“The hiding places get incredibly cramped and as you can imagine,” Mum went on, oblivious, “there was quite a lot of hanky-panky going on.” She turned to the minstrels’ gallery. “And a band played up there.”
“For someone who wasn’t invited to the ball,” I said, “you seem to know a lot of details.”
“Alfred, Billy and I used to sneak in,” Mum continued. “There was one of those peephole things where we could watch everything.” She laughed. “Oh, begging your pardon, m’lord.”
“I’m sure you did,” said Rupert dryly.
“What these walls must have seen,” said Mum. “How exciting to know your ancestors lived here, m’lord. To be able to trace your lineage all the way back to when Henry V created the first Earl of Grenville—that’s just wonderful.”
“Good heavens, you’ve been looking at all that?” Rupert exclaimed.
“I’m becoming quite an expert on your family history.”
Rupert gave a polite smile. “I can’t imagine why.”
I suppose for him, it was normal but Mum had really gotten involved in studying the family trees of both those who resided upstairs, and down. I felt a twinge of something that felt like inferiority! Maybe that was why the English aristocracy carried a sense of entitlement and assurance. They knew their roots. Portraits of their ancestors lined the walls of countless country estates. But for me, an only child, I’d never met my father’s parents—in fact, they were a bit of a mystery. Mum’s background was just plain murky. She claimed to have been adopted by a traveling fairground and spent her life on the road. Perhaps I did regard the “toffs” as Mum liked to call them, as different from us, after all.
It also brought up feelings about this new life I was embarking upon. Much as I disliked the fame that my celebrity status had brought me, it had given me a sense of identity. Even being the girlfriend of David Wynne, an international art investigator, had reinforced that. Now that I was starting over, I felt a little lost and unsure of myself.
“Why the long face?” said Mum, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“I was just thinking about the Dobson painting,” I lied. “Wasn’t he the principal painter to King Charles I after van Dyck died?”
“She’s a walking encyclopedia of knowledge, is my Katherine,” said Mum proudly.
“I’m sure she is.” Rupert turned us back into the screens passage and toward the open oak door at the end. “The King’s Parlor is through here.”
“Oh! I must write this down.” Mum withdrew a block of Post-it Notes from her mink coat pocket and a pen. “So King Charles actually stayed here? How thrilling!”
“One of my ancestors was commissioned under the great Seal of England to mint coins for King Charles. The Royalists needed the money to raise troops for the king.”
“They made coins here?” Mum said.
Rupert nodded. “Yes. The Honeychurch mint.”
“Fancy being able to make your own money,” said Mum. “Alfred would have been in his element.”
We entered the King’s Parlor and I couldn’t hide my dismay. “Harry was right when he said he thought someone had dropped a bomb.”
Water from the burst pipe above had brought down a quarter of the ornamental plasterwork ceiling. Chunks of plaster had been swept into the corner with a broom and an attempt had been made to save the Aubusson rug by pushing it away from the sludge that still covered half of the floor.
Although the rest of the ceiling was intact, the water had bled into the strapwork plasterwork leaving ugly brown rings. It was a huge restoration job and would take more than the sale of one or two paintings to cover the cost of the damage.
“You’re right,” said Mum. “I think Alfred would be a bit out of his league.”
Mum pointed to where a tarpaulin bulged from the gaping hole above. “What’s up there?”
“I have no idea,” said Rupert. “Another bedroom I suppose.”
“How long had the water been running?” I asked.
“Harry woke me the moment he heard the bang,” said Rupert. “I was up most of the night mopping up the damage.”
“What on earth are you going to do with that beautiful carpet?” Mum said.
“We’ll drag it out with a tractor.” Rupert pointed to a heavy velvet curtain. “Behind there is a door to another passage that opens into the Tudor courtyard. It was built so that the king could leave privately if he so wished.”
