Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (14 page)

“I told you, the publisher handles that,” said Mum. “Are you making egg sandwiches?”

“Eggs again?”

“Just watch the mayonnaise. You always put too much in.”

I boiled some eggs and made the sandwiches, found some crisps, a couple of apples, a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate, and put the lot on the tray.

I knocked on the door to Mum’s office and stepped into the gloom. The room was lit by one naked lightbulb. Mum was perched on a three-legged stool in front of the corkboard adding Post-its Notes to the Honeychurch family tree.

“Why on earth don’t you have the curtains open and let the sunlight in?”

I set the tray on the top of the filing cabinet and moved to the window.

“Don’t!” shouted Mum, but it was too late.

“Good grief.” I stared at the full horror of Eric’s scrap yard in the field beyond. An old hearse was parked next to a wide band of raw tree stumps that marked the boundary line. Some of the stumps had pieces of paper pinned to the bark. “What happened there?”

“I used to look out on a beautiful bank of old trees,” said Mum, joining me at the window. “And then one day I came home from the shops and Eric had cut the lot down.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “Why would he do such a thing? Judging by the size of the stumps, they must have been pretty mature trees. What are those pieces of paper?”

Mum gave a bitter laugh. “Of course I reported Eric to the council. They are restraining orders to prevent him from cutting down any more trees.”

“It’s a bit late for that!”

“He just got a small fine.”

“Oh, Mum,” I said. “It’s going to be awful here when the banger racing starts. If you’re determined to stay in Little Dipperton are you sure you don’t want to look at Sawmill Cottage?”

Mum shook her head. “Why would Lady Edith allow banger racing here? Do you think she really is losing her marbles?”

“Rupert seems to think so.”

“Did you notice how she kept repeating herself?” asked Mum.

“Yes, but afterward she winked at me.”

“No!” Mum exclaimed. “Are you
sure
?”

“Frankly, I think Lady Edith knows exactly what she’s doing. I think she just enjoys tormenting her son—rather like you enjoy tormenting me.”

“I’m such a terrible mother,” said Mum. “I am surprised you still talk to me at all.”

“Let’s eat,” I said. “I’d like to get started on the typing since we are going to the hairdresser this afternoon and, thanks to you, I’m going
babysitting
tonight.”

“You said Harry was adorable,” said Mum. “Just watch your purse.”

“You really think he’s a thief?” I asked.

“So William implied as much. How much is one of those snuff boxes worth?”

“It depends. I’ve known some to reach six figures at auction.”

“You should sell snuff boxes in your new shop.”

“
Our
new shop,” I said. “Oh Mum, please come back to London. How can you be happy here with all the drama?”

“But it’s all so exciting. Have you any idea how bored I used to be?” Mum picked up a sandwich, took one bite, and pulled a face. “Mayonnaise.”

As we ate our lunch I studied the corkboard in more depth. Mum had written, “Seed pearls Elizabeth I,” on a Post-it next to
EDITH ROSE B. NOVEMBER
10
,
1927
.

“You were going to tell me about the pearls,” said Mum.

“The official name is parure,” I said. “Very popular in Elizabethan times and then again, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were handed down from mother to daughter. Along with the necklace and earrings we saw in the portrait, there was often a corsage, a tiara, bracelets, rings, and brooches. Obviously far more valuable as a suite though I suspect it’s been split up by now. Pity.”

I pointed to another Post-it:
EDWARD RUPERT B.
1870
TITANIC.
“Did you know that after the
Titanic
sank in 1912, Steiff made six hundred special mourning bears to commemorate the tragedy?” I said. “One sold for eighty thousand pounds at Christie’s.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mum. “You were there.” She reached down and picked up a copy of the
Daily Post
from a basket at the foot of her chair. “William brings me the morning newspapers.” She opened it to Trudy Wynne’s wretched
Star Stalkers
column and pointed to a photo of me emerging from a janitor’s cupboard. Someone had Photoshopped my handbag and replaced it with a floor mop. The caption read
NO MORE
FAKES & TREASURES
?
RAPUNZEL SWAPS HER SPINNING WHEEL FOR CINDERELLA’S BROOM.

