My mother marched on ahead to the vestry, but there was no entrance to any crypt in there.
I retreated to the arched doorway beside the pulpit and pulled back the curtain. There, tucked into the wall behind a tapestry, was a tiny door. I dragged it open to reveal a narrow stone staircase.
“Harry! Max!” I yelled.
“It’s Kat!” I heard Harry say. We heard shrieks of laughter, and then, after what seemed like forever, a face appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
I had never felt so relieved in all my life.
“It’s wicked down here,” Harry said excitedly as he emerged from below. “There is a tunnel and a secret room and everything. There’s even a camp bed and snacks! And it wasn’t dark. We had tons of candles. It’s our underground bunker!”
“Well, I think we’ve solved the ghostly happenings in the churchyard,” I said to Mum. “Danny Coverdale was obviously hiding out down here all the time.”
Mum wrinkled her nose. “And the mysterious smell of bacon sandwiches.”
Suddenly there were flashlights everywhere and shouts of excitement. Rupert, Lavinia, Pippa and Eric poured into the church. There were scoldings and hugs all round, and then Shawn turned up, along with DC Clive Banks.
Shawn promptly declared the crypt a “crime scene” and herded us all outside. Moments later we were sitting in Pippa Carmichael’s tiny kitchen drinking gallons of tea.
As Shawn gently questioned Harry and Max about how they came to find the crypt, I looked over at Pippa, who was watching Rupert and Lavinia with acute disappointment. They were sitting together with their arms touching, which I suppose was the closest they would ever get to a public display of affection.
Eric suddenly drew up a chair next to Pippa. He whispered something in her ear. She laughed rather too loudly and ruffled Eric’s hair.
Mum leaned in and said in a low voice, “I bet she’s trying to make his lordship jealous.”
“We’d love to take a look at these ghosts you’ve been photographing,” said Shawn. “Can we borrow your camera, Max?”
Leaving Pippa, Max and Eric together, we all trooped out into the night.
I heard Lavinia say, “I’ll be there in a minute, Rupert.” She gestured to Mum. “Iris! I must talk to you.”
As Alfred and I waited for my mother to join us, Shawn walked over.
“Thanks to Mr. Bushman here, you’ll be glad to know that Danny and Maureen Coverdale were apprehended at Plymouth docks,” he said. “They were about to take the ferry to Roscoff.” Shawn regarded Alfred with amusement. “I won’t say how or why you knew there was a LoJack tracking device on the Range Rover—Rupert knew nothing about it—but we’re grateful for the information.”
Alfred just smiled.
Moments later we were heading home. “That Rupert is a bounder,” Mum exclaimed. “You’ll never guess what Lavinia said.”
“You know I don’t like guessing games,” I said.
“She told me that she felt very foolish about suspecting Rupert was having an affair. She was relieved it wasn’t Jess—especially given the circumstances—and then she was convinced it was Pippa Carmichael, but now she realizes that Eric and Pippa were together all the time.”
“So yet again Eric is cleaning up after Rupert,” I said with disgust.
“She’s not the brightest tool in the shed,” said Mum. “Now, just for tonight I think you should sleep in your old room at the Carriage House,” she went on. “You can’t possibly sleep at Jane’s.”
For once I agreed with her.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Little Dipperton Skirmish was finally over and pronounced an overwhelming success. Rupert was happy with the number of people who came from all over the country to camp and park on the estate.
A local television crew turned up to film the living history exhibits and capture the various skirmishes for a documentary they were making on the social consequences of the English Civil War in the West Country.
Piers did an impressive job of choreographing numerous fight scenes so that they almost seemed real. Naturally he ignored the Health and Safety ruling and brought cannon from the Carew collection, firing them with panache in the field that would have housed Jess and Aubrey’s new home. Sadly, half the barn was destroyed, but neither Piers nor his father seemed to mind.
No real blood was shed, although St. John Ambulance was kept busy with numerous cases of sunstroke from over-zealous zombie soldiers who had passed out from drinking too much Scrumpy on the battlefield.
It wasn’t just the villagers and tenants of the Honeychurch Hall estate who donned seventeenth-century costumes, but many visitors were in character, too—myself included. My mother had curled my hair into ringlets and she had run me up a beautiful gown in forest green with the fashionable elegant falling collar edged in lace and loose sleeves—not exactly practical when it came to carrying wooden platters of dripping roast pig, but I didn’t care. I was having too much fun even though at the last minute Pippa decided that village life was not for her after all and moved back to London. I knew that Harry would miss Max, but I also knew he’d bounce back.
As for the missing funds, Rupert and Lavinia made a short speech thanking an anonymous benefactor for stepping forward at the last minute to save the day.
I turned to my mother. “Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Let’s just say that Alfred had to make a quick trip across the English Channel,” she whispered. I just smiled. Today wasn’t the day to scold her for the risks she made Alfred take—who, under great duress, agreed to dress up but looked more like a pirate than a musketeer.
