Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “Apparently so,” I said. “Did you know that according to this report there are over ninety prisoners who have escaped from Ford Open Prison over the last few years and many are still on the run!” I had a thought. “Where was Alfred staying at Her Majesty’s pleasure?”

  “This last time?” said Mum. “Wormwood Scrubs. Why?” Her eyes widened. “Alfred is not an escaped prisoner! And besides, he would never have hurt Muriel.”

  “Well, someone did,” I said. “And it sounds like there were quite a few people who she upset along the way.”

  “Maybe it was a loan shark?” Mum suggested. “If Muriel’s Fred had been in debt, maybe they came to collect their money? They obviously took back that awful canary-yellow Kia.”

  “Maybe that’s what they were doing when Alfred turned up,” I suggested. “Maybe he interrupted them in Muriel’s kitchen?”

  Mum pulled a face. “That’s a bit of a stretch. But I suppose it would explain why they didn’t finish staging the job and why the suicide note hadn’t been finished.”

  I shook my head. “But that doesn’t make sense. If it were a loan shark, wouldn’t they have taken whatever they could in repayment? Alfred said they left the TV and the new appliances. And what about the post office safe?”

  “If Muriel didn’t die from gas fumes because the oven was never turned on, how did she die?” Mum mused.

  “We won’t know that until—”

  “The autopsy, true. This is all so depressing. Tell me something cheerful. Did Piers take something from the grave after all?”

  “Yes,” I said, and went on to tell her all about Eleanor and Nicholas being in love and supposedly marrying in secret.

  “How romantic!” cried Mum. “And to accuse a Honeychurch of murdering his own kin—how exciting!”

  “Hopefully there might be some information in the Parish registers,” I said. “They’d have to have their marriage recorded whether it was secret or not. We should ask Violet for the key to the padlock.”

  “But if it is true…,” said Mum slowly, “then they ghosted her.”

  “They what?”

  “Ghosted. Apparently that’s what young people do these days. Rather than end a relationship, they delete the other person from their life and pretend they no longer exist. Charlize Theron did that to Sean Penn.”

  “For someone who doesn’t have the Internet or social media you seem particularly well informed.”

  “Stacey—that’s my hairdresser at Snipx—tells me everything,” said Mum. “It must be awful to be young in this day and age.”

  “You might have a point about the ghosting,” I said. “We wouldn’t have even known of Eleanor’s existence had I not seen Frances’s plaque in St. Mary’s.”

  “Hmmm,” said Mum dreamily. She had adopted a look I knew all too well. “Kat!” she exclaimed. “That’s it! Nicholas Carew and Eleanor Honeychurch—that’s my new Star-Crossed Lovers story. It’s so Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Well, don’t thank me; thank Eleanor.”

  “I must strike while the iron is hot. I think I can redeem myself with my new editor with this idea—do you mind if I go and get cracking on this story?”

  “Be my guest,” I said. “I’ll see you later. I’m off to ride with Harry.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Ah, there you are, Katherine.” Lavinia emerged from the tack room. The bruises on her face had now turned an ugly yellow. “Poor Muriel. What rotten luck.”

  “Yes. Terrible.”

  “First Fred drops dead, then she’s robbed not once, but twice, and then … well … you know … we’re not supposed to talk about … you know … her … misadventure until we get further instructions.”

  I suppose “misadventure” was one way of describing poor Muriel’s demise. I still felt very upset about it all. She’d only been sitting in my living room two days ago. I wondered if Muriel had already spent the three hundred pounds I’d given her and then thought what a terrible thing to even think about.

  “Where’s Alfred?” I scanned the stable yard. It looked particularly beautiful in the morning sunshine with wooden barrels filled with red geraniums. I was always struck by the neatness here in comparison to the Hall. Not even a piece of straw was out of place.

  “Shawn has taken Alfred off to help with their enquiries,” Lavinia said. “But I don’t want you to worry.”

  “I already know what’s going on. Shawn came to the Carriage House this morning.”

