“Didn’t know about what?”
She pointed to an overgrown footpath that ended abruptly at a wooden stile embedded in a thick hedge. “Go down there and look. You’ll see what I mean.”
I did as I was told. Horrified didn’t begin to describe how I felt.
Dozens of beaten-up old cars—including an old hearse—a pyramid of tires, and discarded pieces of farm machinery were spread over the field beyond. There was a car-crusher machine—the source of the noise and pollution—a forklift truck, and a stack of pulverized cars. The whole monstrosity was encompassed by a muddy track that ran around the perimeter of the vast field.
None of this was visible from my bedroom window and Eric’s caravan and red tractor could only be seen from the bathroom.
In a state of shock, I returned to Mum who was sitting on a log with a face as long as a wet week.
“It’s a scrap yard!” I exclaimed.
“No, it’s not called a scrap yard apparently.” Mum’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “They’re called end-of-life vehicles.”
“End of life?” I snorted.
“I told you not to snort,” said Mum. “And you ask me why I don’t think you’ve got ‘It’?”
“Whether I have sex appeal or not is hardly the issue here. Do you seriously want to live next door to a scrap yard?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“No wonder Eric had his eye on the Carriage House,” I said. “He probably wants to expand his business and you put an end to his dreams.”
“Well hard bloody luck,” said Mum. “I’ve got a plan. I wasn’t married to a tax inspector for nothing, you know.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You will.”
Mum hobbled on ahead.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I shouted, hurrying after her.
“Shortcut!” she yelled back.
The footpath through the pinewoods ended at a second latch-gate that opened into a potholed lane, bordered by thick laurel hedgerows.
“This used to be the service road to the rear of the Hall,” said Mum. “In Victorian and Edwardian times, service roads were always screened from the main house so the guests wouldn’t have to see all the activity that was going on behind the scenes.”
Fifty yards farther on stood a terrace of three stone cottages that backed onto a twelve-foot-high brick wall enclosure covered in ivy.
I gestured to the cottages. “Are those the estate cottages?”
“Vera and Eric live in number one with the broken window. The Croppers—that’s Seth the butler and Peggy the cook—in the middle with the window box of red geraniums—”
“Very pretty,” I said. “And what about number three? It’s all boarded up. Is that where Lady Evelyn’s lusty gamekeeper used to live?”
“I have no idea.”
“I thought you knew everything and everyone,” I said. “I love the family tree in your office. We should trace ours.”
“Whatever for?” Mum exclaimed. “It’s not very interesting.”
“It is!” I cried. “I want to know more about your brothers, Alfred and Billy. I really missed out not knowing my grandparents.”
“Well, at the rate you’re going, it looks like I’ll be missing out on not knowing my grandchildren—”
“Touché,” I said. “That reminds me, David will be visiting sometime over the weekend.”
Mum frowned. “I’m just not ready for guests.”
“Don’t worry, it’s just for one night and he’s offered to stay in the local pub.”
“It’s a long way to come for one night,” said Mum.
“David is visiting … a sick relative.” Deftly changing the subject, I pointed to a tall wooden gate that stood between two granite pillars topped with hawks. The gate was bleached silver-gray with age and surrounded by a sea of ragwort and stinging nettles.
“What’s behind there?” I asked.
Mum brightened. “The walled garden,” she said and pushed the gate open. “Come and see. Lady Evelyn and Shelby have a few secret trysts in here in my new book.”
I followed her inside.
“I love coming in here,” said Mum in a low voice.
“Why are you whispering?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” Mum whispered back. “Why are you?”
“It’s a whispering sort of place,” I whispered again and giggled. There was an inexplicable reverence here within the high walls—rather like being in church. “Oh Mum—it’s wonderful!”
Mum pointed to a sturdy-looking wooden bench. “I sit over there for hours just thinking about my characters.”
