Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (8 page)

My white-painted furniture was set out exactly as it used to be. The mattress on my single bed was thirty years old and always gave me a chronic backache, but as Dad had said, what was the point of buying a new once since they never had guests and I only slept over for family birthdays, Christmas, and Easter.

Boxes were stacked neatly in one corner labeled
CHINA HORSES, BOOKS, RIDING STUFF,
and
PHOTOS—
1980
–
90
’S
. A vintage iron steamer trunk filled with my dressing-up clothes stood under the window along with the blue suitcase full of old bears and soft toys. A part of me wondered why I still kept these things if I never had children to give them to.

Pushing that awful thought to the back of my mind, I went off in search of the linen cupboard.

The upstairs landing was a narrow L-shaped corridor with three more doors leading off—two on my right, and one on my left. Lit by one naked bulb, the décor looked a hundred times worse than downstairs. With no wallpaper to speak of, the lath and plaster were exposed and there were alarming clumps of fleshy mushroom-type growths that did not bode well.

I opened the next door. Flipping on the light I stared in confusion. It was my mother’s bedroom but she was not asleep in her bed.

Again, the furniture was arranged exactly as it had been in Tooting. In the corner, an upholstered low stool stood before a kidney-shaped dressing table draped with lace. Mum’s silver brushes were neatly laid out on the glass top along with perfume bottles and a box of Kleenex tissues.

Familiar photographs in silver frames—Mum and Dad on their wedding day, me at age five on a pony, and one of the three of us taken on holiday in Scotland—were on the mantelpiece above the Victorian fireplace that now housed a hideous 1940’s gas fire. But there was a new addition to the collection—a photograph I had never seen before.

Guessing it must have been taken in the early fifties, I recognized Mum—grinning from ear to ear, aged around nine or ten, standing between two boys in front of a boxing booth at a fairground. The boys were dressed in boxing attire and were hamming it up for the camera. I guessed they must be Alfred and Billy—part of Mum’s past that I knew nothing about until today.

A sudden wave of grief welled up as I looked at the matching night tables. The left had the clock, a glass of water, and a romance novel by Joan Johnston. The right table was bare. Dad had always slept on the right-hand side of the bed and now he was gone.

Forty-nine years was a long time to be married. Even if David and I married right this second it was unlikely we would live long enough to make it to thirty-five. I just couldn’t imagine how Mum must feel and resolved to be nicer, more patient, and compassionate.

I went to find her and knocked on the next door, that turned out to be the bathroom. Mum wasn’t there, either.

The bathroom was basic to say the least with hideous blue-and-pink-checked linoleum. An ancient three-bar electric wall heater was fixed askew above a long, deep china bath. Of course there was no shower so washing my hair would be a nightmare.

The sound of voices carrying on the night breeze drew me to the open window where a full moon and a gazillion stars—a sight I never saw in London—illuminated Eric and the man with the English setter standing outside a beaten-up old caravan in the field.

Gayla’s name was spoken several times before the man with the dog patted Eric’s shoulder and said, “I won’t forget this, I owe you,” before striding off out of view.

Vera emerged from inside the caravan—I guessed this was Eric’s so-called office—and shouted, “What did his lordship say? Why does he owe you?”

I couldn’t hear Eric’s answer but whatever he said made her cry. Vera grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Please don’t go,
please
.”

I quickly shut the bathroom window. The last thing I wanted was to listen to their marital squabbles and turned my attention to hunting for some bed linen.

I heard murmurings coming from the far end of the corridor where a fourth—and last—door stood closed. I’d assumed it was a cupboard.

“Mum?” I tried the handle. It was locked. “Are you in there?” Abruptly, the murmuring stopped. I tapped again. “Mum. Are you okay?”

There was the click of a key and Mum opened the door a crack. “What is it? What do you want?”

I tried to sound casual but I was actually worried. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“Well, I haven’t.” She sounded annoyed. “Did you find the sheets?”

“Not yet. What are you doing in the cupboard?” I said, trying to look over her shoulder.

“It’s not a cupboard.”

I was struck by a ghastly thought. “Is
William
in there?”

