A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall (2 page)

“It's not that obvious,” I whispered to Mum who looked utterly crestfallen.

“But speaking of paint, Katherine, how are you getting on at Jane's Cottage? I would have thought you would have moved in by now.”

“The painting is all done, and most of the curtains and blinds are up,” I said. “I just need a few mirrors hung and new shelves in the kitchen pantry…”

“She put an ad in the post office for someone to do a spot of D-I-Y,” Mum put in.

“The wood burner stove goes in next week.”

“Central heating? Whatever for?” Edith exclaimed. “Well, I'm sure that's all very interesting. Rupert, show Katherine the Hollar drawings but I repeat, do
not
do anything without talking to me first.” And, with a snap of her fingers, she called Mr. Chips to heel and the pair headed off.

For a moment, Rupert just stood there. The fifteenth Earl of Grenville appeared years older than his fifty-two. Dark smudges lay beneath red-rimmed eyes and even his neat, military mustache had lost its crispness. Rupert wasn't even wearing his customary tie, choosing a pair of uncharacteristically scruffy jeans and an old moth-eaten sweater. For the first time, I realized just how much pressure he was under to keep the Hall afloat. Edith may rule the roost but it fell to him to manage the day-to-day running of the estate and handle all the bills.

A blast of cold air and the slam of an outside door brought Rupert to his senses. Mum shivered and pulled her mink coat closer. “It's like the arctic in here,” she said. “I'm so happy I'm wearing my mink.”

“As you gathered, Mother doesn't believe in central heating. If she had, perhaps the pipes wouldn't have burst and brought down the ceiling and we wouldn't be having this problem. Please, after you.” Rupert ushered us ahead. “Down the passage and through the door at the end.”

“I remember when the whole house was open,” Mum said. “How many rooms are there, m'lord? One hundred? Two, perhaps?”

“I've never counted,” said Rupert.

“How did you find out about the burst pipes?” Mum asked.

“Fortunately Harry's room shares a wall with the original house.” Rupert cracked his first smile. “He was convinced the Germans had dropped a bomb.”

Knowing Harry's obsession with Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth, the famous World War I flying ace, it was just the sort of thing he'd say. “And I bet he told you which kind.”

“Yes.” Rupert grinned. “Harry said it was a
minenwerfer
.”

“A what?” Mum frowned.

“A high-power trench mortar shell that apparently makes no noise coming through the air.”

“So if Harry had been away at boarding school,” Mum said pointedly. “You would never have known.”

Rupert scowled. “I'd rather have burst pipes.”

“Thanks Mum,” I muttered. It was common knowledge that none of the Honeychurches had been happy about Harry breaking the family tradition and going to the local school—and it had been my idea.

Rupert threw open the end door and ushered us into a screens passage. We passed through the first of two archways and into the Great Hall.

“Oh!” Mum gasped. “I know exactly where we are. Good heavens! I haven't been here for years!”

 

Chapter Two

“My father closed off this part of the house before I was born,” said Rupert.

“Yes, I remember it all,” said Mum. “My brothers and I loved to go exploring.”

I made a note to ask her about this so-called
exploring
. Mum was prone to change her version of events to suit the occasion. She'd often told me that “her kind” was never allowed inside the main house and that the closest she got was the servants' quarters and kitchens.

Like many medieval houses, as years passed and architectural fashions changed, the spirit of the house evolved, too. I was reminded of Charles Ryder, in Evelyn Waugh's novel
Brideshead Revisited,
who summed up my feelings perfectly by saying how much he “
loved buildings that grew silently with the centuries, catching and keeping the best of each generation
.”

It was exactly what made the destruction of such magnificent houses so tragic. Each loss was a loss to history. I couldn't help wondering if Harry, as the future heir, would fight hard to keep the Hall going.

The Great Hall wasn't large by the standard of other great houses in England. The long rectangular room was typical of its time with a spectacular hammer beam roof. On one side were floor to ceiling stained glass windows showing knights in battle. On the other, an enormous stone fireplace bore an elaborate overmantel decorated with the Grenville coat of arms and the family motto:
ad perseverate est ad triumphum
—”To Endure is to Triumph.”

Above the screens passage behind us was a minstrels' gallery. At the far end was a long oak refectory table atop a dais that spanned the width of the room. Two beautiful paneled back chairs with scrolled cresting and earpieces stood behind.

Covering the stone walls that flanked the fireplace was an impressive collection of weapons dating from the English Civil War. There were a variety of polearms and halberds; muskets, vicious stiletto knives, rapiers and basket-hilted two-edged mortuary swords.

“Yes.” Mum nodded again. “I remember all this.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed. “What a collection! Have you ever considered…?”

“These are not for sale,” said Rupert as if reading my mind. “As you know, most of the suits of armor were moved into the modern wing. That is, if you can call our nineteenth-century façade modern.”

“Have you ever thought about opening the Hall to the public?” I suggested. “It doesn't have to be like the National Trust or British Heritage, but the Historic Houses Association conducts open houses to private homes.”

“Can you imagine my mother playing the gracious hostess?” said Rupert.

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Every summer there was a bit of a do on midsummer night for her ladyship's birthday,” said Mum, who was clearly walking down memory lane. “Her brother—that would be your uncle, m'lord, the thirteenth Earl of Grenville—would host a costume ball. Beautiful costumes, they were. And the games! Lots of games! People running all over the house playing charades and squashed sardines.”

“What on earth are squashed sardines?” Rupert asked.

“It's a form of hide-and-seek,” Mum enthused. “Only it's the other way around. One person hides and the others must find him and hide with him and the last person to find
them
must pay a forfeit.”

“Oh, you mean
Smee,
” said Rupert. “That's what
we
call it.”

I hated it when Rupert pulled his upper-class card. He seemed to deliberately want to put Mum in her place.

“Wasn't there a ghost story called
Smee
?” I said.

“You know it?” Rupert sounded surprised. “It was written by A. M. Burrage. Nanny used to read it to me at night and frighten me half to death.”

“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, W
ENCESLAUS
H
OLLAR 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?”