Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery

by Hannah Dennison

  I detected a strong French accent. “Yes, I know. He’s called Selby and was made around 1915.”

  The woman looked up sharply. She frowned and then broke into a big smile. “Mon dieu! Kat Stanford! What a pleasure to meet you in my little shop. I’m Nicole Lassalle-Porter.”

  We shook hands. “Very nice to meet you, too.”

  “You should have your own show in Dartmouth,” Nicole went on. “So much fake stuff in these little shops—not my shop, you understand—and the tourists are so foolish, they buy everything.”

  A few of the “foolish tourists” turned around and glared. A woman dressed in tight shorts and wearing flip-flops took her husband’s arm and left in a huff.

  “Tant pis. Too bad.” Nicole shrugged. “Come! Let us see Selby.” Picking up a fob of keys, she ducked under the counter and led the way to the glass display case.

  “Tell me that the rumor is not true,” said Nicole. “Tell me you are not leaving Fakes & Treasures.”

  I hesitated. I’d grown used to guarding what I said to strangers for fear of it being misconstrued. “Well—”

  “No matter,” she went on breezily. “I would hate to be in the public eye—and your paparazzi! They are wolves.”

  “Yes, some of them can be.”

  “And that Trudy Wynne is mauvais—a horrible woman,” Nicole exclaimed. “No wonder her husband left her for you.”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” I protested.

  “David Wynne,” Nicole enthused. “What is it like to be with such a fascinating man? He must have amazing stories to tell about his hunt for stolen treasures.”

  “He does,” I said politely, glad when Nicole retrieved the Steiff bear from the cabinet and we could talk about something else. “Oh—he’s lovely.”

  She handed him to me. Selby was adorable with a little clipped muzzle. I gently tilted him forward and to my delight, heard a low growl.

  “Yes, he still growls,” said Nicole. “For you, one thousand pounds.”

  It was a fair price—he was worth at least two—but I still balked. “Can you put him to one side?” I said. “I need to think about it.”

  “Come, let’s have some tea. It’s not often I have a chance to talk to someone who loves bears.”

  “I can’t stay today but perhaps another time. I have to find an Internet café and then meet my mother. She’s just moved here.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “On the Honeychurch Hall estate,” I said. “She’s bought the Carriage House.”

  “Very sad about Kelly, his first wife,” said Nicole. “I knew her, you know. Sweet thing despite what you might hear otherwise.”

  I didn’t usually gossip—having been the subject of gossip myself—but I knew Mum would be intrigued. “Such as?”

  “Vera, the housekeeper—she’s crazy, I tell you,” said Nicole. “The two girls were born on the estate and grew up together the best of friends. When Kelly married Rupert, you can imagine the drama! Kelly said Vera was livid and refused to take orders from her. I think she was jealous.”

  “I’m sure she was.”

  “Kelly and Rupert were going to move to France,” Nicole went on. “Then pouf! It all went up in a puff of smoke. I was giving Kelly French lessons. She was quite good.”

  I was surprised. “Lord Honeychurch was going to sell the Hall?”

  “Oui. They were going to buy a vineyard in Provence.”

  Obviously things had changed when he married Lavinia and had a male heir.

  “Lady Edith was furious and tried to stop him,” said Nicole. “Kelly was too low class for her ladyship.” She gave a snort of derision. “You English and your aristocracy. There is no class system in France. Thank God for the guillotine.”

  Now I was intrigued. “But they got married all the same.”

  “Oui. They eloped!”

  I was quite certain Mum hadn’t known about that juicy morsel.

  “And when they eloped, Lady Edith disinherited Rupert on the spot!” Nicole said gleefully.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “My husband, Luke, and I were there the night it happened,” said Nicole, clearly enjoying telling the story. “It was during their annual New Year’s Eve dinner party—Luke was at Stowe with Rupert. Kelly worked under Mrs. Cropper in the kitchen. Rupert insisted on helping clear away the plates … and the two of them ran off between the main course and pudding.”

  “Good heavens!” I laughed. “What a scandal!”

  “We all sat there like lemons, waiting and waiting. Poor Lavinia was devastated. She and Rupert had been engaged for years, you know.”