“What on earth were you doing in the janitor’s cupboard?” said Mum.

“Avoiding Trudy Wynne,” I said wearily.

“Hell hath no fury, dear.” Mum reached over and patted my knee. “Just think that she wouldn’t be doing that if she didn’t feel you were a threat.”

“Threat for what? He left her—and don’t start that again. I’m going to get my laptop.”

Moments later I was sitting at Mum’s desk. “It’s going to be hard coming into the middle of the book when I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Just jump right on in,” said Mum. “All I need you to do is type it up.”

“I might have comments.”

“I don’t want your comments.”

“How will I print out the pages?” I said. “Is there somewhere in Dartmouth? A printing place I can use?”

“I have no idea.” Mum yawned. “Now you know why I don’t have a computer. With a typewriter, you just type, pull out the paper, and it’s done.”

There was little point in arguing.

Mum settled into the wingback armchair. “I’m going to take a nap.”

I read the first sentence and cringed.
Odors of sweat and love mingled with the smells of damp wood and sun-warmed grass. Inflamed with desire, Shelby the gamekeeper wanted to ravish her here, out in the open in broad daylight.

“Mother,” I said. “This is so corny.” But she didn’t answer. I glanced over to find her eyes closed, snoring gently.

I read on.
He kissed and licked her salty neck, unable to get enough of her; not wanting to ever let her go. Lady Evelyn lay still, floating on a river of passion.

“Leave the old earl,” he demanded. “Come away with me.”

“I love you but you know I can’t,” she whispered. “I love my brother. It would break his heart.”

“Are we destined to meet in secret forever?” he said angrily.

She began to cry. “Don’t torment me, you know my life is here. I could never leave the Hall.”

A horse whinnied close by and there was a shout. “Evelyn! Where are you? Are you in the spinney?”

Lady Evelyn turned white. “It’s my brother! God help us.” She scrambled to her feet, her face ashen. “Quick, get Jupiter. We can never meet again.”

Mum’s love scenes were steamy and extremely graphic yet they had a compelling sensuality about them that made me hot and bothered. No wonder Mum didn’t want Dad to know about this.

My thoughts drifted to David and our somewhat predictable sex life. When we first met we couldn’t keep our hands off each other but not anymore.

Reading Lady Evelyn’s adventures brought back those early days with David. Although I couldn’t quite recall “floating on a river of passion,” I vividly remembered a trip to New York City when we didn’t leave our hotel room for five whole days. What had changed between us?

Mum awoke with a loud, grunt. “Goodness,” she said. “What’s the time?”

“Time to go to your hair appointment.”

“How are you getting on?”

“I think I need to take a cold shower,” I said. “Seriously Mum, this is very hot stuff. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Everyone was young once.”

As we shut the front door behind us and headed for the courtyard I said, “By the way, you may want to do a word search on the phrase
peaked nipples.
I counted five in forty pages.”

“Pairs, I presume?” said Mum.

We took my Golf. I opened the corrugated iron gate and drove on through Eric’s scrapyard. He was standing outside his caravan polishing the shiny red Massey Ferguson.

“I bet he’s fiddling the books,” said Mum. “Do you know how much those tractors cost?”

“No, but I suspect you do.”

“Tax evasion,” Mum declared. “I’m sure of it. A nice hefty fine will take care of old beetle-brows.”

“Just be careful and remember that what goes around, comes around.”

“Tonight, we’re setting up that surveillance camera,” said Mum. “Pugsley won’t know what’s hit him.”

Chapter Eleven

We turned onto the narrow two-lane highway and joined a long stream of holiday traffic crawling toward Dartmouth.

“This is painful,” I said. “We’ll never get there in time.”

Finally we crested the brow of the hill where the magnificent building, home to the Britannia Royal Naval College, afforded a spectacular view of the fishing port below.

“Agatha Christie had a summer home called Greenway just up the river from here,” said Mum. “I’m thinking of volunteering for the National Trust as a docent.”

“I think you should wait until you’re looking better,” I said. “You don’t want to frighten the tourists.”

As we inched our way down the hill, colorful bunting was strung between the houses and shops and large banners pronounced it was Dartmouth Royal Regatta Week. The River Dart was full of all manner of sailing vessels and the entire town was heaving with activity.

