“No. This is far more serious,” said Harry grimly.
“More serious than the mice?”
“Oh, Kat,” Harry wailed, swiftly dropping the Biggles accent. “Granny wants to sell Douglas bear. She says he’s very valuable and he’d fetch so much money we can repair the ceiling in the King’s Parlor.”
“Douglas, as in the Steiff bear, Douglas?”
Harry nodded miserably. “Granny said he’d be sacrificing himself for the cause and that he wouldn’t mind. She said she’d make sure he would go to a good home.”
I was dismayed for many reasons. Edith was right. Douglas, the Titanic mourning bear, was extremely rare. As one of just six hundred bears made to commemorate the sinking of the Titanic in 1912, they were given to the families of relatives who had perished when the ship went down. Edith’s great-uncle, the tenth Earl of Grenville, had been one such victim.
Harry had inherited the black bear and christened him Douglas in honor of the real boy who had owned a Steiff bear called Polar, immortalized in Polar the Titanic Bear written by Daisy Corning Stone Spedden. The tragedy was all the more acute because both boy and bear survived the actual sinking of the ship but three years afterward, Douglas was killed in a car accident. Polar was never found.
I knew that the bear was important not just to Edith, but to Harry, too. I also knew that the sale of such a rare item would definitely help to pay toward the staggering restoration costs of the plasterwork ceiling. But what neither Edith nor Harry could know, was that in 1990, the Steiff bear had been reported as stolen in an insurance scam masterminded by Edith’s late husband, the fourteenth Earl of Grenville. The Steiff bear was on the watch list because I had seen it.
“I’ll talk to your grandmother,” I said. “We’ll find something else to sell. Don’t worry.”
“We could sell Mrs. Cropper,” said Harry. “Granny says she’s very valuable.”
I laughed but Harry seemed serious. “What would Mr. Cropper do without her?” I said. “They’ve been inseparable for decades.”
“Oh, he’s not worth anything,” Harry went on cheerfully. “Granny said he’s useless. But you will talk to Granny, won’t you?”
“I promise.”
“Why can’t we make our own money?” Harry said. “Then we wouldn’t have to sell anything.”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely!”
I braced myself for the skeleton conversation but fortunately Harry didn’t mention it.
“Father told me that Honeychurch isn’t the only house to have a priest hole. Lots of them did. Sometimes they were built inside chimney shafts or under fireplaces. Did you know that a priest built them—Nicholas something—he was made into a saint, but anyway, he was captured and tortured in the Tower of London. Do you know how they tortured him?”
“No. And I really don’t want to.” I gestured to a wooden signpost bleached white with age that pointed to THE SPINNEYS.
“I think we go down here, Harry. Come on, let’s canter.”
We turned into a green lane—something I’d never heard of until I moved to Devon. According to Edith, there were over three hundred green lanes in South Devon. These grassy tracks were the remains of old communication patterns that formed a network of lanes, many of which are now cut through by present-day roads. I thought back to the retreating Royalists as they fled Cromwell’s approaching army, possibly down this very track.
Harry was right about the jumps at The Spinneys. There were a lot of trees that had come down during last month’s storm. We spent almost an hour jumping over trunks that crossed the pathway until Thunder got bored and actually bucked Harry off.
“I think we’ve had enough now,” I said as Harry scrambled back on, none the worse for wear. “Let’s head home.”
There were many ways back to the stables but today I decided we would go via the rear of Jane’s Cottage. I was curious as to whether Bryan might still be snooping about.
I had never ridden up the back track before. On this side, there were no trees, just a panoramic view that stretched to the horizon. A patchwork of fields fell away to my left and on my right were rows and rows of straight-sided mounds with rounded ends and raised profiles.
“What are those things, Harry?”
“Bunny pillows.”
“Bunny pillows?” I laughed. “You’re just being silly.”
“No, I’m not. Granny told me that when the warrener—he’s like the gamekeeper only he used to look after the rabbits—well, when he lived here thousands and thousands of years ago, he dug trenches for the bunnies to live in.”
“Ah! So they’re man-made warrens?”
