Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (20 page)

“You can hold her, Biggles.” Laughing, I joined him. “Are you flying all by yourself?”

“No.” Harry carried on bouncing. “Mummy’s gone inside to see Vera.”

“Oh good, so Vera is home.” All that fuss for nothing, I thought. “Have you seen Shawn the police officer here today?”

Harry shook his head, then, gesturing to the parcels in my hands, he said, “What are you carrying, Stanford? Military supplies?”

“Something like that, sir,” I said.

“Can we carry on with our mission to rescue Flying Officer Jazzbo Jenkins from the Germans? Please! You promised!”

“I’ll just deliver these and—providing your mother says yes—we can.”

I pushed open the door to Vera’s cottage, stepped into a small front room, and called out, “Anyone home? Vera? Lavinia? It’s Kat.”

There was no reply—just the sound of a clock ticking on the mantelpiece.

With a low-beamed ceiling and partially drawn curtains, the room felt gloomy and claustrophobic. A dark blue sofa and armchair were in front of a wood-burner stove. Pushed against the wall stood a dining room table and four wooden chairs with matching blue cushion pads.

On the table was Vera’s Chanel handbag—the one she was carrying last night—along with three shoeboxes—Jimmy Choo, Prada, and Gucci—that lay open with their lids off. The shoes inside were still wrapped in tissue paper.

I set my boxes down next to a Mont Blanc rollerball pen and hardback notebook labeled
MY LOVELY SHOES.

Vera had expensive tastes. There were no prizes for guessing where she spent her money and why Vera had asked Mum for a loan.

At the back of the room in the left-hand corner was an alcove containing a computer workstation and next to that, a wooden latch door that led to a narrow staircase. I called out again. “Vera? Lavinia?”

And again, I was met with silence.

I tried the kitchen. It, too, had low beams and a tiny diamond-pane window with a flagstone floor. Another glass-paned door led to a walled courtyard outside.

The kitchen was untidy with dirty dishes piled up in the sink. On the draining board were the leopard print Louboutin shoes that Vera had been wearing last night, still encrusted with mud. A dirty frying pan stood on top of the cooker along with a half-drunk glass of wine. On the worktop stood a butter dish, loaf of bread, and an empty wine bottle. Last night’s supper—not this morning’s breakfast. I felt a stirring of unease.

The back door was ajar. I stepped into the yard and discovered an old potting shed with a slate roof that presumably used to be the former washroom and toilet.

Lavinia emerged and gave a cry of surprise. “Katherine! Goodness. You startled me.”

She was dressed in riding gear and hairnet but her usual pale complexion sported a distinct pink flush. “Thank you for babysitting last night. Harry’s spoken of nothing else. You read him a story,” she gabbled on. “Very kind. Lovely day.”

“Yes it is and Harry’s a lovely boy,” I said. “Is Vera with you?”

“Why?”

“Some parcels of hers were delivered to the Carriage House.”

“Just leave them inside. Lovely day, isn’t it?” she said again and cast a nervous look over her shoulder at the potting shed door.

“I left them in the cottage,” I said. “Is Vera out there?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Lavinia’s face flushed deeper. “Off we jolly well go, then. After you.” She gestured for me to walk ahead but I stood my ground.

“Did you notice if Vera’s bed was slept in?” I asked.

“Me?” Lavinia sounded horrified. “Why would I?”

“Eric seems to think she has gone missing.”

“All this on-again, off-again.” Lavinia shuddered with distaste. “Really. It’s all so frightfully
common
. Marriage is marriage and frankly, my people just get on with it and don’t make such a fuss. Excuse me. Must crack on.”

She slipped past me and went back inside the cottage. Curious, I walked over to the potting shed and pushed open the door. It contained the usual useless implements—cracked terra-cotta pots, empty jam jars, an old rake minus a few teeth, pieces of wood with bent nails—and a chest freezer. My stomach gave a lurch and for some farcical reason, I imagined Vera—or even Gayla, lying in there, dead. I know I was being ridiculous but even so, my throat went dry when I lifted up the lid. It was filled with frozen meats, boxes of sausage rolls, and ice cream.

Feeling somewhat silly, I returned to the cottage and met Lavinia waiting for me outside the front door. “Harry said you promised to play with him—”

“Not play! Finish our mission!” Harry exclaimed, bouncing furiously on the beech branch.

