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—”
But it was too late. Eric slammed his foot on the accelerator and, with a violent jolt, the tractor lunged forward catapulting the MINI out of its muddy grave—along with the fender that flew off, bounced along the grass, and came to rest just a few feet away from my own.
“Oh bugger,” groaned Harry.
“Yes, bugger indeed,” I muttered.
Eric seemed unconcerned. He pulled on the brake, cut the engine, jumped down from the tractor, and, giving his machine an affectionate pat, sauntered back to disconnect the cable.
Trying to keep my temper, I joined him.
“They don’t make cars like they used to,” said Eric, giving the fender a kick. “The stuff in my yard is worth twenty of this modern rubbish.”
“Will you be able to repair it?” I said putting the emphasis on you.
“Not my problem, luv,” he said turning on his heel.
“Excuse me,” I said following after him. “It is your problem. You did this. You need to repair it.”
“Keep your hair on,” he said with a snigger. “I’ve got a friend in the village who’ll do it for a good price.”
“I don’t see why we should have to pay for your mistake,” I fumed.
“Just trying to be neighborly and that’s all the thanks I get. Nice.”
“Excuse me, hello there!” cried a voice speaking with the strangled vowels of the upper classes. A woman emerged from a narrow path in the forest. The last time I’d seen Harry’s mother she’d been throwing floral tributes into the ornamental lake. Up close she had hat-hair and a long, hard face with a regal aquiline nose. “Have you seen Harry, Eric?”
I looked around, not surprised to find that Harry had vanished.
“No, your ladyship,” said Eric, touching his cap but not seeming remotely servile.
“Because I’ve told you before,” said the woman, “Harry is ab-so-lute-ly forbidden to go to your yard. It is not safe with all that equipment. Am I clear?”
“Gayla not doing her job?” Eric said with a sneer.
“Gayla is on her way back to Russia,” Harry’s mother said coldly. “Vera caught her stealing.”
Eric’s jaw dropped. “When?”
“I’m sure Vera will tell you all about it—oh!” Her ladyship suddenly noticed me standing there. “Have you seen my son?”
“As I said, m’lady,” Eric cut in quickly, “we’ve not seen him.”
Eric glowered at me so I thought it best to keep quiet for the time being and just shrugged.
Her ladyship formally extended her hand revealing short, grubby nails. “Forgive my frightful manners. Lavinia Honeychurch. How do you do.”
“Katherine Stanford,” I said, taking her hand and wondering if she expected me to kiss it or curtsey. “My mother lives at the Carriage House.”
“Oh yes, what a nightmare. I am so sorry. Such a frightful muddle.”
I felt a twinge of alarm. “A muddle? What do you mean?”
“Of course she’ll have to move,” said Lavinia. “My mother-in-law—the dowager countess—made a ghastly mistake.”
“I should say so,” muttered Eric. “His lordship promised the Carriage House to me and Vera.”
“It’s not his to promise,” Lavinia snapped. “And you know very well that Lady Edith would never permit you to live there.” She turned to me. “Perhaps your mother will take Sawmill Cottage instead?”
“I thought my mother bought the Carriage House,” I said. “How could there have been a mistake? Either it was for sale, or it wasn’t.”
“I don’t get involved in estate matters,” said Lavinia airily. “You must talk to my husband about such things. Goodness, what on earth are these automobiles doing here? No one has used this thoroughfare for years.”
“The proper entrance to the Carriage House was closed off,” I said.
“You mean the tradesman’s entrance?” Lavinia frowned. “Surely not.”
“It’s barricaded with razor wire.” I gestured to my Golf that had sunk a good six inches in the mud and my mother’s MINI. “That’s why we had to use this track.”
“Is this true, Eric?” demanded Lavinia.
“It’s my land,” said Eric belligerently.
“Despite what you may like to think, it is not your land,” said Lavinia. “It belongs to the estate and you are our tenant. I’m afraid I shall have to tell his lordship about this.”
“Go ahead,” said Eric. “Be my guest.”
“I—I—shall.” Lavinia reddened. “Mrs. Stanford—”
“It’s Katherine and I’m actually a Ms.”
“Cropper will telephone tonight to arrange a time for you to meet with my husband so we can sort out all this nonsense.” Lavinia shot Eric one last frosty look, turned on her heel, and vanished into the woods.
I braced myself for another altercation but Eric said, “Thanks for not giving Harry away. He’s a good lad.”
“It seems there have been misunderstandings all around,” I said firmly. “Shall we start again?”
“How did your mother know the Carriage House was for sale in the first place?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “So it was for sale?”
A James Bond–themed ringtone erupted from Eric’s jacket pocket.
“MI-6 calling?” I joked.
Eric gave a sheepish grin and scrambled to answer his mobile from his top pocket. His smile of greeting swiftly changed to an expression of fury. “Stupid bitch!” he shouted. “Right. Yes. Don’t worry, m’lord. I’ll take care of it.”