Harry nodded. “They were bridged over with stones and covered with earth.”
It was at times like this that I felt such a city girl. “Really, whatever for?”
“Mr. Barnes—he was my history teacher at my old school—Mr. Barnes said that during medieval times rabbits used to be reared for their meat and fur. It was quite a decalasie.”
“Delicacy, you mean?”
“Mr. Barnes said that rabbit meat used to cost five times more than chicken.” Harry paused for a moment. “Mrs. Stanford has a coat made of rabbit, doesn’t she?”
I hardly thought my mother would be pleased to have her mink mistaken for rabbit but I didn’t correct him.
“And it was such a decalasie that there were always poachers about. Do you know you can be hanged for poaching?”
“Not these days,” I said.
“Yes. You can,” said Harry solemnly. “That’s why we have poaching signs everywhere.”
“And I suppose the warrener lived in Warren Lodge?”
“Yes, but Cromwell burned it down. The warrener had to live close to the bunnies to make sure they weren’t stolen. In his house he used to keep nets and traps and lanterns—oh, and he washed the carcasses that he’d skinned with a knife. Only the well has gone now, too.”
I had never noticed a well at Jane’s Cottage. “I wonder what happened to it?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry. “But I do know about murder holes.”
“Murder holes?” I exclaimed. “That sounds gruesome.”
“The proper name is a me … me … tri something, anyway, sometimes, if the warrener found someone trying to break down the door downstairs, he’d throw burning oil through the hole and they’d explode!”
“Wow. That sounds painful.”
“Did you know that in the thirteenth century, a rabbit was worth more than a workman’s daily wage?” Harry went on.
“I did not know that, Harry,” I said. “You are a mine of information.”
“And do you know how they caught the bunnies?”
“No, but I suspect you do.”
“They’d send ferrets into the burrows or wait until they were outside feeding and catch the bunnies in nets.”
“That sounds cruel.”
“Did you know that a ferret’s teeth are so sharp that they can bite off your hand and sometimes”—Harry’s eyes widened—”they even kill babies!”
“I think it’s more like a finger, Harry,” I said. “And I am pretty sure that ferrets don’t go out to kill babies.”
“I wish I could have a ferret,” he said wistfully.
“Well, I am impressed by how much you know about your home,” I said.
“Father told me everything because one day all of the Honeychurch Hall estate and most of the village is going to belong to me and he said it was very important to know the history of everything that happened here.”
“I like that—oh!” Suddenly Duchess shied and almost unseated me. There was a rustle in the undergrowth. I spotted Bryan lurking in the bushes.
“Hello there,” I called out.
I was right. Bryan was still snooping around. I saw a flicker of annoyance cross his features before he broke into a wreath of smiles.
“Excuse me, sir, I’m afraid you’re trespassing,” Harry said politely. “Didn’t you see the warning signs? You could
have been shot!”
“I’m a lucky man,” said Bryan smoothly. “You must be Master Harry. I hardly recognized you under your Biggles disguise—and a fine disguise it is, I must say.”
“Thank you.”
“That means … let me see, one day you will be the fifteenth Earl of Grenville.”
“No—the sixteenth, actually. Father is the fifteenth.” Harry sat up straighter in his saddle. “And who are you?”
“Bryan Laney at your service, m’lord,” said Bryan, touching his forelock. “My ancestors used to work on the estate.”
“Yes. Nearly everybody did.” Harry turned to me. “Isn’t Granny’s land agent called Laney?”
I will say one thing for Harry—he didn’t just have a vivid imagination. He was a very smart boy.
“That’s right,” said Bryan. “He’s a distant cousin.”
“I suppose that doesn’t quite count as trespassing,” said Harry, adding, “So what are you doing here if you’re not trespassing or poaching?”
“I’m going to be doing a bit of work for Kat here at Jane’s Cottage.” Bryan gave me another smile. “I thought I’d come back and take another look at those shelves you wanted me to put up. I reckon I can do it. I mean, how difficult can it be?”
I had changed my mind about hiring Bryan but didn’t want to say so in front of Harry. “We’ll talk later,” I said. “I have your number.”
