A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall (15 page)

“Rupert and Pandora barely exchanged more than two words the entire time she was here,” said Edith. “No, I'm afraid … I'm sorry, my dear. Your mother has always been very loyal to me.”

My dismay must have been obvious because, in a rare show of affection, Edith reached out and patted my shoulder. “So you see, that's why it's best if we keep it quiet about her being here with the fair and boxing emporium that summer.”

She clicked her fingers and Mr. Chips leapt to attention, patiently waiting for further instructions. Edith got to her feet. I knew I was being dismissed.

The pair turned and began the trudge back up the hill.

“Wait!” I raced after her. “Why do you think my mother posted the thank you letter?”

“It was postmarked St. Ives in Cornwall—one of their stopping places,” said Edith. “It had to be Iris.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I'm afraid not. Please tell your mother what I said. She and Alfred were never here that summer. It's for the best.”

I watched the slight figure weave in and out of the gravestones until they were out of sight. Did Edith know something? Was it possible that Mum and Alfred had been involved somehow and if so, why?

There were too many unanswered questions. I didn't want to cause my mother any trouble but I just had to find out the truth.

 

Chapter Thirteen

“Wait a minute!” Mum shouted in answer to my knock at her office door. I heard the grumble of the rolltop desk lid come down. “Don't come in yet!”

Balancing a tray of cheese and pickle sandwiches and two packets of crisps in one hand, I threw open the door with the other and strolled in. “I thought you might like a spot of lunch.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Mum beamed. “I was getting a bit peckish. You can just leave it there, dear.” She pointed to the coffee table next to the wingback armchair. “Off you go.”

“I thought we could eat lunch together.”

Mum looked irritated. “I'm rather busy.”

“Just for five minutes.” I opened her bag of crisps, sprinkled them onto a plate and passed her a sandwich. “Don't you want to know what Edith had to say to me?”

Mum rolled her eyes. “You've got that expression on your face again.”

“Which expression?”

“The accusatory expression,” said Mum. “The one that means we'll probably argue.”

“We won't if you are truthful.”

“I was talking to Peggy—”

“
Peggy
now, is it?”

“I was telling her how oppressive you could be.”

“What else did
Peggy
have to say for herself?”

“Never you mind,” said Mum. “It's private.”

“Well—I wish I could say my conversation with Edith was private, but unfortunately it involves you.”

Mum put her sandwich down. “What do you mean?”

“Did you know that Edith received a thank you letter from Pandora after the ball?”

Mum frowned. “But how can that be possible?” She thought for a moment. “You mean, she left the Hall, someone killed her and then took the body back to hide it?”

“I wish that were true, but Edith believes the thank you letter was forged.”

“Just like the book,” Mum said thoughtfully.

“Mum, I won't be cross, just tell me the truth,” I said. “Did you write that thank you letter?”

Mum's jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? Me? Write the thank you letter? Why would I do that?”

“Maybe you were covering something up—or you and Alfred were covering something up. I don't know, just tell me!”

Mum's eyes flashed with anger. “I don't know anything about a thank you letter.”

“Just like you didn't know anything about
Lady Chatterley's Lover
!”

“That was different! Anyway, I didn't even know about the double-hide.”

“The problem is that I never know what to believe and what not to believe.”

“You mean … you can't possibly mean…” Mum spluttered with indignation. “You think
I
had something to do with Pandora's death? Are you
mad
?”

“Alfred, then?”

She got to her feet. “I think you should leave now before one of us says something they will regret.”

“Lavinia said, well, it was Rupert really—actually, no, Edith—”

“What?”

“They would prefer it if you and Alfred said you weren't here that particular summer it happened.”

“I see.” Mum fumed.

“They just want to protect you.”

“So everyone here thinks I'm a murderer! How lovely.”

“That's not what I said.”

Mum strode over to the door and dramatically flung it open. “Good-bye!”

But I stood my ground. “I'm just the messenger! Just tell me—please tell me what's going on.”

“Oh for heaven's sake.” She strode back to the desk and threw open the rolltop lid. Inside was a rusty cash tin speckled with lumps of earth.

“What on earth is that?”

Mum didn't answer. She opened it, took out an old exercise book and then closed the box with a snap. Silently—she handed it to me.

“What is this?”

I stared at the battered cover. Written in the subject box was the title, T
HE
A
MERICAN
H
EIRESS—
N
OTES
. The date said June 17, 1958—that would have been six days before Edith's birthday bash.

“Well—aren't you going to read it?” said Mum.

I cracked open a page and tried to make sense of my mother's scribbles. “
Dunna fret thysen about lovin' me. Sit 'ere I'th 'ut. Dunna ax me nowt now.
Is this in code?”

“No, it's not in code!” Mum exclaimed and snatched it out of my hands. “It's written in dialect—gamekeeper dialect, that's all. I told you, I just wanted to borrow
Lady Chatterley's Lover
to see how it was done.”

“But you've called this
The American Heiress,
” I pointed out.

“Oh. Well, I wrote it so long ago, who knows what it's supposed to be about.”

“But why is it in that cash box?”

“I told you there was no privacy in Aunt June's caravan,” said Mum. “And in fact, there seems to be no privacy here, either.”

“I'm sorry. You're right, it's none of my business.”

“If you must know, I buried the cash box out in the woods over fifty years ago and just remembered where. The trees have grown quite a bit since then.”

“Oh so
that's
what you remembered burying,” I said.

“Yes, it's my little time capsule.”

“What else is in there?”

“Never you mind—can you hear that knocking?” Mum cocked her head.

“Don't dodge the question!” But I heard the knocking, too.

“I'll go.”

