. I will have university fees to pay and Trudy’s alimony. Now that you’re determined to drop out of
Fakes & Treasures
the pressure is on me to support—”

“I’m not asking you to support me,” I said angrily. “I just don’t want to do your dirty work.”

There was a horrible silence. I reached out for David’s hand. He let me take it but acted all hurt.

“I didn’t mean it quite like that,” I said. “I just don’t want to ask questions.”

“You don’t have to ask questions,” said David. “I just want you to take the list and look around the house.”

“I really don’t feel—”

“Just see if you recognize anything on the list,” David pleaded. “That’s all—a painting, a candlestick—anything that was reported as being stolen.”

“Okay. I will,” I said reluctantly. “But that’s all.”

“Good.” David broke into a smile and gave me a warm hug. “I think this calls for a little celebration. Excuse me!” He called out to a young woman clearing plates off a neighboring table. “Do you have champagne here—” David took note of her name badge. “Suzi?”

“Yes, we do,” she said. “But it’s expensive.”

“What brand? I don’t expect Dom Perignon in this establishment but give me something close,” said David. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we, darling?”

“Aw, that’s lovely.” Suzi grinned. “Be right back.”

She returned with two champagne flutes and a bottle of Moët & Chandon in an ice bucket. “Compliments of the house. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

News travels fast. My attempt to clarify the situation was lost as the cork popped and a ragged cheer reverberated around the bar followed by a chorus of congratulations. I waited for David to make a joke about the misunderstanding but instead he looked smug and pulled me closer and allowed everyone to toast our health.

“How embarrassing. I hope that wasn’t your idea of a proposal,” I said.

“Of course not, but it won’t be long. I promise.” He grinned. “And we got a free bottle of bubbly.”

A series of ear-splitting crackles and whistles stopped any further conversation as a voice came over the PA. “And here tonight, for our Sunday karaoke we have the one, the amazing, the incredible … Toooooommmm Joooones!”

There was a round of applause and catcalling as a perfect Tom Jones look-alike complete with his signature rockabilly quiff and tight leather trousers, stepped up onto the raised podium.

“Come on.” David stood up and took my hand. “I’m not staying for this rubbish. Let’s get out of here.”

We stopped at the bar to pay the bill where a large framed photograph of Vera was sitting on the counter. She was laughing at the camera and looked happy. The frame was draped with tiny white plastic rosebuds. A small placard—
VERA: R.I.P. WE MISS YOU
—was cello-taped to a plastic bucket marked
CONTRIBUTIONS.

“So this is Vera.” David studied the photograph. “Not how I imagined a housekeeper at all.”

As David settled up with the barmaid he gestured to the bucket. “Add on thirty quid from us. We’re sorry for your loss.”

I began to protest, “David—!”

“Thirty!” The barmaid’s eyes bugged out. “Her husband Eric will be touched. Vera was one of our regulars. Who should I say—?”

“David Wynne.” He flashed her a winning smile and produced a business card from his wallet. “Here, keep this.”

“I’m Doreen—oh!” Doreen looked at David’s card and shrieked, “You’re that famous art investigator!”

“And this is Kat Stanford,” said David. “
Fakes & Treasures
.”

“I
thought
you look familiar,” Doreen said. “It’s your hair!”

“Hello,” I said politely, wondering what on earth David was doing. He was usually so private.

Doreen beamed with pleasure. “What an honor! My husband and I own the place. Vera was always one for the celebrities. Friends, were you?”

“Sorry!” David snatched his mobile out of his top pocket and clamped it to his ear. “Must take this. Nice to talk to you,” and David propelled me out of the door.

“You never fail to surprise me,” I said as we walked back to the car. “I take it that the phone call was just a ruse to get us out of there?”

“Of course.”

“Well … that was a nice thing to do anyway,” I said as we headed to the car park. “Very generous.”

“You’ve got to butter up the locals, Kat. As you said, this is a close community where everyone knows everyone’s business. Doreen won’t forget us in a hurry.”

I was stunned. “You mean your generosity had nothing to do with contributing toward Vera’s funeral?”