Within the ivy-clad walls, wide borders were bounded by a perimeter path with two main central paths. One ran north to south, the other east to west, dividing the garden into four equal sections. A line of glasshouses stretched along one side. Behind them, hugging the boundary wall, were abandoned hothouse furnaces, potting sheds, tool rooms, and a henhouse. Despite the abject neglect and knee-high weeds, it was easy to imagine how achingly beautiful the garden would have been in its prime.
“They grew peaches in the middle glasshouse,” said Mum. “Take a look.”
Inside stood rows of slatted benches, broken clay pots, and the remains of a solitary withered vine clinging to the red brickwork. Most of the glass panes were cracked or broken. A dozen or so hens were wandering around, scratching for grubs.
“These Victorian glasshouses are really valuable,” I said. “People pay a fortune to have them these days.”
“The last glasshouse used to be an orangerie. They were all heated, of course. What a job it must have been, carting the coal back and forth.”
“Yes,” I said.
“There used to be five gardeners here after the war,” Mum went on. “Can you imagine them busily weeding, digging, sowing, washing, trimming, bunching, carrying the vegetables to the house?”
“And you’d be the one getting up before dawn to light the grate,” I reminded her.
Three ancient hand-drawn water barrows were parked in front of an abandoned trellis partially covered by a grapevine. “There are grapes on here, Mum,” I said, taking a closer look.
“They used to make their own wine.”
In one corner, steps led down to a beehive-shaped building partially below ground.
“That’s the icehouse,” Mum enthused. “Gayla told me that Harry called it his secret underground bunker.”
“I think I’ll try calling that taxi company again when we get back,” I said. “Just to make sure they picked Gayla up.”
“I’m sure if something has happened we’ll soon know about it.”
Only the far corner had been reclaimed from the wild. Runner beans flourished on three rows of pitched bamboo canes; cucumbers grew under glass frames; strawberries, under hoops, were covered with plastic; and there was a wire cage filled with raspberry canes. Against one wall, shoulder-high tomato plants staked in clay pots were bowing over with rich, red fruit.
“Your father would have loved it here,” said Mum. “He loved his allotment, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did, Mum.”
We were quiet for a few moments. Remembering. I tried to lighten the mood.
“Did you enjoy William’s strawberries?” I said. “I wonder if he actually melted the chocolate himself. Do you think he’s the domestic type?”
“I threw them out.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“I didn’t know where his hands had been.”
“Were his eyes liquid pools filled with blatant lust or green with pound signs?”
“Very funny,” said Mum. “I told you, I’m using William for research purposes. I just wanted to see what his fingers felt like on my skin so I could describe it.”
“And?”
“Rough. His hands were like a grater. Now I know what it feels like to be a piece of cheese.”
We returned to the service road and headed towa
rd the Hall. Glimmers of sparkling white flashed in and out of the trees. I pointed to a cluster of whitewashed wooden beehives in a clearing.
“Remind me to give you some honey to take back to London,” said Mum.
The lane passed by the archway that opened into a smart stable yard. “Through here,” Mum said, leading the way. “You’ll like this.”
Built around a stone courtyard, three sides of the quadrant housed four loose boxes each with the fourth side being divided by a second archway topped with the dovecote and clock. Horses peered over green painted split-stable doors.
Mum was right. I felt instantly happy. “How lovely!”
I walked straight up to a pretty chestnut mare peering over the half door and stroked her nose. Her name plaque said TINKERBELL. “You’re beautiful.” She nudged my hand for a treat. “I should have brought a carrot or something.”
Mum said suddenly, “I’m sorry we couldn’t afford to buy you a horse. Your father wanted to.”
“He did?” I was surprised. “He was always complaining about taking me to the stables.”
“He looked into it but living in London—” She shrugged. “Where would you keep it? In a potting shed on the allotment?”
We cut through the yard and under the archway to find William, stripped to the waist, hosing down a big black horse tied to a rail in the paddock. William gave us a nod of acknowledgement.
“Good grief,” said Mum, turning pink and giving a wave. “I’ve never seen him with his shirt off.”
