Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (3 page)

“That’s right,” said Vera. “Did you enter the competition?”

“Was there one?”

“Call yourself a fan?” Vera cried. “It’s all over her Web site. I’m going to win. I’m already through to the semifinals.”

“What’s the prize?” I asked.

“A long weekend for two in Italy and dinner with Krystalle Storm herself. All expenses paid—flight, hotel, the lot,” said Vera. “I’m going to take my Eric.”

“And I’m sure you’ll both have a lovely time,” Muriel said wearily and turned to me. “Where are you going, luv?”

“Little Dipperton.”

“This is Little Dipperton,” said Muriel.

“Thank God!” I said. “Actually, I’m looking for Honeychurch Hall.”

“Honeychurch Hall?” Vera’s face reddened and she and Muriel exchanged looks. “You’re not the new nanny, are you?”

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“Vera’s the housekeeper, that’s why,” said Muriel. “And she hires the nannies.”

I took in Vera’s youth and leather attire with surprise. Housekeepers had come a long way since the drab black uniform worn by Mrs. Hughes in
Downton Abbey
.

“My mother bought the Carriage House,” I said.

“It’s
your
mother, is it?” said Vera. “She’ll find it hard to settle here. We all grew up on the Honeychurch estate and we don’t take kindly to folks coming in from outside of Devon—especially when they gazump my husband who’d been promised the Carriage House by his lordship.”

Muriel put a restraining hand on Vera’s arm. “Vera—”

“Well, it’s true. It’s not fair you London folk coming in with all your money and buying up our properties.”

“I honestly don’t know anything about the circumstances,” I said quickly.

“I’ll close up now if you don’t mind.” Muriel gestured to the plastic carrier bag. “Now Vera, you make sure you give your mother my love. I hope she enjoys the care package. There’s no need to return the magazines.”

Vera barely acknowledged the comment. She was too busy staring at me. “Have we met somewhere before?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“I know who you are!” Vera’s eyes widened. “You’re that antiques woman on the telly!
Fakes & Treasures
!”

“I’m not, actually.” The lie was out before I could stop it. Vera seemed just the type of person to call Trudy’s
Star Stalkers
hotline and claim the hundred-pound “finder’s fee.”

“You look just like Kat Stanford,” Vera persisted. “Take down your hair—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” said Muriel. “Leave the poor woman alone and tell her how to get to the hall so we can all go home.”

Vera muttered something disparaging under her breath but grudgingly obliged. “Go back to the main road. When you pass the entrance to Ruggles Farm—”

“Is there a sign saying Ruggles Farm?” I asked.

“It’s a farm. Do you know what a farm is?”

I gave a polite smile. “Of course.”

“It’ll be on your left,” said Vera. “You’ll come to a T-junction next to Cavalier Copse—”

“Does
that
have a signpost?” I said hopefully.

“No. It’s a copse. You do
know
what a copse is?” Seeing my blank expression, Vera rolled her eyes. “You city folk. A copse is a small wood. On second thought, it’s better if you take the shortcut through Cavalier Lane. That’ll take you straight to the Hall.”

“Can you point me in the right direction?” I said.

Vera rolled her eyes again. “There is only one direction. The lane is very overgrown but it can take a small car. The entrance to the Hall has big stone pillars topped by stone hawks. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait!” Muriel hurried over to the counter and pulled a clipboard and pen out from under. “Will you sign the petition?”

“I don’t live here.”

“It’s to stop the government building a high-speed railway line to Plymouth,” said Muriel. “They say it’ll cut fifteen minutes off the travel time to Paddington.”

“Bastards,” muttered Vera.

“I don’t usually sign petitions.” I’d learned the hard way that anything with my name on it could be misconstrued.

“The railway line will slice through this here,” persisted Muriel. “It’s an area of natural beauty. It will destroy a lot of farmland and homes.
Please
. It’s just a name but every name counts.”

I hesitated. “Yes, of course. That’s terrible. I’m happy to.” I signed J. Jenkins and put my address down as London.

Muriel studied it. “London addresses really help. They give us national recognition. What’s your first name?”

“Jazzbo,” I faltered. “It’s a nickname.”

“Yeah right,” Vera said with a sneer. “Thanks,
Jazzbo
.”

