Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (4 page)

Turning my attention back to my own disintegration, I knew I had to change my stained, white capris before meeting my mother. I’d changed clothes in the backseat of the car before and, with no signs of life coming from the house, felt the coast was clear.

Unfortunately, this was not the case. As I was squeezing between the front seats, a hammering on the window revealed “Biggles” in leather flying helmet and goggles with his face pressed against the glass.

I wound the window down a crack. “Hello.”

“Please get out of the car,” he said. “You’re trespassing and I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoot you.”

Chapter Three

The boy, who appeared to be about seven years old, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Name, rank, and serial number!” he demanded.

“I’m Kat Stanford. And you are—?”

“Harry.”

“Really? I must have been mistaken,” I said. “I could have sworn you were Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth.”

Harry broke into a huge smile. “Yes! I am! How did you know?”

“Your fame is legendary, sir,” I said. “I believe all your friends call you Biggles. May I call you Biggles?”

Harry grinned, “Yes, please.”

“And my friends call me Kat.”

Harry reverted to his alter ego and gave me a frosty look. “You do know that you could have been shot. There
is
a war on.”

“I’m afraid I got lost, sir. I was looking for the Carriage House.”

“I can show you the way but first, I must inspect your cargo.” Harry pointed to the boot of my car. “Open up, please.”

Catching sight of the cardboard boxes of vintage teddy bears and Victorian toys in the boot, Harry gasped. “Wow! Bears!” He reached in and pulled out a tattered Steiff cinnamon bear. “This chap looks suspicious,” he said. “I’m going to have to take him away for questioning.”

“He’s a bit fragile for questioning,” I said. “He’s already been interrogated. Can’t you see what happened to his paw?”

Harry put him back. “Are you building an army?”

“No, I collect them and sell them to nice people who will take care of them.” I moved Harry gently aside and closed the hatchback. “Do you have a special toy?”

“I’m not allowed,” said Harry. “Mummy says I’m too old for silly toys.”

“We’re never too old for bears.”

“Do you have a special toy?” asked Harry.

“Yes. Do you want to meet him?”

Harry nodded.

I whipped around to the passenger door and grabbed Jazzbo Jenkins off the dashboard.

“Meet Jazzbo Jenkins,” I said. “He’s my lucky mascot.”

Harry frowned. “Why is he wearing a blue cardigan?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He always has.”

“And where are his badges?”

“What kind of badges?”

“Places he’s visited. Seaside piers.”

I regarded Harry with curiosity. “Do mice visit seaside piers?”

“Of course they do! I need a mascot for one of my secret missions,” said Harry, reverting to his alter ego. “I need to borrow him. There is someone he must meet.”

“Why don’t you show me where the Carriage House is first and then we’ll see.”

“Alright,” said Harry. “But we have to go in the car.”

“I can’t take you in my car,” I said. “What would your mother say?”

“She won’t mind. We’ll only be a minute.” Before I could stop him, Harry had opened the passenger door, jumped inside, and buckled up.

“Where
is
your mother?” I added as I joined him. “I suspect that wasn’t who you were riding with today.”

“No!” Harry gave a snort of laughter. “That was Granny. Granny and William are putting the horses to bed.”

Glancing at my watch I saw it was almost seven. The evenings stayed much lighter in the West Country than in London. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, too?”

“It’s the school holidays, silly.” Harry gave Jazzbo a squeeze. “Anyway, Jazzbo says he wants me to come—just in case we’re attacked by Germans.”

“How far is it?”

Harry gestured back down the drive toward the gatehouses. “That way.”

I turned the car around and we set off in companionable silence.

“What a lovely place to grow up,” I said at last. “Were you born at the Hall?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “But in twenty—no, nineteen days—I’m going away to boarding school.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “How old are you?”

“I’m going to be seven on September the first.”

“Seven!” I never saw the point of having children if they were going to be shipped off to boarding school. “That’s awful, Harry. I am sorry.”

“Why?”

“Well—you’ll miss your family, won’t you?”

Harry didn’t answer. Stealing a glance, I noted he was holding Jazzbo so tightly that his knuckles were white. Cursing my lack of tact I added, “On the other hand, just think of all the new friends you’ll make. What school are you going to?”