“Good grief, indeed,” I echoed.
Despite his age, William’s physique was hard and toned. He still sported a six-pack. I couldn’t help thinking of David, who—years younger—had a potbelly and an aversion to any form of physical exercise.
“Wait a moment.” Mum pulled a Dictaphone out of the pocket of her harem pantaloons and hit the record button. “Rippling muscles. Cherry-red sensual lips. Droplets of water like diamonds of morning dew.”
“Long, tapered thighs encased in impossibly tight jeans,” I added.
Sensing an audience, William deliberately flexed his muscles and Mum and I started giggling like teenagers. We waved again and continued on our way.
Our trek finally brought us to the rear of the Hall. Here, it was easier to see the different architectural periods. A series of exposed wooden beams hinted at a Tudor beginning. It was as if the Hall kept being swallowed up by bigger and more fashionable additions as time went by.
“There is a secret tunnel somewhere,” said Mum. “It’s supposedly three hundred feet long, very narrow, very steep, and very dark.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s in the local history books,” said Mum quickly. “Oh, and the sunken garden is rumored to be haunted by a lady in a blue dress called Lady Frances. She was a Royalist. The ladies of Honeychurch Hall held out for a year whilst their men went off to fight Cromwell.” Mum thumped her chest. “Can’t you feel the history of the place? Can’t you just feel it here?”
“Yes,” I said. “I can.” And I could.
Extensive grounds stretched to the south in a confusion of neglected box hedges and ghosts of topiaried shapes. Spectacular formal gardens and overgrown flower borders rolled toward a shimmer of blue—the River Dart.
We followed a weed-infested gravel path through a wild rose garden, continued under a wire-hoop pergola consumed by purple-flowering clematis and fragrant honeysuckle, and reached the grand Palladian front entrance to the Hall.
I rang the doorbell—a rusted pull-down iron contraption—and waited.
“Perhaps it’s not working,” I said.
“Do you think we should curtsey when we’re introduced to the earl?”
“He’s not royalty, Mum,” I said. “He’s just a normal person with a title.”
Mum looked worried. “But we’re not gentry, are we? Perhaps we should have gone around the back to the servant’s entrance.”
“Didn’t you meet him when you bought the Carriage House?”
“I told you I didn’t. I went through a land agent called Laney.”
Suddenly, Mum turned away from the front door.
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
“I’ve changed my mind. What if the dowager countess is there?”
“If she is, then you can be formally introduced,” I said.
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
I grabbed Mum’s good arm. “Relax, we’re just going for coffee—not to the Tower of London.” I’d never seen her so nervous.
There was a rattle of chains and the sound of a key being turned in a lock. The door began to open.
“Here we go,” said Mum tightly. “This is it.”
Chapter Eight
Cropper the butler was a dapper man in his late seventies with oiled, thinning gray hair and who reeked of mothballs. He was dressed in formal butler attire of starched collar, gray-striped trousers, and tails.
“We’re here to see Lord Honeychurch,” I said. “This is my mother, Iris Stanford and I’m Katherine.”
“Good morning,” he said. “Do come this way. His lordship is expecting you.”
We stepped into an inner front porch that bore a huge gilt mirror on one side beneath which stood a rarely seen nineteenth-century elephant-foot umbrella stand.
I pointed to the umbrella stand and whispered, “Remember that game we used to play on long car journeys? I went to the shop and I bought an elephant’s foot umbrella stand. None of my friends had ever heard of it. What was wrong with I Spy?”
“So you did have friends,” said Mum. “You always said you didn’t have any.”
Cropper motioned for us to follow him and we proceeded—at glacial speed—into a magnificent two-story galleried reception area. A huge crystal chandelier hung suspended between two domed-glass atriums. Shafts of morning sunlight illuminated patches of damp, cobwebs, and crumbling plasterwork.
