Bryan shook his head. “Got nothing to add. I’ve already called the police but had to leave a message. What kind of police station is closed on the weekends?”
“Little Dipperton.” I smiled. “Open nine to five—although I have Shawn’s mobile phone number if you’d like it.”
Bryan duly wrote it down in a small notebook and then I told him what I wanted him to do.
“Tiling?” he said with a frown. “I’ll be honest—tiling is not my strong point.”
“What about the kitchen floor?” Currently it was covered in quarry tiles but most were cracked.
Bryan hummed and hawed but then shook his head. “You need a professional.”
“Maybe you can help with replacing the shelves in here?”
I opened the door to a walk-in pantry and stopped in astonishment. Several of the shelves were covered in the same red shelf-liner paper that adorned Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It was too much of a coincidence.
“Did Joan’s mother work at the Hall?” I said suddenly.
“Eh?”
“Joan’s mother,” I said again.
“She was Lady Edith’s maid,” said Bryan. “Why?”
“Did Joan have any siblings?”
“A brother. He died though. Accident with a tractor. Why?”
“Just wondered.” I gestured to the pantry. “I’d love to replace the missing shelves in here.”
“You want a carpenter for that, luv,” said Bryan.
“Okay. A carpenter. Fine. How about a few mirrors? Can you help me put them up?”
“Are they heavy? Only I’ve got a bad back.”
“Okay. Too heavy. Fine. Follow me.” I led Bryan into the bathroom and gestured to a mahogany medicine cabinet that was propped against the wall. “How about that? I’d like to put it above the washbasin. It’s not very heavy.”
Bryan hummed and hawed again. “Look, I’ll be honest, I’m good with a hammer and a few nails but for this”—he shrugged—“you need raw plugs and a drill.”
“I know I need raw plugs.” I was starting to lose my patience. “You don’t have a drill?”
“Never seen the need. Hammer is just as good.”
“So you can’t really do anything at all.”
Bryan gave a sheepish smile. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “It’s just a bit too advanced for me. I can do a spot of painting and pop up a few pictures, but”—he shrugged again—“you need a professional builder.”
“I thought you were a professional builder.”
“Not me, luv.” Bryan shook his head. “You advertised for someone who can do a bit of D-I-Y.”
I was about to argue but realized it was a waste of time. “You’re right. I do. Thanks for coming up here this morning.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
I bit back the obvious retort.
As I waved Bryan out of the house I realized he hadn’t once mentioned my mother. So much for Iris being the “one who got away.”
I felt really bothered by the whole thing but couldn’t put my finger on what it was. How long had Bryan been snooping around and what was he looking for? Jane’s Cottage was empty. I had no furniture, just new curtains and blinds at the windows. I also wondered what he had actually been measuring when I’d arrived given that he had no intention of hanging anything. Still, I’d made some progress with the walk-in pantry. I would never have connected the shelf-liner paper with Lady Chatterley’s Lover if Bryan hadn’t turned up. Joan’s mother had worked for Edith. Perhaps the book had belonged to her?
Fifteen minutes later I walked through the archway and into the stable yard.
Compared to the rest of the property, the stable yard was immaculate. I absolutely loved coming here and soon forgot about Bryan Laney.
The stable yard was built around a stone courtyard with three sides of the quadrant housing four loose boxes. The fourth side was divided by a second archway—topped with a dovecote and clock—that led to the rear of the Hall.
Horses peered over green-painted split-stable doors, each bearing a name plaque. A saddle with a bridle looped over the cantle straddled the top of Thunder’s loose-box door.
Winter pansies bloomed in wooden barrels; a mounting block stood beside an outside stone staircase that led up to Alfred’s flat above. It used to belong to William Bushman, the former stable manager, but had been Alfred’s home for the past six months.
William, now serving time at HM Prison Exeter, had often visited Joan Stark at Sunny Hill Lodge. It was a kindness that seemed at odds with what happened in the end. But before I could dwell on that any longer, Lavinia Honeychurch emerged from the tack room.
“Ah! There you are, Katherine!”
Tall, thin and with an aquiline nose, Mum unkindly referred to Lavinia as “horse face.”
“Morning!” I said cheerfully but Lavinia didn’t return my smile. She looked worried and beckoned for me to join her.
I followed her into the tack room.
“Do sit down, Katherine.” She gestured to the old sofa that was oozing stuffing and covered in dog hair.
“I’m fine standing,” I said. “Is everything okay?”
Lavinia perched on the edge of a huge pine chest that contained horse blankets and gave a heavy sigh.
I decided to sit after all. Her sigh sounded serious. 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 with tarnished brass plaques, 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—the three of them pictured driving four-in-hand when they used to compete in carriage driving competitions. Edith at the reins with William alongside, and Lavinia directly behind as the “navigator.” All that ended when William went away.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that was attached to the back of the tack room door and grimaced. Mum had a point. I really was turning into a frump. My jodhpurs were definitely too tight and with my hair clamped under one of Lavinia’s slumber nets—“honestly, Katherine, it’s the only way to hold one’s hair orrf one’s face”—she had a way of pronouncing off as “orrf”—I tended to agree with her.
