Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (21 page)

Panic-stricken, I’d found William mucking out a loose box. He took one look at my face and shouted, “Edith? Oh my God, what’s happened? Is she dead?”

When I told him that I’d found Vera in the grotto he refused to believe that she’d been—I still struggled to think the word, let alone say it—murdered.

Within minutes William had called Little Dipperton’s police station but it was closed on Sundays. Another call to Shawn’s mobile assured us he’d be fifteen minutes. There was no sign of Eric and William’s repeated phone calls to his mobile went straight to voicemail.

“That’s a guilty sign if ever there was one,” said William grimly. “Edith is going to be devastated. She was very fond of Vera.” He groaned. “I’ll have to break the news to Joan—that’s Vera’s mother.”

“You’re a kind person, William,” I said.

“She’s got Alzheimer’s,” said William. “Such a cruel disease. Perhaps it’s a mercy that she’ll not really understand.”

I took another nip of cherry brandy and felt the fire again.

“That stuff helps, doesn’t it?” said William.

“I’m feeling a bit hot.” I threw off the sheet and removed my jacket. The toy mouse fell out of the pocket and onto the floor. I bent down to pick it up.

“Where did you find that?” William said sharply.

“Harry gave it to me.”

“Harry shouldn’t take what isn’t his,” said William. “It belongs to Lady Edith. Here, let me have it.”

“Do you mind if I hold onto it for a day or so?” I said.

“I really think I should slip it back before Edith notices.” William reached for the toy but, childishly, I held the mouse close to my chest.

“I have one very similar to this,” I said. “Mine also wears a hand-knitted cardigan but no badges of seaside piers. I want to compare them.”

“How extraordinary,” William said.

I frowned. “I wonder where Lady Edith found hers.”

“At an auction, perhaps?”

Somehow I couldn’t imagine Lady Edith bidding on a toy mouse.

“Isn’t that where you must have gotten yours?” William went on. “At an auction?”

“My mother gave mine to me—”

“
Iris
gave it to you?” William seemed shocked. “Did she say where she got it?”

“Mum has always said she couldn’t remember, but this is just too much of a coincidence,” I said. “I think I’ll ask her ladyship.”

“No!” William cried. “I mean—not a good idea. I don’t want to get Harry into trouble.”

Fortunately, all further conversation was cut short by a wailing police siren bringing me back abruptly to the horror of the morning—Vera’s death.

William’s expression turned thunderous. “Bloody idiots!” he screamed, bounding out of the tack room. “Turn the bloody thing off!” he shouted. “The horses! Goddamit!”

Pulling my jacket back on, I hurried after him just as an old panda car with orange-and-yellow stripes turned into the yard and came to a screeching halt.

Tinkerbell, Lady Edith’s favorite horse, was frantic. Eyes rolling with fear, she kept hurling herself at the stable door with such force I feared it would break. William attempted to comfort her but it was only when Shawn cut the engine that the siren stopped and Tinkerbell quieted down.

Shawn got out of the car followed by two uniformed police officers—a man with an enormous potbelly and heavy Captain Pugwash beard and a pretty redhead, her beauty only marred by a dark smudge of hair on her upper lip.

William hurried over and got right in Shawn’s face and for a moment I thought he was going to take a swing at him. “You moron!” he exclaimed.

“Whoa, steady on.” Shawn stepped back hastily. “Faulty siren.”

“We couldn’t turn it off, mate,” Captain Pugwash put in. “Calm down now.”

Muttering more obscenities, William turned on his heel and disappeared inside Tinkerbell’s box.

Shawn looked even more disheveled than usual, having thrown his beige trench coat over faded denim jeans and a T-shirt.

He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

I nodded and then, quite unexpectedly, my eyes stung with tears.

Shawn produced a very grubby handkerchief that smelled strongly of bananas and gave it to me.

“I thought at first it was Gayla and then—”

“Well, it was Vera,” the redhead said briskly. “And frankly, I’m not surprised. Everyone knew she and Eric fought like cats and dogs.”

“Thank you for your opinion, Roxy, but let’s not condemn Eric quite yet,” Shawn said firmly. “Allow me to introduce WPC Roxy Cairns and DC Clive Banks.”

I murmured a hello.

“I suppose the place will be crawling with the media now,” Roxy went on.

“Of course we’ll try our best to keep it out of the papers,” said Shawn.

