Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “I’m sure Patty would make you a cup of tea if you’d like one?” said Benedict.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” At any moment, I expected to see an army of cockroaches scuttle across the floor.

  Benedict caught my eye and in his, I saw a degree of compassion.

  “I’ve been telling Patty that she’s not to worry about anything,” he said. “Of course, Bridge Cottage is not entitled to any compensation but I shall personally negotiate—should we ever reach that stage—with the board to make her an exception.”

  Benedict went up several notches in my estimation.

  “That’s wonderful, isn’t it, Patty?” I said.

  “Again, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” said Benedict.

  Patty didn’t comment.

  “I was telling Patty that she wasn’t to contribute a penny to the campaign,” Benedict went on. “There are others in a much better financial position to support the cause—like Lavinia and of course, Iris.” He laughed. “Even you!”

  I smiled but inwardly felt very uncomfortable. I searched Patty’s face, looking for any sign that she might have found Mum’s five thousand pounds, but she just looked steadily at the television.

  “So what brings you here this morning, Kat?” Benedict asked.

  “I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you, Patty,” I said. “Perhaps I could help with the shopping since you don’t have a car.”

  “Well … I can’t afford to pay for the petrol.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to,” I said. “I also wondered if you would be interested in helping me organize the auction.”

  I caught a flicker of interest. “How much would you pay me?”

  I was taken aback. “I hadn’t—”

  “I think it’s more a case of donating your time to the cause,” said Benedict smoothly.

  “Time is money,” said Patty. “That’s what Mother always told me. And now, I don’t know how I’m going to make ends meet without her pension.”

  “I heard you used to do the car boot sale circuit,” I said. “Maybe there are some things you’d like me to take a look at and see if I can sell for you?”

  “Alright,” said Patty. “Let’s do it now.”

  “Now?” I exchanged looks with Benedict and could have sworn I saw a flicker of annoyance cross his features.

  “In that case, I’ll leave you both to it,” he said. “Patty, will you see me out?”

  “You know where the door is.”

  “Just want a quick word—” Benedict put his arm around Patty’s shoulders. “In private.”

  I watched them pick their way through the obstacle course to the front door and was instantly reminded of Mum’s own hallway. At the front door Benedict leaned down and whispered something in Patty’s ear. I saw her stiffen and noticed his fingers tightening on her arm.

  “I told you,” I heard Patty say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not hiding anything.”

  When Patty returned I asked, “Is everything okay?”

  “What’s it to you?” she snapped. “And what do you really want?”

  It would appear that Patty was back to her usual sullen self.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I said suspiciously.

  “Why should you want to help me? I don’t know you.”

  “Because…” I wracked my brains. “I’m very close to my mother so I can’t begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost yours. You’ve lived together for most of your life, haven’t you?”

  “What’s it to you?” Patty said again.

  “We must be around the same age,” I went on, trying to find common ground. “I know what it’s like to be an only child. After my dad died, he told me to take care of my mother. That’s why I’m here in Devon.”

  I studied Patty’s features. She had dark brown eyes and flawless skin. Even with her odd choice of dress, she would be attractive if she could do something with her hair. Maybe now she was free from her mother’s overbearing clutches, she could start to have a life. But of course, I would never tell her that.

  “Much as we love them—mothers aren’t easy,” I said. “I know how you feel.”

  “Do you?” Patty said with a sneer. “Unlike you, I don’t have a fancy job or a wealthy mother. My dad left us in debt when he died. Mother had a hard life trying to keep food on the table and now—what’s going to happen to me?”

  “Perhaps you can help me uncover a mystery,” I said. “There’s a reward if you can solve it.”

  “How much?”

  “One hundred pounds,” I said.

  Patty gave a curt nod that I assumed meant yes.

  I pulled the blue plastic bag out of my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you recognize this?”

  Patty stepped closer. “What is it?”

  “It’s a bag that banks use for money,” I said, watching her expression carefully.

  “But there’s no money in there.”

