Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery

by Hannah Dennison

  Fortunately, all further conversation was cut short by a wailing police siren bringing me back abruptly to the horror of the morning—Vera’s death.

  William’s expression turned thunderous. “Bloody idiots!” he screamed, bounding out of the tack room. “Turn the bloody thing off!” he shouted. “The horses! Goddamit!”

  Pulling my jacket back on, I hurried after him just as an old panda car with orange-and-yellow stripes turned into the yard and came to a screeching halt.

  Tinkerbell, Lady Edith’s favorite horse, was frantic. Eyes rolling with fear, she kept hurling herself at the stable door with such force I feared it would break. William attempted to comfort her but it was only when Shawn cut the engine that the siren stopped and Tinkerbell quieted down.

  Shawn got out of the car followed by two uniformed police officers—a man with an enormous potbelly and heavy Captain Pugwash beard and a pretty redhead, her beauty only marred by a dark smudge of hair on her upper lip.

  William hurried over and got right in Shawn’s face and for a moment I thought he was going to take a swing at him. “You moron!” he exclaimed.

  “Whoa, steady on.” Shawn stepped back hastily. “Faulty siren.”

  “We couldn’t turn it off, mate,” Captain Pugwash put in. “Calm down now.”

  Muttering more obscenities, William turned on his heel and disappeared inside Tinkerbell’s box.

  Shawn looked even more disheveled than usual, having thrown his beige trench coat over faded denim jeans and a T-shirt.

  He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded and then, quite unexpectedly, my eyes stung with tears.

  Shawn produced a very grubby handkerchief that smelled strongly of bananas and gave it to me.

  “I thought at first it was Gayla and then—”

  “Well, it was Vera,” the redhead said briskly. “And frankly, I’m not surprised. Everyone knew she and Eric fought like cats and dogs.”

  “Thank you for your opinion, Roxy, but let’s not condemn Eric quite yet,” Shawn said firmly. “Allow me to introduce WPC Roxy Cairns and DC Clive Banks.”

  I murmured a hello.

  “I suppose the place will be crawling with the media now,” Roxy went on.

  “Of course we’ll try our best to keep it out of the papers,” said Shawn.

  “The papers?” I said, confused.

  “Celebrity finds dead body in grotto,” said Roxy. “It’s not every day we have a TV star in Little Dipperton.”

  “No need to make things worse, Roxy,” said Clive. “You’re looking a bit peaky, luv. You’re in shock. You should lie down.”

  “I need to tell my mother,” I said.

  “Of course, of course,” said Shawn. “Why don’t you escort Kat home, Clive? There’ll be plenty of time for questions later and we can get the gist of what happened from William.”

  Clive and I headed for the path through the pinewoods.

  “What’s it like to be a celebrity, then?” he asked.

  “Difficult,” I said and hoped that answered his question.

  “Must be nice to have all that money,” Clive persisted. “Move to the countryside and push up the house prices for the locals. Did you know that ninety percent of second-home owners don’t even live in their second homes?”

  “Well, this is my mother’s only home,” I said curtly. “And I live in London.”

  “After you.” Clive jumped forward and opened the latch-gate into the woods. A brace of pheasants powered out of the bushes screeching with indignation.

  I picked up the pace, relived that we had to walk in single file. It was astonishing that my celebrity status seemed to be more interesting to Clive than poor Vera’s demise.

  “That’s right,” said Clive, trotting behind me. “Aren’t you shacked up with that famous art investigator bloke? What’s his name? Glynn? Wynne?”

  “It’s David Wynne.” Fortunately Clive couldn’t see my expression of annoyance. I loathed personal questions.

  “Shawn Googled you,” Clive went on. “Old Wynne’s not divorced though, is he?”

  I didn’t answer but walked even faster. “I’ve seen his wife on the telly, too,” Clive called out. “She’s hot.”

  Still I didn’t answer.

  “We could have used David Wynne’s services twenty years ago when there was a big robbery here.”

  I stopped and waited for Clive to join me. “You know something about the robbery?”