Parked cars lined the narrow one-way streets. We passed three pay-and-display areas but each one said
PARKING LOT FULL.
Pedestrians spilled off the pavements and walked in the road without a care.

“We’ll never park,” I grumbled as yet another wave of people ambled across in front of our car. I slammed my hand hard on the horn garnering more than a few glares. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! This is worse than London.”

“No wonder!” Mum tapped the dashboard. “Where’s our lucky mascot? Where’s Jazzbo? Don’t you always keep him up here?”

Mum’s comment on Harry being light-fingered hit me afresh. I hesitated, wondering if it was worth the lecture about being careful whom I loaned my things to and decided it wasn’t.

“I left Jazzbo at the house,” I lied. “I thought he’d like to hang out with some of his old furry friends.”

“Oh well, we’ll have to do without him. Turn right on Mayor’s Avenue.”

“But won’t that take us away from the town?”

“We’re parking in Marks and Sparks.”

We passed the police station and then turned into Marks & Spencer. Apart from six disabled parking spots, it, too, was packed. “I knew this would be a waste of time.”

“You have to trust me, dear.” Mum reached down into her handbag and brought out a blue disabled parking placard. “There are some perks to frightening the tourists.”

As we got out, a dirty Ford Focus zoomed into the empty space beside us, only narrowly missing my open door. Vera jumped out. Dressed in a short skirt and wedge heels, she, too, produced a blue disabled parking placard from her handbag and fixed it onto her rearview mirror.

“Hmm, great minds think alike,” I said to Mum.

“But I
am
disabled—”

Vera slammed the door then spotted us. With a quick nod of acknowledgement, she walked off with an affected limp.

“And Vera is not,” said Mum.

I grabbed my tote bag and double-checked I’d brought my laptop. I made sure to stand close to Mum’s injury as we fought our way upstream to the hair salon in Zion Place.

Tucked down a side street, nestled between the Old Curiosity Shop and an art gallery, the salon was called—unimaginatively—Snipxx.

We walked in to be greeted by a sullen girl in her early twenties sporting leggings and a nose ring. A name tag pinned to a plunging V-neck top said
STACEY
and was embellished with star stickers.

Vera was already seated at one of the washbasins that lined the rear wall with her eyes closed.

“God! I hope I won’t get stuck next to her all afternoon,” groaned Mum. “If she mentions Pugsley once I’ll scream.”

Mum was hustled into the changing room. I told her I’d collect her in an hour and a half and left the salon.

I looked into the diamond-leaded window of the Old Curiosity Shop. Inside, a handful of browsers poked and prodded around but I sensed no one was really interested in buying, which was no surprise. A glance at the price tag for six beaded curtain tassels was double that of London.

There was French country furniture, rich velvet and brocade fabrics, copper bedpans, and glass showcases offering the usual vintage jewelry, cut crystal paperweights, and bone china. A Steiff bear made of white mohair caught my eye.

Behind the counter a petite woman in her early forties with a sleek black bob was perched on a stool leafing through a copy of
Paris Match
.

“Excuse me, I wondered if I could look at the Steiff bear in the glass cabinet,” I asked.

“It’s very expensive,” she said and continued to flip through her magazine.

I detected a strong French accent. “Yes, I know. He’s called Selby and was made around 1915.”

The woman looked up sharply. She frowned and then broke into a big smile. “
Mon dieu!
Kat Stanford! What a pleasure to meet you in my little shop. I’m Nicole Lassalle-Porter.”

We shook hands. “Very nice to meet you, too.”

“You should have your own show in Dartmouth,” Nicole went on. “So much fake stuff in these little shops—not my shop, you understand—and the tourists are so foolish, they buy everything.”

A few of the “foolish tourists” turned around and glared. A woman dressed in tight shorts and wearing flip-flops took her husband’s arm and left in a huff.

“
Tant pis
. Too bad.” Nicole shrugged. “Come! Let us see Selby.” Picking up a fob of keys, she ducked under the counter and led the way to the glass display case.

“Tell me that the rumor is not true,” said Nicole. “Tell me you are not leaving
Fakes & Treasures
.”