“This is frightfully awkward,” Lavinia began at last. “But I really have to talk to you.”
“Is this about Harry?”
Lavinia seemed startled. “No. Why should it be about Harry?”
“Well, more about Harry’s friends really.”
Lavinia looked puzzled. “What about Harry’s friends?”
This was exactly what I had hoped to avoid. “Has Max been here since Harry started his school year?” Of course I knew that he had not.
“No, thank God.” Lavinia pulled a face. “Rupert dreaded having the local boys here but luckily, Harry hasn’t invited any of them over.”
Lavinia really was one of the silliest women I had ever met. “And that doesn’t worry you?”
“Good heavens, no! We’re frightfully relieved.” Lavinia gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “This is far more important.”
Was it more important than her son’s happiness?
“Rupert told me that Edith is very cut up about this Pandora business,” Lavinia went on.
“It’s awful,” I agreed.
“That’s why she won’t be riding out this morning. She’s still in shock. They were great friends, you know.”
“I had heard something like that. Did they meet at boarding school?”
“Good heavens, no!” Lavinia declared. “Pen friends and whatnot. Introduced by some mutual chum.”
“I see.”
“The silly thing is…” Lavinia rolled her eyes. “And I told her she was being ridiculo
us … the silly thing is that Edith blames herself for what happened to Pandora.”
“Blames herself?” I said sharply. “Why?”
“For not guessing that something was horribly wrong. Apparently. Up until Pandora’s visit they exchanged letters regularly as one did in those days. I had a pen friend in Switzerland actually. Even went to visit her once or twice.”
“Did Edith say anything about Pandora being reported as missing?”
“That’s just the thing,” said Lavinia. “Pandora and Edith had a lot in common. As you know, her parents were killed in the Blitz and apparently Pandora was an orphan, an only child, too. Had a guardian but he couldn’t handle her. She was quite wild, I believe—and of course, she was over twenty-one so free to do as she pleased.”
I waited politely for Lavinia to come to the point.
“So apparently Pandora told Edith she was orrf to the Orient and that was that.”
I nodded. “And?”
“Of course Shawn has done what he can to keep it quiet. Keep it out of the newspapers and whatnot but…” She rewarded me with an unnerving smile. “Rupert’s frightfully worried that everything is going to come out.”
He’s not the only one. Then I realized that Lavinia had obviously not seen the Daily Post. Yet.
“You do know what I mean by everything,” said Lavinia. “You do know what I mean, don’t you?”
I nodded again. My mother’s past was actually quite fascinating but the Honeychurch clan’s was steeped in all sorts of murky scandals.
I thought of Ginny again and our unpleasant conversation from the night before and her decision to delve into the archives of the Dipperton Deal.
“We can’t allow this to happen, you must know that.” Lavinia regarded me in earnest. “You have to help.”
“Me?” I exclaimed. “I’m not sure what I can do.”
A faint flush began to bloom on Lavinia’s cheeks. “This is horribly awkward,” she said again. “But I—well Rupert, really…” She cleared her throat. “He wants you to talk to Alfred and your mother about it.”
“About what, exactly?”
“The fair, boxing emporium and whatnot were here the summer it happened,” said Lavinia. “Shawn will have to tell New Scotland Yard or Interpol or whomever they involve in these international cases. You do know what I mean, don’t you?”
“I really don’t, sorry.” And I didn’t.
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Lavinia snapped. “Rupert doesn’t want them to talk to the police, that’s all. We can handle Shawn and that other policewoman—”
“Shawn has already spoken to my mother and Alfred.”
“Oh God, no!” Lavinia groaned. “I don’t belieeeeeve it.”
“I’m still not sure what you want me to do.”
“Well really. This is so maddening!” Lavinia gave an exasperated sigh. “We’re actually trying to help Iris and Alfred. All they have to do is say they weren’t here that summer.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t want to implicate them, that’s why!” Lavinia stood up, clearly flustered. “Rupert wants the gypsies to take the blame.”
I stiffened. “They are not gypsies, Lavinia.”
“You know what I mean! Fairground people. Travelers. I don’t know what they’re called. It was decades ago. Most are probably dead by now and even if they aren’t, where would one start to look?”
I was stunned. “You’d rather shed suspicion on my mother’s family, to save yours?”
“You’re a Honeychurch now,” said Lavinia. “And the Honeychurches close ranks. Always. It’s the way it’s done.”
“I’ll pass the message on to my mother,” I said. “But I don’t think she’ll be very happy.”
“This is for your mother!” Lavinia’s voice had gone up a few decibels. “Edith is frightfully fond of Iris and she thought it was a very good plan.”
“Aren’t you curious about what really happened to Pandora?”
“No. Not really. I just want it all to go away and it would have if you hadn’t fallen into the double-hide in the first place.”
I let that comment go.
“Don’t you see? If there are no leads, the coroner will just pronounce Pandora’s death as an accident.”
“What about her broken neck?” I said.
“I don’t know!” Lavinia shouted. “Perhaps she tripped over her toga!”
“Alright. I will speak to my mother.”
“Good,” said Lavinia. “I’m sure she’ll be relieved.”
