Feeling rather guilty, I bought two—one for Mum and one for me to eat right this second. I devoured mine in five minutes flat. The strawberries were sweet, plump, and delicious and unfortunately, the juice dripped onto my white capris. Dad had been right.
By the time I’d driven past Stonehenge on the A303, the sun had vanished and the sky was heavy with dark storm clouds rolling across Salisbury Plain. With a loud crash of thunder, rain started to come down like stair rods. Traffic slowed to a crawl and ceased altogether. Then, just as quickly as it had fallen, the rain stopped and an exquisite rainbow straddled the distant hills.
I pulled into a petrol service station to pick up some flowers and a bottle of Blue Nun for Mum.
Queuing at the register I noticed Gypsy Temptress by the author Mum had mentioned—Krystalle Storm—on a revolving stand of paperbacks. Against the backdrop of a church, a scantily clad gypsy girl with raven hair and masses of bracelets leaned against a vast oak tree trunk looking seductive in her low-cut dress. I picked up a copy and read the back cover. “He was a man of the cloth. She—an outcast from her kin. Can love…”
“It’s good,” said a young woman in her late twenties. “It’s the first in the Star-Crossed Lovers Series—oh! Excuse me. Are you Kat Stanford from Fakes & Treasures?”
I smiled politely. “Yes.”
“I love that show!” she said. “It’s your hair.”
Unfortunately television personalities are pigeonholed with certain character traits—Gordon Ramsay and his famous temper; bra-less Charlie Dimmock from the TV show Ground Force; and me, nicknamed Rapunzel because of my mane of hair.
“Thanks,” I said. “Maybe I will buy this for my mother.”
“Be careful,” she said with a chuckle and pointed to a warning at the bottom of the cover. “See there? It’s categorized as a ‘sizzler.’ Racy stuff.”
“I’m not sure if my mother could handle sizzling,” I said and put it back. Then, on impulse I grabbed it, after all. It would be a peace offering of sorts. Maybe I’d even give it a try.
My spirits lifted as I barreled down the M5. Wiltshire turned into Somerset and then—at last—I flew past a road sign featuring a jaunty tall-ship logo announcing WELCOME TO DEVON and the sun came out again.
The countryside was breathtakingly diverse. There were vast expanses of lush rolling fields dotted with sheep and cattle, rushing streams bounded by thick woods or ancient low stone dry walls, gullies, and crags lined with the rich red earth that Devon was famous for. And, amongst all this beauty was another kind—silhouetted on the horizon, stood the dark, sinister tors of Dartmoor with its shifting mists and treacherous bogs.
With a last look at the detailed directions I’d carefully jotted down courtesy of Google Maps, I turned off the dual carriageway and onto a quiet two-lane road flanked by thick pine forests on one side and a low stone wall fronting a bubbling river on the other. Dartmouth was signposted twelve miles and from there, Little Dipperton just two miles farther.
I checked my watch. It was almost four. I’d made excellent time and was feeling thoroughly pleased with myself.
Two hours later I was hopelessly lost and incredibly frustrated.
It would appear that Google Maps had no knowledge of the myriad of tiny, interconnecting, twisting lanes that spread across Devon—90 percent of which had no signposts at all or if they did, ended in impassable tracks. Picking up a mobile phone signal was erratic, too, and when I finally got one and rang my mother, she didn’t answer.
By six o’clock all my good humor had completely evaporated. At last a church spire appeared in the distance so I headed for that.
Navigating a series of dangerous hairpin bends, I narrowly missed following in the footsteps of an earlier vehicle that had smashed through a stone wall and into a drainage ditch. And then, out of the blue, I came upon a small village consisting of whitewashed, thatched, and slate-roofed cottages with a handful of shops and a pub called the Hare & Hounds. There was also a church, an abandoned forge, a greengrocer, a tea shop, and a general store that doubled up as a post office. Outside the latter stood a dirty blue Ford Focus.
At first, I thought everything was closed until I noticed the door to the general store was ajar. Parking behind the Ford Focus, I went inside.
“Hello?” I cried. “Anyone home?”