I dragged my attention back to the King’s Parlor. It was a pretty room and had all the features expected of its Tudor beginnings. The rich oak linenfold paneling was decorated with symbols of the Tudor rose, thistle and fleur-de-lis as was the fireplace and overmantel. Multipaned casement windows bore the Grenville coat of arms and motto. There were very few pieces of furniture—a gate-leg table, love seat, joint stool and a four-poster bed minus the mattress and hangings. Flanking the fireplace were the Hollar drawings on one side bearing little gold plaques, WENCESLAUS HOLLAR 1601–1677, and a series of miniatures on the other, but pride of place was the Dobson painting. It was beautiful and I could quite understand why Edith refused to sell it.
The painting depicted three men in cavalier dress seated at a gate-leg table. They were drinking a flagon of wine and had glasses raised in a toast. A white standard poodle sat obediently at one of the cavalier’s feet.
“That’s my ancestor with Prince Rupert of the Rhine and his brother, Prince Maurice.”
“The same Maurice who has the haunted chair at the Hare & Hounds pub?” Mum asked.
“So we’re led to believe,” said Rupert.
“And were you named after Prince Rupert of the Rhine?” I asked.
“Yes. As was my mother’s brother—the thirteenth earl.”
Mum shivered. “I feel as if someone has just walked over my grave. It reminds me of that headstone I saw once. Let me see, how does the verse go—
“Stop traveler and cast an eye,
As you are now so once was I,
Prepare in time make no delay
For youth and time will pass away!”
“That’s cheery,” I said.
Mum studied the painting. “Why the poodle?”
“That’s Boy,” said Rupert. “He belonged to Prince Rupert who took him everywhere. Even in battle. In fact, the Parliamentarians used to think he was Prince Rupert’s familiar.”
“I rather like that idea,” I said.
“They were a superstitious lot back in the seventeenth century,” Rupert went on. “Anyone could spread any rumor and be believed. We’ve got a few original pamphlets from that time in the Museum Room warning the locals that Cromwell’s New Model Army would be spiking babies on spits and turning mothers into serpents.”
Mum thought for a moment. “What happened to the dog?”
“Sadly, Boy was shot by a Roundhead,” said Rupert. “As I’m sure Harry has told you many times, the Royalists sought refuge here when they were retreating.”
“I’m surprised Cromwell’s army didn’t burn the Hall down when they came after them,” I said.
“We’re rather clever at switching sides,” said Rupert wryly. “Family legend has it that the Honeychurch fortunes and the Hall were saved by the quick thinking of the estate steward and the warrener. They hid anything and everything that hinted of Royalist sympathies—the minting tools and supposedly, the silver coins.”
“Wait!” said Mum who had been scribbling furiously on her Post-it Notes. “Do we know the names of the estate steward and the warrener?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Rupert.
“Don’t worry.” Mum beamed. “I’ll find out.”
“If you’re really interested,” Rupert went on, “you should talk to Lavinia’s brother Piers. He’s the president of the local English Civil War Society.”
“I might do just that,” said Mum. “Oh—I meant to ask, speaking about dogs. How is your English setter? I don’t see him around so much these days.”
At this, Rupert’s face softened. “Poor ol
d Cromwell. He’s stone deaf now and riddled with arthritis. Spends all his time sleeping in front of the log fire in the library.” Rupert smiled. “Thank you for asking, Iris.”
Mum flushed with pleasure. “And how is Lady Lavinia?”
“I have no idea.”
“Really? You have no idea?” Mum shot me a knowing look and mouthed something unintelligible. I hadn’t a clue what she was trying to convey and promptly ignored her.
“May I take a look at the Hollar drawings?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” said Rupert.
Topographical drawings were not my strong point but I did know a little about them and found it fascinating how artists were commissioned to visually record land and properties hundreds of years before photography was invented.
The drawings were of a much earlier Honeychurch Hall and had been done in red, black and white chalk, and black ink. They showed two different views of the main house and surrounding parkland and looked nothing like the Hall we knew today. There was no Palladian front, Georgian wing or Victorian addition.