  “Lavinia—his current wife?” I said, surprised.

  “But she got him in the end.”

  “I heard Kelly was fatally stung by a bee,” I said.

  “Oui. She was highly allergic,” said Nicole. “Rupert told us it was the one day Kelly couldn’t find her EpiPen. Of course, Lavinia went for help—”

  “Lavinia was there?” Despite myself, I was riveted.

  “She and Kelly were out riding together when it happened.”

  “Were Lavinia and Kelly friends?” I was incredulous. I couldn’t imagine ever being friends with my rival in love, Trudy Wynne.

  “What do the young people call them now—frenemies?” Nicole lowered her voice. “After all the fuss died down, Rupert went back to Lavinia and married her, little Harry was born, and Lady Edith forgave him.”

  Much as I warmed toward Nicole, I suspected that if she gossiped about other people to someone she hardly knew she’d gossip about me, too.

  “In France, Rupert would have kept his inheritance and taken Kelly as a mistress,” said Nicole. “You English have it all wrong.”

  “But at least we keep our heads!”

  A nineteenth-century longcase grandfather clock chimed the half hour. “I’m sorry Nicole, I must go,” I said, then had a sudden thought. “Can you recommend a handyman?”

  Nicole retrieved a number from her iPhone and jotted it down on the back of her business card. “Use Tom—he’s actually a cousin of Kelly’s. So incestuous,” she said. “He lives at Home Farm—it used to belong to the estate.”

  The name rang a bell and then I remembered that Tom had discovered Gayla’s abandoned suitcase. “Did you ever meet Gayla, Harry’s nanny?” I asked.

  “No, but I did hear that nannies rarely stay there longer than a few months.”

  “Is Harry that difficult?”

  “No, but Rupert—il a les yeux baladeurs—”

  “He has a wandering eye?”

  “Exactement!” Nicole gave another smile. “Do remember to let me know if you want the Steiff bear. Oh! And one more thing—” She fetched a clipboard from under the counter. “The government want to put a high-speed train in the area. Everyone is up in arms. Do sign the petition.”

  “Of course.” This time I added my real name to the very long list. “I hope it helps.”

  Nicole directed me to a nearby Internet café and copy center by the marina where crowds were gathering for an upcoming rowing competition just for the locals.

  Four women dressed in black shorts and purple T-shirts emblazoned with a DART MARINA logo were passing around a silver hip flask.

  “We’re one short,” said a lively woman with violet eyes. She scanned the crowd. “Volunteers, anyone? Come on, ladies! We always come in last so you’re just ballast.”

  Everyone hooted with laughter. She looked at me and raised a questioning eyebrow. I shook my head. “Not this time. But thanks for the invitation.”

  I heard someone mention Fakes & Treasures. A handful of mobiles and iPhones were brought out. I waved and smiled for the cameras and hurried away.

  The Internet café—Buzz—was relatively deserted. To my delight, they also had a printer. I set myself up in the corner and got sorted. I checked my e-mails. I had two accounts—a personal one known only to a chosen few, and my “fan” e-mail address.

  I always h
ad to brace myself when checking the latter. Many people wrote in and were extremely vocal about their opinions on what I wore, said, and did. Yet again, a viewer had sent me a YouTube of “the Big Sneeze” thinking I couldn’t have seen it, and yet again I couldn’t help myself. I had to play it. The stat counter informed me that it had been viewed 2,856,321 times. Lovely.

  Someone told me that reliving a horrible experience over and over again gradually dulled the embarrassment but it didn’t for me. There I was at the Save a Child charity event speaking earnestly in front of a gazillion would-be donors when suddenly, I had the overwhelming urge to sneeze.

  My dress had been literally sewn onto me—the designer who had loaned the outfit had gotten my measurements all wrong. It was a massive wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions but as long as I moved slowly and didn’t raise my arms, I was promised all would be well.

  But then I sneezed. Every single button down the back of my dress flew across the dais. There was a scramble for souvenirs and for some time afterward, they were even for sale on eBay.