There was no reply. Pushing my sunglasses on top of my head, I moved deeper into the gloom and tripped down a step. It was like descending into the black hole of Calcutta.
The place was jammed to the gunnels with items ranging from tiny sewing kits to flyspray killer. Shelves were haphazardly stacked with pliers, tinned goods, jigsaw puzzles, and hemorrhoid cream. A revolving wire display stand offered picturesque postcards of Devon for sale—three for two pounds.
In one corner a Plexiglas window encased a small cubbyhole that bore the sign POST OFFICE. A notice board was covered with colored flyers and handwritten cards offered a variety of services and local events—“Babysitter Wanted!” “Need Someone to Wash Your Car?” “Women’s Institute Jam Making Competition.”
Behind the counter and along the back wall were shelves filled with large glass jars containing sweets that I thought went out with the ark—Sherbet Pips, Fruit Chews, Black Jacks, and the kind of treacle toffee that removed dental fillings in one bite.
Strolling over to the counter I noted the old-fashioned cash register and a brass bell. In front stood a low bench spread with a selection of trashy magazines and national newspapers. To my dismay, the store carried this month’s Star Stalkers! My photo was in the bottom right-hand corner on the cover. It had been taken at a charity event and the article was written by my nemesis, Trudy Wynne. The caption said, GOOD-BYE RAPUNZEL, HELLO LADY GODIVA! TO SEE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT—TURN TO PAGE 5.
Of course I knew what happened next. It was the deciding factor in my decision to quit Fakes & Treasures and escape the public eye.
Quickly, I covered the offending magazine with the local newspaper, the Dipperton Deal. I swept my hair up into a coil and wondered not for the umpteenth time if I should just cut the lot off.
“Anyone home?” I called out again, now aware of voices coming from behind a red-and-white plastic fly curtain that presumably led to a storeroom.
“She was a tart and a thief, Muriel,” cried a female voice. “I knew she was trouble the moment she arrived.”
“I find that hard to believe,” came the reply. “Gayla seemed such a nice girl.”
“Well she wasn’t.”
“I thought Gayla came through one of those posh London agencies?” said Muriel. “Don’t they do background checks?”
“Why don’t you just go ahead and say it?” There was a pause and then, “You think this has something to do with my Eric, don’t you?”
“Vera, dear, when it comes to the two of you, I don’t know what to think anymore.” There was a heavy sigh. “Come along, I really want to lock up and—”
I gave a loud cough. “Hello? Hello?”
The two women emerged through the curtain. One was in her late sixties with a tight gray perm and wearing a sleeveless floral dress. She was holding a paperback book. The other was in her mid thirties, with blond hair that was in dire need of a root touch-up, scraped back into a ponytail. She was dressed in a pair of tight leather trousers, a scarlet V-neck T-shirt with matching acrylic nails that grasped the handles of a bulging plastic carrier bag.
“Enjoy the private conversation, did you?” the younger woman said, swaying slightly due to excessively high heels—Louboutins, I recognized the signature red soles.
“Vera, don’t be rude.”
I felt embarrassed. “I just got here. I heard voices.”
Vera looked me up and down, taking in my stained white capris. “Had an accident, did you?”
“I’m rather fond of strawberries and they’re rather fond of me,” I said with an apologetic smile.
“I’m afraid we’re closed,” said Muriel.
“I do
n’t want to buy anything,” I said. “I’m lost. There don’t seem to be any signposts around here.”
“They were all taken down during the war and never replaced, luv,” said Muriel.
“That was over sixty years ago,” I exclaimed.
“We’re a bit of a forgotten corner down this way and that’s the way we like it,” said Vera. “We don’t take kindly to strangers.”
I noticed Muriel was holding a copy of Gypsy Temptress.
“I love Krystalle Storm,” I said desperately.
“Vera told me to read it,” said Muriel. “She said it might liven up my marriage though frankly, I’m not sure whether my husband would remember what to do.”
“You should.” I smiled again. “It’s a bit racy though, isn’t it, Vera?” Sensing Vera thawing a little I added, “Apparently, Krystalle’s got a new book coming out in the—” I wracked my brain. “Star-Crossed Lovers Series.”
“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 ste
ep 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.”
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 2