“But where did you leave your car?” Harry demanded.
“I parked it on the top road. I like the walk.”
Harry thought for a moment. “I’ll tell Granny we met you.”
“There’s no need to bother her ladyship,” said Bryan quickly.
“It’s not a bother.” Harry beamed. “Granny has always felt sorry for Laney. She told me he has no family left but now he does!”
I swear I saw Bryan blanch and wanted to laugh. Why Harry decided to grill Bryan was beyond me but he seemed to be asking all the questions I’d wanted to ask Bryan myself.
Bryan touched his forelock again. “It was a real pleasure to meet you, Master Harry. Enjoy your ride and Kat—we’ll talk tonight.”
And with that Bryan turned back into the woods and disappeared from sight.
Harry leaned toward me. “That was a spy, Stanford,” he whispered.
“I think you might be right, sir.”
Sometimes children could sense things adults could not. “Why do you think he was a spy?”
Harry thought for a moment. “I know Laney doesn’t have any relatives because that’s why he always comes for Christmas lunch … and Easter lunch.”
“That’s a good point,” I said.
“But we don’t want him to know we’re on to him, Stanford,” said Harry, reverting to his alter ego once more. “We should wait until he makes a mistake.”
Back at the stables, I helped Alfred untack Duchess and Thunder. Harry had completely forgotten our conversation with “Klaus the German spy”—his head was full of boxing—but I hadn’t.
I wanted to see Edith and decided to pay her a quick visit. I had quite a few questions to ask her myself—to stop the sale of the Titanic mourning bear for one—and about that fateful night in 1958.
Chapter Twelve
I was surprised to find my mother sitting in Mrs. Cropper’s kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
“Having coffee with Mrs. Cropper. Why?”
This was a first. Mum had never warmed to the cook and not once had she ever “had a coffee.”
“She’s just taken the dowager countess a pot of chamomile tea,” said Mum. “Thought it would calm her nerves. Her ladyship is very cut up about Pandora.”
This was also a first. Edith had always seemed to have nerves of steel and kept her emotions in check.
“What are you doing here?” Mum demanded.
“I’ve come to see Edith,” I said. “But I suppose I won’t be able to now.”
I pulled out a chair at the vast kitchen trestle table that had to be a good fifteen feet long. “Never mind. I’ll sit and talk to you and Mrs. Cropper.”
“Why?”
“I might learn something.”
Mum grunted. I was clearly not welcome. She pulled her mink coat closer. “It’s freezing in here.”
I took in the old kitchen with its high-gabled roof and clerestory windows. Despite a lively fire burning in the grate under an elaborate arrangement of roasting-spits—long since abandoned—the room felt cold. There was an old-fashioned range flanked by warming cabinets, but even that didn’t seem to put out much heat.
“Are you going to ask Mrs. Cropper about Bryan Laney?” I said.
Mum looked startled. “Why?”
“I saw him up at Jane’s Cottage. There is something odd about him that I just can’t put my finger on.”
Mum’s face paled. “He’s not coming here, is he?”
“As far as I’m concerned, he’s not coming anywhere,” I said and went on to tell her how my initial hopes that he put up a few shelves and hang some mirrors had vanished. “I don’t think he’s ever held a hammer in his life.”
“But—if Alfred finds out he’s even here…”
“If it makes you feel any better, Bryan didn’t ask after you once.”
“Oh!” Mum seemed miffed. “Perhaps he was too shy to ask?”
“Perhaps.”
“So much for me being the one who got away.” Mum gave a sigh. “Well. I suppose it’s for the best.”
“Have you asked Mrs. Cropper about him?”
“I was just about to when”—Mum pointed to the row of servants’ bells on the wall—“her ladyship rang. Mrs. Cropper will be back in a minute but I don’t think she’ll be so forthcoming if she finds you here.”
I had a sudden thought. “Did you ask her about the shelf-liner paper?”
“I already did but she said that when the other girl was here—you know the one who had that accident with those cows—she cleared the whole lot out.”