“Do you mind awfully?”

“I’d be happy to,” I said. “Should we lock the cottage?”

“Oh, no one does that sort of thing here,” said Lavinia airily. “It’s not London, you know.”

Harry clambered off the branch and trotted over to join us. “Are you ready, Flying Officer Stanford?”

“Oh, don’t bother Katherine with your silly games, Harry.”

“It’s not a game, is it, Biggles?” I said. “We’ve got to finish our mission. What time would you like him back?”

“That would help I must say,” said Lavinia, brightening. “Got a young horse I’m bringing on who could really do with some schooling. Noon? Good.”

Lavinia strode off and Harry gave a jump of delight. “Guess what,” he said. “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“Flying Office Jazzbo Jenkins has been spotted in the Black Forest.”

“And the bad news?”

Harry gave a heavy sigh. “He’s behind enemy lines.”

“Oh no!” I cried. “Then what are we waiting for?”

“Climb in, Stanford.” Harry pretended to step into the cockpit of his imaginary aircraft and I followed suit. “We’re in a Mosquito two-seater and you are my observer.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“We’re not in a ship, Stanford! This is a plane! Tally ho! Let’s go!”

We trotted tandem style across an overgrown lawn stricken with weeds and entered a grassy avenue of topiaried shapes that had long lost their original form. Passing under a stone archway we jogged through a wire-framed tunnel heavy with wisteria and honeysuckle and on into a series of color-themed gardens—white, red, yellow, and purple. The latter was spectacular and filled with lavender bushes, lilac trees, and patches of irises and delphiniums.

“We’re nearly there,” said Harry, breaking my thoughts.

“Good, I was getting so tired I thought my wings might fall off.”

Harry made all kinds of impressive noises, simulated the landing gear coming down, put the engines into a very noisy reverse thrust before coming to a halt.

We had stopped at the end of the formal gardens where a ha-ha—a deep grass-filled ditch with a wall on the inside just below ground level—formed the official boundary to the estate. Beyond stood acres of waving corn. To our right was a thick pine forest. We took the path on the left—another avenue of weed-strewn cobbles lined with the oldest chestnut trees I’d ever seen.

At the end was a towering yew hedge with a man-made arched entrance cut into the hedge itself.

Harry said in a low voice, “We’ve reached the Black Forest. We’re going in on foot.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered back and pretended to clamber out of our plane.

“And keep low,” said Harry. “There’s an enemy pillbox up on the ridge.”

We passed through the yew hedge and into a sunken garden overgrown with stinging nettles, thistles, and bracken. Thousands of tiny shells and colored glass were embedded in the low stone walls and pathways that ran in every direction.

Rounding a corner, Harry threw himself to the floor. “Lions!” he shouted.

“I thought you said we were in the Black Forest!”

“We are!” Harry cried. “They’re German lions. Get down, Stanford.”

There was, indeed, a pair of stone lions that were just visible in the bracken.

Harry jumped to his feet and ran on. We came upon a garden where lichen-covered stone benches were set in secluded nooks and chipped statues of Greek gods and mythical creatures graced hidden alcoves. A statue of Neptune stood in the dry bowl of a stone fountain opposite a miniature Parthenon.

Harry seemed to have disappeared.

“Where are you?” I shouted, feeling a twinge of alarm.

It was deathly quiet.

“Ta-dah!” Harry jumped out from behind the Parthenon holding a mouse. “Here is Jazzbo Jenkins! Safely returned from the enemy!”

“Mission accomplished,” I said but then took a closer look. It wasn’t Jazzbo Jenkins at all.

It was a Merrythought mouse, very similar to Jazzbo with the same velveteen face and body, string whiskers, and thin rope tail but it wasn’t mine. This mouse was also dressed in a hand-knitted cardigan but it was red—Jazzbo’s was blue. What’s more, this little chap wore a dozen or so souvenir badges commemorating British seaside piers—Blackpool Pier, Brighton Pier, Paignton Pier, Worthing Pier—half of which had been demolished decades ago.

When my mother gave Jazzbo to me, I knew there were other Merrythought “Jerry” mice out in the world. They weren’t in the same league as Steiff but even so, they were collectors’ items and still highly sought after.

I regarded Harry with suspicion. “This is not Jazzbo Jenkins, Harry.”

“Yes it is,” said Harry defiantly.

