Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  Chapter Sixteen

  We entered the churchyard and immediately Mum plunged down a narrow path between two lines of moss-covered headstones.

  “Where are you going?” I exclaimed.

  “Have you seen how old some of these headstones are?” Mum yelled over her shoulder. “It’s like everyone from below stairs is buried over here.” She foraged around for a good five minutes before working her way back.

  “They’re all there,” she said. “Stark, Cropper, Pugsley, Banks and Jones. I saw the same names in those photographs in the downstairs loo at the Hall. I was looking at them whilst her ladyship was changing into her gown. They date back to the 1880s, you know.”

  “You mean the loyalty portraits.” I’d been as fascinated as my mother at the formal tableaus of the Honeychurch family and their staff—all in uniform—through the decades.

  “Didn’t you mention something about Parish registers?” said Mum.

  “Edith did. She told me that if they were still in the church they would be in the Parish chest in the vestry.”

  “Let’s do that after we’ve spoken to Shawn,” said Mum. “Just imagine seeing the name of everyone who was born, married and died over the last five centuries or so.”

  “It makes our life seem rather insignificant, doesn’t it?”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Mum.

  As we rounded the stone buttress of the Norman church, Mum saw Fred’s wheelbarrow blocking the path.

  “So that’s where Fred Jarvis dropped dead,” said Mum.

  “I heard Muriel say that she couldn’t face moving the wheelbarrow.”

  Mum scanned the area. “And that’s where he’s been buried—oh, Kat. That’s what your father used to say to me. ‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone.’ And I do. I really do.”

  I gave my mother a hug. “I know. I do, too. But come on, let’s find Shawn and get this over and done with.”

  As we left the churchyard, Shawn emerged from the post office with DC Banks. Shawn was holding a white scarf. He tucked it inside his trench coat.

  “Morning, Officer,” said Mum. “Can I have a quick word with you?” She glanced over at DC Banks and added, “In private.”

  DC Banks nodded. “I’ll wait in the car.” His heavy beard seemed even heavier than usual today. I felt like all he needed was to clamp a cutlass between his teeth and put on an eye patch.

  “Are you going to confess?” said Shawn.

  Mum’s eyes widened. “Confess to what?”

  “It was a joke.” Shawn looked at me and actually winked. It was so unlike him to have a sense of humor I was momentarily taken off-guard.

  “Oh. Very funny,” said Mum.

  “Let’s go back inside,” Shawn suggested.

  I followed them into the post office. This was something I was determined to witness.

  “And what can I do for you, Iris?” said Shawn.

  “I left something of mine in here yesterday,” said Mum. I gave her an encouraging nod. “About five pages—just a list of furniture.”

  I gave a heavy sigh.

  “I’m trying to get a new quote for house insurance.” She smiled broadly. “It was accidentally attached to my shopping list. I came in here and got chatting as one does, and it was only this morning that I realized I must have left it somewhere here. Do you mind if I take a look around?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

  “Please can you make an exception?” said Mum. “Some of the items on the list were very valuable. Do you remember that gold necklace, Kat?”

  I didn’t answer. I was too annoyed.

  “It sounds like whoever took that money and also Muriel’s jewelry is a professional,” Mum went on. “And what with her car being stolen.”

  “Ah! The stolen car.” Shawn brought out his pad and presumably made a note of it.

  “Have you searched Muriel’s flat yet? Upstairs, perhaps?”

  Shawn looked surprised. “Did you go upstairs?”

  “Oh. Yes.” Mum nodded. “Yes I did. I popped up there for a quick cup of tea. Didn’t I, Kat? Remember?”

  “I have no idea,” I said wearily.

  “The kitchen is downstairs,” said Shawn. “The bedrooms are upstairs.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. I was getting confused for a moment.” Mum flashed one of her too-bright smiles.

  “Have you asked Muriel if she found this very important list?”

  “Not yet. She’s seemed too distressed, which is why I thought I would take a quick look myself.”

