A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “You okay?” he said gruffly but didn’t wait for my reply. He snatched up the flashlight giving me a glimpse of thick, bushy eyebrows that seemed particularly menacing this afternoon—and just stepped over the body.

  “Where is he going?” called Mum from above as Eric moved deeper into the room.

  I heard excited cries of, “Bloody hell!” and “Blimey!”

  “Quickly!” Mum exclaimed. “I bet he’s found another body. Go and see!”

  I must have still been in shock because I did as I was told.

  Farther in, Eric had found a small oak chest set close to the outer brick wall. “Hold the flashlight. This is it! We’ve found it!”

  The lid came up easily. “Hold the flashlight!” Eric said again.

  “What is it?”

  “Hang on.” Eric knelt down and leaned inside. Almost reverently, he brought out a shallow oval bowl that contained small punches and dies. He went back in and retrieved several pairs of shears, tongs and a hammer but then got up, clearly disappointed. “It’s not here. Damn. Damn. Damn!”

  “What isn’t there?” I asked.

  “What’s going on?” I heard Mum call out. “Is anyone back there? Anyone alive?”

  “I’m certain that these are some of the tools that were used for the Honeychurch mint,” said Eric. “See these stamps? The lions? The fleur-de-lis? But where are the bloody coins?”

  “Do you think someone got here before we did?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” said Eric. “Someone got here before we did?”

  Was he dense? “There’s a dead woman down here.”

  “How would I know?” Eric seemed angry.

  “There’s no need to be rude,” I exclaimed as he pushed past me.

  Mum was almost expiring with curiosity and had managed to squeeze the joint stool through the first chamber and was attempting to lower it into the second.

  Eric took it from her, stepped up and clambered out. “I’ll get his lordship and call the police.”

  “I see the age of chivalry is dead,” said Mum. “Let me help you out, Katherine, since Eric isn’t going to.”

  “And don’t you go saying anything to anyone,” Eric said. “We’ll want to keep this quiet.”

  “Quiet?” Mum exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

  “The dowager countess doesn’t like scandal.” I caught a tinge of bitterness in Eric’s voice that was hardly surprising. Just a few months ago he’d been made a scapegoat for one of Lady Lavinia’s massive errors of judgment.

  Mum hauled me up and out and I filled her in on what was down there. “That’s absolutely horrible!” she said with a shiver. “I wonder who on earth she was? I wonder what happened?”

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you think she was put there deliberately?”

  “I think it’s more a question of who knew about the double-hide.”

  Mum’s jaw dropped. “So you think the culprit must be connected to the Hall? Someone who lived here?”

  “I don’t know, Mum,” I said.

  “We should study my family trees,” Mum declared. “You never know. They may give us a clue.”

  One hour later, Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper stepped out of the double-hide. His hazel-flecked eyes were dancing with excitement. Even his drab trench coat that he insisted on wearing seemed crisp and unusually clean.

  “A word, Eric?” He drew Eric aside whilst Mum and I watched the pair of them whispering animatedly. I caught the words, “Honeychurch mint” and “mechanical press.”

  Rupert burst into the King’s Parlor. “Well?” he demanded. “Is it true?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shawn. “I’m afraid there is a body—”

  “But no silver coins, m’lord,” Eric chipped in. “They’re gone.”

  “Are you certain?” Rupert strode to the open panel. “Did you search everywhere?”

  Shawn stepped in front of him. “That won’t be possible, m’lord.” He withdrew a roll of blue crime scene tape.

  “Good heavens, Shawn,” said Mum. “Do you always keep that in your pocket?”

  Shawn ignored her. “We’re taking every precaution not to contaminate the scene, m’lord.”

  “Contaminate the scene? I don’t understand.” Rupert frowned. “What does it matter? The woman has been dead for years.”

  “I’m sorry to say it’s officially a cold case and must be treated as such,” said Shawn somewhat pompously. “I’ve already put a call in to the ME. He’ll want to do isotopic testing, radiocarbon and that sort of thing. And notifying the next of kin—should there be one.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” said Rupert. “Got to keep this under wraps, Shawn. You know what Mother is like. It’s probably someone who lived on the estate. We’ll handle it.”