Without so much as a good-bye, Eric jumped into his cab, started the engine, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and drove off.
I tramped back to the Carriage House, retrieved my suitcase, and finally located a paint-peeled front door down a narrow alley sandwiched between a feed shed and an old henhouse.
Picking up a handy brick, I hammered on the door, shouting, “Mum! Hello? Hello!”
As I waited for what seemed like forever, the door opened and I gasped. I barely recognized her.
Mum’s hand was in a plaster cast up to the elbow. A black eye and an angry bruise on her jawbone marred her normally immaculate appearance. Her lip was swollen and her left foot was bandaged.
Mum’s perm had turned frizzy and bore an unattractive gray skunk stri
pe down the center part. She was wearing elasticized red tartan pajama bottoms that had belonged to Dad, an orange hand-knitted poncho, and a pair of penguin-head slippers I’d worn as a teenager.
There wasn’t a scrap of makeup on her face although Mum had attempted to apply lipstick across her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” she asked crossly. “I told you not to come.”
“I’ve come to look after you,” I said, looking her up and down. “And by the looks of things, you need it.”
“I don’t want your help.” Mum peered at my trousers. “Why are your feet so muddy? Is that jam?”
“It’s strawberry juice.”
“Really, Kat. You do look a mess.”
I was incredulous. “I look a mess? By the way … nice slippers.”
Mum looked at her feet and then up at me.
We began to laugh. “You’d better come in,” she said. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
Chapter Four
“I’ll give you the grand tour later,” said Mum, ushering me inside. “Now, you have to have an imagination, dear. I know that’s not your forte, but it’s going to look lovely when it’s all finished.”
“I certainly hope so.” I stepped gingerly over a hole in the floor and pointed at it. “How did you break your hand? Falling down there?”
“No. Something far more exciting, I’ll tell you later,” said Mum. “Just leave your suitcase here—bring the strawberries and we’ll have a drink.”
I brandished the bottle of wine. “Your favorite.”
Mum pulled a face. “Blue Nun? I only drank it to please your father. I’d rather have a gin and tonic.”
“But you like Blue Nun,” I protested. “You always have.”
“Nope. Couldn’t stand the stuff,” Mum said cheerfully. “These days I drink gin. Bombay Sapphire to be precise. William bought me a bottle as a housewarming present and I’ve become quite partial to it. Gin has such a clean taste, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Is William the handyman?”
“No. He’s the stable manager,” said Mum. “Now, he’d make someone a good husband.”
“Possibly,” I said. “But it won’t be me.”
“You haven’t met him yet. Don’t be so quick to judge,” said Mum. “He looks good for someone in his late fifties and I know how much you like your men mature.”
“I’m happy with David,” I said crossly.
The place stank of damp and decay. The wallpaper was left over from the seventies—a depressing brown, cream, and mustard hexagonal design. The linoleum was cracked and what scraps of carpet remained were stained and torn. The paintwork had a yellowing brownish tinge, hinting of the days when it was popular to smoke. Brown nylon curtains drooped from wires in the windows.
“No one has lived here for decades,” Mum enthused.
“Really? I would never have guessed.”
“This is the sitting room.” Mum opened a door on her right to reveal chaos.
Linens, tea cloths, and towels were piled on top of the sofa, paintings leaned against the back of an armchair, and a large rolled-up rug had been propped in the corner. Moving boxes, all neatly labeled—GLASSWARE, BOOKS, SHOES, and TOWELS—were stacked everywhere. On top of a box marked FRANK—DOCUMENTS sat an orange Tupperware container.
“You haven’t got very far with your unpacking,” I said.
Mum rolled her eyes. “I have broken my hand, Katherine.”
“Please don’t tell me those are Dad’s ashes in that Tupperware?” I went on, knowing full well they were. “At least keep him in your bedroom or something. Show some respect!”
“I’d rather keep Frank in here where I can keep an eye on his respect. At least this way I know where he is.”
Pointing to the box marked FRANK I said, “Dad specifically wanted you to go through that box of documents, remember? He told you they were very important.”
“Give me a chance,” said Mum.
“He’d hate you living here. He loved the idea of us going into business together—didn’t you, Dad?” I said to the Tupperware box. Turning to Mum I added, “I bet he’s watching you.”
Mum snatched a tea cloth from the sofa and, with surprising skill given that she could only use one hand, threw it over the Tupperware box. “There, now he won’t have to suffer.”
“I had no idea we had a hoopla champ in our midst.”
“You’d be surprised at what I can do.”
Mum shooed me out of the room. On our left was an oak-paneled latch door. “That leads to the main carriageway and stables. I thought I’d leave it in its original state—”
“Uninhabitable, you mean?”
Mum scowled.