  “I was fourteen at the time. Caused a lot of excitement but Shawn’s dad—he was the local plod back then—never caught the buggers.”

  “Did you live at the Hall, too?” The place was beginning to sound like a commune.

  “Born here. My dad was one of the gardeners,” said Clive. “Eric, Shawn, Vera, and I, we all went to the same school. Vera was neurotic even then. She and Eric were always off-and-on but I never thought he’d do it—and in the grotto, too. She hated it there. Refused to go anywhere near the sunken garden because of the blue lady.”

  “I’ve heard it’s haunted.”

  “You don’t believe me?” said Clive. “Gospel truth. Vera knew that. Why would she go there? Doesn’t make any sense. Just goes to show you never really know someone.”

  I thought of my mother and all her secrets. “Yes, you’re so right about that.”

  Thankfully, we walked the rest of the way in silence.

  “Thank you for escorting me, Clive,” I said as we arrived at the Carriage House.

  “Mind if I look inside?” said Clive. “Haven’t been here since I was a lad. We used to have a den up in the hayloft. I’d like to see what’s been done to the place.”

  “Nothing has been done,” I said sweetly. “I suspect it’s the same as it was when you were a lad.”

  He thrust out his jaw. “I’d still like to look. I suppose she’ll rip it all out. Destroy the soul of the place.”

  I couldn’t be bothered to argue and opened the front door. “Good-bye,” I said then paused, listening to a thump-thump-thump and a muffled cry for help.

  “What’s that noise?” said Clive sharply.

  My stomach flipped over. “It’s my mother.”

  “Stay where you are!” Clive produced a black telescopic baton as if from thin air and yelled, “Police!”

  “Help!” Mum cried again, followed by more thumping that appeared to be coming in the direction of the kitchen.

  I shoved Clive aside, flung open the kitchen door, and gasped. A purple harem pantaloon leg was dangling through a hole in the ceiling.

  “Oh God! Stay there, Mum.”

  “I’m hardly going for a run,” came the response.

  “Stay here,” said Clive. “If she falls through … just catch her.”

  Clive thundered up the stairs.

  “Mind the top step,” I yelled but it was too late. There was a crash and cry of pain.

  I raced after him but surprisingly—for such a large man—he was up on his feet and already standing over Mum by the time I reached her bedroom.

  My mother had partially fallen through the floorboards. Because of her broken hand, she’d taken the weight onto her right shoulder, causing her face to be squashed against the wall. Her left leg was bent back at an unnatural angle that had fortunately stopped her from plunging into the kitchen below.

  Mum gave Clive a winning smile. “I see the cavalry has arrived.”

  “At your service, ma’am. Allow me.” Putting his hands under Mum’s arms, he lifted her effortlessly up and onto the bed where she lay exhausted on her back like a stranded fish.

  “I thought you’d never come,” she panted.

  Mum’s harem pantaloons had ripped on the jagged edges of the floorboards. Blood oozed through the fabric.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “She needs to see a doctor and get a tetanus injection,” said Clive.

  “I don’t want a tetanus injection. There’s TCP in the bathroom cabinet,” said
Mum.

  “Your poor face,” I said. Mum’s cheek bore pressure marks from the crumbling plasterwork. “You look as if you have a severe case of acne.” But Mum didn’t laugh. “I’ll get the TCP,” I said.When I returned from the bathroom she was sitting on the edge of the bed with a blanket around her shoulders. Her face was white. “Has she gone into shock?” I asked.

  “I told her about Vera.” Clive was standing with his back to the window. A series of unintelligible squawks and crackles emanated from his shoulder mike.

  “I can’t believe it—no, I can believe it,” said Mum. “It’s usually the spouse in situations like this. I remember how upset Vera was when she came to see me. Eric killed her. Oh God! I knew he was unstable. That could have been me lying there on a cold stone floor in a cave.”

  Clive’s shoulder mike blurted out a police code that was clearly important. “Got to go. SOCA and old Fluffy has arrived.”

  “Fluffy?” I said.

  “English bloodhound,” said Clive. “She’s been brought out of retirement.”