  “I know,” I said. “But there was. Did you see Mr. Chips yesterday?”

  “Who?”

  “The dowager countess’s Jack Russell.”

  “Maybe. He’s always running about down here.”

  “So you did see him?”

  “I didn’t say I saw him yesterday. Why?”

  “Mr. Chips ran off with something that belonged to my mother in this blue bag.”

  “You mean there was money in that bag?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How much money?”

  “It doesn’t matter how much.” I could feel myself getting irritated. “I found this blue bag in the black plastic bin liner by your front gate.”

  Patty’s eyes flashed with fury. “Are you calling me a thief?”

  “No. I’m not calling you anything,” I said. “I’m just asking if you saw Mr. Chips—or anyone else for that matter.”

  “My mother’s not even cold and you come round here pretending to be a Good Samaritan and then accuse me of being a thief?”

  “I didn’t say anything of the sort!” I exclaimed.

  “Why accuse me?” Patty shouted. “We’re always getting ramblers walking by. Anyone could have taken your money—”

  “From the dog?”

  “Yes. From the dog.” Patty thrust out her jaw. “And then thrown the bag away to frame me.”

  “Why would a complete stranger want to frame you?” I exclaimed.

  “Eric was out working in the fields with his tractor yesterday,” said Patty. “You should ask him.”

  “I have asked Eric,” I said.

  “Did you ask your railway man? Did you think of that,” said Patty spitefully, “or were you too loved up?”

  “Valentine Prince-Avery?” I said. “I hardly know him to be—as you say, loved up—”

  “He’s been prowling around here, why couldn’t he have taken it from that dog? Stan said he paid for his room in cash,” Patty went on. “Maybe that’s where he got the cash from? Did you think about that before accusing me?”

  Our conversation was going nowhere. Taking in the squalor of the cottage, lack of heating or phone, and Patty’s new circumstances, I tried a different tack.

  “Look, I know you found the money, Patty,” I said gently. “And that’s okay. Why don’t you give it back to me and we’ll say nothing more about it.”

  “My word’s not good enough, is it?” she spat.

  “Of course it is—”

  “You think you are so special, don’t you? The famous Katherine Stanford! What’s it like to be you?” Patty’s outburst took me off guard. “You think throwing all your money around will buy you friends but it won’t. You’ll never belong here. Never! Get out! Get out of my house and leave me to grieve.”

  “I’m sorry, Patty,” I said quietly. “Just think about what I said. I’m serious about the reward and we’ll say no more about it.”

  “No! You think about what I’ve said!” Patty stabbed a finger at my chest. “I’m going to report
you for harassment. And what’s more, I’m going to the papers and I’m going to tell them everything about you and your Valentine.”

  My stomach flipped over. It was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid. Sympathy for Patty had rapidly changed to anger. I just knew she was a thief! Without another word, I turned on my heel and tripped my way to the front door.

  Outside, I gave into my anger. I was going to go straight to the police, which was exactly what I should have done right from the start.

  It was on the outskirts of Dartmouth that all thoughts of Patty and the police vanished. Sitting on the forecourt of Ogwell Car Hire and decorated with ribbons and silver balloons was Valentine’s metallic-blue Suzuki, license plate LUXRY1.

  On impulse, I pulled off the road and parked my Golf in one of the three slots designated for customer parking.

  Of course, it explained who had towed Valentine’s car the afternoon before, but again, I wondered who had made the phone call. I still couldn’t shake off the feeling of foreboding—not helped by Alfred’s dramatic “channeling” performance from the night before.

  It was no good. I just wanted to know that there was nothing sinister about Valentine’s disappearance. I just had to be sure.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ogwell Car Hire used to be a filling station. Three rusting Shell petrol pumps stood outside a brick building that was now boarded up although the sign—GARAGE—was still visible in stained-glass lettering above the double doors.