“I’m not that heartless,” said David. “Let’s say it was a way to kill two birds with one stone—no pun intended.”

“That’s not funny!”

I slid into the Porsche feeling troubled. True, I’d always known David to be ambitious. His reputation for recovering stolen art and antiquities was world famous but I had never been remotely involved before and it didn’t sit well with me.

David gloated all the way back. I couldn’t stand it.

As we drew close to the gatehouses at the main entrance to the Hall I said, “You can drop me here.”

“You’ll have to walk through all that mud.”

“I need some fresh air.”

“If you insist.” David swung into the gateway and cut the engine. He took my hand and kissed it. “I’ll need you to stay down here for a while so I can build a case. That should make Iris happy having you for a bit longer.”

I didn’t answer.

“The Honeychurches are one of the oldest families in England with connections to the royal family,” David went on. “Trudy’s going to love—”

“
Trudy
 … what?”

“Nothing,” he said sheepishly.

In the console, David’s iPhone lit up and began to vibrate.

To my intense fury, I saw Trudy’s name flashing up on the screen.

“Why don’t you answer it?” I snatched my hand away. “She is still your
wife,
after all.”

I flung the door open. David grabbed my arm. “Don’t end the evening like this. You know I love you.”

I pulled free and got out.

Chapter Twenty

I was upset—more with myself than anything else. The fact that David was staying with Trudy and their children was such a big red flag that I could no longer ignore the obvious. He was never going to marry me. I was just as naïve as Gayla.

David always had an excuse not to finalize his divorce. “‘Oh, just a little longer, Kat,’” I mimicked aloud. “‘Sam’s got a big cricket match coming up and I don’t want to upset him. Oh, now isn’t a good time—Chloe’s got her period. Oh, Trudy’s stubbed her toe. You can’t expect me to ask her
now
. But I
do
love you.’” I wanted to scream.

Even though I’d had nothing to do with their separation, I felt as if I was turning into the “other woman” cliché of women’s fiction.

Perhaps that was why historical romance novels were so popular. The male heroes were always strong and sure. They were prepared to fight duels to the death to claim the woman they loved. They weren’t bogged down by modern-day responsibilities. I was quite certain that Shelby the gamekeeper didn’t tell Lady Evelyn he needed more time to find himself or that he couldn’t risk upsetting the family dog. No, Shelby was willing to risk his life so they could be together forever and to hell with the consequences.

As I stormed down the main drive my eyes smarted with tears. The last thing I wanted was to see my mother and hear her say I told you so.

I passed the wrought-iron archway and paused. I craved privacy and solitude—somewhere to pull myself together and sensed this was the place.

As I suspected, it opened into the family cemetery.

Set on a gentle slope and enclosed on three sides by a thick, ancient yew hedge, the fourth side lay open affording a spectacular view of the River Dart shimmering in the moonlight under a canopy of stars. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of flowers and the heady smell of mown grass. Given the state of the rest of the grounds, the cemetery was surprisingly well kept.

I drifted through the headstones to read the epitaphs.

Mr. Manners

May 1958–December 1970

A Real Gentleman

Intrigued, I moved to the next:

April Showers

February 1914–January 1935

Always Gracious

I soon realized this was an equine cemetery and not a family plot at all.

Each one-line inscription revealed the personality of a much beloved horse. There was Sky Bird, Nuthatch, and Braveheart—“Adored Mud,” “Unstoppable!” and “Never Beaten: A True King.” Old horses from the Carriage House were laid to rest here, too—Fiddlesticks, China Cup, and Misty.

A flash of blue caught my eye as a figure emerged from the shadows. I gave a cry of alarm fearing this could be the famous ghost of the blue lady but to my relief, it was Lady Edith wrapped in a blue pashmina shawl.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I thought you were a ghost.”

“That would be my Royalist ancestor, Lady Frances,” said Lady Edith with a low chuckle. “This isn’t her turf. She prefers the sunken garden.”

“Have you ever seen her?” I asked.

“Of course. Many times.” Lady Edith gestured to a wooden seat halfway down the hill. “Shall we sit awhile?” She didn’t wait for a reply and assumed I’d follow—which I did.