  “How many people knew about the existence of the double-hide?” Shawn asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Rupert. “The secret location is traditionally passed down from father to son but obviously, I didn’t know it was here.”

  “And the man who built it,” said Mum, who, I noticed, was holding onto the book we’d found as if her life depended upon it. “He’d know.”

  “Quite,” said Rupert.

  “What will happen to the body—to her?” Mum said.

  “The pathologist will want to look at her in situ—as they say—and then she’ll be taken away.”

  “Can I at least take those drawings?” I said. “Otherwise they won’t make next Thursday’s sale. As it is they won’t be in the catalog.”

  “And I’d like to look at the minting tools,” Rupert declared.

  “Not until we’ve got the all-clear,” said Shawn. “Until then, this room is out of bounds.”

  WPC Roxy Cairns raced into the King’s Parlor. She seemed out of breath. “Sorry, sir! I just heard from Muriel at the post office that Kat and Eric found a skeleton in a priest hole!”

  “The post office?” Mum exclaimed. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “Mrs. Cropper told her,” said Roxy. “You really need to tell your grandmother to be more discreet, Shawn.”

  Shawn’s jaw tightened. So much for keeping news under wraps!

  Fortunately Rupert and Eric didn’t seem to have heard. They were talking in whispers in the corner of the room and then, without saying a word, just left.

  “Well, at least you’re here now,” said Shawn dryly.

  “I had to cover for our desk sergeant,” Roxy protested. “Malcolm had a doctor’s appointment and he got held up at the surgery.”

  “By gunpoint?” Mum muttered.

  “Then I had to buy stamps,” said Roxy. “We’re running low.”

  The local police were always short-staffed. The satellite station at Little Dipperton was only open from Monday to Friday and kept strict business hours.

  “We won’t know how old the deceased is until we’ve run some tests,” said Shawn.

  Roxy’s eyes widened. “You mean—it’s not a priest? I bet it was some poor servant the toffs didn’t like and wanted to get rid of.”

  Mum got out her Post-its. “Like whom? I’m working on a below-stairs family tree.”

  “Roxy!” Shawn said sharply. “That’s enough!”

  The little redheaded policewoman made no secret of just how much she despised the “toffs” as she called them, too.

  Shawn checked his watch. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ve got to go and pick up Ned and Jasper from school.”

  “Don’t worry, Shawn,” said Roxy. “I’ll stand guard here and wait for Dick and co.”

  “Kat’s being used as a free babysitter at the moment,” Mum said suddenly. “She’s got to pick up Harry. Maybe she can pick up the boys, too?”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said.

  “They’ve got dental appointments,” said Shawn. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  “You’re such a wonderful father.” Mum gave me a pointed look and mouthed, “Already trained.” I ignored it but it
was true, he certainly seemed to be. Having tragically lost his wife to cancer, Shawn was bringing up twin boys of five on his own and doing a good job, too.

  “I was surprised to see Harry at Little Dipperton Primary School,” Shawn went on.

  “It’s better for him there than those stuffy boarding schools,” Roxy said boldly. “Look how those kids turn out!”

  “Roxy!” Shawn said again. “Keep your opinions to yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Officer Cairns will take over from here.”

  And with that, Shawn hurried away.

  Roxy got out her notebook. “Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “Again?” said Mum.

  “Again,” Roxy said.

  As we trooped over to the entrance to the double-hide, I told the story again.

  Roxy took out her flashlight and swept the beam across the bottom of the floor. “So you say you were in here and tripped?”

  “That’s right and—”

  “She fell onto the bookshelves,” said Mum helpfully.

  “Did you trip over that little purse, I wonder?” Roxy stuck the flashlight between her teeth, pulled out a pair of disposable latex gloves and put them on. She stooped down to pick up the grubby purse.

  “We haven’t touched anything,” Mum lied. “Come on, Katherine, we’d better go.”

  “No, wait,” I said. “That’s vintage. Can I take a look? You never know. Maybe it belonged to that poor woman.”