“Did you describe the paper?”
“Of course not,” said Mum. “I didn’t want to be too obvious. And besides, she’s very busy. The woman who comes up from the village to help with the housework called in sick again today. They just can’t seem to get a new housekeeper—or at least one who stays.”
“Well, I saw the shelf-liner paper in Jane’s Cottage,” I went on. “In the walk-in pantry.”
Mum brightened. “You see! I knew it was nothing to do with me.”
The wall phone rang. It was an old-fashioned ring—earnest and persistent. Mum was within arm’s reach so she snatched it up. “Honeychurch Hall,” she said in a grand voice, giving me a wink.
I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. “No, this is not Peggy. Can I take a message?”
She cocked her head and listened. Mum’s eyes widened. “Well, my daughter Katherine has.” And listened a little more. “You want me to tell Mrs. Cropper that a friend called. She has lots of friends. Who is this?” Mum frowned. “Who am I? Iris—yes, Iris. Hello?” The click was audible. Mum looked at me in surprise. “How odd.”
“Who was that?”
“No idea—ah, here she is.”
Mrs. Cropper hurried in. She was wearing her usual pink-striped pinafore over a plain white linen short-sleeved dress. I’d never seen her wear anything else. This morning, her gray hair seemed unusually disheveled with strands falling from beneath her white mobcap. “She’s up and about, thankfully—oh, Katherine. Good morning.”
“Kat was just leaving,” said Mum pointedly. “She just came here to ask after her ladyship.”
“The dowager countess is much better, I think,” said Mrs. Cropper. “It’s so hard to tell. She’s taken Mr. Chips down to the equine cemetery. Did I hear the phone ring?”
“It was most odd,” said Mum. “Some woman asking if Bryan Laney was here.”
I caught a flicker of alarm cross Mrs. Cropper’s features. “Did she leave a name? A number?”
“She hung up.”
“I’m sure if it’s important she’ll call back,” said Mrs. Cropper briskly.
I regarded the two women with suspicion. Something was going on.
I got up. “Right, I’ll take a walk down to the cemetery, in that case.”
“I really think her ladyship should be left alone,” said Mrs. Cropper.
“That’s right,” Mum chimed in. “Don’t go asking all your questions, Katherine.”
“I need to talk to her about the Hollar drawings.” In fact, I really did. “If Edith wants to sell them, I must take them to Luxton’s today. As it is, I had to pull a few strings to get them into Thursday’s sale.”
“Well—don’t mention anything else,” said Mum.
“Oh—Mrs. Cropper.” I paused at the door. “I just wondered if you had any red shelf-liner paper left—”
“I already asked—”
“It’s called Royaledge,” I cut in. “I saw it in the walk-in pantry at Jane’s Cottage and since I’m going for a retro look in my kitchen, I wondered if you still had some laying about?”
“All the larders down here were lined with that but as I told your mother, it was all thrown out.”
“I just wondered,” I said. “Okay—I’ll leave you both to it.”
Edith’s equine cemetery was set on a gentle slope and enclosed by a thick, ancient yew hedge. The fourth side lay open affording a spectacular view of the River Dart. It was a beautiful, peaceful spot and I loved it.
Even though I’d been here countless times before, I still glimpsed at each headstone as I headed down the hill to the wooden memorial seat. I could see Edith sitting there, gazing out over the water with Mr. Chips lying at her feet.
I knew the epitaphs off by heart.
MR. MANNERS
MAY 1958–DECEMBER 1970
A REAL GENTLEMAN
AND
APRIL SHOWERS
FEBRUARY 1914–JANUARY 1935
ALWAYS GRACIOUS
I’d grown to love this sanctuary more than I imagined anyone could. Each one-line inscription revealed the personality of a much-beloved horse. There was Sky Bird, Nuthatch and Braveheart: “Adored Mud,” “Unstoppable!” and “Never Beaten: A True King.” Old horses from the Carriage House were laid to rest here, too, Fiddlesticks, China Cup and Misty—their names still living on in the tarnished plaques in their abandoned stalls and in the tack room.
A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall Page 10