Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (17 page)

“It doesn’t look as if Jazzbo is down here, sir,” I said.

“Shh! There are Germans everywhere. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Bad news,” Harry whispered. “Our man could be up in the tower.”

At the end of the corridor were two glass-paneled doors. One led to the outside courtyard, the other to a narrow staircase.

The back stone stairs wound up to the attics with walls painted a dull green. Harry stopped on the small landing next to another wooden door. “We’ve just scaled up an outside wall under heavy enemy fire,” he whispered. “Now we’re about to scramble over the parapet. Ready?”

We stepped into the galleried landing that overlooked the great hall. Light spilled from the domed atriums above. A threadbare carpet bore several imprints of heavy furniture that had probably been sold off. A handful of picture lights illuminated empty squares. Two beautiful walnut display credenzas contained a collection of porcelain snuff boxes—Lady Edith’s cherished collections. There had to be at least twenty in each cabinet and worth a small fortune.

Harry grabbed my hand. “Come on, Stanford, there’s no time to lose.”

He opened the first door off the landing and pulled me inside. It was a man’s bedroom and I suspected it was Rupert’s.

“I don’t think we should be in here,” I said.

“We can’t leave any stone unturned,” said Harry earnestly. “You take one side, I’ll take the other. Von Stalhein could have our chap locked up in a secret chamber.”

The room was heavily beamed and with exquisite linenfold paneling—obviously part of the original house. It was decorated in dark autumnal colors with seventeenth century oak furniture and more oil paintings of stags, dogs, and pheasants. There was a vast wood-framed bed, armoire, and two sets of chests of drawers. The fireplace had an overmantel of carved wood bearing the Honeychurch coat of arms.

Harry began opening drawers and peering into corners. “Check the desk for clues, Stanford!” said Harry. “That’s an order!”

An oak bureau stood between two casement windows that overlooked the park and the white angel memorial. Maybe Rupert really was still in love with his first wife and when I spied a wood-framed photograph of a couple on his desk, it certainly seemed so. Rupert stood with his arm around a young dark-haired woman who was dressed in a low, plunging neckline. Frankly, she did look a little on the tarty side.

There was also a brochure marked
Sunny Hill Lodge Residential Home for the Elderly
. A note was stapled to the cover from P. Pelham-Burns, Esq. saying, “With compliments. Looking forward to meeting the dowager countess.”

I began to feel seriously uncomfortable. “Harry, we
really
shouldn’t be in here.”

I turned to find my charge dragging a blue telescoping mailing tube out from under the bed. “It’s a map of the dungeons!” he said excitedly. He tipped it upside down and shook it hard but nothing slid out.

Harry’s face fell. “It’s gone.”

“The Germans must have stolen it,” I said.

“But it was here yesterday. Gayla found it.” Harry scowled. “I wanted to show it to you.”

“Never mind. Let’s put this back.” I took the tube from him and glanced at the shipping label. It was addressed to H & P Developments of 14A The Passage, Dartmouth. The return address was from a company in Bristol called PlayScapes Planning. Kneeling down, I rolled the tube under the bed.

“I know!” said Harry. “Maybe the map is in Fräulein von Stalhein’s room?”

“No more bedrooms,” I said but he had already vanished through a connecting door. The fact that Lavinia and Rupert did not sleep together was not lost on me.

Lavinia’s bedroom was chaotic. There was a saddle on the back of an armchair,
Horse & Hound
magazines stacked on the floor, and a walnut dressing table with a set of silver brushes, old-fashioned glass perfume bottles, and used tissues.

Clothing was heaped in piles on the carpet and the bed was unmade. On Lavinia’s night table, next to a framed photograph of a much younger Rupert dressed in polo playing attire was—to my extreme surprise—Mum’s book,
Gypsy Temptress
. It lay open, spine facing up. Perhaps Lavinia wasn’t as cold-blooded as she seemed, after all.

Harry gave a heavy sigh. “What the dickens happened here, Stanford? This must have been quite a show. Von Stalhein must have been tipped off and moved our man elsewhere.”

“No more bedrooms, Harry,” I said again. “They’re private. You wouldn’t like it if someone went through your things.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “But Jazzbo could be in danger.”