  Mum looked up sharply. “Why do you need forensics and a tracker dog? I thought you said Eric was guilty.”

  Clive paused at the bedroom door. I noted a tear on the knee of his trousers where he’d taken a tumble up the stairs. “I like to think so but the boss goes by the book.”

  I rolled both pantaloons up to the top of Mum’s thighs. The cuts were nasty and the knee that had stopped her complete fall was badly bruised.

  “This might sting.”

  Mum winced as I dabbed the TCP on her raw flesh. She gave another whimper as I helped her down the stairs and sat her on a kitchen chair at the table.

  “Tea?” I suggested.

  I removed my jacket and was about to put the mouse and snuff box on the dresser when Mum exclaimed, “Oh my God! Where did you find that?”

  “I found the snuff box outside in the undergrowth.”

  “No, not that.” Mum sounded irritated. “Ella Fitzgerald.”

  “Who?”

  Mum picked up the mouse and examined it from all quarters. “This is Ella Fitzgerald.”

  “Harry gave it to me. He tried to pass Ella Fitzgerald off as Jazzbo Jenkins.”

  “But no, it doesn’t make sense.” Mum shook her head. “Billy is dead.”

  “Ella. Billy. Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to force it out of you with more TCP?”

  “Forget the tea. Get the gin and tonic and I think you should have a large one, too.”

  “I already drank some of Mrs. Cropper’s medicinal cherry brandy, thanks.”

  “Trust me,” said Mum bleakly. “You’ll need it.”

  Mum didn’t say another word until I sat down with our drinks. She seemed nervous and her hands were trembling.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  She took a long draft and gave a satisfying shiver. “I knew the Honeychurch Hall estate before,” she said. “A long time ago.”

  “I thought as much. You seem to know a lot for someone who has only been here three weeks. Did you come to Devon with Dad on holiday?”

  “Sort of.” Mum took a deep breath “Katherine—”

  “You only call me Katherine when you’re either annoyed or it’s something serious.”

  “This is serious.” Mum reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  “Okay, I’m getting worried now.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Mum. “I used to stay here as a girl with my family.”

  “You told me you lived in an orphanage!”

  “I did for a time but then I was adopted by Aunt June and Uncle Ron—not my real relatives, obviously because I didn’t have any. They ran Bushman’s Traveling Boxing Emporium—”

  “The one you mentioned in Gypsy Temptress?”

  “You read it?” Mum brightened. “When I was a girl I lived in a horse-drawn caravan, sleeping under the stars. I loved it. It was so romantic.”

  “Oh no,” I groaned. “Don’t tell me, you’re a gypsy.”

  “Not exactly a gypsy but—”

  “The Bushman’s Traveling Boxing Emporium?” I exclaimed. “I saw the photographs in the downstairs loo at the Hall. You came here, didn’t you?”

  “I just told you I did. Every summer.” Mum went on in a dreamy voice. “Billy and I used to sleep in the hayloft. It was such an adventure.”

  “Billy your stepbrother.”

  “I told you about Billy and Alfred. They were boxers, you know.”

  “Stay here!” I demanded. “I will be right back.” I raced upstairs to Mum’s bedroom and snatched the framed photograph of Mum and the boys off the mantelpiece.

  Thrusting the photograph under Mum’s nose I said, “This is you with Billy and Alfred, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Mum smiled. “They were happy days.”

  Mum took another draft of gin. “Lady Edith gave Billy and me a mouse each. Mine—Jazzbo Jenkins—had a blue cardigan and Ella Fitzgerald’s was red.”

  “What about Alfred? Didn’t he get one?” I asked.

  “Her ladyship didn’t like Alfred,” Mum said dismissively. “Every time the boxing emporium set up camp by the seaside, Billy bought a souvenir badge.”

  “I still can’t believe you are actually talking about the Lady Edith.” It was hard to picture the fierce old woman as someone who collected velveteen mice and knitted tiny cardigans.