“Blundells, then Stowe, then Cambridge,” said Harry. “Father went there, too, and my grandfather and my great-grandfather and my great-great-grandfather. And my great-great-great-grandfather and—”

“And then you’ll come back here and run the estate just like they did?” I suggested.

Harry frowned. “I don’t know. Mummy says yes, but Father says it’s a white elephant. I don’t see how a house can be a white elephant. I mean, where is its trunk?”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

He shook his head. “Mummy says I’m an only child and very special.”

“I’m an only child, too,” I said. “And yes, we are
very
special.”

As we drew alongside the white marble angel, a tall blond woman in jodhpurs and shirt picked up one of the floral arrangements.

“Who’s that?” I asked Harry.

“That’s Mummy!” He slithered down in his seat and ducked under the dashboard. “Quickly! She mustn’t see us! Drive fast!”

To my astonishment, Harry’s mother carried the roses down the bank to the water’s edge and hurled them in—vase and all. “Your mother just threw the roses in the lake!”

“Mummy didn’t like Kelly,” said Harry. “She’s glad she’s dead.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Was Kelly a dog?”

“No, silly! Kelly was a tart,” said Harry cheerfully. “She was attacked by killer bees who stung her to death with deadly venom.”

“Goodness. Poor Kelly.” I glanced over at Harry dressed in his Biggles gear and wondered if his parents worried about their child having such a vivid imagination. I’d certainly worry if he were mine.

“Stop!” cried Harry as we drew alongside the wrought-iron archway. Pointing at the dense cluster of thicket and overhanging trees opposite, he said, “The Carriage House is through there.”

“Are you sure?” I said doubtfully.

“It is, it is!” Harry insisted. “See? Look!”

The entrance was barely visible. Nestled in the undergrowth was a weatherworn signpost that confirmed he was right—
TO CARRIAGE HOUSE.

“No one has been down here for years.” I eyed the partially cobbled track with dismay. “There has to be another entrance.”

“Yes, but that’s
miles
away and I’m not allowed to leave the park,” said Harry. “Anyway, this is a shortcut.”

I groaned. “Not another shortcut.”

With deep misgivings I nosed my car through the undergrowth and—minutes later—realized it was a big mistake. In bygone years this almost certainly had been a service road linking the main drive to the Carriage House—but not today. The cobbled track soon fizzled out leaving nothing but deep furrows filled with muddy water.

Every time we plunged into a rut, Harry squealed, “We’re flying! Turbulence! Whoa! Hold her steady!”

“Is it much farther?” I asked desperately as my car struggled to move through cloying mud while filthy water splashed up the sides of the windows.

“No. It’s over there,” said Harry. “See?”

Praise the Lord, indeed it was. Peeping through the trees was a chimney top and horse weathervane.

We rounded a corner and I gave a cry of alarm. Immersed in another deep rut was my mother’s MINI in Chili Red. There was no sign of her. “Oh, no,” I groaned again.

“Oh, bugger. That car is
still
stuck,” said Harry happily. “It’s been there for
days
!”

“I’m not sure you should say that word, Harry,” I said. “But yes, oh bugger. We’re stuck, too.” There was no way forward and no chance of reversing or turning around.

Exasperated, I cut the engine and clambered out sinking in glutinous mud. “I think I’d better walk you back to the house.”

“No. Leave it to Biggles!” said Harry, scrambling out of the car—wisely wearing Wellington boots. Still clutching Jazzbo he added, “I’ve got a jolly good idea. We’ll go and get William.”

“Harry—”

“William is the strongest man in the world,” he said. “He used to work in the circus.”

“Harry, don’t—”

But Harry had vanished into the woods.

“Oh great.” I stood there, perplexed. My poor car looked as if it had gone through a rally driving competition—and failed.

I didn’t hold much hope for Harry’s return. With a heavy sigh, I retrieved my overnight case from the boot of the car and picked up the flowers, wine, and strawberries for Mum.

Squeezing between the MINI and the bushes, I peered through the mud-smeared windows. The glove box and half the dashboard were covered in yellow Post-it Notes. I could make out a few words in Mum’s neat handwriting—“cherry red lips,” “grotto,” and “gas man.”