  David had sent a short e-mail that said, “Arriving Sun late afternoon. Pls send address. David.” There was no “miss you,” “looking forward to seeing you” or even a “love, David.” Once again I suffered a pang of nostalgia for those early days when our e-mail exchanges were X-rated. I couldn’t help wondering if Mum’s stories about luscious women being ravished by smoldering, passionate men did more harm than good. Did they make women restless?

  I responded to David and on impulse, asked if he had any information about a robbery at Honeychurch Hall in the 1990s—in particular, details of the rare Elizabethan parure.

  On another impulse I Googled Krystalle Storm and a website flashed up. A striking woman with coiffed platinum hair stared back at me. She wore diamonds and a neat white shirt. On her lap was a caramel-colored Pekinese. The tag said KRYSTALLE WITH HER PEKE TRULY SCRUMPTIOUS. If this was my mother she’d been airbrushed beyond all recognition.

  I Googled again, searching for a different Krystalle Storm but the same website came up. A sidebar confirmed my growing sense of alarm—Gypsy Temptress had sold over half a million copies worldwide.

  I clicked the tab to Mum’s biography. My jaw dropped as I learned that my father had been an international diplomat who had died in a tragic plane crash twenty years ago and that “Krystalle Storm” split her time between her villa on the Amalfi Coast and her manor house in Devon.

  A “Contact the Author” tab sent me directly to Goldfinch Press, the publisher’s website. A note said that the author was “a recluse and rarely made public appearances.” However, Vera was right. They were running a contest. Readers were invited to send in their personal stories—with a “star-crossed lovers” theme—and the winner would be rewarded with an all-expenses-paid romantic weekend for two to the Amalfi Coast including dinner with the author herself.

  I stared at the screen for a full minute struggling to comprehend what Mum had done and the repercussions when—not if—she got found out. When Dad had specified that he wanted me to “look after Mum” I thought he had meant her health … not her sanity.

  I dreaded having to confront her but I had no choice.

  Back at Snipxx Mum looked very nice. Her hair was not the platinum shade in the website photograph but it was close. Vera was still there sitting at a nail station having a manicure and pedicure and leafing through a copy of Cosmopolitan.

  “Thank God you’re here,” whispered Mum. “Vera did not stop talking once about her wretched husband.”

  “Did she mention Gayla?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” said Mum. “I don’t like Eric but he’s definitely got his work cut out with her. She’s obsessed with him.”

  “Maybe it’s the eyebrows.”

  We made a quick stop at Marks & Spencer and loaded up with ready-made meals and quite a lot of snacks. It was hard to restrain myself.

  “Don’t you just love Marks and Sparks,” Mum said happily.

  “Yes. Their food is so … truly scrumptious.”

  There was a long pause as it slowly dawned on my mother that I knew.

  “Oh. You found out.” Mum looked sheepish. “It’s a good name for a Pekinese, isn’t it? I got that from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Do you remember—?”

  “Yes, I do.” I said coldly. “A villa on the Amalfi Coast? A manor house in Devon? And—as for Dad … an international diplomat?”

  “A tax inspector sounded so dull.” Mum shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nor do I.” I got into the car and slammed the door hard.

  Mum slid in beside me and took a deep breath. “I didn’t want your father to find out,” she said. “I couldn’t do that to him especially after he retired and joined the Rotary Club. They were all so stuffy and straitlaced. It would have been humiliating for him. I wanted to protect him. That’s all.”

  Mum turned to me and to my surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “I would never want to hurt him,” she went on. “I didn’t think Gypsy Temptress would sell. I didn’t think anyone would find out.”

  “It’s the days of the Internet, Mum,” I said. “Nothing is private anymore. Look at me? Everything is out there for people to pick over and laugh at. You’ll just have to tell your publisher the truth.”

  “No!” she said quickly. “I couldn’t do that. Besides, I am planning on buying Honeychurch Hall. Eventually.”

  “What?” I squeaked.

  “Yes, I am,” said Mum with a hint of defiance. “The place could do with some TLC—”

  “It could do with millions. Why is the Carriage House so important to you?” I was exasperated. “Isn’t there something equally as shabby closer to London?”