The floor was a chessboard pattern of black-and-white marble. Full-bodied suits of armor were arranged randomly throughout the hall. Small gold nameplates identified the family portraits that lined the walls. On the right, below each oil painting stood a seventeenth-century Dutch walnut marquetry side chair inlaid with flowers, foliage, parrots, and urns. I knew at once that the furniture scattered throughout were valuable antiques—most likely handed down from generation to generation. The set of Dutch side chairs would fetch enough to repair the Carriage House roof alone.
Interspersed between the chairs were Victorian pedestal plant stands on top of which sat aspidistras that—on closer inspection—were plastic and coated in dust.
“I wonder how many staff work here,” said Mum, taking in her surroundings with nothing short of awe.
“Not enough to do all the dusting,” I murmured.
Cropper stopped—he may not be fast on his feet but his hearing was sharp. “Just the three of us work at the Hall, madam.”
“Three!” said Mum aghast. “The place is enormous.”
“Most of the house is closed off these days,” said Cropper. “But when my father was butler here before the war, we had twelve live-in staff and five gardeners.”
“You’ve lived here all your life, Mr. Cropper?” I asked politely, hoping he didn’t notice Mum barking into her Dictaphone, “Twelve servants.”
“I was born here,” said Mr. Cropper. “So was my wife, Mrs. Cropper. Everyone in the area used to work on the estate whether it was in the house, the gardens, or on the land. At one time there were three large farms—all sold off now.”
“I met Vera Pugsley, the housekeeper, yesterday,” I said.
“Yes. Her mother was the housekeeper before her, and her grandmother was lady’s maid to the dowager countess, Lady Edith.”
I looked at Mum to see if she’d recorded that snippet of information but she seemed preoccupied with an ornate portrait hanging over the vast marble fireplace. The nameplate said:
LADY EDITH HONEYCHURCH, NOVEMBER 10, 1950.
“That�
��s Lady Edith on her twenty-first birthday,” said Cropper.
“She was very beautiful,” I said.
Lady Edith was wearing a strapless sapphire-blue evening gown. She had dark blue eyes and pale skin—a classic English rose. Her brown hair was swept off her face in finger waves. Most striking was the exquisite seed pearl necklace with a delicate leaf motif and matching drop earrings.
Mum stepped up to take a closer look. “What unusual pearls.”
“They were presented to her ladyship on her coming-of-age birthday,” said Cropper. “They have been in the family since Elizabeth I.”
“Seed pearls were often given to young women to symbolize purity and innocence,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you more about them later.”
Mum whipped out her Dictaphone, “Elizabeth I. Pearls. Purity.”
At the end of the gallery Cropper stopped in front of a closed paneled door and said, “Please wait here a moment.” He slipped inside.
“I hope you’re not going to use your Dictaphone in front of the earl,” I said.
“Did you notice the same pearl necklace was worn in all the female portraits?” said Mum. “How fascinating. I must use that in my book.”
Cropper reappeared and stood aside to allow us to pass into the library where an English setter sprawled in front of the fireplace fast asleep.
“Mrs. Iris Stanford and Miss Katherine Stanford,” Cropper announced, “The Earl Grenville, Lord Rupert Honeychurch—”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Cropper, just plain Rupert will do,” said Rupert. He pointed to the dog. “And this is Oliver. He’s deaf, I’m afraid.”
Rupert was a good-looking man in his early fifties, slightly balding with a trim military mustache. Dressed in beige cords and a yellow shirt under a green tweed jacket he seemed the epitome of an English country gentleman—far removed from the impatient driver I’d seen yesterday in the black Range Rover.
Mum had already dropped into a deep curtsey and, to both our embarrassment, had to lean on me to get up.
“What on earth happened to you, Iris—may I call you Iris?”
“Yes. Please do. I had a car accident, your lordship … sir, I mean Mr. Rupert,” Mum said, flustered.
“What bad luck.” Turning to me he added, “And this is the lovely Katherine? You look very familiar. Have we met before?”
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 8