Moments later I was back in my Golf and turning into a narrow lane flanked by high hedge-banks. Vera had not exaggerated. Grass grew down the center and a profusion of foxgloves, cow parsley, and old man’s beard brushed both sides of my car. I prayed I wouldn’t meet any oncoming traffic.

The lane snaked up the hill. Rounding yet another hairpin bend I came upon two equestrians thankfully moving in the same direction as me.

The pair made a curious sight. The woman on the handsome chestnut horse with white socks was riding sidesaddle dressed in a full habit and top hat. Her little companion was astride a small black pony.

I slowed down and crawled along behind them. Only the boy seemed to care that they were holding up the traffic—or rather, me. He turned around to stare and I couldn’t help but laugh and wave.

Wearing a pair of old flying goggles and a white scarf wrapped around his neck, the boy was simply adorable. I guessed at once who he was supposed to be.

Among David’s many antiquarian collections were first editions of
Biggles
by W. E. Johns, chronicling the heroic adventures of the fighter pilot during World War I. Biggles’s trademark look was flying goggles and a white silk scarf.

But after crawling behind them for the next couple of miles, I was growing tired of playing peekaboo with Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth—especially when the unexpected arrival of a tan-and-white Jack Russell shot through a hedge and tore around my car, barking manically at the wheels.

Still,
the rider on the chestnut horse didn’t notice despite “Biggles” repeatedly shouting, “No, Mr. Chips, no!” Mr. Chips dashed about in circles, steaming past the riders and back to my car again.

Finally, the lane widened by a few feet and a narrow grass verge materialized in front of a five-barred gate opening onto a public bridleway marked
TO CAVALIER COPSE.
The horses pulled in and at last I could squeeze by. To my surprise, the rider on the chestnut horse was a bone-thin woman sporting a scarlet slash of lipstick who looked to be in her early eighties. I offered a smile of gratitude and was rewarded by a dismissive hand gesture from her and a military salute from “Biggles.”

Leaving the riders behind, I began a steep hill climb that opened out along a ridge running the length of a long range of hills. The view was spectacular. On my right stood the distant moors of Dartmoor. On my left, far below, the River Dart sparkled in the evening sun.

I could also make out a huge country house nestled amongst the trees, a vast walled garden, and several outbuildings and barns.

But that was about it. There was no other sign of civilization other than a dozen sheep and a few cows.

I thought of Mum dressed in her neat outfits from Marks & Spencer, kitten heel shoes, and perfectly coiffed hair. I just couldn’t imagine her embracing country living.

After yet another hairpin bend I came upon two towering granite pillars topped with statues of hawks with their wings extended. Etched into one pillar was
HONEYCHURCH HALL.
I’d made it!

A pair of eighteenth-century gatehouses stood at either side of the entrance. They were severely run-down with cracked leaded pane windows, broken guttering, and roofs gaping with holes. Each arched front doorway bore the family crest and motto carved in stone:
ad perseverate est ad triumphum
—To Endure Is to Triumph.

A large sign warned
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. POACHERS WILL BE SHOT.

As I pulled into the entrance a young woman in her early twenties stepped from the shadows pulling a fuchsia-pink rolling suitcase behind her. Dressed in black jeans and a white ruffled long-sleeved shirt, she flagged me down.

I stopped and opened the window. “Hello?”

She seemed agitated. “You are the taxi? Yes?”

I detected a foreign accent. Even with no makeup she was beautiful with large blue eyes and shoulder-length blond hair swept off her face with a turquoise bandana.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “Where are you going?”

“To Plymouth railway station.” She kept glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone. “I must catch the seven-thirty-seven train to Paddington. I have to!”

I hesitated. Plymouth was miles away and I’d been driving forever. “Have you tried calling the taxi company?”

“They said thirty minutes.” She checked her watch. “Now, they are ten minutes late and I cannot telephone them because there is no mobile phone signal here.”

“Give them a little longer but I’m happy to call for you when I get to a landline,” I said. “Do you have the number?”

“Please.” She handed me a business card for Bumble-Bee Cars.

“Who shall I say called?”

“Gayla Tarasova.”

I recalled the conversation I’d overheard earlier between Muriel and Vera inside the general store and guessed this woman had to be the disgraced nanny.

