Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery

by Hannah Dennison

  Mrs. Cropper caught my eye and gave a nod of approval. “Lady Edith’s brother was a Spitfire pilot during World War II—”

  “He was shot by a poacher, wasn’t he, Mrs. Cropper,” said Harry cheerfully. “There was lots of blood and everything.”

  “That’s enough, thank you, Master Harry,” said Mrs. Cropper, “Where was I? Oh—yes, Lady Edith’s father—the earl—flew Sopwith Camels in the Great War. The flying helmet and goggles belonged to him.”

  “Harry is very lucky,” I said. “They’re collector’s items.”

  “The Hall is full of collections from all over the world,” said Mrs. Cropper proudly.

  “My mother is very interested in the history of the house. She’d love to talk to you about it—if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Honeychurch Hall was a military hospital during both World Wars,” Mrs. Cropper went on as she busied herself by the kitchen sink. “Of course I was only a child during the second one. I still live in the cottage I was born in.”

  “And Mr. Cropper?”

  “He was born next door.”

  “And I was born upstairs,” said Harry. “Wasn’t I, Mrs. Cropper?”

  “That’s right. You were a home birth. All the gentry were born at home. Vera’s mother was also a midwife.”

  “Does Vera’s mother still live on the estate?” I asked.

  “No, she’s in the loony bin,” said Harry.

  “Harry!” Mrs. Cropper exclaimed. “We don’t say loony bin.”

  “Mummy does.”

  “Unfortunately, Vera’s mother suffers from Alzheimer’s,” said Mrs. Cropper in a low voice. “She lives at Sunny Hill Lodge. It’s very pleasant.”

  “It smells of wee and cabbages,” Harry chipped in.

  “And your grandson, Shawn?” I asked politely.

  “He said Gayla wasn’t on the train,” Harry said. “She’s gone missing.”

  “Only because she stopped to visit a friend,” I said quickly.

  “And if you carry on listening to adult conversations,” Mrs. Cropper scolded, “there will be no apple snow for pudding.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Where was I?” Mrs. Cropper said again.

  “Your grandson.”

  “Our son, Robert—that’s Shawn’s father—didn’t want to be in domestic service. He went into the police force and Shawn followed in his footsteps.”

  “Who lived in the third cottage?” I asked.

  “My brother was the gamekeeper there for a time.”

  “Gamekeeper?” I said sharply, thinking of how Mum claimed she didn’t know who had lived there when I questioned her this morning. “What was your maiden name?”

  “Stark, why?”

  Mum’s gamekeeper was called Shelby, close enough to Stark but not too obvious. “I just wondered. And the cottages are still tied?”

  “What are they tied to?” chipped in Harry.

  “Tied cottages mean that they belong to the estate and if the family works on the estate, they can live there forever,” I said. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Cropper?”

  “As long as the estate isn’t sold off.” Mrs. Cropper’s expression darkened. “I don’t mind telling you that none of us are happy about the Carriage House being sold to an outsider. What will happen to us when Lady Edith dies and his lordship has his way?”

  “Oh,” I said taken aback.

  “What will happen to all of us? To Eric and Vera? William? This is our home.”

  I didn’t know what to say so I just mumbled, “Gosh, I wonder.”

  “People don’t know their place anymore,” Mrs. Cropper plunged on. “In the old days, you knew where you were. There was none of this American dream nonsense—wanting to be something you’re not. When you start marrying into the wrong class, that’s when trouble begins.”

  “Like Kelly. She was in the tart class, wasn’t she, Mrs. Cropper?” said Harry. “Do you think she was stung by killer bees because tarts taste yummy?”

  “What’s this nonsense about killer bees?” Lavinia swept in. “Really, Mrs. Cropper, I’ve told you before not to put ideas into Harry’s head.”

  “No, m’lady,” said Mrs. Cropper.

  Lavinia touched the string of pearls at her neck and fiddled with a strand of long blond hair that had escaped from a tortoiseshell comb. Tonight she’d given up her usual style of jodhpurs for a navy pleated skirt and neat white ruffled blouse.

  “I was telling Mrs. Cropper that my mother is interested in the history of the house and all its dark secrets,” I said.