“So, are you just going to renovate the living quarters?” I said. “How many bedrooms are there?”
“Two,” said Mum. “The head groom and his family used to live here before the new stable block was built.”
Mum stepped around a bucket filled with water. “I’ll have to fix the roof, of course.”
I looked up to see a gaping hole in the ceiling revealing the room above and—I could swear—a patch of sky. “Oh, it’s still light outside.”
“Actually, that’s your bedroom up there,” said Mum. “Imagine you’re camping under the stars.”
“I’ve never liked camping.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to sort out the sheets and make up your own bed,” Mum went on. “It’s so infuriating not being able to do anything. The doctor said it would take at least six weeks before I can begin to use my hand again. I can’t dress myself, put on makeup, do up buttons, zips. I can’t even open a can of soup.”
“It’s just as well I came then,” I said and meant it.
With every step deeper into the house my heart sank further. Central heating consisted of ancient storage heaters. It would be freezing in the winter. The place was falling down and Mum seemed oblivious. My head registered the thousands of pounds that were needed to get it remotely habitable but I was far more worried about Mum’s mental state. Who, in their right mind would have acted so recklessly? Dad had been the Do-It-Yourself expert. Mum couldn’t even change a lightbulb. And why, of all places, choose here?
“Looks like you’ve got rising damp,” I said pointing to a sinister stain in the corner of the skirting board. “That’s another expensive job.”
“Katherine!” Mum swung around, eyes ablaze. “I know what I’ve let myself in for. I’m not an idiot.” She tapped her cast. “This is what’s holding me up and yes, your father would turn in his grave if he knew.”
“That would be a challenge considering he’s been cremated.”
“He wanted to be cremated,” said Mum exasperated. “Why are you being so difficult?”
“Dad wanted me to take care of you,” I protested. “How can I do that when you’ve decided to live in squalor hundreds of miles away?”
Mum looked hurt and turned abruptly away. I felt a pang of remorse and put my arms around her but she elbowed me in the ribs. “Be careful!” she snapped. “Don’t touch my hand. There are pins in it.”
We continued to the end of the hallway in a frosty silence and entered a large kitchen with a Victorian pine table in the center. “Did you buy that?” I said, surprised. “I thought you only liked IKEA.”
“No, it was already here,” said Mum.
I opened the refrigerator to put in the wine and found it well stocked.
“William,” said Mum, reading my mind. “Malcolm the Meat comes on Mondays, Fred the Fish on Fridays and there’s a daily milk service.”
“Really? I’m impressed.” And I was.
“I’m not completely cut off from civilization,” said Mum. “Cropper—he’s the butler up at the Hall—makes honey from the estate’s very own hives. William brings it over.”
“William sounds like a godsend.”
“He is.”
Mum had put up white net curtains at the large picture window. I loathe net cu
rtains but realized that constantly criticizing my mother was not going to help matters.
“The curtains look great. What are those?” I stepped closer to inspect half a dozen strips of paper that dangled from the ceiling and were covered in black dots. “Flies!” I exclaimed. “How disgusting!”
“But effective,” said Mum. “I found a box of coils in the old tack room. They’re coated with arsenic. We seem to be having an invasion of flies this summer.”
A huge oak dresser stretched the length of one wall. “Nice dresser. Was that here, too?”
“I’m glad you approve of something.”
“It’s nineteenth century. Quite valuable actually,” I said. “And perfect for your china.”
“I know.” Mum had displayed her collection of royal commemoration plates, reproduction Buckingham Palace china, and Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee china on the shelves above the dresser. A framed wedding photograph of Prince William and Kate Middleton stood in the center. Mum had an obsession about the royal family—something Dad and I used to joke about.
“William told me that Princess Anne is a regular visitor up at the house,” said Mum. “All these aristocratic families are connected, you know, especially when there are horses involved. His Royal Highness Prince Philip—that’s the Duke of Edinburgh—is a personal friend of the dowager countess.”
“Would this dowager countess ride sidesaddle by any chance?”
“Yes. I’ve seen her out riding, but of course her sort wouldn’t mix with the likes of us,” said Mum.
“What do you mean her sort?” I scoffed.
“The gentry.”
“That’s silly, Mum,” I said. “They’re just like you and me.”
“No, Katherine, believe me, they are not,” said Mum. “There are them … and there are us.”
“I saw the little boy out riding,” I said. “He looked pretty normal.”
“Normal?” said Mum. “Who wears flying goggles on horseback? William told me they have a lot of problems with that child. He’s a little light-fingered.”
“Light-fingered?” I laughed again at Mum’s old-fashioned terms and then remembered that Harry had wasted no time in borrowing Jazzbo Jenkins, which was rather worrying.
“I wonder how old Lady Lavinia was when she had him?” said Mum. “How old are you now? I lose track.”
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 4