Set to the right of the Hall and on top of a knoll, was a semifortified, four square, two-story building with a walkway on top next to a huge oak tree. Beside it was a large mound peppered with burrows with rabbits scampering about. It was utterly charming.
Mum joined me. “What’s the funny little building on the hill behind the Hall? I don’t recognize that.”
“That was Warren Lodge,” said Rupert. “When Cromwell’s army came through, they burned that down. Only the oak tree remains. Jane’s Cottage was built on the original site in the 1800s as a summer house.”
“Jane’s Cottage!” Mum exclaimed. “I’d never have guessed.”
“And now it’s surrounded by trees,” I said. “I suspected the oak was hundreds of years old. The trunk is enormous.”
“So who was this Jane who had a cottage named in her honor?” Mum asked, brandishing a fresh Post-it.
“I really have no idea, Iris.” Rupert sounded exasperated. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it—oh, and when you see Eric, perhaps you could give him some help moving that carpet.”
And with that, Rupert left the room.
“I think I annoyed his lordship with all my questions,” said Mum.
“I think it was the question about Lavinia that did it. What were you trying to tell me?”
“That it’s true!”
“What’s true?”
“It’s true about the upper-classes preferring their dogs to their wives,” she said. “Did you see how his expression went all squishy when he talked about Cromwell?”
“You’re incorrigible.” I laughed. “Come on, Mother. Here. Take these.” I gave her the padded blankets and directed Mum to the gate-leg table. Once I’d removed the drawings off the wall, we’d wrap them and I’d take them back to my new workshop.
I put my canvas tool bag on the floor and withdrew a pair of white cotton gloves.
I then turned my attention to the first Hollar drawing. It really was very pretty and I felt sad about sending it off to auction. I had been used to seeing this kind of thing—stately homeowners auctioning off their possessions to keep their homes afloat and it never used to bother me. But now it did.
When I first moved to Devon, I couldn’t wait to go back to London and civilization. But as the weeks turned into months, I found the six-hundred-year-old country estate had gotten under my skin. I felt fiercely protective of Honeychurch Hall and everything about it.
I grabbed the joint stool, set it up under the painting and took off my shoes.
“Mind you don’t slip in those socks,” said Mum. “You know how accident-prone you can be.”
I gently lifted the frame a fraction of an inch away from the wall to see the chain behind. It should have been easy to remove but for some reason the chain kept getting stuck.
“Mini Maglite, please,” I said.
Mum delved into my canvas bag. “Mini Maglite.”
Placing my cheek flat against the wall I held the frame in one hand and the flashlight in the other. Sure enough I could see a small nub sticking out of the linenfold paneling.
I gave Mum the flashlight back. “Screwdriver please.”
“Screwdriver, doctor.”
“I just need to see what this thing is.” Gently, I slid the screwdriver behind the frame and prodded the nub.
“How nice to be able to sell a painting for thousands of pounds—oh!” Mum gave a cry of surprise. “Oh! Kat, look!” On the left-hand side of the fireplace, part of the linenfold paneling had popped out of the wall. “The paneling! I bet it’s a secret cupboard or something.”
In a few quick strides she had opened the panel. “Yes! I’m right. It is! Come and see.”
Together we peered into a small, low recess that couldn’t have been more than five feet wide, four feet high and four feet deep. A raised lip ran along the bottom of the linenfold paneling. On the back wall were three bookshelves.
“Do you think it was one of those hidey-hole things for naughty priests?” Mum said.
“Catholic priests fleeing persecution, you mean?” I said. “I think you’re right. No one would ever be able to tell that it was here.”
“You’d have to be very short, curl up in a ball almost,” said Mum. “I wouldn’t fancy being stuck here for days on end. But why have the bookshelves?”
I pointed to a lone book that lay in the corner, splayed open with the spine up. It was covered in red shiny paper decorated with vegetables. Next to it was a grubby white mesh purse.
“How about … for books?”
Mum suddenly went very still. “Oh.”