  “You’re the expert.” Roxy snapped open the clasp and showed me the inside. Sewn on the fabric of a small pouch was the logo WHITING & DAVIS, MADE IN THE USA. There was also a powder compact, lipstick and a packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

  “I’d date that somewhere in the fifties,” I said.

  “Lucky Strikes.” Roxy frowned. “Those are American cigarettes. I watched Mad Men on TV. Everyone smoked Lucky Strikes over there.” Roxy frowned again. “I bet these belonged to old Edith.”

  “Don’t you mean, her ladyship?” Mum said pointedly. “And how do you know she smoked?”

  “They all did back then.” Roxy thought for a moment. “I wonder where she got those cigarettes from?”

  “America?” Mum stated the obvious. “I suppose everyone went to America back then.”

  “Well, if she didn’t, then I bet she knew who did,” said Roxy. “I bet this purse belonged to the dead woman.”

  “Really? We never thought of that, did we, Katherine?” Mum’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. I knew she didn’t care much for Roxy.

  “Maybe she fell in there, just like you did, Ms. Stanford?” Roxy went on. “Or she was pushed. Pushed so she’d keep quiet about some scandal or other that this lot like to keep hushed up.” Roxy seemed pleased with her theory. “And we’ll get the DNA from the lipstick. This was the deceased’s purse alright, I’m sure of it.”

  “What about the book?” I said.

  “What book?” Roxy said sharply.

  “One has nothing to do with the other,” said Mum, glowering at me. I saw then that she no longer had it.

  “Let me be the judge of that,” Roxy said. “Where is this book?”

  “Mum? What have you done with it?”

  “Me?” Mum exclaimed. “Nothing. It was you.”

  I caught a flash of red peeping out from behind a velvet curtain on the windowsill. “Well I certainly didn’t put it over there.”

  Roxy marched over to the windowsill but as she picked it up a flyer fluttered to the floor. Mum lunged forward but Roxy was too fast.

  “Well, well, well,” she said. “What do we have here?”

  “Has anyone ever said you sound like a policeman?” said Mum nervously.

  “It’s a flyer for a summer fair at the Hall in 1958.” Roxy skimmed the contents and laughed. “Bushman’s Fair and Traveling Boxing Emporium.”

  In the foreground was a boxing ring showing two bare-chested men, gloved and looking ready to fight. A list of sideshows included Professor Jon’s Flea Circus, the Dance of the Seven Veils and Madame Z’s Psychic Touch.

  On the right was a brand-new attraction. A young woman in a short blue dress with angulated shoulder pads is pictured with her finger stuck into an electrical wall outlet. Her hair—obviously a wig—stands up on end and her eyes look wild. The caption read, ELECTRA! THE 27,000 VOLTS GIRL: NO HOME SHOULD BE WITHOUT THIS WONDER OF TECHNOLOGY.

  “‘With Electra you will see these household chores disappear in a flash!’” Roxy read aloud. “‘Put the spark back into your relationship!’ This is hysterical!”

  “How funny.” I looked over at Mum who suddenly seemed to find her mink coat far more interesting.

  “Why does the name Bushman mean something to me?” Roxy turned to my mother. “Wasn’t this your lot, Iris?”

  “Those flyers were left all over the country,” Mum said defensively. “Not just here.”

  Roxy stuck the flyer carefully back inside the book, then her eyes widened. “Golly!” She burst out laughing again.

  “What’s so amusing?” I asked.

  “This is only Lady bloody Chatterley’s Lover!” Roxy grinned.

  I looked again at my mother who was now engrossed in stroking the sleeve of her mink coat.

  Roxy took a peek inside the book. “This is pretty tame stuff,” she said. “I wonder why it’s covered in this awful paper? What kind of paper is this anyway?”

  “Can I take a look?” I asked.

  “Not without gloves,” said Roxy. “It could be evidence.”

  I retrieved my white cotton gloves. “Satisfied?”

  Although the end boards had been completely covered both inside and out with the garish kitchen paper, the title page and verso showed this book to be a first edition that had been printed in Italy.