  “Why? Whatever for?” Lavinia fiddled with her pearls again. She seemed nervous. “We don’t have any dark secrets.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, m’lady.” Vera slipped into the kitchen. She had switched her drab black housekeeper uniform to a flimsy black shift and donned another pair of mind-bogglingly expensive leopard-print Christian Louboutin sky-high heels. Her face was heavily made up and her flinty eyes bore the telltale signs of having already imbibed an aperitif—or three.

  Puzzled, Lavinia turned to Mrs. Cropper. “I thought it was Vera’s night off.”

  “She’s here for a bit of Dutch courage,” said Mrs. Cropper. “I’ll get you a snifter, dear.”

  Mrs. Cropper vanished through one of the three doors along the rear wall. Lavinia regarded Vera with obvious dislike. “Don’t let Lady Edith see you dressed like that.”

  “If we don’t have apple snow soon,” Harry cried, “I’m going to die of starvation.”

  “Are you coming or not?” shouted Lady Edith, who had entered the kitchen. Mr. Chips steamed in after her, dashing around the table in circles and then, just as suddenly, steamed out again.

  The dowager countess had also given up her usual riding attire for a deep purple skirt and duster jacket. Her gray hair lay in neat pin curls that were clamped to her head.

  “Granny!” cried Harry. “We’ve got apple snow for pudding.”

  “How lovely, my pet.”

  Mrs. Cropper reappeared clutching a silver hip flask but on spotting Lady Edith, she slipped it into the pocket of her pinafore. Vera had disappeared. Once again I felt as if I was involved in a farce with actors coming in and out of various doors.

  “Good evening, m’lady,” said Mrs. Cropper. “Did you need me to leave you a light snack for later?”

  “No, we’re eating at Shipley Abbey,” said Lady Edith. “Although I’m quite certain the food will be filthy. Come along, Lavinia, it must be a good hour’s drive across Dartmoor and at this time of night, the place will be crawling with wretched tourists. Oh—” she said on noticing me. “You found a new nanny. What’s your name, gel?”

  “It’s Katherine Stanford, Edith,” said Lavinia, shooting me an apologetic smile. “From the Carriage House. You met her this morning, remember?”

  “No, I’ve never seen her before,” said Lady Edith.

  I caught a worried look between Mrs. Cropper and Lavinia. Perhaps she really was losing her marbles.

  “Is William going with you tonight, your ladyship?” Mrs. Cropper asked.

  “He’s keeping an eye on Jupiter,” said Lady Edith. “She’s restless and keeps kicking at her stomach again.”

  “Sounds like colic,” I suggested. “I was horse mad as a teenager.”

  “If you want to ride out with us, we’re always short-handed,” said Lady Edith.

  “I’d love to!”

  “Is that wise?” said Lavinia. “These horses are frightfully valuable.”

  Lady Edith ignored her. “Talk to William tomorrow. He’ll sort you out.” She kissed the top of Harry’s head and swept out, shouting, “I’ll be waiting in the car. Hurry up.”

  Lavinia went to kiss Harry, too, but he cringed. “Ugh. Don’t do that, Mother. I’m on duty.”

  “Bedtime is nine o’clock,” said Lavinia. “We won’t be home until at least midnight. Do you want to stay the night, Katherine? Harry gets a little skittish.”

  “No, thanks,” I said.
“Mum’s still not very mobile with her broken hand.”

  “Shall I wait up or come back later?” said Mrs. Cropper. “What about his lordship?”

  “No need for that,” said Lavinia. “I have no idea what time Rupert will be home.”

  The moment Lavinia had left the room, Vera emerged from her hiding place that turned out to be a small cupboard filled with brooms and cleaning supplies.

  “Have you got it, Auntie Peg?” said Vera.

  “Auntie Peg?” I said. “So, you two are related as well?”

  “Vera is my brother’s granddaughter,” said Mrs. Cropper.

  “Your brother Shelby—I mean, Stark the gamekeeper?” It was hard keeping all these relationships straight. Mum needed to draw a below-stairs family tree. That’s where the real intrigue seemed to be.

  Mrs. Cropper retrieved the hip flask from her pocket and handed it to her. “And don’t go drinking too much. You’re already three sheets to the wind.”

