Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  Oh God, I thought. Who now? Benedict? David? The Queen of England?

  Chapter Twenty

  Angela was standing at the bottom of the stairs holding Mrs. Cropper’s wicker basket.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come back,” said Angela. “You told me we would go and pick sloes.”

  Angela was the last person I felt like seeing but then I remembered the mystery photographer from today’s Daily Post. Getting her alone would give me the perfect opportunity to ask a few questions.

  “It’ll be dark in an hour or so,” I said. “We’d better make it quick.”

  “I like the new color scheme in the sitting room,” said Angela. “Nice and cheerful. Your eye looks much better.”

  Alfred emerged from the sitting room with Mr. Chips cradled in his arms. The little dog seemed fascinated by Alfred’s face—which was fascinating given the amount of paint on it—and seemed unusually placid.

  “I didn’t even know Mr. Chips was here,” I said. “Usually he arrives in a fanfare of barking.”

  “He says he wants to go out digging,” said Alfred.

  Angela’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  “Why? Because he told me so, didn’t you, boy?”

  I was almost tempted to ask if Alfred knew what Mr. Chips had done with Mum’s money.

  Mr. Chips licked Uncle Alfred’s face.

  “Aw. He’s so cute,” said Angela.

  “All the ladies tell me that.”

  “Not you!” Angela hooted with laughter and turned to me. “Your uncle’s so funny!”

  I wanted to tell her that we’re not really related but knew that would bring forth another rash of questions.

  “Alfred says he can talk to the animals,” said Angela. “He was telling me all about his days in the circus.”

  “Oh, yes. When he worked with retired circus horses in Spain,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Alfred?”

  “That’s right. That’s what I told her,” said Alfred and winked at me.

  “So you weren’t part of Bushman’s boxing emporium?” said Angela.

  “Boxing, circuses, fairgrounds … I’m a wanderer, that’s me,” Alfred said with a chuckle. “Now … if you’re talking about boxing—”

  “Angela!” I said sharply. “We’d better pick those sloes before it gets dark. Come on, Mr. Chips. Bye, Alfred.” I practically pushed Angela out the front door.

  “Your uncle’s a right card,” said Angela happily. “What an amazing life he’s had.”

  “You can say that again,” I muttered.

  We set off in our Wellies and raincoats with Mr. Chips darting off into the undergrowth. We cut through Eric’s scrapyard, crossed the old service road, and started down the hill for Cavalier Copse.

  “I didn’t think you were an animal person,” I said. “You don’t mind dogs?”

  “We had a Jack Russell growing up,” said Angela. “His name was Snappy.”

  “Snappy.”

  “I know. I chose it. I got him for my eighth birthday. The rescue place warned us that he was aggressive. My mum was always rescuing pets.” Angela chattered on. “At one time we had nine cats and three dogs.”

  “And you were allowed to keep them all at Lindridge?”

  “What?” Angela seemed thrown for a moment. “Lindridge? Oh yes. We did. Could. My parents had a cottage on the estate—just like the one I have here.”

  “Do they still live in North Devon?”

  “Yes—do you think the countess should be driving herself?”

  “Sorry?” My head was still in North Devon with nine cats and three dogs. “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Only it’s quite far to Exeter and it would be awful if she had an accident,” said Angela. “I worry about her.”

  My mother and I had often thought the same thing but I was surprised that Angela seemed to be so concerned.

  “Mrs. Cropper tells me that her ladyship goes twice a week. Don’t you wonder what she must be doing?”

  “No.”

  “Must be important for her to drive herself all that way,” Angela persisted. “Maybe it’s got something to do with Lord Rupert?”

  “I have no idea, Angela,” I said.

  “I mean, his lordship’s been gone for days,” Angela went on. “Mrs. Cropper says he and the countess were behind closed doors for hours on Monday afternoon. Then, there was all that drama with Master Harry running away and the next thing we know, his lordship packs a suitcase and drives off. Awful, isn’t it? Sending kids away to school.”