“No more tonight,” I said firmly. “Back to base, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth. We’ll continue our search tomorrow.”

“Base” proved to be Harry’s bedroom—a light and sunny room with a high ceiling, two casement windows, and a view of the walled garden.

The furniture was mainly pine—a narrow bed, freestanding wardrobe, and a chest of drawers upon which stood a tray with two glasses of milk and a plate of homemade biscuits. There was a pine blanket chest and matching bookcase filled with comic books and volumes of adventure stories.

In the corner was an ancient navy school trunk with old leather straps. The name
RUPERT E. HONEYCHURCH
had been scratched out and
HARRY E. HONEYCHURCH
written in black marker pen above it.

There was no television or computer—just a selection of board games including an antique chessboard, backgammon, cribbage,
Monopoly,
and
Scrabble
. I wondered how Harry would adjust to being around “normal” kids who grew up saturated with modern technology.

And yet it was the model airplanes from both World Wars suspended from the ceiling that took my breath away. No wonder Harry created a world of make-believe. How could he avoid it?

A workstation stretched the length of one wall holding pots of paint, brushes, glue, and scissors. Underneath it was a stool.

“Did you make these models yourself?” I enthused. “You must have a lot of patience.”

“Gayla tried,” said Harry, changing into his pajamas. “But she got red paint everywhere! William tried, too, but his hands are gigantic because he’s the strongest man in the world.”

“So I hear.” William went up a notch in my estimation. “What about your father?”

“He’s always busy but he said he was going to take me to the RAF Museum in London for my birthday.”

“You’ll love it. You’ll see real planes there—just like these models.”

Harry beamed with excitement. “The Sopwith Camels and the Tiger Moths were built by Great-Uncle Rupert. This used to be his bedroom.” Harry gestured to a black-and-white framed portrait of a handsome pilot in flying suit and goggles. “I see him sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“He likes to stand in the corner—oh!” Harry laughed with delight. “He’s there right now. Hello, Great-Uncle Rupert!”

I spun around but of course there was no one there. “I can’t see anything.”

Harry laughed again. “He’s right there! He’s giving you a salute.”

“Well, say hello to Great-Uncle Rupert from me,” I said, happy to play along. “Are there any other ghosts here?”

Harry grew serious. “The lady in blue with the funny big dress.”

“Lady Frances?” I said. “Is she in one of the portraits downstairs wearing the pearl necklace?”

Harry nodded. “Shall I tell you what happened to her?”

“No, thank you. I’m sure it was horrible.”

“She was drowned by Cromwell’s men in the pond near the grotto,” said Harry with relish. “They held her under the water until her eyes bulged out and her head exploded—”

“Okay Harry, that’s enough now,” I said. “Not something we want to think about before you go to sleep. Bed please.”

Harry clambered into bed. “Can I have a story?”

“Of course. Who usually reads you a story?”

“Father sometimes, Gayla used to—and William. He makes it funny.”

“You like William?”

“Yes. He’s nice.”

I sat on the end of his bed and we drank our milk and ate all the biscuits.

“Who plays chess?” I asked.

“Father, when he’s not too busy,” said Harry. “Gayla used to play but she never let me win. She wouldn’t let Father win, either.”

“They played together?” I said, recalling Nicole, the antique dealer’s comment about Rupert’s wandering eye.

“Yes, every night.”

“Let’s have that story,” I said.

Children’s adventure classics lined the shelves—The Famous Five by Enid Blyton,
Treasure Island
by Robert Louis Stevenson,
The Hobbit
by J. R. R. Tolkien, and of course, volumes of W. E. Johns and
Biggles.
My eye caught
Polar, The Titanic Bear
by Daisy Corning Stone Spedden.

“What about this one?” I said.

Harry pulled a face. “It’s about a boring old bear.”

“I thought you liked bears,” I said. “Do you know the story?”

“No.”

I sat back on the edge of the bed and opened the book. “It’s about a very brave bear who belonged to a little boy who survived the sinking of the
Titanic
—”

“I know about the
Titanic
. My great-great-grandfather died on the
Titanic
.”

“The little boy in the story would have been the same age as you.”