Five minutes later, after walking through more mud, I reached a dilapidated five-bar gate propped against a dry stone wall. A pair of granite pillars marked the entrance to the cobbled courtyard of my mother’s new abode.

So this was the famous Carriage House.

There was no doubt the place had charm but … was my mother insane? Its condition was a hundred times worse than the main house.

It was built in a quadrangle with a range of outbuildings forming two sides and a ruined barn stretched along the other. I use the word “barn” generously. It was missing half its roof, the upright wooden girders slanted at dangerous angles, and I suspected that the first good gust of wind would blow the whole thing down. Tucked in between the outbuildings and barn stood three metal dustbins overflowing with household rubbish. Next to one of the outbuildings was a latch-gate that led into a pine forest.

The cobbled courtyard was peppered with buttercups and ragwort. Two planks of wood lay over an open drain with an orange traffic cone serving as some kind of warning. In the center stood an old wishing well, a water pump, and a stepped mounting block.

On the fourth side stood the Carriage House. Bearing the date 1830, it was a two-story redbrick building half-hidden under swathes of wisteria and Virginia creeper. The slate roof had gaping holes patched very much like that of the main house. Along the ridge and straddling the roof pitch ran a skylight smeared with green moss.

Even though the place was run-down the architecture and attention to detail was exquisite. There were lunettes in the clerestory and small hatches led to a hayloft. An arched double carriageway door spanned both stories and carried a heavy iron bar and padlock rusted from years of neglect and disuse.

Above the carriageway door was a small window trimmed in peeling blue paint—presumably the old grooms’ quarters—and above that, a timber cupola topped with an ogee dome and the horse weathervane I’d seen through the trees.

I consider myself a practical person and up until this moment, had believed my mother to be so, too. Our house in Tooting had been almost sterile in its neatness. Dad’s love of Do-It-Yourself ensured the entire interior was repainted a bland magnolia every second year.

I just couldn’t imagine Mum living here. I also wondered if she was aware that buildings such as this were usually listed and that structural alterations had to be approved by the district council.

Hammering on the carriageway door I shouted, “Mum! It’s me! Hello?” But there was no answer.

Putting down my suitcase and goodies, I stood back and surveyed the property. No windows faced the courtyard. Access to the grooms’ quarters would most likely be at the rear.

I followed the line of the building and turned the corner. To my dismay, just a mere fifty yards farther on stood
another
set of granite pillars that marked the original tradesman’s entrance. A hideous makeshift corrugated iron gate had been erected between the pair with razor wire running along on top. Spray-painted in crimson was another warning,
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. POACHERS WILL BE SHOT.

It was obviously the official entrance to the Carriage House and for some reason it had been closed off.

Suddenly the corrugated iron gate shuddered and began to jerk open. Harry stepped into view followed by a brand-new, shiny, red Massey Ferguson tractor. A heavy chain swung from the three-hitch axle behind.

On the seat in the open cab perched a burly man with a weather-beaten face and the bushiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. He was dressed in jeans, a checked shirt, and wore a knitted woolen cap. Harry trotted along, waving madly at me.

“Hello!” I shouted above the din of the engine as the man drove by. “Thanks so much for coming.” But the driver paid no attention. He simply made a sweeping turn in the courtyard—neatly flattening the orange cone—slammed the gears into reverse, and bolted backward through the granite pillars and out of sight.

Harry joined me, beaming from ear to ear. “Biggles to the rescue!”

“Brilliant,” I said. “And that must be William?”

“No, that’s Eric,” said Harry. “William can’t come. He visits Mrs. Stark at Sunny Hill Lodge every Friday. He tried to get me to go with him once but it smells of wee and cabbage.”

“Oh,” was all I could say. Noting Harry was empty-handed, I asked, “Where’s Jazzbo?”

“He’s being debriefed,” said Harry.

“Promise you’ll return him,” I said. “He’s very special to me.”

“He’ll report in tomorrow morning.”

We hurried over to Mum’s MINI to find Eric clambering back onto the tractor. To my alarm, he had attached the end of the chain to the front fender of the MINI.

“Wait!” I shrieked. “Don’t pull—”