  Angela paused and looked at me, presumably for a comment, but when I didn’t respond she plunged on. “And Lady Lavinia is acting all funny as well,” she said. “And that Benedict Scroope is hanging around a lot. Doesn’t seem right. But that’s the toffs for you. They’re not like us, are they? Marriage for them is a mutually beneficial arrangement. They don’t do things for love.”

  Mutually beneficial arrangement! Another classic Angela phrase.

  “I don’t believe in gossiping and I do hope you keep your observations to yourself,” I said primly. “Lady Edith is very private and I’m sure Lavinia would be upset if she knew you were spreading rumors about her.”

  “Oh.” Angela reddened. “I’m only telling you because you live here. I wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone else. I swear.”

  An uneasy silence fell between us. Angela’s prying questions strengthened my suspicions that she was trying to wheedle out personal information to sell a story.

  We followed the line of the ditch.

  “Why is Eric making all this mess?” said Angela.

  “He has to keep the ditches clear so that the land can drain properly.”

  Mr. Chips turned his attention to the ridge of up-cast soil and had a good roll in the mud.

  “I wish we could put him on a lead,” she said.

  I pointed to the blackthorn hedge that ran along the bottom of the hill that bordered Cavalier Copse. “You see those blue-black berries? Those are sloes.”

  I turned to take the circuitous route along the boundary.

  “Where are you going?”

  “That’s Coffin Mire and you don’t want to walk across there. It’s a swamp and you’ll sink.”

  As before, the wind suddenly whipped up, sending the branches swaying and clattering in the breeze. A chill swept through me.

  “Mercy me!” Angela grabbed my arm. “Did you feel it? This is where it happened, isn’t it? This is where Sir Maurice sent those Roundheads to their deaths—that’s what Mrs. Cropper told me—oh!” She stopped dead, her eyes wide with fear. “In the pub … do you think … I mean … when I sat in his chair—?”

  “I told you it was just silly superstitious nonsense.”

  “I don’t like it here. I want to go back.”

  Mr. Chips seemed to pick up Angela’s acute anxiety. He kept dashing about in circles, barking.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said sternly. “We’re not going anywhere near Coffin Mire. We’re going to pick the sloes from the same hedge but on the other side.”

  We climbed over the stile—with Angela repeatedly looking over her shoulder—and into the bridleway that was flanked by the avenue of ancient oaks. Harry’s tree house was just three trees farther down. I made a mental note to return the next day to scout out the dormice nests and take a few photographs.

  “Those thorns look sharp,” said Angela doubtfully.

  “Just be careful.”

  “So what do you think happened with Joyce?” Angela chattered on. “Mrs. Cropper says that Shawn—that’s Detective Inspector Cropper—smells a rat.”

  “What kind of rat?”

  “They think that Valentine was drunk and ran Joyce off the road,” said Angela. “And now he’s disappeared. That’s a sure sign of guilt.”

  It was my theory, too, but one I wasn’t going to share with Angela.

  “Why do you suppose Joyce went out in the dark, anyway?” Angela went on. “I mean, Pa
tty had told us that her mother was ill.”

  “I have no idea and to be honest, I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. “I don’t want to remember seeing her laying in a stream. It was horrible.”

  We started picking the berries. I dreaded having to bring up the topic of Trudy’s Star Stalkers column but I knew I had to. I had been hoping that Angela would have given me an opening gambit, but she seemed too preoccupied with her surroundings. She jumped at every sound and when there was a sudden rush of crackling leaves, she screamed.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Angela!” I exclaimed. “It’s only Mr. Chips.” For someone who claimed to be a country girl, she really was pathetic.

  I knew it was now or never. “Have you seen the Daily Post today?”

  “I don’t have time to read the newspapers,” Angela said quickly.

  “I am going to ask you a question and I want you to be one hundred percent honest with me,” I said. “If you are, then we will forget about it, okay?”

  “O-kay,” she said slowly.

  “Have you heard of a column called Star Stalkers?”

  “Star-what? I told you, I don’t read the newspapers,” Angela said. “I’m just a housekeeper.”