  “She’s still with Pippa Carmichael,” said Shawn. “Why don’t you go next door and ask her.”

  “I don’t want to bother her,” Mum said. “But I’m quite sure she won’t mind.”

  “I’m afraid the answer is still no, Iris.” Shawn turned to me. “Can we speak alone for a moment? Outside?”

  Mum looked worried. “What about?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” said Shawn lightly.

  “Okay.” I suddenly felt self-conscious about my appearance.

  “I’ll stay here,” said Mum.

  “I don’t think so.” We trooped after Shawn, who motioned for DC Banks to stay with my mother.

  “I don’t need a guard, you know,” she grumbled. “I’m not six.”

  Shawn gently took my arm. “Let’s just pop down there.” He led me into the narrow passage between Muriel’s post office and Violet’s cottage. We had to step over mounds of dead roses. The wall looked awful with its broken trellis and cracked, graying brickwork.

  Shawn stopped halfway down the passageway. It was dingy, dank and smelled of moss.

  To my surprise, my heart began to pound. I couldn’t remember ever being in such an enclosed space with Shawn. He was making me nervous. “Is everything okay?”

  Shawn withdrew the white scarf.

  I remembered Harry hadn’t been wearing it yesterday. “That’s Harry’s, isn’t it?” I said. “Where did you find it?”

  “Behind the post office counter. He must have dropped it.”

  The implication was clear. “I don’t believe it of Harry.”

  “I tend to agree with you, but I’d like you to talk to him just the same.”

  “Why me?” I exclaimed. “He does have parents, you know.”

  “You’re good with Harry,” said Shawn.

  “Alright, but I am quite sure he wouldn’t have taken money or jewelry. Muriel just mentioned sweets.”

  “I know she did,” said Shawn.

  “And if anything, I would think Max Carmichael is the one who is leading Harry astray.”

  And Harry could be so easily led. I knew how much it meant to him to be part of the gang at his new school. I also thought of how he looked up to his uncle Piers, who was definitely not a good example if his blatant disregard for the burial site in Cromwell Meadows was anything to go by.

  “Violet Green claims that she sees the boys loitering in the churchyard at all hours of the night—”

  “That does surprise me!” I exclaimed. “Harry hates the dark.”

  “Maybe he’s grown out of it,” said Shawn mildly. “I’m on Harry’s side, Kat. Talk to Pippa Carmichael as well. She’s your friend, isn’t she? Just find out where they were on Thursday night.”

  “Of course I’ll speak to him. But I don’t think it’s right that I speak to Pippa about her son. That’s your domain.”

  Shawn paused for a moment before taking a deep breath. “But there’s something else.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you why I haven’t been in touch these past few weeks.”

  “Oh.” I felt my face grow hot. “Honestly. You don’t need to explain anything. Really.”

  “No! I must tell you. I want to.”

  A flash of movement caught my eye. I looked over Shawn’s shoulder and saw Violet duck back behind the net curtain in her cottage. Startled, I jumped, making Shawn leap back and hit the wall.

  “Yes, we are being watched,” I said.
>
  “All I wanted to say was that I am working on a special case at the moment with New Scotland Yard.”

  “That sounds intriguing,” I said. “I suppose that’s all you’re going to tell me, too.”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I just didn’t want you to think that I was ignoring you—”

  I felt oddly pleased.

  “And when I haven’t been working,” Shawn went on, “I’ve got the boys—”

  “Of course,” I said. “I understand.”

  “But I really want to see you again, Kat.” He regarded me with such intensity that my stomach turned over. “Would you be able to have a drink with me this evening?” He must have seen something in my expression, because he gave a rueful smile. “Okay, okay. I know I’ve canceled before, but—”

  “Why don’t you call me later on this afternoon,” I said.

  “I will. I’m ninety-nine percent positive tonight will work. My mother-in-law has the twins every Friday.”

  There was a sudden explosion of frenzied barking coming from the churchyard opposite. I recognized that distinctive bark anywhere.