“You are very kind,” said Gayla. “You know Lady Edith?”

“Not yet. My mother has just bought the Carriage House.”

“You are Kat!” Gayla broke into a smile. “Your mother is a nice lady. Please tell her—” Gayla’s expression grew earnest. “She must go back to London. She
must
! She is in great danger here.”

“Danger?” I said sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Listen to me. Rupert is a wicked man who must be stopped!”

Beep! Beep! Beep!
The sound of a car horn startled us. Gayla’s eyes widened with terror. “Oh! It’s him! It’s Rupert! He mustn’t see me here. I must go.”

Gayla’s fear was contagious. “Wait,” I cried. “I’m blocking the entrance. Hold on.”

But Gayla dragged her suitcase back into the shadows just as a black Range Rover came barreling toward me.
Beep! Beep! Beep!

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” I muttered and reversed tight against the gatehouse wall. The Range Rover barely slowed down to make the turn into the lane.

Without so much as an acknowledgement, the driver swung left—thankfully in the opposite direction from the horses. I caught a glimpse of a tweed flat cap, a neat military mustache, and a brown-and-white English setter in the front passenger seat.

“And thank you, too,” I shouted at the disappearing vehicle.

I called Gayla’s name but she remained hidden, probably worried that the Range Rover—driven by the “wicked Rupert”—would return.
It’s none of your business, Kat
, I told myself. Even so, I waited for a few more minutes.

When Gayla still didn’t reappear I shouted, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call the cab company!” and set off down the long tree-lined drive.

As I rounded a corner, the dense thicket on my left broke briefly to reveal a rusted, wrought-iron archway straddling a pair of wrought-iron gates topped by a metal cast of a galloping horse. The land beyond fell away and once again I caught a glimpse of the river.

Ahead, I spotted soaring chimneys and mullioned windows disappearing and reemerging between the trees. Another break in the shrubs on my left revealed glorious parkland where a handful of horses grazed alongside—good grief—were those llamas?

Just yards from the grass verge stood an ornamental lake covered with lily pads and framed with scattered clumps of pampas grass. At the top of a shallow bank that led down to the water’s edge stood a tall angel, arms reaching heavenward, carved in white marble surrounded by a sea of red roses—presumably a family memorial.

Although I had been keeping an eye open for any sign directing me to the Carriage House I realized I’d gone too far up the drive. It split in two with the right-hand fork turning uphill into a newly paved road lined by post-and-rail paddocks. One side harbored a small outdoor sand dressage arena; the other was laid out with cavalletti jump poles. Ahead was a range of redbrick buildings with neat white trim and green roofs. An impressive archway with a clock tower in Roman numerals registered the right time—six-thirty-five—and marked a grandiose entrance to the stable yard. A large silver horse lorry with living accommodations over the cab and a hunter-green Land Rover were parked against an outside wall.

I took the left fork that ended in a turning circle in front of Honeychurch Hall. In the center stood a large empty stone fountain featuring rearing bronze horses marooned in a sea of weed-infested gravel.

I slowed to a stop under a bank of overhanging trees that bordered a wood. The house felt intimidating and unwelcoming. The architecture could be described as “classic revival” with its Palladian front and, judging by the four banks of tall chimneys topped with decorative, octagonal pots, I suspected it encased a much older building—most likely a Tudor manor house. The main entrance was a central porte cochere with Tuscan columns. Compared to the immaculate stable yard I’d just seen, the house was a shambles.

The twelve-pane casement windows on the ground and first floors were shuttered. Paintwork was peeling and many of the cornices had fallen and lay broken and abandoned on the gravel. A forest of weeds and small holly trees emerged through the exposed roof on the east side of the building where sheets of black plastic had lost the battle to keep out the elements.

Scaffolding had been erected up the side of the west wing where a section of the roof was partially hidden under a huge dark green tarpaulin. Tiles were stacked along the front of the house.

Roof repairs to grand homes such as these ran into the hundreds of thousands of pounds. Often, the staggering cost of a new roof marked the beginning of the end for these country estates especially if they were listed buildings and had to comply with all kinds of complicated codes. I’d attended many estate sales and it was heartbreaking to see magnificent old properties such as this one, abandoned and left to their fate, slowly disintegrate.