  “That’s not true, is it?” I said quietly. “You seem to know a lot about my relationship with David Wynne. If you don’t read the newspapers, I’m not sure where you would get that information.”

  “Muriel from the post office told me,” said Angela. “It’s common knowledge.”

  “There was a photograph of me on the landing with Valentine Prince-Avery in today’s issue,” I said. “Did you take that photograph?”

  Angela’s face turned crimson. “No. I don’t understand. Why would I do that? Send to who?”

  “Trudy Wynne,” I said. “And don’t pretend you don’t know who she is.”

  “Wait!” Angela’s eyes welled up with tears. “You don’t think … you don’t think I took that photograph and e-mailed it to the newspaper, do you? How could I? We don’t even have the Internet at the Hall.”

  “You have an iPhone and there are plenty of Internet cafes around. Take Buzz, for example.”

  “Buzz?” Angela frowned.

  “In Dartmouth!” I was getting annoyed. “There are flyers about your Ravishing Romantics book club in there.”

  “Oh! Buzz. Right.” Angela went back to picking sloes.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “Why don’t you ask Eric? He took some of my flyers. I didn’t know what he was going to do with them.”

  I faltered for a moment and felt my own face turn pink. “It’s easy for me to check.”

  “You’ve seen how hard Mrs. Cropper works me,” Angela said hotly. “And besides, when could I have done it? I don’t have any time off.”

  “You were in the pub on Monday night,” I pointed out.

  “Oh!” She gasped. A lone tear trickled down Angela’s cheek. “I wouldn’t do that Kat, I really wouldn’t. I want to be your friend.” She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. “I bet it was Patty. She saw you. Or maybe it was someone hiding in one of those alcoves.”

  “Patty doesn’t have a phone let alone access to the Internet,” I said. “Nor does she drive a car. You do.”

  “Mrs. Cropper told me that Patty is always suing people. She even sued the vicar when she tripped in the church,” Angela went on. “She’d never turn down a chance to earn one hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “One hundred and fifty pounds,” I said coldly.

  Angela looked horrified. “Or whatever the reward is,” she gabbled on. “I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t a reward. I was just guessing—”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about Star Stalkers let alone the exact amount of the reward for tip-offs!” I was absolutely furious. “I can guarantee when Edith hears about this you will be asked to leave. She’s very, very particular about trusting her staff. Frankly, I’m disappointed in you, Angela.”

  Angela didn’t answer but I could see she was upset. Her chin was working as she started to viciously pull the fruit from the hedgerow and hurl the berries into the direction of the basket. Most didn’t go in.

  “Why did you do it?” I said more gently. “Help me understand.”

  Angela spun round. Her anger was so intense that I stepped back in surprise. “How dare you accuse me!” she screamed. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re so full of your own self-importance. You’re a stuck-up bitch!”

  I was speechless and incredibly hurt.

  Angela kicked the wicker basket over in a rage. “I don’t have to endure another insult from you!” she raged on. “Accusing me of lying! Why pick me? It could have been anyone in the pub that night. What about the reporter from the Dipperton Deal? Ask her! Why do you hate me?”

  “I don’t hate you!”

  Angela stormed off back along the bridleway but instead of taking the stile on the right, she climbed over the one on the left.

  “You are going the wrong way!” I shouted but Angela disappeared from view followed quickly by Mr. Chips who appeared from nowhere and scampered after her.

  I sank onto a log, utterly exhausted. First, I had accused Patty of stealing and she reported me for harassment, and now Angela was insisting she was innocent. What was wrong with me?

  Suddenly, a series of screams and frantic barking cut through the air. They became more and more anguished, then, abruptly, stopped altogether. There was a dreadful, eerie silence.

  I tore down the path and climbed over the stile into the field.

  Fifty yards away, Angela was crouched against the hedge, holding Mr. Chips by his collar. She was surrounded by a semicircle of extremely curious cows who stood just feet away from them both. One cow began to snort and paw the ground.