  As car rental companies go, this establishment was definitely on the low end of the scale, which didn’t tally with the sophisticated Valentine I had met—albeit it briefly. It was also such an odd location to choose. It was miles from the main line station to London Paddington and made me wonder how Valentine had gotten here to pick up his car in the first place.

  I heard my phone vibrate in my tote bag and grabbed it. Unfortunately, it was from David. Again. Today’s text differed from his usual “Thinking of you” to “Must talk to you. Urgent.” Obviously he was trying a new tactic.

  I headed for the Portakabin that served as the office.

  Inside the cramped space, two women in their late forties were standing engaged in an animated conversation next to a bank of filing cabinets. A kettle was on the boil. On top of the mini fridge sat a tower of Styrofoam cups, a jar of instant coffee, and a bowl of sugar sachets and powdered Coffee-mate. In the background I could hear the Judi Spiers Show playing on BBC Radio Devon. It was one of my mother’s favorite radio programs—and mine, too.

  The waiting area consisted of a small vinyl bench and a table strewn with a stack of maps of the area. The pale green walls were plastered with posters advertising local tourist attractions—most notably Greenway, Agatha Christie’s summer home. On the ceiling I noticed a whisper of last year’s Christmas tinsel.

  On one of the two workstations along with the usual office clutter, sat a copy of the Daily Post.

  I called out a greeting and they both turned around and seemed surprised to have a customer.

  The pair reminded me of Laurel and Hardy, the comedy double act from the 1930s. One was thin and nervous-looking with short lank hair whilst the other was overweight with hard, piggy eyes. They were dressed in matching black trousers with white shirts and black ties.

  “I was looking for Mr. Ogwell?”

  “He’s dead,” said Hardy bluntly. She pointed to a name badge on her shirt pocket. “I’m his daughter, Susan.”

  “I’m sorry.” I just couldn’t seem to say the right thing today.

  “Oh. My God!” tittered Laurel, who was, to my amusement, actually called Laurel. “You’re Rapunzel from Fakes & Treasures.”

  Here we go.

  “We love that show, don’t we, Susan?” she gushed.

  “I prefer the soaps.”

  “What have you done to your face?” Laurel asked. “Walked into a door?”

  “I fell off a horse,” I said.

  “It’s funny seeing people in the papers and then in the flesh,” Laurel went on. “Like I’m in a dream. I was just reading about you this morning in the Post.”

  “Oh, is that what you were gawking at,” said Susan. “She loves celebrity stories. Now we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Laurel reddened. “And if you don’t mind me saying so, I’m glad you gave David the boot. I never thought he was good enough for you. I think his wife, Trudy, looks like Cruella de Vil from 101 Dalmations, don’t you?”

  With Trudy’s sharp angular bob I’d always thought the same but just gave a polite smile. This was exactly why I had turned my back on being a C-list celebrity. I loathed being public property where complete strangers felt they knew me well enough to comment on my personal life.

  “And we’ve already met your new man.” Laurel giggled. “Haven’t we, Susan?”

  “I told her I’d fire her if she called the papers,” said Susan.

  A familiar sinking feeling began in my stomach. Laurel was already reaching for the Daily Post. She handed it to me. “Look.”

  Trudy Wynne’s infamous Star Stalkers column was on the front page. In the bottom right corner was a photo that Trudy constantly recycled showing me, wiping away my tears. It had been taken a year ago when I’d attended a “Wish-Upon-A-Star” charity event for terminally ill children. One brave little girl had fulfilled her dream of swimming with dolphins and it just made me cry. Today, however, the caption said BROKENHEARTED RAPUNZEL FINDS LOVE AGAIN. TURN TO PAGE 3 AND MEET HER NEW MAN.

  “Good for you, I say,” said Laurel. “He was ever so charming. A real prince!”

  Even though I knew it was a mistake, I couldn’t help myself and took up the newspaper.