  Vera opened a small leather clutch bag that bore the logo CHANEL. For someone who worked as a housekeeper she seemed to be making good money. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Cropper.

  Vera gave her great-aunt an impulsive hug. “Do I look all right?”

  “I hope Eric’s taking you somewhere special in those new clothes. They must have cost a pretty packet.”

  “He likes me in new clothes,” said Vera defensively. “He said he booked a table in that new restaurant out on the Plymouth road called Crumb.”

  “It doesn’t sound fancy to me,” said Mrs. Cropper.

  “It was featured in last week’s Walk of Shame! Celebrity Family Secrets Revealed.” Vera turned to me. “I love that show. Maybe you should be on it.”

  Changing the subject, I just said, “I hope you have fun tonight.”

  “Yes, have fun!” echoed Harry.

  “Thanks.” Vera smiled. It transformed her entire face. She actually looked pretty. “Men, eh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”

  She tottered out of the kitchen on her Christian Louboutins.

  “One of these days she’ll fall off those shoes and break her neck,” Mrs. Cropper muttered.

  After polishing off two helpings of apple snow each, Harry and I left the table. “Can I help with the washing up?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Cropper. “You’ve got your job and I’ve got mine. Now you behave yourself, Master Harry, and do what Miss Katherine tells you.”

  “Come on,” said Harry, pulling the goggles down over his eyes. “This way. Let’s go and break into the castle and rescue our man Jazzbo Jenkins.”

  “You know where you are not allowed to go—do be careful Miss Katherine, the service wing was bombed during the war and the floors just aren’t safe.”

  “I’ll watch out for him.” Pausing at the door, I said, “What was in the hip flask?”

  “Cherry brandy with a touch of magic,” said Mrs. Cropper with a wink.

  “It has a secret ingredient, doesn’t it?” said Harry.

  “That’s right. Let’s just say it could give you a bit of a buzz.”

  I paused again, wondering if I should give some to David. “Does it work?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Every time.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Harry and I left the kitchen and entered a low-ceilinged, flagstoned passage. High on the wall was a long row of service bells with indicators. It was a gloomy place, lit only by a yellowing lightbulb.

  “Hold tight, Stanford! I’m putting her down in the field,” said Harry, running through a series of mimed gestures indicating that our imaginary airplane had made a bumpy landing. “Rightey-oh. We’ve just broken into the dungeon. Let’s check the cells.”

  Half a dozen doors or so lined the corridor. Each bearing a wooden plaque that indicated the purpose behind each. There were an assortment of larders including dry, fish, meat, and dairy, and a lamp room. Most were locked—the doorjambs thick with grime and cobwebs. Only the wine cellar, gun room, and a stillroom bore signs of use.

  “It doesn’t look as if Jazzbo is down here, sir,” I said.

  “Shh! There are Germans everywhere. Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bad news,” Harry whispered. “Our man could be up in the tower.”

  At the end of the corridor were two glass-paneled doors. One led to the outside courtyard, the other to a narrow staircase.

  The back stone stairs wound up to the attics with walls painted a dull green. Harry stopped on the small landing next to another wooden door. “We’ve just scaled up an outside wall under heavy enemy fire,” he whispered. “Now we’re about to scramble over the parapet. Ready?”

  We stepped into the galleried landing that overlooked the great hall. Light spilled from the domed atriums above. A threadbare carpet bore several imprints of heavy furniture that had probably been sold off. A handful of picture lights illuminated empty squares. Two beautiful walnut display credenzas contained a collection of porcelain snuff boxes—Lady Edith’s cherished collections. There had to be at least twenty in each cabinet and worth a small fortune.

  Harry grabbed my hand. “Come on, Stanford, there’s no time to lose.”

  He opened the first door off the landing and pulled me inside. It was a man’s bedroom and I suspected it was Rupert’s.

  “I don’t think we should be in here,” I said.

  “We can’t leave any stone unturned,” said Harry earnestly. “You take one side, I’ll take the other. Von Stalhein could have our chap locked up in a secret chamber.”