  “Ah. Well. He came here first … and then he came back again about thirty minutes ago,” said Lavinia. “But as I say. Nothing to worry about.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Alfred is in the clear.”

  “In the clear?”

  “As you know, he’s being doing a bit of … undercover work for me so to speak,” Lavinia went on. “I would hate it to get out that he was roaming the countryside last night.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Lavinia cast about. “Harry will be here in a moment. He took Mr. Chips into the kitchen. That dog is such a handful with Edith gone. Thank heavens she’ll be back soon. But I did want to have a quick word with you. Shall we go somewhere private?”

  “Of course.” Why did everyone want to speak to me alone?

  We took refuge in the tack room. Lavinia closed the door. She gestured to the old sofa that was oozing stuffing and covered in dog hair. “Do sit down, Katherine.”

  “I’m fine standing,” I said. “Is everything okay? Are you feeling better?” Off Lavinia’s blank look I added, “The bruised ribs?”

  “Oh golly, yes. That Vico stuff that Iris gave me was ab-so-lute-ly super. I felt like I was floating on a cloud. You don’t suppose she has any more, do you?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Lavinia perched on the edge of a huge pine chest that contained horse blankets. She inspected her grubby fingernails and gave a heavy sigh. “This is frightfully difficult.”

  I decided to sit after all. Her sigh sounded serious. “I’m listening.”

  Lavinia fell quiet.

  Whilst I waited for her to begin, I took in one of my favorite places. There was something warm and cozy about the tack room. Whether it was the smell of oiled leather or just the feeling of much-loved horses I wasn’t sure. One wall was lined with saddle racks and bridles, each bearing the name of its owner on a brass plaque. There were also a dozen racks holding ancient saddles, the owners of which lay buried in the equine cemetery that overlooked the river Dart.

  A pegboard was tacked to another wall, covered in rosettes along with photographs of Edith, Lavinia and William, Alfred’s predecessor, the three of them pictured driving four-in-hand when they used to compete in carriage-driving competitions.

  “This is frightfully difficult,” Lavinia said again. “But I really have to talk to you.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Pippa is a friend of yours, isn’t she?”

  My heart sank. Piers must have voiced his suspicions about Rupert and Pippa after all.

  “I know Pippa, but we’re not exactly close,” I said carefully.

  “Whenever I try to talk to her, she avoids me,” Lavinia went on. “It’s most extraordinary. The thing is, I’m really worried.”

  “I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about. Rupert loves you,” I said, and then wondered why I would say such a thing.

  “What’s Rupert got to do with it?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly.

  “It’s not just about poor Violet and her tearoom, although I do think it’s frightfully thoughtless to set up a rival business next door—I really need you to talk to Pippa.”

  “You want me to talk to Pippa about Violet?”

  “Violet. No. Why would I want you to talk to Pippa about Violet?”

  “You just mentioned Violet.”

  “Did I?”

  I was getting exasperated. Edith was right about one thing. Lavinia was as thick as two short planks.

 
“I think Max is a bad influence on Harry,” Lavinia declared.

  “Oh, that!” I exclaimed, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “You agree? You’ve noticed it, too?”

  “Isn’t it just high spirits?” I thought back to the pair of them playing in the churchyard on Thursday after school. “It’s nice that Harry has a friend.”

  “Is it?” Lavinia pulled a face. “Harry has begged me to let him stay the night there again and I don’t think they are supervised.”

  “I can’t believe they’d get into trouble in the village.”

  “Have you read the newspapers? Ninety prisoners have escaped from Ford Open Prison.”

  “Not in one go,” I said. “I think that has happened over the past few years and I’m quite certain they wouldn’t have all come to Little Dipperton.”

  “Oh. Yes. Good point. But even so, we’ll be expecting a lot of strangers in the village for the Skirmish. The Hare & Hounds is completely sold out for B and B, so I’m told. No … the thing is apparently Max is convinced the church is haunted and he wants to capture it on his camera. Every time I broach the subject with Rupert and suggest he talk to Pippa, Rupert leaves the room. I don’t think he likes Pippa very much.”