  “You should have seen Lady Edith in her youth,” said Mum. “She was so beautiful. We idolized her. Everyone was in love with her. Men fell over themselves just to walk in her shadow. She was always so nice and didn’t treat us like scum—not like her brother.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” I said. “The World War Two pilot who was shot in a poaching accident?”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Mum said, rather too quickly. “It was all so long ago.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell Lady Edith that you’ve been here before?” I demanded. “I’m surprised she didn’t recognize you.”

  “The last time I came here was in 1959,” said Mum. “That was—goodness—over fifty years ago and let’s face it, I don’t look my normal self.”

  “You can say that again,” I said. “Billy must have come back before he had his aneurism. Why else would Ella whosit be here?”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Mum frowned. “Ella Fitzgerald was Billy’s lucky mascot in the boxing ring. He’d never part with her.”

  “You parted with Jazzbo.”

  “That’s different. I gave him to you,” said Mum. “Where is Jazzbo anyway?”

  “Tell me more about Billy.”

  “Aunt June and Uncle Ron were convinced that Billy was Lady Edith’s love child.”

  “No! Honestly Mum, you have such a vivid imagination. No wait—” I laughed. “Don’t tell me—the father was the gamekeeper?”

  “Yes,” said Mum with a haughty sniff. “Why else would Lady Edith spend so much time with us? She bought gifts, clothes, and toys. Took us on walking adventures in the park. Played the elephant umbrella stand game—”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “After your father died, I tracked Alfred to—well, Wormwood Scrubs actually,” said Mum.

  “Wormwood Scrubs, the prison?”

  “Alfred told me that Billy died on Blackpool Pier,” said Mum. “He was there with him.”

  “You should definitely tell Lady Edith,” I said. “If Billy was her love child, she should be told what happened to him.”

  “No,” Mum exclaimed. “It’s none of my business and it’s definitely none of yours.”

  “You are so infuriating,” I cried. “Then why buy this place if you weren’t intending to tell Lady Edith?”

  “I have my reasons,” said Mum stiffly. “Don’t get all hot and bothered. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  “I am getting hot and bothered. Why can’t you ever be honest?” I realized I was angry—very angry indeed. “First you admit that you spent
my entire childhood pretending to be ill but really writing pornography—”

  “Erotic suspense—”

  “And then you make up this Krystalle Storm character who lives in Italy with her Pomeranian—”

  “Pekinese.”

  “And now—fanfare of trumpets—it turns out you did have a family after all! What did Dad think about all this or are you going to lie about how you met him as well?”

  “I told you I met him on Brighton Pier,” said Mum. “That part was true.”

  “But he wasn’t rescuing you from a flock of seagulls, was he?”

  “I made that bit up.”

  “Just that bit?”

  “Your father was working for the tax office at the time. He was sent to investigate a suspected ticket receipt scam at our boxing emporium.”

  “A scam,” I snorted. “Oh lovely. Criminals!”

  “Of course we were fiddling the books!” said Mum with a mischievous grin. “I liked Frank and then we fell in love and—” She shrugged. “You know the rest.”

  “Was I born out of wedlock or did you definitely elope?”

  “Frank and I eloped,” said Mum. “After that, Aunt June and Uncle Ron never spoke to me again. They felt betrayed. And of course, Frank’s father wasn’t too happy. He was a vicar and died before you were born—in case you wondered.”

  “You are unbelievable!” I sputtered. “You wrote about it. You’re the gypsy temptress! It’s your story! ‘He was a man of the cloth. She—an outcast from her kin.’”

  “They do say to write about what you know,” said Mum sheepishly.

  “Don’t you dare write about me!” I cried.

  “Not even if I make Trudy a lunatic?”

  A knock on the door put an end to our conversation that was just as well.

  “That must be Dylan,” said Mum. “For the first time I’m grateful for his timing.”

  “Stay right there,” I said. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Thank God you’ve arrived!” I said.

  David stood in the doorway dressed in navy slacks, blazer, and muddy Florsheim shoes. With his black, wavy hair streaked with silver at the temples, he looked every inch the powerful, sophisticated businessman that I loved.