  “You couldn’t possibly understand.” Mum flipped down the sun visor and checked her reflection. “I think Stacey did a good job with my hair.”

  “She did,” I said. “Although not quite as glamorous as the one on your website.”

  Mum’s face reddened. “Alfred has a friend who does passports and that sort of thing.”

  “Forgeries, you mean. Did you plagiarize another woman’s photograph?”

  “Of course not,” said Mum. “It’s me, made to look younger and then airbrushed to look older. Amazing what people can do these days.”

  “So that just leaves the issue of the Pekinese,” I said dryly.

  “I heard there were some puppies—”

  “Mum!” I said sharply.

  “Don’t worry, it will all work out. Just you see.”

  “Yes, but not necessarily for the best,” I said darkly.

  Half an hour later we arrived back at the tradesman’s entrance and Mum’s good humor evaporated. “Will you look at that?”

  A fifteen-foot long banner straddled the gateway. Painted in red, it said:

  BANGER RALLY. NEXT MEETING: SEPTEMBER 2: 8 A.M.–6 P.M. LIVE MUSIC! HOT DOGS! TOMBOLA!

  “That’s next weekend,” I said with dismay.

  “The sooner we get that surveillance camera set up, the better.”

  Fortunately, installing We-See-You was surprisingly easy. The CCTV equipment turned out to be a simple camera positioned and angled using books on my bedroom windowsill.

  I ran the cables back into Mum’s office, connected them to the DVD, and turned on the television set. “Excellent!” I said to myself as the cows grazing in the field below my bedroom window filled the screen.

  “Eric had better watch out,” said Mum defiantly. “No one messes with me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “This is Master Harry’s favorite,” said Mrs. Cropper, setting down two plates of shepherd’s pie and peas on the kitchen table. It smelled delicious.

  Harry threw a sketch pad to one side. It was covered in illegible squiggles. He was still wearing his white scarf but had pushed his goggles up on top of his flying helmet. A model Spitfire plane sat on a side plate next to him.

  “A man has to eat,” he said, tucking in with his for
k. “Especially when we’re going on a nighttime mission behind enemy lines. Let’s hope that Flying Officer Jazzbo Jenkins is still alive.”

  “A mission!” I said. “How exciting.” Turning to Mrs. Cropper I added, “Thank you for supper.”

  “I like to keep with tradition,” said Mrs. Cropper briskly. “Harry always eats his supper at six with the nanny—”

  “I know what happened to Gayla,” said Harry, spearing a pea with relish. “She was working for the Germans and now she’s been captured by our chaps and taken to a secret location.”

  Over the top of Harry’s head, I met Mrs. Cropper’s silent appeal to say nothing more. “Now you be nice to Miss Katherine and don’t give her any trouble.”

  Mrs. Cropper returned to the table with two glasses of water. She was just a few years older than my mother, but plump with a florid complexion. Dressed in a pink striped pinafore over a plain white linen short-sleeved dress, she wore her gray hair tucked under a white mobcap and looked the epitome of a below-stairs cook.

  Harry and I sat at one end of a huge kitchen table that had been scrubbed white through age and use. Half the room had been modernized in the early seventies with cheap built-in floor-to-ceiling cupboards made of plywood—but the rest of the furnishings clung to the 1920s.

  One side of the kitchen held an old-fashioned huge iron range polished up with black lead. It was immense with ovens on each side and a steel fender polished to a silvery brightness.

  A dresser stood opposite with great big cupboards on the lower half and five shelves on the upper half displaying perfectly arranged china. On top of the cupboards sat a soup tureen, vegetable dishes, and sauceboats—enough china for a small army of people, not the few that now lived at the Hall.

  There was a stone sink and a wooden draining board with plate racks above. A counter held a battered toaster and an old color television set. An ancient refrigerator with rusting hinges stood in the corner covered in crayoned drawings of airplanes secured with Blu-Tack.

  “We’ll be fine, won’t we Harry, or should I say Squadron Leader Bigglesworth?”

  “Call me Biggles,” said Harry. “You’re Flying Officer Stanford. I’m afraid you’re a man.”