“The papers?” I said, confused.

“Celebrity finds dead body in grotto,” said Roxy. “It’s not every day we have a TV star in Little Dipperton.”

“No need to make things worse, Roxy,” said Clive. “You’re looking a bit peaky, luv. You’re in shock. You should lie down.”

“I need to tell my mother,” I said.

“Of course, of course,” said Shawn. “Why don’t you escort Kat home, Clive? There’ll be plenty of time for questions later and we can get the gist of what happened from William.”

Clive and I headed for the path through the pinewoods.

“What’s it like to be a celebrity, then?” he asked.

“Difficult,” I said and hoped that answered his question.

“Must be nice to have all that money,” Clive persisted. “Move to the countryside and push up the house prices for the locals. Did you know that ninety percent of second-home owners don’t even live in their second homes?”

“Well, this is my mother’s only home,” I said curtly. “And I live in London.”

“After you.” Clive jumped forward and opened the latch-gate into the woods. A brace of pheasants powered out of the bushes screeching with indignation.

I picked up the pace, relived that we had to walk in single file. It was astonishing that my celebrity status seemed to be more interesting to Clive than poor Vera’s demise.

“That’s right,” said Clive, trotting behind me. “Aren’t you shacked up with that famous art investigator bloke? What’s his name? Glynn? Wynne?”

“It’s David Wynne.” Fortunately Clive couldn’t see my expression of annoyance. I loathed personal questions.

“Shawn Googled you,” Clive went on. “Old Wynne’s not divorced though, is he?”

I didn’t answer but walked even faster. “I’ve seen his wife on the telly, too,” Clive called out. “She’s hot.”

Still I didn’t answer.

“We could have used David Wynne’s services twenty years ago when there was a big robbery here.”

I stopped and waited for Clive to join me. “You know something about the robbery?”

“I was fourteen at the time. Caused a lot of excitement but Shawn’s dad—he was the local plod back then—never caught the buggers.”

“Did you live at the Hall, too?” The place was beginning to sound like a commune.

“Born here. My dad was one of the gardeners,” said Clive. “Eric, Shawn, Vera, and I, we all went to the same school. Vera was neurotic even then. She and Eric were always off-and-on but I never thought he’d do it—and in the grotto, too. She hated it there. Refused to go anywhere near the sunken garden because of the blue lady.”

“I’ve heard it’s haunted.”

“You don’t believe me?” said Clive. “Gospel truth. Vera knew that. Why would she go there? Doesn’t make any sense. Just goes to show you never really know someone.”

I thought of my mother and all her secrets. “Yes, you’re so right about that.”

Thankfully, we walked the rest of the way in silence.

“Thank you for escorting me, Clive,” I said as we arrived at the Carriage House.

“Mind if I look inside?” said Clive. “Haven’t been here since I was a lad. We used to have a den up in the hayloft. I’d like to see what’s been done to the place.”

“Nothing has been done,” I said sweetly. “I suspect it’s the same as it was when you were a lad.”

He thrust out his jaw. “I’d still like to look. I suppose she’ll rip it all out. Destroy the soul of the place.”

I couldn’t be bothered to argue and opened the front door. “Good-bye,” I said then paused, listening to a
thump-thump-thump
and a muffled cry for help.

“What’s that noise?” said Clive sharply.

My stomach flipped over. “It’s my mother.”

“Stay where you are!” Clive produced a black telescopic baton as if from thin air and yelled, “Police!”

“Help!” Mum cried again, followed by more thumping that appeared to be coming in the direction of the kitchen.

I shoved Clive aside, flung open the kitchen door, and gasped. A purple harem pantaloon leg was dangling through a hole in the ceiling.

“Oh God! Stay there, Mum.”

“I’m hardly going for a run,” came the response.

“Stay here,” said Clive. “If she falls through … just catch her.”

Clive thundered up the stairs.

“Mind the top step,” I yelled but it was too late. There was a crash and cry of pain.

I raced after him but surprisingly—for such a large man—he was up on his feet and already standing over Mum by the time I reached her bedroom.

My mother had partially fallen through the floorboards. Because of her broken hand, she’d taken the weight onto her right shoulder, causing her face to be squashed against the wall. Her left leg was bent back at an unnatural angle that had fortunately stopped her from plunging into the kitchen below.

Mum gave Clive a winning smile. “I see the cavalry has arrived.”