  I had a pretty good idea why he pretended not to. Sadly, pretending to loathe the woman you’re secretly sleeping with was as old as time.

  “The thing is—” She sighed again. “I have an awful feeling that Harry and Max stole all that money for the re-enactment.”

  “I don’t believe it!” I said. And I absolutely didn’t. “Who told you that? Shawn?”

  “Not in so many words,” said Lavinia. “But … Harry’s white scarf was discovered inside the post office. Shawn found it there yesterday morning and gave it to me.”

  “That’s a big accusation,” I said.

  “And then … the empty biscuit tin that Mr. Chips dug up from Fred Jarvis’s grave.” She gave a shudder. “What a cruel joke. Harry would never do that unless someone made him.”

  “Have you asked Harry?”

  “Good grief no!” Lavinia exclaimed. “That’s a father’s domain, but as I said, Rupert refuses to talk about it. Will you ask him? Find out what sort of tricks he and Max get up to? You’re so good with Harry. He really likes you.” Lavinia gave another heavy sigh. “I just don’t want him turning out like—”

  “Rupert?”

  “Good grief no!” Lavinia exclaimed again. “No. I mean like my brother, Piers. As a child he was always getting into mischief, and as a man he hasn’t changed.”

  She regarded me with an expression that I couldn’t gauge. “And there is something else.”

  “Fire away,” I said.

  Her face turned pink. “I like to think we are friends, Katherine—”

  “I like to think we are, too—” Although I couldn’t ever imagine confiding anything to Lavinia.

  “I know you’ve met Piers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Piers is … Piers is a little wild,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  I felt my feathers distinctly ruffle. “There is no danger of that,” I said. “Honestly. We just went out for dinner.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Lavinia with yet another sigh. “It’s just the sort of thing he loves to do and I’m afraid it made you look bad. I saw it on the front page of Star Stalkers. He’s done that heaps of times—it’s some sort of silly bet with his chum Roger Matthews. Piers is always getting into scrapes. It’s frightfully lucky that Daddy is a magistrate. He knows all the right people to get Piers off.”

  “I can assure you that it’s unlikely that we will be going out again.”

  “But that’s what they all say.” Lavinia was earnest. “My brother is a hopeless romantic. He falls in love all the time.”

  “I gathered that,” I said. “I’m immune to hopeless romantics.”

  “Did he ask you for a drink and then before you knew what was happening you are miles away and dining at a super restaurant?”

  I grudgingly agreed that was true.

  “The next thing he’ll do is send you flowers.”

  “He already brought me flowers—”

  “Yes—gerbera daisies? The flower of innocence, purity and cheerfulness?”

  “I don’t believe it,” I muttered. “Yes. True.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get masses of flowers next. And then he’ll surprise you with a weekend trip to Paris.”

  “You really don’t need to worry,” I said, and meant it. I was beginning to feel a bit of a fool for being so easily duped. Even so, I found myself on the defensive. “But as I said, it wasn’t a date. We were talking about the identity of the woman in Cromwell Meadows. Piers believes she is Eleanor Honeychurch. Apparently she married one of your ancestors, Nicholas Carew?”

  “Oh God. You poor thing! Did he bore you to death?” said Lavinia. “Piers has always been obsessed with the family lineage.”

  “I told you, you have nothing to worry about,” I said again.

  “Oh goody. I’m so relieved.” Lavinia smiled. “You see, the thing is, Piers is sort of betrothed to my best friend, Cassandra Bowden-Forbes. Do you know her?”

  “No, I don’t.” So Piers hadn’t been single at all! How infuriating!

  “She’s a bit like you actually,” Lavinia went on. “Does a bit of antiquing.”

  Antiquing? Lavinia made my profession sound like a hobby. I knew she meant well, but I was surprised to feel disappointed despite my earlier resolve not to see Piers again. If there was the shadow of another woman in any shape or form on the horizon, I was definitely not interested. Ever.