  I turned to page 3 to find an old photograph of David and me pictured at a London restaurant. Photoshop had put in a jagged black line between us—RAPUNZEL! DUMPED! Alongside were two more images. One showed the Hare & Hounds pub sign—SECRET RENDEZVOUS—and the other, a photo of me emerging from Valentine’s bedroom—LOVERS’ TRYST. It had been heavily Photoshopped so that Valentine’s hand that had been innocently hanging by his side was now firmly placed around my waist.

  I was furious. No wonder David had been calling me. He must have seen it.

  There was no prize for guessing the culprit. It was either Patty or Angela—both had seen me on the landing and yet could they have gotten the photographs out so quickly? The meeting had been held on Monday night so the images would have to have been e-mailed immediately to make the Wednesday edition. Patty had made it clear that she disliked me and was definitely hard up for money but, as she kept on saying, she did not have a landline let alone a mobile phone—and definitely not the Internet. Angela, however, did—unless someone from the village was the culprit.

  Yet over the past few weeks, I’d found the locals very protective of my celebrity status. Mum liked to compare my presence to that of “Kate and William” when they lived in Anglesey. I just couldn’t think who else would have done it unless it was one of Trudy’s professional photographers.

  I wouldn’t put it past her. Her wretched column wasn’t called Star Stalkers just for fun. I recalled seeing three little alcoves dotted along the landing that could easily hide a photographer. The pub had been full of people—many of whom I didn’t recognize—and even though I’d used the back staircase through the Snug, I knew from experience that the paparazzi just seemed to have an instinctive homing device for their prey.

  “Do you know who took it?” Susan said, breaking into my thoughts.

  “No. There were a lot of people in the pub that night.”

  “Can’t you sue them for libel or something?” said Laurel in a complete turn about face. “I think it’s awful that people can pry into your private life like that. It’s bad enough when the next-door neighbor overhears me and my husband having a row.”

  “It’s not pleasant,” I said.

  “Well, you can tell your Mr. Prince-Avery that we’re very annoyed with him,” said Susan. “That Suzuki is our only
luxury car.”

  “But we’re very grateful that he called to tell us where it was,” Laurel said hastily.

  “Valentine called you?” I said.

  “Yesterday after lunch,” said Susan. “But he didn’t bother to leave the keys in the car and Laurel lost the spare set.”

  “They’re here somewhere, Susan, I—”

  “So we had to hire a tow truck to go and pick the car up.”

  “The AA came out so it was okay,” said Laurel.

  “It was not okay, Laurel,” Susan exclaimed. “It cost money that we won’t get back. Not only that, we had to replace one of the headlights.”

  “I thought it was cracked before,” protested Laurel.

  “I would never allow a luxury car to be rented with a cracked headlight.”

  “Can’t you ask Mr. Prince-Avery to post the keys?” I said, hoping to save Laurel from further misery.

  Susan glared at Laurel again.

  “I … I—”

  “Laurel did not get his address and he is not answering his mobile phone,” said Susan. “Perhaps you could ask him?”

  Of course I had had no more luck in reaching Valentine than they had. “Didn’t he pay by credit card?”

  “Cash,” said Susan. “We’re one of the few car rental companies in the area that don’t use credit cards. That’s why we can offer better rates. We don’t have to pay a commission.”

  “But surely he gave you his driver’s license?” I said.

  “What do you think?” Susan gave Laurel another icy glare.

  “I’ve already said I’m sorry, Susan.” Laurel thrust out her jaw. “We got to talking about Africa. My husband is going to take me on safari for my fiftieth birthday. He told me I should visit some island off the coast of Zanzibar. Pemba something.”

  I remembered Valentine’s lucky key fob. “You mean, Pemba Island?”

  “That’s it!” said Laurel excitedly. “You see, that kind of inside information isn’t in the travel brochures, is it?”

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve got that straight,” said Susan sarcastically. “I suppose you’ve come to pick up the stuff he left in the car? Laurel…?”

  “I’ll get it.” Laurel went to the back of the room and returned with a plastic container marked LOST PROPERTY. She set it down on the table and took off the lid, removing a pair of brown leather gloves and the Chillingford Court auction catalog.