“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 g
oodness’ 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.
Vera followed up by offering milk and sugar. When she got to me she gave a polite smile. “Do you take sugar, madam?” There was no sign of the hysterical woman I’d met near the dustbins last night.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“And you, Mrs. Stanford?”
“Oh, there you are, Edith.” Lavinia entered the library dressed in jodhpurs and an open-necked white shirt that looked in desperate need of a good ironing. Her hair was clamped under a thick hairnet. “William had Tinkerbell tacked up for you ages ago. You know how she hates standing around.”
“I’m perfectly aware of Tinkerbell’s temperament and—oh.” She stopped midsentence and frowned. Gesturing to Mum and me, she added, “Who are these people, Rupert, and why are they here?”
Rupert rolled his eyes and stirred his coffee furiously.
“Mrs. Stanford has bought the Carriage House,” said Vera, surprisingly gently. “And this is her daughter, Katherine. You might have seen her before because she’s on television.”
“How lovely.” Lady Edith turned back to me and winked. And then I realized. She knew exactly what was going on. To her, it was all a big game.
“I’ll take a cup, too, Cropper. I’m parched.” Lavinia took a seat opposite us. “Did you tell them about Sawmill Cottage, Rupert?”
“Shut up!” hissed Rupert, gesturing to his mother.
“Sorry.” Lavinia reddened and then added with forced gaiety, “Has anyone seen Harry? I’ve been looking for him all morning.”
“Surely he’s with Nanny?” said Lady Edith.
“I’m afraid Gayla’s gone, m’lady.” Vera leaned down and whispered into Lady Edith’s ear.
“Oh, that’s just too bad,” said Lady Edith. “I did like her.”
“We all liked her, Edith.” Lavinia gave a heavy sigh. “But we can’t have a thief in the house. Fortunately Vera caught her red-handed.”
“Did she have the Meissen—the one with the elephant?” asked Lady Edith hopefully.
“No, it’s still missing,” said Vera.
“I must say Gayla didn’t seem the light-fingered type,” Lady Edith said.
“And what is the light-fingered type, Mother?” said Rupert.
“Your first wife. I know she took my pearls.”
“The pearls were stolen in the robbery as you know very well,” said Rupert.
“She had ideas above her station, didn’t she, Vera?” Lady Edith went on.
“That’s right, m’lady,” said Vera, pointedly looking at Lavinia.
“We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” mumbled Lavinia.
“And we’re reminded of the dead every day with that hideous stone angel. I don’t know what you were thinking, Rupert,” said Lady Edith. “What was her name? Kylie? Carly?”
“Kelly,” Rupert snapped.
Catching a spiteful gleam in Lady Edith’s eye I realized it wasn’t just my own mother who played the forgotten name card.
“Where is Harry?” said Lavinia desperately. “He must have run off somewhere.”
“We’d love to meet him,” I said, and then wondered if Harry would let on that he and I had already met. The morning was rapidly turning into a farce.
“It’s so tiresome getting him ready for boarding school,” said Lavinia. “We have to drive all the way to Plymouth this afternoon to get to the only department store which stocks his school uniform and—”
“Never mind,” said Rupert. “Soon you won’t have to bother about him at all.”
Lavinia reddened again. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“I’ll go and look for Master Harry.” Vera excused herself.
“And what about tonight, Rupert?” Lavinia went on. “We need to find a babysitter unless you can cancel your plans. Vera has the night off.”
“I am not canceling my plans,” said Rupert.
“Well, Edith and I can’t cancel our plans, either,” said Lavinia. “She’s on the sidesaddle committee and this is the last meeting b
efore next month’s event.”
“Get William to drive her there,” said Rupert. “I’m sure he’d love to do that. He’ll do anything for Mother.”
Mum and I exchanged looks. It was as if we weren’t sitting there at all. I wondered if this was how servants had felt back in the day—invisible.
Mum suddenly said, “Kat is good with children. I’m sure she’d love to babysit Harry.”
“Mum!” I was horrified.
“That would be frightfully kind,” gushed Lavinia. “Oh, there you are, Harry.” Harry, in flying helmet and goggles perched on top of his head, sauntered in with Vera.
“He said he was on one of his missions, m’lady,” said Vera indulgently. “Top secret.”
“At ease, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth,” said Rupert. “Come and meet our guests, Mrs. Stanford and her daughter, Katherine.”
Harry gave his father a snappy salute and greeted Mum and me with a formal, “How do you do.” To my relief, he made no indication that we’d met the day before and neither did I.
“You shouldn’t encourage him to play that silly game, Rupert,” said Lavinia.
“Give him a break, Lav. Let him enjoy his last few days of freedom.”
“And don’t call me Lav. I’m not a public convenience—oh!”
The library door flew open and a lanky man in his mid thirties with a mop of curly brown hair strode in. He wore a vintage beige trench coat—an odd choice given the sunny weather—over light brown trousers and an open-neck khaki military shirt.
The newcomer seemed highly agitated. “Sorry for the intrusion,” he said as Mr. Chips bounded toward him, yelping with excitement.
Cropper, who had been standing in the corner possibly having a nap, snapped to attention. Clearing this throat he said, “Detective Inspector—”
“You can’t just burst in like this, Shawn,” said Lavinia.
“It’s Detective Inspector today,” he said. “Police business.”
“On a Saturday? Why? Whatever’s happened?” said Lavinia.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Shawn paused as we all turned expectantly toward him. I felt as if Mum and I were part of an unfolding soap opera.
“It’s about your nanny, Gayla Tarasova,” said Shawn. “We received a phone call this morning from Nannies-Abroad. Gayla never caught the train last night.”
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 9