  Lavinia brightened up. “I’m so glad we understand each other. I’ve been frightfully worried about having this conversation. I’m so glad it’s all sorted out.”

  “Me too.”

  Harry burst into the tack room dressed as Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth and wearing his white scarf.

  “Ready for today’s mission, Stanford?”

  I had never been happier to see him.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “If you had to die in the English Civil War,” said Harry, “what method would you choose?”

  “I’d like to think I survived, thank you,” I said.

  “No, you have to pretend! You have to answer!” Harry exclaimed.

  I was used to Harry’s delight in describing all manner of deaths in gory details, but today my mind flashed not just to poor Eleanor’s appalling end, but to Muriel’s, too. “Let me think about it.”

  I was riding Duchess, the dapple-gray mare, and Harry was on his beloved black pony, Thunder.

  We were trotting along Hopton’s Crest, a rough track that ran along the top of a ridge and had the most spectacular views. It was one of my favorite places to ride.

  On one side nestled the small village of Little Dipperton and the tiny church of St. Mary’s. On the other, tucked between trees and centuries-old dry stone walls, spread the Honeychurch Hall estate with the peculiar equine cemetery, ornamental grounds, Victorian grotto and vast walled garden that was lined with near-derelict glasshouses.

  During the winter Eric’s scrapyard would have been easy to see, but now that summer was around the corner the rows of old cars or, as he called them, end-of-life vehicles were screened by banks of trees. I could just make out Mum’s Carriage House and beyond that the white tent that covered Eleanor’s remains.

  In the distance I could see the Greenway Ferry pleasure boat cruising gently up the River Dart.

  “Don’t you think they all look like ants,” said Harry, pointing to all the activity in the park. There were now four enormous marquees.

  “I’m so excited about the Skirmish,” he went on. “I’m going to carry the king’s colors.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “That’s quite an honor. Who is playing the king?”

  “It’s a secret.” Harry grinned. “But you’re changing the subject. Tell me how would you want to die?”

&n
bsp; “I’ll tell you on one condition,” I said.

  “A condition?” Harry exclaimed. “Good heavens, Stanford. Are you forgetting who you are talking to?”

  “My apologies, sir,” I said. “But it’s very important. I’ve had orders from above about last night’s surveillance activities in the churchyard.”

  “Orders from above? Well … in that case, I’ll tell you, but first—”

  “Alright,” I said. “What are my options?”

  “Let me think,” said Harry. “I know! Being pierced by an eighteen-foot-long pike. It’s like an axe with a steel spike at the end, and when the enemy charges and you are in the way you could get skewered and it would go right through your body and there would be blood everywhere and it would take you ages to die.”

  “No. That sounds gross.”

  “A cannonball?” said Harry. “The balls are lead and when they are fired from cannon they can smash you to smithereens. Bits of arms and legs everywhere! There’s a few cannonballs in the Museum Room.”

  “Sounds messy.”

  “What about a musket? Father has two. The barrels are four feet long and you load them from the muzzle with gunpowder and little lead balls,” Harry went on cheerfully. “But sometimes the guns didn’t fire in the rain, so it was quicker to use them as clubs.”

  “That sounds painful.”

  “They’re all painful, silly,” said Harry. “But if you did get wounded, there wasn’t any anas … anas—”

  “Anesthetic?”

  “Uncle Piers told me the doctors would use bullet extractors and bone saws and skull elevators—”

  “Skull elevators? That sounds disgusting. What other options do I have?”

  “Being mowed down by the cavalry?”

  “Trampled on, you mean?”

  “Although you could live longer if you had an Albert to pull the enemy from their horses—”

  “Albert? Oh. You mean a halberd?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What about good old-fashioned sword fighting?”

  “That’s boring.” Harry thought for a moment. His goggles glinted in the morning sunshine. “Or I suppose you could allow yourself to get captured by the enemy.”