  “This is a rare book,” I exclaimed excitedly. “To begin with it was only printed in Italy. It was banned in England up until 1959. Perhaps that was why it was covered? To hide the title?”

  Roxy seemed impressed. “And if it belonged to our dead girl—along with the purse and cigarettes—that might give us a time frame. Maybe she traveled a lot?”

  “So, not a servant girl, after all,” said Mum. “Can we go now?”

  I handed the book back to Roxy.

  She sat down on the joint stool and cracked it open. “Yeah. We’ll keep you posted.”

  “We’ll leave you to your reading then,” said Mum.

  I took Mum’s arm and propelled her out of the room. I knew she was hiding something. I could tell.

  “Why are you holding my arm like that?” Mum grumbled and yanked hers free.

  “Because you and I are going to have a little chat,” I said. “And for a change, I want the absolute truth.”

  Chapter Four

  “Well?” I demanded, as Mum and I returned to her MINI for the short drive back to the Carriage House. The weather was appalling with the rain coming down in sheets and a gale-force wind. “Aren’t you going to tell me what’s going on? I know that book has something to do with you. And you were at the Hall in the fifties. I know you were.”

  “That book does not belong to me,” Mum said hotly. “Cross my heart and hope to die. Anyway, where would I get hold of a book like that? I’ve never been to Italy.”

  “You’d find a way,” I said darkly.

  A black Fiat 500 barreled toward us. As we pulled onto the grass verge to let it pass by the engine promptly stalled. I recognized the earnest face of Dick, the forensic scientist, at the wheel. He gave us a cheery wave as he sailed on by.

  I glanced over at the fuel gauge. It was just as I thought. “You’re nearly empty.”

  “Stop nagging,” said Mum. “I hardly drive anywhere.”

  We set off once again.

  “I wonder if there is a connection to the book, the purse and that poor woman,” I mused. “I suppose Shawn will check any missing person reports for that time period.”

  “Roxy watches too much television,” Mum gr
umbled.

  “It’s a great idea to take a look at your family trees.”

  “Not today.” Mum suddenly seemed to change her tune. “I’m working on my publicity campaign for Forbidden—it comes out in just a couple of weeks—and then my publisher wants an outline for the next in the series.”

  “Well, can’t I look at them? You don’t have to be there—oh? There’s Ginny.”

  Parked in front of the Carriage House stood a new black Peugeot with a PRESS placard on the dashboard. Ginny Riley got out of the car and flashed us a brilliant smile.

  “Surely that’s not the young girl from the Dipperton Deal?” Mum exclaimed as we drove through the open double-doors and into the carriageway itself. Alfred had spent two full weeks cleaning the interior where at one time, there had been room for four carriages. Now, we used it to park our cars. A door at the far end conveniently led directly into the living quarters, which was just as well. It was a cold, wet and windy February.

  “I hardly recognized her,” Mum went on. “I can see those dazzling veneers from here!”

  Just a few months ago, twenty-something Ginny Riley had been a sweet and earnest trainee reporter for our weekly newspaper. But that had all changed with her exposé of a nasty scam from which the village of Little Dipperton had still not fully recovered. Although the scam’s ringleader had been a former boyfriend of Lady Lavinia’s, the Honeychurches had managed to keep that fact secret. Instead, Eric Pugsley had agreed to take the fall. Maybe Roxy had a point. Perhaps the body in the double-hide had been hushed up, after all.

  Naturally, Ginny’s front-page scoop had propelled her up the career ladder. She had abandoned the Dipperton Deal and went off to work for the prestigious Western Times in the city of Plymouth, about forty-five minutes away.

  Ginny had changed. Gone was the fresh-faced girl with her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore it short in a pixie cut. She’d also exchanged her jeans, sweatshirt and trainers for a tailored suit, high-heeled shoes and heavy makeup that made her seem far older than her years.

  “I’ll let you deal with the newspapers, dear,” said Mum. “I must get back to my book.”

  Mum gave Ginny a polite wave and went into the house.

  Ginny strode over toward me. “Is it true that you found a dead body in a priest hole?” she asked, thrusting her iPhone under my nose. I noticed that it was switched to record.