My stomach gave a jolt. Why would my mother be relieved?
“And no talking to the press,” Lavinia went on. “No interviews. At least we agree on that score.”
“Ginny Riley has already been here,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not worried about the Dipperton Deal,” Lavinia said with a sneer. “Shawn’s on great terms with the editor. We can handle him.”
“Ginny doesn’t work for the Dipperton Deal anymore,” I said but before I could go on, the tack room door flew open and Edith’s Jack Russell terrier, Mr. Chips, bounded in.
“Hello, boy,” I said. He circled my feet, sniffing the floor and barking. I reached down to fondle his ears, welcoming the distraction.
“It’s Harry,” Lavinia whispered urgently. “It’s very important that he know nothing about finding Pandora until Rupert has worked out the official story. You know what his imagination is like!”
Harry strolled in dressed in his Biggles regalia of flying helmet, goggles and white scarf.
“Isn’t it exciting, Mummy?”
“What is, darling?” said Lavinia.
“The skeleton!” he clapped his hands with delight. “Alfred told me that Kat found a skeleton in the secret chamber!”
Lavinia looked horrified. “It’s not a real skeleton, silly. Alfred was just teasing. A skeleton! Whatever next!”
Harry’s face fell. “Oh. I was going to ask Father if I could bring it to show-and-tell next week.”
Lavinia blanched and silently appealed to me for help.
“Ready for our reconnaissance mission, sir?” I said, addressing Harry’s alter ego.
“What a jolly good idea,” said Lavinia. “Leave Mr. Chips here though, Edith wants him to stay with her today.”
“I thought we should check the boundaries this morning, sir,” I said. “There have been rumors of enemy activity overnight.”
“Good idea, Stanford,” Harry said crisply. “Prepare the engines and chocks away!”
Chapter Eleven
Moments later Harry and I clattered out of the yard on Thunder and Duchess. Harry adored his little black pony and since I always rode the dapple-gray mare, I liked to pretend she was my very own. I felt very lucky.
It was a cold morning and the horses were anxious to get warm. Everything sparkled with a layer of frost.
“I like Alfred,” Harry said cheerfully.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“He’s going to teach me to box this afternoon.”
My heart sank. “Does your mother know?”
“We’re keeping it between us as a surprise,” said Harry.
Some surprise!
“Alfred told me he’s knocked out hundreds of men in the ring,” Harry went on. “That’s what I want to do. Show the boys at school who is boss.”
Already I could see trouble ahead. “I really think you should at least tell your father.”
“No. I told you. It’s going to be a surprise!” Harry turned his face to mine and gave me a big smile. His Biggles goggles glinted in the morning sunshine.
We broke into a trot and headed up the hill to Hopton’s Crest—one of my favorite rides. It ran along the top of a ridge and had the most amazing views.
On one side nestled the small village of Little Dipperton and on the other, tucked between trees and centuries-old dry stone walls lay the magnificent Honeychurch Hall estate. My mother’s Carriage House stood adjacent to Eric Pugsley’s hideous
scrapyard.
I glanced over to the gatehouses, the peculiar equine cemetery, ornamental grounds, Victorian grotto and the vast walled garden that was lined with near-derelict glasshouses.
And then I saw it.
Partially hidden on the other side of the wall and half in the undergrowth, was Bryan’s green-and-white camper van. He had to have driven down a bridleway to get there—no easy job given the narrow access and rutted ground. What was he up to?
“Can we go to The Spinneys?” said Harry, breaking into my thoughts.
Oak Spinney, Pond Spinney and Home Spinney were three little connecting woods that bordered Home Farm. “Granny says that some trees came down in the last storm and there are some jumps.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said. “And then we can circle back through Jane’s Wood.”
We turned off the ridge and took a winding animal track down through the forest that came out near the ruins of Bridge Cottage.
Harry and I crossed the road and started to climb the rise at a brisk trot. It was at the second bend that I almost knocked a woman and her tricycle over. She was draped in a bright yellow sou’wester cape and rain hat. The horses were terrified.
Duchess shied. Thunder ploughed into the back of Duchess who squealed and lashed out narrowly missing Harry. Thunder then nipped Duchess’s hind leg and the two horses sprang apart. It was a blessing neither of us came off but by the time we’d calmed them down, the woman had vanished.
“Are you alright?” I called out.
“What a funny bicycle,” said Harry. “It’s got three wheels.”
“Are you okay?”
“Just a bit of turbulence, Stanford,” said Harry, resorting to his alter ego. “But I held her steady.”
“You certainly did.”
“Stanford…” Harry said as we set off once more.
“Sir?”
“We have a problem.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t handle.”
“We’re going to have to move one of our men,” Harry went on. “And quickly. I’m afraid his identity has been compromised.”
“What happened, sir?”
“We’ll need a safe house,” Harry said. “Perhaps Jane’s Cottage might fit the bill?”
“Is this to do with Ella Fitzgerald?” I hadn’t seen Harry’s Merrythought Jerry mouse now for weeks. Harry had even shunned Jazzbo Jenkins, claiming that the vintage velveteen toys were too “babyish.”
A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall Page 9