Mum’s expression of horror was so comical that I laughed.

“Give me some credit, dear.”

“Well, I had to ask,” I said. “I assume your headache is better now?”

“I’ll help you find the bed linen,” she said. “Go on ahead. Shoo! I’m right behind you.”

I turned away but heard another click and, out of the corner of my eye, saw her lock the door using a key attached to a pink ribbon that was hanging around her neck.

“Are you sure you haven’t got a man stashed in there?” I asked.

Armed with clean sheets and a duvet, we returned to my bedroom and as I made up my bed Mum said, “I suppose you heard Vera shouting outside.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

Mum perched on the edge of my steamer trunk. “I hear them all the time. They’ve already been divorced twice, you know.”

“From each other?”

“Oh yes. This is the third time around,” Mum said. “Vera reminds me of Blanche in
A Streetcar Named Desire
—although beetle-brows is no Marlon Brando.”

“You can say that again.”

“Poor things,” said Mum. “Passion is all very well but it can be so destructive.”

I gave a snort of derision. “What do you know about passion?”

“A lot more than you think,” said Mum. “And don’t snort. It’s so unattractive.”

“I caught Eric rifling through the dustbins this evening,” I said.

Mum looked up sharply. “
My
dustbins?”

“And Vera called me Rapunzel. She guessed who I am,” I said. “She told me to keep my hands off other people’s husbands.” I was struck by a horrible thought. “Oh God, I hope she’s not a
Star Stalkers
type.”

“Such is the price of fame, dear.”

I gave a heavy sigh. “Oh Mum, will that wretched Trudy Wynne ever leave me alone?”

“You did steal her husband.”

“I didn’t. I told you. They were already separated.”

“But not divorced.”

“It’s complicated when children are involved.” I knew I was getting defensive.

“If he really loves you—”

“Mum, stop please—” Fortunately, my protests were drowned as my mobile phone rang. I recognized the caller ID. “It’s David.”

“Speak of the devil.” My mother stood up. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any help undressing?” I said as I hit answer.

“Hello, Dylan,” Mum called out in a voice that David couldn’t help but hear. “Ask him when he’s getting a divorce.”

I kicked the door closed behind her.

“Your mother doesn’t like me,” said David with a chuckle.

“She does, really she does,” I lied. “I am so glad to talk to you. This whole situation is a complete nightmare.”

Quickly, I summarized the events of the day. “She just can’t live here. It’s ridiculous.”

“Why not?” David said. “It’s her life.”

I was taken aback. “It’s hugely impractical and this building is falling down. It’s not structurally safe,” I said. “I thought you’d be on my side.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Dad specifically asked me to keep an eye on her,” I went on. “How can I do that from London?”

“Judging by what you said about your father, I’m sure she’s enjoying her newfound freedom,” said David. “Believe me, after twenty years with Trudy I feel like I’ve been let out of prison.”

“I hate it when you bring that woman up,” I snapped.

“Sorry, I was making a point,” said David.

“Well … don’t.”

“Now that your mother is out of the picture, I assume you’ll drop this ridiculous antique shop idea and—”

“I am not going back to
Fakes & Treasures
,” I said. “I want my life back.”

“You’re making a terrible mistake, Kat,” said David. “You’ll never earn the same kind of money running a shop.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“It’s
always
about the money,” said David. “Trudy is going to cripple me with this divorce. She wants everything. And I’ve got to put the kids through university. We need that income, Kat.”

“Isn’t the main thing that we’re going to be together?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

“David?” I said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “Look, I’ve got to go. There’s a lot going on.”

“What’s the matter?”

Another silence.

“I wasn’t going to tell you but…” David paused. “Trudy’s father is terminally ill.”

“And what’s that got to do with you?”

“God, Kat. I thought you of all people would understand,” said David. “I was close to Hugh for heaven’s sake. I’m not divorcing him, I’m divorcing his daughter.”

“You’re making me feel terrible—”

“The hospice is somewhere between Totnes and Dartmouth. I’m driving down tomorrow. Why don’t I come and see you and we can talk about what to do about your mother. Sound like a plan?”