Mum told me that Alfred had known all about the notorious Coverdale twins. Tragically, their father had been killed in a mining accident and their mother had gassed herself when they were barely teenagers. I felt sad for Jess—or Maureen—who, if I were to believe her, really did want a new life but could not break away from her brother, or he from her. I suspected that Aubrey Carew must feel a bit foolish, although he seemed to have recovered remarkably quickly. Over the last few days he’d asked Mum to repair his leather tunic and she’d eagerly obliged.
In fact, she had been in excellent spirits, having heard from her publisher. Apparently, Clara St. James loved Ravished and was very excited about the proposal for the next book in the series, Betrayed. All was well once more.
A fanfare of trumpets, followed by cheering crowds, announced the arrival of the king and his entourage.
“I can’t see!” Mum exclaimed, and roughly elbowed a couple aside to get a better view.
Harry rode past on Thunder proudly carrying the king’s colors and looking adorable in his outfit, but then I started to laugh. Just behind him was none other than Eric Pugsley! Despite the long wig, beard and mustache, it was hard to miss those signature eyebrows.
Mum was bitterly disappointed. “I don’t believe it. I’ve been duped!” She turned away in disgust and bumped straight into the dowager countess. “Begging your pardon, milady, but I thought we’d get a real member of the Royal family.”
“Never mind, Iris,” said Edith. “I’ll introduce you to the Princess Royal next month. She’s patron of the Pony Club and we’ll be holding a rally here at the Hall.”
Edith went on to tell us that Cropper had spent days going through the vast attics and had finally located a portrait of Lady Eleanor Honeychurch. “It was probably put there centuries ago because it was damaged—a nasty slash across her face. I’m sure Katherine will know the right expert to restore it, and then of course she’ll go back on the wall next to her sister Frances where she belongs.”
“That’s wonderful, milady,” Mum enthused. “We were able to locate the Parish registers and confirm that Nicholas Carew and Eleanor Honeychurch were married on May 22, 1646.”
“Of course there’s a black sheep in every family, but we don’t need a daily reminder that Bootstrap Jim did such an unforgivable and evil thing. Aubrey and I have agreed that Eleano
r will be buried next to Nicholas in the chapel at Carew Court. It seems the right thing to do. Perhaps they will be reunited in the afterlife.”
It was toward the end of the day when Shawn came to the refreshment tent looking very flushed in his costume. On closer inspection, I saw he had his full police uniform on under his cape.
“You look hot,” I said.
“You look beautiful,” he said, then turned beet red. “Sorry. Can we talk?”
Leaving Mrs. Cropper to man the refreshment tent, I followed Shawn out where he made a beeline for an enormous oak tree.
“I couldn’t tell you this before because I didn’t want to jeopardize the investigation,” he said. “I was working undercover that night I saw you at NINE.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” I said.
“Piers had asked me to do a discreet background check on Jess—or should I say Maureen Coverdale—because he didn’t trust her motives.”
“You could have told me that,” I said.
“Once I began to dig, other things came to light,” said Shawn. “I do believe Jess … did care for Aubrey, but she just couldn’t shake off her past—”
“Or her kleptomania,” I put in.
“She was caught on camera stealing a pale-blue leather jacket from NINE on the night of her birthday. Detective Inspector Sue Brampton from Plymouth had a photograph of Jess that we wanted identified at the restaurant. That was why we were there that night.”
“Why didn’t you arrest Jess then?”
“We were after the bigger fish.”
“Her brother?”
“Danny Coverdale is a hardened criminal. He engineered a highly successful car theft ring in London. Jess was the honey trap. She targeted wealthy married men on adult dating sights, lured them into a hotel room for”—he reddened—“sex and such. Sometimes she would give them a sleeping pill, but more often than not she waited until they fell asleep and stole their car keys. Danny or one of his crew would be ready to take the stolen vehicle to a safe location where the cars were sprayed a different color and the plates were changed. The vehicles were then shipped off to the Middle East.”
I was astonished. “And it worked because Jess never stole money or credit cards.” I thought of Rupert being left to walk home. “And the cheating husband would have to admit to his infidelity or make up some other story as to why his car had vanished.”
“Exactly,” said Shawn. “Poor Eric fell foul of Jess’s charms. He lost an Audi Quattro.”
“What about his wife, Vera?”
“He and Vera had been going through a rough patch,” said Shawn. “One of Danny’s team was caught and started talking. He made sure his sister didn’t serve any time, but prison was hard for a pretty boy like him. He heard that Maureen had changed her name and got married. The moment he was transferred to Ford Open Prison, he bolted. We knew he’d come after her.”
“But how did they communicate?”
“Disposable phones,” said Shawn. “Harry told me that he found one in the churchyard—”
“And Jess had the other,” I said, and told him I’d seen hers in her handbag when she’d accidentally pulled it out by mistake.
“Danny used the mailbox at the barn for Jess to receive the pay-as-you-go phone and also the ferry tickets.”
I distinctly remembered Muriel asking Jess about an upcoming trip to Roscoff. “So when Jess realized that Muriel was opening her letters … she was worried that she would find out the truth.”
“When we arrested them at the docks, the twins had two thousand dollars in cash.”
“From the re-enactment money?” I asked.