“I hate it when books are left like that,” I said but as I stepped forward over the lip to pick it up, Mum sprang into action.
“Don’t!” she cried and roughly elbowed me aside. I lost my balance and thrust both hands out to save my fall but fell heavily onto the top shelf.
There was a whoosh of air and I felt myself falling, falling, a sharp pain, a deafening crash and then—darkness.
Chapter Three
It was pitch black and deathly quiet. The air felt thick and smelled stale.
I knew I’d fallen quite a few feet into some kind of cellar. I’d really hurt my shoulder and for a few moments just lay there trying to find my bearings.
I’d heard of double-hides, secret rooms behind secret rooms. Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam had one very similar where a bookcase had a false back that swung up and away from the wall to reveal another room beyond.
Everything was going to be okay, I told myself. Mum knew where I was. In fact, I was certain that she had already gone for help. I had obviously triggered a catch to a priest hole and now I’d fallen into a second one. There was no point screaming for help. The walls were three feet thick. All I needed to do was wait.
Gingerly, I reached overhead to get some sense of the area I’d fallen into. My hands found nothing but air. I could stretch my left arm out but my right brushed rough brick that I assumed had to be the chimney breast. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I realized that the area was quite spacious and began to edge slowly forward.
Suddenly, light flared behind and above me. I spun round to see Mum’s anxious face peering down. “Kat? Are you alive?”
“Just about.”
I had fallen about six or seven feet. Not far enough to break anything, but too far to be able to climb out without help.
“I had to find Eric,” said Mum.
Eric Pugsley’s face joined my mother’s. He seemed excited.
“Bloody hell! It’s another secret room!” he exclaimed. “Bloody hell! Does his lordship know?”
“I came straight to get you,” said Mum. “I thought Kat had fallen into a black hole.”
“Anything down there?” Eric demanded.
“No. Just me,” I said. “And I’d quite like to come out. My feet are cold. I’m only wearing socks.”
“It was most extraordinary
,” Mum declared. “One moment you were there, and the next … this wooden flap shot out and you plunged in and then it crashed back into place again. Can you imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t been here to save you?”
Eric must have picked up my flashlight and turned it full into my face.
“Eric!” I exclaimed, shielding my eyes. “You’re blinding me. Go and get a ladder or something.”
There was a shriek from Mum. “Oh my God, oh my God!”
“Bloody hell!” Eric cried again.
“What?” My stomach gave a lurch. “What’s the matter?”
“Now don’t panic,” said Mum clearly panicking. “And don’t move!”
“Bloody hell,” said Eric yet again.
I began to get the chills. “What’s the matter? What have you seen?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Mum sang cheerfully. “Just stay there. Eric will get the ladder but whatever you do, don’t turn around!”
I turned around.
“Oh God!” I gasped.
There, in the flare of the flashlight, lying at the base of the chimney breast were the remains of a woman wrapped in a shroud of golden cloth. She was on her back with her arms splayed. It was utterly horrible.
“Is it a dead priest?” Mum exclaimed. “Did he starve?”
“No,” I whispered. “It’s a woman.”
“I bet she fell in there just like Kat did,” I heard Mum say to Eric. But I was too freaked out as the full horror of discovering a body hit me for the first time.
“I’m coming down!” Eric thrust the flashlight at Mum who promptly bungled the catch and dropped it. It fell into the chamber, struck the chimney breast and rolled across the floor casting strobes of eerie light.
The flashlight hit the body, illuminating a heart-shaped pendant around a broken neck. What little remained of her hair was packed closely to the skull in peculiar round whorls secured by bobby pins. Wasted arms lay on the floor encircled by heavy bangles. Behind her head lay strands of beads, threaded into an elaborate black wig.
I was so horrified I couldn’t move. Eric scrambled down and came to my side. I caught the usual stench of axle grease that clung to his clothes from his constant tinkering in the scrapyard behind Mum’s Carriage House.
A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall Page 2