“Okay,” I said. “Yes. Look, I’m sorry. Of course you must see Hugh. You could stay here but—”

“And risk your mother’s wrath?” said David. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a local pub.”

We said our good-byes and I switched off my mobile. Talking about Trudy always unsettled me and much as I wanted to confide in Mum, I knew she’d have very little sympathy.

It was unbearably stuffy in this small room. I opened a window and climbing into bed, my thoughts turned to the squabbling couple. True, Vera had recognized me but it was Eric who had been rifling through the dustbins. I wondered what on earth he had been looking for.

I was utterly exhausted and at a loss as to what to do about my mother. I could hardly let her stay here in this backwater alone.

I’d promised Dad that I would keep an eye on Mum. I’d hoped that helping me run the shop would have meant she’d meet new people—perhaps even a nice widower.

Somehow I had to find a way to make her change her mind.

Chapter Six

It took me ages to fall asleep. I wasn’t used to the silence. Living so close to Putney Bridge tube station, I no longer heard the last train rumbling out or the first train screeching in. Yet here, in the middle of nowhere, the quiet seemed—loud—apart from the occasional burst of scrabbling claws overhead that I was convinced were rats.

David’s insistence that I stick with
Fakes & Treasures
really bothered me. I wished I could make him understand that I wasn’t like Trudy. I’d never sought fame and I hated it. I was still haunted by the most humiliating moment of my life known as “The Big Sneeze” that continued to fly around the Internet on YouTube. Just thinking about it made me feel hot with embarrassment.

I must have drifted into dreamland because the next thing I heard were voices under my window. According to my old pink alarm clock, it was almost eight-thirty in the morning. I scrambled out of bed and peered outside where Mum and William in Wellington boots, stood ankle deep in a pool of muddy water.

William—sleeves rolled up—was rotating a long iron rod that was stuck into the ground. Presumably this was the infamous water valve that Eric loved to tamper with.

“Thanks, William,” I heard Mum say. “And thank you for making me a cup of tea. Katherine’s never been an early morning person. It was impossible getting her out of bed when she was a teenager.”

It was true, I was not a morning person but even so I threw open the window and yelled, “It was because I had glandular fever,” and slammed it shut, rather enjoying their startled expressions.

I had suffered quite badly—enough to fall behind in school, delay taking my A-levels, and in the end, I didn’t bother to go to university. Instead, I started working for a French antique dealer and never looked back.

After getting washed and dressed, I met Mum coming up the stairs. “You’re a bit of a grumpy puss this morning.”

Ignoring that remark, I said, “Shall I help you put on some clothes? I’m sure you don’t want to wear your poncho to meet his lordship.”

“I’ve got nothing
to
wear,” moaned Mum. “This is the extent of my entire wardrobe—pajamas and a poncho.”

“I’ve got an idea. But first, let’s get you in the bath.”

I ran the water and Mum produced a plastic bag and some tape which I helped her slide over her cast. “Now, don’t get it wet.”

“I won’t get it wet,” she snapped. “I’ve managed to get myself in and out of the bath before you arrived, you know.”

“It’s too early for naked flesh,” I said, pulling the poncho over her head. “I promise I won’t look.”

“I don’t care. You can look all you like. We all get old.” Mum placed a block of Post-it Notes and a pen on the stool. “In case I think of something.”

“Are you getting Alzheimer’s? Should I be worried?”

“It’s a bit cold in here,” said Mum. “Can you turn on the electric heater?”

I pulled the cord, slightly anxious that it seemed to wobble a little off the wall. “You can’t use this. It’ll fall into the bath and you’ll get electrocuted. You’ll just have to freeze.”

No sooner had I turned away, there was loud splash. The entire fixture fell into the bath.

Mum and I shared looks of horror. “Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Well, that’s another of my nine lives gone,” said Mum lightly but I could tell she was shaken. Her face was ashen. “No harm done.”

“This time,” I said. “Do you need a bodyguard?”

“Stop fussing.”

Leaving Mum in the bath I hunted through her wardrobe. Mum’s clothes were all arranged by color and type. She was right. There was nothing in there that could accommodate a cast.