“At your service, ma’am. Allow me.” Putting his hands under Mum’s arms, he lifted her effortlessly up and onto the bed where she lay exhausted on her back like a stranded fish.

“I thought you’d never come,” she panted.

Mum’s harem pantaloons had ripped on the jagged edges of the floorboards. Blood oozed through the fabric.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“She needs to see a doctor and get a tetanus injection,” said Clive.

“I don’t want a tetanus injection. There’s TCP in the bathroom cabinet,” said Mum.

“Your poor face,” I said. Mum’s cheek bore pressure marks from the crumbling plasterwork. “You look as if you have a severe case of acne.” But Mum didn’t laugh. “I’ll get the TCP,” I said.When I returned from the bathroom she was sitting on the edge of the bed with a blanket around her shoulders. Her face was white. “Has she gone into shock?” I asked.

“I told her about Vera.” Clive was standing with his back to the window. A series of unintelligible squawks and crackles emanated from his shoulder mike.

“I can’t believe it—no, I
can
believe it,” said Mum. “It’s usually the spouse in situations like this. I remember how upset Vera was when she came to see me. Eric killed her. Oh God! I knew he was unstable. That could have been me lying there on a cold stone floor in a cave.”

Clive’s shoulder mike blurted out a police code that was clearly important. “Got to go. SOCA and old Fluffy has arrived.”

“Fluffy?” I said.

“English bloodhound,” said Clive. “She’s been brought out of retirement.”

Mum looked up sharply. “Why do you need forensics and a tracker dog? I thought you said Eric was guilty.”

Clive paused at the bedroom door. I noted a tear on the knee of his trousers where he’d taken a tumble up the stairs. “I like to think so but the boss goes by the book.”

I rolled both pantaloons up to the top of Mum’s thighs. The cuts were nasty and the knee that had stopped her complete fall was badly bruised.

“This might sting.”

Mum winced as I dabbed the TCP on her raw flesh. She gave another whimper as I helped her down the stairs and sat her on a kitchen chair at the table.

“Tea?” I suggested.

I removed my jacket and was about to put the mouse and snuff box on the dresser when Mum exclaimed, “Oh my God! Where did you find that?”

“I found the snuff box outside in the undergrowth.”

“No, not
that
.” Mum sounded irritated. “Ella Fitzgerald.”

“Who?”

Mum picked up the mouse and examined it from all quarters. “This is Ella Fitzgerald.”

“Harry gave it to me. He tried to pass Ella Fitzgerald off as Jazzbo Jenkins.”

“But no, it doesn’t make sense.” Mum shook her head. “Billy is dead.”

“Ella. Billy. Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to force it out of you with more TCP?”

“Forget the tea. Get the gin and tonic and I think you should have a large one, too.”

“I already drank some of Mrs. Cropper’s medicinal cherry brandy, thanks.”

“Trust me,” said Mum bleakly. “You’ll need it.”

Mum didn’t say another word until I sat down with our drinks. She seemed nervous and her hands were trembling.

“Well?” I demanded.

She took a long draft and gave a satisfying shiver. “I knew the Honeychurch Hall estate before,” she said. “A long time ago.”

“I thought as much. You seem to know a lot for someone who has only been here three weeks. Did you come to Devon with Dad on holiday?”

“Sort of.” Mum took a deep breath “Katherine—”

“You only call me Katherine when you’re either annoyed or it’s something serious.”

“This
is
serious.” Mum reached for my hand and squeezed it.

“Okay, I’m getting worried now.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” said Mum. “I used to stay here as a girl with my family.”

“You told me you lived in an orphanage!”

“I did for a time but then I was adopted by Aunt June and Uncle Ron—not my real relatives, obviously because I didn’t have any. They ran Bushman’s Traveling Boxing Emporium—”

“The one you mentioned in
Gypsy Temptress
?”

“You read it?” Mum brightened. “When I was a girl I lived in a horse-drawn caravan, sleeping under the stars. I loved it. It was so romantic.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Don’t tell me, you’re a gypsy.”

“Not exactly a gypsy but—”

“
The
Bushman’s Traveling Boxing Emporium?” I exclaimed. “I saw the photographs in the downstairs loo at the Hall. You came here, didn’t you?”

“I just told you I did. Every summer.” Mum went on in a dreamy voice. “Billy and I used to sleep in the hayloft. It was such an adventure.”