Mum hurried out and then shouted, “You've got a visitor!”

To my dismay, Rupert was standing in the hallway. His expression was thunderous. In his hands was a copy of the
Daily Post.
I knew I should have warned him.

“Just in the middle of something. Sorry,” Mum muttered and slipped past me, darting back upstairs.

“You've seen it,” I said flatly.

“Why would you do such a thing?” he raged. “Why would you give an interview? How could you, Katherine!”

I was horrified. “I did not give an interview. The press are wolves. They take everything out of context. You know that.”

“Really?” He thrust the newspaper into my hands. “
Really?
Well, explain that!”

It was everything a tacky sensational tabloid newspaper could possibly be. A recycled photo of me had been superimposed in front of Honeychurch Hall along with a pixilated holiday snap of Pandora Haslam-Grimley laughing aboard a yacht. The caption said, “Cannes: 1957.” She looked young and beautiful, with a cloud of dark hair. There were accounts of wild orgies, costume parties and the implication that this was a house where anything and everything was possible, all told in lurid detail by a “family friend.”

I stared blindly at the thick, black headline and shook my head.

“Read it!” Rupert hissed.

H
ONEYCHURCH
H
OUSE OF
H
ORRORS

N
O MORE
S
ECRETS

A
MERICAN
S
OCIETY
H
EIRESS
D
ISCOVERED
B
ETWEEN
W
ALLS

E
X
TV
CELEBRITY HOST,
K
AT
S
TANFORD, NOW SHARES HER NEW HOME WITH ONE OF THE OLDEST FAMILIES IN
E
NGLAND—BUT WILL SHE KEEP ITS SECRETS?

The Grenvilles date back to Henry V and have had more than their fair share of scams, scandals, crimes of passion and cold-blooded murder.

What really happened to the stable manager who mysteriously left to walk the Himalayas? What is the real story behind the body in the grotto or the minister in the mire?

Join Ginny Riley in the first of an exclusive behind- the-scenes look at the shocking truth of what lies beneath the upper-class façade.

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A further paragraph in bold print promised a financial reward for anyone living in Little Dipperton who could “share memories” and help bring the killer of the latest tragedy to justice.

I couldn't speak. All I felt was white-hot anger. How could Ginny do this?

“Eric told me Ginny was here yesterday,” said Rupert.

“She was.” I thought of how desperate she had been when she'd called around later that night. “But this isn't her doing. She told me her article had been rewritten. She was upset.”

“
She's
upset?” Rupert was trembling with fury. “Have you any idea what this will do to my mother?”

“Yes. Of course I do,” I exclaimed. “Yes. Ginny came here. No, I did not tell her anything. She obviously got her information from somewhere else!”

“And what about Harry?” Rupert demanded. “Didn't you stop to think how this would affect him?”

I didn't know what to say.

Rupert shook his head. “You and your mother,” he said with disgust. “I wish you'd never come here. You've been trouble from the very beginning.” At some point, I no longer heard Rupert's insults until he started shaking a finger at me. “I want you to fix this, do you understand? I don't care what you have to do but fix it
now
!”

“I was going to talk to Ginny anyway,” I said coldly. “You seem to forget that this isn't just all about
you
and your wretched reputation.”

Rupert's eyes narrowed. “You are no longer welcome at the Hall—nor is your mother. The sooner you move back to London, the better.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the Carriage House. I heard the front door slam.

I didn't hear Mum come down the stairs. I didn't even jump when she put her hand on my shoulder and pulled me into her arms.

“I heard every word,” she said.

“Oh, Mum.”

“I wish I could make it better. When you were little I could wave my magic wand.”

“I just feel so conflicted. I'm angry at being accused of something I didn't do. I'm
furious
with Trudy for being so vindictive.”

“Let me see the newspaper.”

We sank onto the stairs and Mum started reading, muttering under her breath and getting angrier and angrier.

“It wasn't Ginny's fault,” I said. “She came here to warn me that her article had been rewritten.”

“Some women just don't know when to let go. Even now Trudy can't stop herself from putting in the knife.”

“But there is truth to it all, isn't there?” I said quietly. “The cover-ups, the secrets.”

“Don't we all have those, Katherine?”

“I don't.” And I didn't—or did I?

“The question is,” said Mum. “Who has been talking to Ginny? Who has been feeding her information?” She regarded me keenly. “Eric?”

“No. He's still very upset about having to take the fall for that railway fiasco. She told me that Eric wouldn't even talk to her.”

“Then
who
?”

“Someone in Little Dipperton?” I suggested. “The newspaper is offering a reward for information. You said yourself that there were people from the village helping at the Hall on the night Pandora disappeared. What about Bryan Laney?”

“It
is
odd that he is back,” Mum agreed. “And he hasn't been to see me, either.”

I got to my feet. “Well, I'm going to talk to Ginny.”

“Shall I come with you?” said Mum. “I'm pretty good at wringing necks and throwing bodies into cellars.”

“I think you're in enough trouble as it is.”

“I think that goes for the both of us,” she said darkly.

Promising I'd be careful, I headed to my car. The one thing that I hadn't voiced to my mother was my concern about Ginny's safety. The article recklessly implied that she could know the person responsible for the “latest tragedy” and that could put her in danger.

 

Chapter Fourteen

Ginny rented The Granary, a one up, one down stone building that was part of a converted farm complex that now housed holiday homes for tourists anxious to visit the South Hams and neighboring Greenway, Agatha Christie's summer home.

The farm used to belong to the Honeychurch Hall estate and was one of several that had been sold off years ago to meet the excruciating death duties enforced following the fourteenth earl, Edith's husband's, death back in the 1990s.