“No. Fred Jarvis had embezzled the lot and more besides,” said Shawn.
“The canary-yellow Kia?”
“Repossessed by the dealership,” said Shawn. “Muriel faked her own robbery to save face. Violet told us that before they fell out over the roses Muriel had confided in her about Fred’s gambling habit. She’s devastated about losing her friend.”
“Poor Muriel. So she had no plan to blackmail anyone, at all.” I wondered if the missing pages of my mother’s manuscript had just been accidentally dropped and slipped under the chair. I suspected we would never know.
“We got the report back from the coroner,” said Shawn. “Muriel had an acute reaction to bleach cleaning fluid that you found in the vestry in St. Mary’s. It brought on an asthma attack.”
“And the pink Croc that was found in the Parish chest—?”
“It fell off when they moved the body in Fred’s wheelbarrow,” Shawn went on. “Using the white surplices from the vestry to cover her up—”
“Which Harry and Max believed were ghosts.”
“There is just one thing I can’t figure out,” said Shawn. “Violet claims she saw two people which we obviously now realize were the twins in the churchyard—and they obviously saw her. Hence why her brakes were cut. Why was Iris’s MINI in the Hare & Hounds car park that night?”
I decided to come clean—sort of. “It wasn’t my mother,” I said. “Lavinia had asked Alfred to follow Rupert. She was convinced he was having an affair. Alfred agreed.”
“An affair with Pippa Carmichael?” said Shawn. “Is that what you were doing at Bridge Cottage?”
“Danny Coverdale stole Rupert’s Range Rover from their rendezvous at Bridge Cottage. If you cut across the field behind the church where he had been hiding out, it’s right there. He must have been watching them.”
“There is something I need to show you.” Shawn pulled out a note from inside his cape. “The letter you allegedly wrote to Violet asking her to pick up the dowager countess at the railway station. As you see, it was signed by you.”
I read it and yes, it was signed by me, but it was definitely not my handwriting. And then I remembered the birthday card from Jess. Above each letter i was a heart. “I’d like to show you something that will clear my name,” I said. “Do you have time to come back with me this afternoon to Jane’s Cottage?”
“No need. I will take your word for it.” Suddenly Shawn grew serious. “I don’t mention my wife very much, Kat. She was my soul mate and my best friend. Helen gave me two beautiful sons. I can’t believe it’s been two years since she passed away.” He looked deeply into my eyes. “I like you very much; you know that. I just need time.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure what else I could say. Of course, I understood that and I was sorry for Shawn and yes, I liked him, too. But I’d heard those words from another man.
“Why don’t we just start off as friends,” I said.
“Aren’t we friends already?”
Later that evening, I heard a car pull up outside Jane’s Cottage and opened the door to find Piers standing there holding an envelope.
Still dressed in his leather coat, breastplate and tawny orange sash of Cromwell’s New Model Army, he looked particularly dashing.
Maybe it was his shoulder-length blond locks or perhaps it had been the way he’d handled his sword on the battlefield that afternoon, but suddenly I felt incredibly attracted to him. He reminded me of a hero in one of my mother’s romance novels. I was still in costume myself and could see by his expression that the feeling was mutual.
Piers gave a sweeping bow. “I thought you’d like to know that Eleanor will be buried tomorrow next to Nicholas in the chapel at Carew Court.” He touched the posy ring he was wearing on his pinkie. “I’ll be leaving this with Eleanor, too.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
Piers handed me the envelope. “This is for you.”
Inside were two tickets for a weekend in Paris—just as Lavinia had forewarned.
I laughed. “You’re so predictable!”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Of course I’m not going to go to Paris with you.”
He feigned hurt. “Why ever not? You can have your own room. I can assure you that I will be the perfect gentleman. I give you my solemn word. A Carew never breaks his word.”
&nb
sp; “What about Cassandra Bowden-Forbes?” I said. “Weren’t you betrothed to marry at birth?”
“Yes, my parents had wanted that for us, but this is the twenty-first century and I shall marry whom I please,” said Piers. “But I’m inviting you to Paris. Not the altar.”
“True.”
“You don’t need to decide now.” He took my hand and gallantly kissed it. “But at some point you’ve got to let go of the past, Katherine.”
I thought of Eleanor and the life she had led so many hundreds of years ago, a life where women had no freedom and when she had the courage to follow her heart it had ended in an unspeakable betrayal and tragedy. I wondered what she would have done if she were me now.
“I’ll even bring Mortimer as a chaperone,” said Piers. “He’s always wanted to visit the Eiffel Tower.”
I laughed. “Who can resist being shown around Paris by a teddy bear?”
ALSO BY HANNAH DENNISON
The Honeychurch Hall Mysteries
Murder at Honeychurch Hall
Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall
A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall
The Vicky Hill Mysteries
A Vicky Hill Exclusive!
Scoop!
Exposé!
Thieves!
Accused
About the Author
HANNAH DENNISON began her writing career as a trainee reporter for a small West Country newspaper in Devon, England. She is also the author of the Vicky Hill mysteries. Hannah lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and two crazy Vizslas. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 24