  “What’s Mr. Chips doing here?”

  “Shawn! Shawn! Where are you?” came a shout. DC Banks peered around the corner. “What are you doing down there?”

  “We’re having a meeting,” mumbled Shawn. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “That little Jack Russell has made a discovery, sir. He’s in the churchyard. Come and see.”

  At the mouth of the passageway I could see my mother waving from the other side of the churchyard wall. She was with Alfred. “It’s here! Right here!”

  We joined them at Fred Jarvis’s graveside, where, to all of our astonishment, stood Mr. Chips with a very muddy nose. Alfred reached down and fondled the little dog’s ears.

  Peeping out from the earth was the top of an old biscuit tin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Yes.” Muriel nodded. Her face was ashen. “That’s Fred’s tin. That’s the tin that had all the money in it. Why would someone do such a terrible thing?”

  “It is a particularly unkind way to dispose of the evidence,” said Shawn.

  DC Banks scratched his head. “I still don’t understand why they just didn’t take the tin, sir.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more.

  Alfred said nothing. He was watching Muriel very carefully.

  “But why not leave the tin in the kitchen?” Mum went on. “Why go to all the trouble of burying the biscuit tin, at all?”

  “I think I know why,” Muriel said slowly. She gestured to Violet’s cottage. “She wanted to get paid, so she took my money.”

  “Your money?” Mum said.

  Muriel reddened. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I thought Violet owed you the money for Fred’s gardening services,” I pointed out. “Not the other way around.”

  “I meant … I meant … Violet took it so she could pay me and not get into trouble with the magistrate.” Muriel nodded. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”

  “What about the kids playing in the churchyard?” Mum put in. “Max can be quite a naughty boy.”

  “Let’s not go hurling accusations quite yet.” Shawn pulled on his disposable gloves. “Thanks, little fella,” he said to Mr. Chips, and scratched his chin. “We’ll take it from here. Let’s go back inside, shall we? Perhaps a cup of tea is in order?”

  “It’s on the house.” Suddenly Pippa was standing at the graveside, too. No one had seen her coming. “I’ve just made a delicious carrot cake, and for the record, Max would never do anything like that, Iris. He’s a good boy. It’s Harry you need to watch out for. Muriel told me she found his scarf in the post office.”

  “Let’s go and have tea and carrot cake, Mrs. Jarvis,” Shawn said. I sensed he was getting irritated. “Right now!”

  Mum stepped in front of the postmistress. “I really need to talk to you.”

  Muriel waved her away. “I can’t. I’m just too upset.”

  “Iris, can’t you tell she’s upset?” Pippa threw her arm around Muriel’s shoulder and the merry group headed over to Pippa’s tearoom, leaving me, Mum and Alfred standing by Fred’s grave. We all looked at one another in bewilderment.

  “Interesting new friendship,” said Mum.

  “An interesting discovery, if you ask me,” Alfred mused.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that Max had something to do with it,” said Mum. “Why else would Pippa be so friendly with Muriel? She probably knows her boy has been stealing and hopes Muriel won’t press charges.”

  It was possible but not likely, and I said so—although I was puzzled by their unusual friendship myself.

  Mum turned to her stepbrother. “As an expert on this sort of thing, what do you think?”

  “Not Harry. I’m sure about him.” Alfred shook his head firmly. “I’ve got my theories, but I’d never accuse someone without proof.”

  “Oh, come on, Alfred. I’m your sister,” Mum said. “Who do you think it is?”

  Alfred scowled. “You’re wasting your time. My lips are sealed.”

  I had a suspect, too, but I wasn’t going to say anything without proof, either. Muriel was desperate for money, because she had asked me for a loan and written a touching thank-you letter, too. The cash had been there in the kitchen—nearly twelve thousand pounds. Perhaps the temptation had been too much. I was in a dilemma. Should I mention it to Shawn?

  “And anyway, why were you in the churchyard with the dog?” Mum demanded.