“Take off your goggles and answer me truthfully. I’m not angry. I just want to know.”

“It
is
Jazzbo Jenkins! It
is
!” Harry shouted and promptly ran off again.

“Harry!” I cried. “Come back here!” I set off after him but he darted down a path and then another and finally, vanished.

I was out of breath—and lost. I wasn’t worried about Harry who clearly knew where he was going, but I was jolly worried about me. The place was a multilevel maze of tiny pathways overgrown with shrubs. I had visions of being lost in here forever.

I took yet another path and pushed my way through straggling laurel bushes and came across a high Devon hedge bank covered with ground ivy. At the foot, the vegetation had been disturbed, revealing a gap with a narrow flight of steps. Covered in black moss and glistening with damp, they descended to an arched wooden door that was embedded in the bank itself. Very Hobbit-like, I thought.

The sun emerged from behind a cloud just as the wind picked up and rustled through the trees. I got a distinct sense that I was being watched. My skin began to prickle, just as it had last night at the Hall. I thought of the infamous Lady Frances or “blue lady,” rumored to haunt this place and shivered.

Another gust of wind, stronger than the last, sent branches chattering and a shaft of sunlight repeatedly bounced off a metallic object on the bank above. Morse code.

“Biggles,” I called out. “I know you’re up there.” I scrambled up the bank but there was no sign of Harry. The Morse code signals continued to flash in the undergrowth a few yards farther along. “This isn’t funny, Harry,” I said as nettles stung my naked ankles.

And then I realized what was catching the sunlight. A metal snuff box.

It was, in fact, an eighteenth-century Meissen porcelain snuff box inlaid with silver and gold. On the lid was a delicate painting of an elephant. I guessed this was the one missing from Lady Edith’s collection.

I felt disappointed. Harry must have stolen it, after all—or had he? Perhaps Gayla had gotten away with pocketing a few but that didn’t explain why the snuff box had been abandoned in such an unusual location.

From my vantage point I could see down into a gloomy stairwell below. At the base, dead leaves and pulp had been scraped aside.

Someone was down there.

I paused at the top of the steps for a moment.

“Harry? I know where you are.”

But there was no answer.

I was gripped by a feeling of such foreboding it was making me dizzy. Slipping the snuff box into one pocket of my coat and the mouse into the other, I slowly descended the steps.

At the bottom I saw I was right. A diagonal wedge of mulch had been pushed away from the base of the door. I seized the iron ring handle, pulled the door toward me, and stepped into the cool interior.

“Is anyone there?” I called out.

Speckled light from a blue glass porthole above cast an eerie glow on a circular chamber. The walls were lined with cockles, whelks, oyster shells, mussels, and mosaics of blue and green glass. Two narrow passages led off into the darkness.

It was then that I saw a naked foot with painted toenails at the mouth of the left-hand passage. One navy polka-dot Wellington boot lay on its side.

My heart thundered in my chest. I edged farther in, holding the wall for support. “Gayla?” I whispered. “It’s Kat. Are you okay?”

A sudden sunbeam sent a shaft of blue light down the passage.

To my horror, there, faceup on the floor was Vera still dressed in her Saturday night finery.

I didn’t need to feel for her pulse. I already knew.

Vera was dead.

Chapter Sixteen

“Sit down and drink this.” William took a silver hip flask off the shelf and steered me over to the tattered armchair in the corner of the tack room. “It’s Mrs. Cropper’s cherry brandy.”

I sat down allowing William to throw a lightweight turnout sheet around my shoulders. It smelled of horse and was extremely comforting. William gallantly withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the top of the flask, and said, “I don’t have germs.”

I took a deep draft and felt a rush of fire sear my throat and warm my belly. It definitely gave me a buzz.

“I just can’t believe Eric finally snapped,” said William. “He seemed so upset this morning but he
did
look as if he’d been in a fight. Vera must have fought back hard.”

I nodded bleakly but was unable to speak. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Vera had been lying on the floor with her eyes closed and her hands clasped over her chest as if in prayer. Apart from a deep purple indent on her right temple, there was nothing to show she’d been—dare I say—murdered. If anything, she looked peaceful.

I kept replaying the moment of sheer horror when I touched Vera’s skin and realized she was dead. What a blessing it had been to stumble upon the latch-gate tucked around the side of the hedge bank. It opened directly onto the service road that ran parallel to the Hall and stableyard.