  Angela saw me. “Oh! Help! Help! They’re going to kill me!”

  Holy crap. Harry’s comment about the holidaymaker who was trampled to death hit me afresh.

  “Stay still!” I shouted. “Don’t move!”

  Quickly, Mr. Chips jerked from Angela’s grasp and broke free.

  “Leave the dog!” I yelled. “He’ll be fine!”

  Mr. Chips darted around the legs of the herd, nipping at their heels before racing off toward the woods. Now, all the cows were snorting and pawing the ground.

  Suddenly, Angela made a wild dash for safety and started running downhill toward me.

  I could only watch in horror as the cows picked up the pace and thundered after her. She started screaming again, and kept looking over her shoulder as the large animals moved with surprising speed.

  And then Angela tripped. She pitched forward face-first. Time seemed to slow down as the herd, unable to stop in time, trampled over her.

  I jumped into the field, dragged off my raincoat, and waved it overhead, shouting, yelling—anything to try to attract their attention.

  Distracted, the cows briefly looked my way but then turned back to Angela and stood around her seemingly lifeless body.

  I didn’t know what to do. I was absolutely terrified. With trembling fingers I pulled out my mobile to call for an ambulance. But of course, there was no signal this far down in the valley.

  And then, it was over. The herd just ambled off and started grazing again.

  I waited until the cows had moved to the other side of the field and hurried over, praying she had just been knocked unconscious. Angela’s right foot lay at an unnatural angle. I suspected it was broken.

  I dropped to my knees and gently lifted her wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there—faint—but there.

  “Angela, Angela,” I whispered. “Are you okay?”

  Slowly, she turned her face toward mine. Blood ran from her mouth. Her eyes flickered and then snapped open with alarm. She uttered a weak cry but it seemed too much of an effort and she fell silent.

  “You’re safe,” I said. “They’ve gone. I’m going to call for an ambulance but I have to walk to the top of the field to
get a signal.”

  “Don’t leave me,” she lisped. “My teeth.”

  It looked like she’d fallen onto a sharp stone that had knocked out her front teeth.

  I helped Angela to her feet and put my raincoat around her shoulders. She couldn’t put any weight down on one leg and started to cry again.

  It was a long, slow walk up to Hopton’s Crest.

  Emergency services said it would take at least ten minutes to send an ambulance out. I called Mum but she wasn’t picking up the phone—nor was Alfred. I left a message and told her there had been an accident and to bring a blanket.

  It was more like twenty minutes before we heard the wail of a siren. Angela hadn’t said a word. She just lay flat on my raincoat with her eyes closed.

  Swiftly Tony and John Cruickshank set to work, checking Angela’s vitals and attending to her foot. An inflatable foot brace was produced and gently wrapped around her damaged limb. She had lost both top teeth but most of the blood had resulted from her biting through her lip.

  Both told me they had had some experience with stampeding cows and that Angela was extremely lucky to survive and not been crushed. Angela drifted in and out of consciousness so it was left to me to answer their questions as best I could.

  At last, Mum turned up in her red MINI and handed me a hip flask. “Mrs. Cropper’s cherry brandy,” she said.

  “She just ran.” I took a sip and felt a little better. “Angela just freaked out and ran, Mum. There was nothing I could do—Oh! I don’t believe it!

  A Porsche SUV came into view.

  “What’s David doing here?” I said.

  “I’m so sorry. He turned up just as I was dashing to the car and insisted on coming.”

  We watched David find a dry place to park, then make a meal out of removing his shoes and donning boots. “I bet he’s laying out newspaper in the back of the SUV,” said Mum. “You could never rely on him to make a snap decision, could you?”

  David strode toward us, his face white with concern. “Thank God it wasn’t you, Kat.”

  “She’s in shock,” said Mum bluntly. “And not to be taken advantage of.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “But I’m not so sure about her.”

  If it turned out that Angela hadn’t sent the photograph to Star Stalkers, I would feel that her accident had been my entire fault—despite how ridiculous that sounded.