  “Lady Lavinia asked me to fetch her Horse & Hound magazine,” he said. “Mr. Chips saw a squirrel and raced into the churchyard. When I found him, he was digging up that biscuit tin.”

  “Well … I think we should let the police do their job,” I said. “And you do yours, Mum.” I pointed to St. Mary’s. “Didn’t you want to see if the Parish registers were inside?”

  “You’re right. I do.”

  Alfred whistled for Mr. Chips and they headed back to Mum’s MINI.

  “Why can’t Alfred get his own car?” I said. “Why does he always have to borrow yours?”

  “I’m sure he has his reasons,” Mum said. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Does he have a driver’s license?”

  Mum fixed me with a look that I was beginning to know all too well. It was none of my business.

  I turned my attention to the beauty of the twelfth-century Norman church. It had stood here for nearly one thousand years, something that I couldn’t get my head around. What amazing things these stones had witnessed. I felt an overwhelming sense of humility and marveled at how insignificant our lives were in the great scheme of things. Ever since I had moved to Devon, I’d become just as fascinated by the history of the place as my mother had. Kings and queens had been on the throne, wars had been fought, plagues had swept the countryside and yet this little church had withstood everything that time had thrown in its path and still stood proud. I found it oddly comforting knowing that no matter how good—or how bad—life could be, “this too shall pass.” And on we go.

  We headed to the main entrance.

  Neither of us had been inside the church before.

  “It’s not locked,” said Mum as she grasped the heavy iron handle and opened the oak door. Despite the bright sunny morning, it was dark and gloomy inside.

  As we entered I was assaulted by the pungent smell of what I could have sworn was cooked bacon mixed with the scent of ancient prayer books, damp and mildew.

  Mum sniffed, then whispered, “Do you smell … bacon?”

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

  Mum shrugged and said loudly, “Come on, let’s see if we can find the Parish chest.”

  “What an amazing place!” I exclaimed. “It’s like a little time capsule.”

  According to the pamphlet we picked up inside, the medieval bell tower and the south two-story porch with its pretty molded battlement had been added late in th
e fifteenth century. The bell tower still held the three medieval bells in their original cage. There was also an underground crypt.

  St. Mary’s church was small, with just a long north and south aisle separating late medieval box benches of unvarnished oak. Some still had their original latch doors.

  “Gosh! Those are the original pews!” I exclaimed.

  “They don’t look very comfortable.” Mum shivered. “And it’s very cold in here.”

  “Apparently there is no electricity or heating.” There were dozens of partially burned-down beeswax candles in candelabras dotted throughout the church.

  Mum pointed to the organ where, just behind it, a fire extinguisher stood next to a portable propane heater. “I see they’re taking no chances over there.”

  “At least the organist was warm.”

  In front of the curtain that screened the entrance to the bell tower was a Norman font beneath a Jacobean cover. On the wall were the remains of a mural painting depicting the coat of arms of Queen Elizabeth I with an illegible Gothic script below.

  I gazed up at the fifteenth-century wagon roof with its four-petal flower carvings and the Grenville coat of arms, marveling at the extraordinary workmanship. A procession of brass and marble plaques ran along the walls between the windows, commemorating the Honeychurch clan way back to the 1500s. The ancestral names were now familiar to me—I saw them almost every day on the family tree that my mother had in her office.

  “Oh look!” Mum exclaimed. “There’s that pirate, Bootstrap Jim. So he did die in Little Dipperton, but not until 1667.”

  “The war officially ended in 1651.”

  “It’s rather like visiting old friends—oh, oh dear.” She wiped away a tear.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your father,” she said. “I should never have had him cremated. He would have been much happier here. He could have had a plaque and we could have left flowers for him just like Muriel does for her Fred.”

  “It’s a bit late for that now, Mum,” I said. “I’m sure he’s very happy floating along the River Dart.”

  “But—I don’t have anywhere to go,” she went on. “I don’t feel him around me anymore and I’m sure it’s because he’s probably floated all the way to South America by now.”