  The room was heavily beamed and with exquisite linenfold paneling—obviously part of the original house. It was decorated in dark autumnal colors with seventeenth century oak furniture and more oil paintings of stags, dogs, and pheasants. There was a vast wood-framed bed, armoire, and two sets of chests of drawers. The fireplace had an overmantel of carved wood bearing the Honeychurch coat of arms.

  Harry began opening drawers and peering into corners. “Check the desk for clues, Stanford!” said Harry. “That’s an order!”

  An oak bureau stood between two casement windows that overlooked the park and the white angel memorial. Maybe Rupert really was still in love with his first wife and when I spied a wood-framed photograph of a couple on his desk, it certainly seemed so. Rupert stood with his arm around a young dark-haired woman who was dressed in a low, plunging neckline. Frankly, she did look a little on the tarty side.

  There was also a brochure marked Sunny Hill Lodge Residential Home for the Elderly. A note was stapled to the cover from P. Pelham-Burns, Esq. saying, “With compliments. Looking forward to meeting the dowager countess.”

  I began to feel seriously uncomfortable. “Harry, we really shouldn’t be in here.”

  I turned to find my charge dragging a blue telescoping mailing tube out from under the bed. “It’s a map of the dungeons!” he said excitedly. He tipped it upside down and shook it hard but nothing slid out.

  Harry’s face fell. “It’s gone.”

  “The Germans must have stolen it,” I said.

  “But it was here yesterday. Gayla found it.” Harry scowled. “I wanted to show it to you.”

  “Never mind. Let’s put this back.” I took the tube from him and glanced at the shipping label. It was addressed to H & P Developments of 14A The Passage, Dartmouth. The return address was from a company in Bristol called PlayScapes Planning. Kneeling down, I rolled the tube under the bed.

  “I know!” said Harry. “Maybe the map is in Fräulein von Stalhein’s room?”

  “No more bedrooms,” I said but he had already vanished through a connecting door. The fact that Lavinia and Rupert did not sleep together was not lost on me.

  Lavinia’s bedroom was chaotic. There was a saddle on the back of an armchair, Horse & Hound magazines stacked on the floor, and a walnut dressing table with a set of silver brushes, old-fashioned glass perfume bottles, and used tissues.

/>   Clothing was heaped in piles on the carpet and the bed was unmade. On Lavinia’s night table, next to a framed photograph of a much younger Rupert dressed in polo playing attire was—to my extreme surprise—Mum’s book, Gypsy Temptress. It lay open, spine facing up. Perhaps Lavinia wasn’t as cold-blooded as she seemed, after all.

  Harry gave a heavy sigh. “What the dickens happened here, Stanford? This must have been quite a show. Von Stalhein must have been tipped off and moved our man elsewhere.”

  “No more bedrooms, Harry,” I said again. “They’re private. You wouldn’t like it if someone went through your things.”

  Harry’s shoulders slumped. “But Jazzbo could be in danger.”

  “No more tonight,” I said firmly. “Back to base, Squadron Leader Bigglesworth. We’ll continue our search tomorrow.”

  “Base” proved to be Harry’s bedroom—a light and sunny room with a high ceiling, two casement windows, and a view of the walled garden.

  The furniture was mainly pine—a narrow bed, freestanding wardrobe, and a chest of drawers upon which stood a tray with two glasses of milk and a plate of homemade biscuits. There was a pine blanket chest and matching bookcase filled with comic books and volumes of adventure stories.

  In the corner was an ancient navy school trunk with old leather straps. The name RUPERT E. HONEYCHURCH had been scratched out and HARRY E. HONEYCHURCH written in black marker pen above it.

  There was no television or computer—just a selection of board games including an antique chessboard, backgammon, cribbage, Monopoly, and Scrabble. I wondered how Harry would adjust to being around “normal” kids who grew up saturated with modern technology.

  And yet it was the model airplanes from both World Wars suspended from the ceiling that took my breath away. No wonder Harry created a world of make-believe. How could he avoid it?

  A workstation stretched the length of one wall holding pots of paint, brushes, glue, and scissors. Underneath it was a stool.

  “Did you make these models yourself?” I enthused. “You must have a lot of patience.”

  “Gayla tried,” said Harry, changing into his pajamas. “But she got red paint everywhere! William tried, too, but his hands are gigantic because he’s the strongest man in the world.”