We sat down.

“My father started this cemetery the day Queen Victoria died,” she said. “I come here every evening just to be with my old friends. So many friends, all gone now.”

“I’m really sorry about what happened to Vera—”

“Yes, very sad but life goes on.” Lady Edith cut me short, implying that the subject was closed. “Do you know there are over thirty horses buried here?”

“What about your other pets?”

“The dogs have their own special place, too.”

“Where is Mr. Chips tonight?” I asked.

“With Harry,” said Lady Edith. “That dog drives me absolutely mad.”

“Harry is a lovely boy.”

“Isn’t he?” Lady Edith beamed. “Thank God he’s nothing like his father.”

I didn’t know how to answer that. “At first, I thought this was the family plot.”

“The mausoleum is at St. Peter’s Church in Little Dipperton,” said Lady Edith. “But I intend to be buried with my brother. We’re sitting on him right now.”

“Oh!”

“Look.” She leaned aside to reveal a gold-plated plaque on the back of the wooden seat inscribed with the words
RUPERT—MY BROTHER, MY BEST FRIEND.

“It’s all arranged.” Lady Edith said with a hint of defiance. “I’ve already talked to Carrow, the butcher. He’s promised to cut out my heart and bury it here.”

“Oh!” I said again. “Is that legal?”

“I don’t care. I can do what I like.”

Perhaps Rupert was right to worry about his mother’s sanity. As if reading my thoughts, Lady Edith added, “My son is trying to get me committed, you know—sent off to that disgusting home for mad people. He steals my things. Tries to make me think I’m imagining it. I know his little game. He wants power of attorney so he gains control of the estate.”

Again, I wasn’t quite sure how to respond and decided to change the subject. “My mother loves living here.”

“Good. I’m happy to hear it. Does she come from this area?”

“No, although Mum did visit Little Dipperton when she was a child.” I was longing to tell Lady Edith that Mum had been part of the traveling boxing emporium that camped here every summer—but I kept my promise.

“Your mother
will
stay, won’t she?”

“Hopefully not long term,” I said. “She’s too far away from me and I live in London.”

“London! Who could possibly prefer London to here?” Lady Edith turned to me and studied my face in the moonlight. “You look like a nice gel. I want you to promise me … promise me that your mother will never sell the Carriage House to my son or that dreadful Eric Pugsley.”

“I … I … can’t promise that,” I faltered. “I’m sorry.”

“Then all is lost.” Lady Edith looked away. Her shoulders slumped. “Rupert will win, after all.”

“I know it’s none of my business, but if you wanted to keep the estate together, why did you sell the Carriage House to my mother in the first place?”

“When you are as old as I am and have had as many adventures—or should we say, lovers, as I have,” said Lady Edith with a wry smile, “one tends to be in the know a lot.”

Recalling Cropper’s comment about the dowager’s beauty as a young woman, I asked, “And what do you know?”

“I have a friend on the district planning committee. He told me all about H & P Developments—Honeychurch and Pugsley. Pugsley! I can’t believe my own son would go into business with that wretched man. Rupert has hired a company called PlayScapes to develop the estate—to build an adventure playground, go-kart track, convert the Hall into twelve luxury flats, and—” Lady Edith began to tremble. “Most wicked of all—tear up this sacred cemetery and turn it into a caravan park.”

I realized that Lady Edith had known all the time. “After all these years of struggling to keep it together,” she went on bitterly. “I’m betrayed by my own son.”

I’d seen the mailing tube marked PlayScapes in Rupert’s bedroom but it was empty. I distinctly remembered Eric’s reaction to the phone call he’d received the evening I arrived. Eric had called someone “a stupid bitch” and dashed off. Then, there was the argument I’d overheard between Rupert and Eric last night at the Hall. Was it possible that Gayla had stolen the plans? It certainly would explain why Rupert had been so desperate to get them back and Eric’s role in their safe recovery.

“Do you think Vera knew about the proposed development?” I suggested gently.

“No. Never. Absolutely not,” said Lady Edith firmly. “Vera would have told me.”