“Wait—” Harry flipped back the duvet and leapt out of bed. He lifted the lid of the pine blanket chest and dragged out a black bear.

As I took in the bear’s red-rimmed eyes, my stomach turned right over.

“Let me see,” I said, hardly daring to believe that this could be one of the rare
Titanic
mourning bears. The relatives of those who perished had purchased most of them. It
was
possible.

“Granny says he’s named Edward after her grandfather,” said Harry. “He’s not very handsome, is he?”

“That’s because he’s a hundred years old.”

“As old as Granny?”

“Probably not as old as Granny.” My mind was whirling with excitement. “Do you know if your grandmother has any other old toys?”

Harry shrugged again. “I think Father has a train set somewhere but he won’t let me play with it.”

To discover a private collection was a dream for any antique dealer and I made a mental note to talk to the dowager countess.

“All right.” Harry sighed. “Let’s read about the stupid bear.”

Fifteen minutes later I closed the book. “Did you like the story?”

“It was sad,” said Harry. “The little boy dies anyway. And what happened to the bear?”

“That will remain one of life’s mysteries.” I stood up and went over to the window, surprised that it was nine o’clock and still light outside.

“Don’t make it dark,” said Harry. “I don’t like it.”

I pulled the curtains closed but left a six-inch gap and switched on a night-light near the door.

Harry wriggled down into bed. “Will it be dark in my dormitory at boarding school?”

“Let’s hope not,” I said.

“You are going to be in Gayla’s room, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” I propped the bear against his lamp on the bedside table. “Since Jazzbo Jenkins is still in enemy hands, Edward bear will keep watch tonight. We don’t want you kidnapped by Von Stalhein.”

I kissed the top of Harry’s head, opened another connecting door, and stepped into the nanny’s room.

It was furnished with a 1940’s satinwood bedroom ensemble—a single bed, vanity, and dresser. Regarded as “cheap” furniture before the war, a complete set now could fetch a high price at auction—although the mattress left a lot to be desired. I sat down and practically sank to the floor. Vera had not changed the duvet and sheets yet. They still bore traces of Gayla’s musky perfume. Draped over a wooden Victorian towel rail were two thin pink towels.

On the matching satinwood side table was a small color television. A comfy armchair sat next to a Victorian fireplace that now housed a hideous three-bar electric fire. I turned the television on and discovered it had just four channels.

Gayla would have been lonely living here in the middle of nowhere. It must have been rather bleak. The Honeychurch clan didn’t seem exactly warm and welcoming and I thought it likely that Vera would regard the young girl as a rival rather than a friend. Would she even frame her for theft?

Since Shawn had been concerned with Gayla’s safety, I was surprised that her bedroom had not been searched yet.

A rattan wastepaper basket was filled with discarded magazines—and surprise—a copy of
Gypsy Temptress
. But what intrigued me most was a small bamboo novelty box containing an assortment of random objects—a mechanical pencil, a box of matches from Gino’s Italian restaurant in Plymouth, a blue coat-check ticket, a single dead red rose, and most revealing of all, a lipstick kiss imprint on the corner of a crumpled white linen handkerchief with the initials R.E.H.

They were the discarded trophies of an infatuated young woman and the only reason I knew was that I, too, had been that young woman. Not with David, but with another man long ago. Gayla had called Rupert “wicked” and I suspected it was because she felt she had been led on and then unceremoniously dumped.

Knowing full well that Vera would clean this room, Gayla must have deliberately left these items to be discovered and hoped to cause trouble. I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad—proof that she was okay or evidence of something more sinister.

I wondered if Lavinia would divorce Rupert for this indiscretion but guessed it was probably one of many. Rupert had leered at me, too.

With time to kill, I settled into the armchair and flicked through
Gypsy Temptress
.

She knew she would miss the wind in her hair, the feel of bare earth on her feet and the sounds of birds singing their evening song. She’d miss the warmth of a nighttime campfire and drifting to sleep beneath a canopy of stars. Would she be happy giving all this up for him? Would her kin ever forgive her? “I love you,” he whispered as he nuzzled her neck, sending quivers of delight down, down and into her innermost secret place …

“Good grief, Mother,” I muttered. “Innermost secret
place
?”