Shawn turned pink. “Hello. Goodness. Hello! Come on in!”
“Goodness indeed,” I said. “That’s a lot of shoes.”
“Most of them haven’t been worn,” said Roxy, stepping down from the shoe. “All designer. I was telling Shawn some of them fetch around a hundred quid a pair.”
“Try six hundred for the Louboutins,” I said. “I wonder how she could afford them.”
“Lou-what?” Shawn said.
“They always have red soles,” Roxy declared. “Personally, I think they’re a bit tarty.”
“Vera was wearing a pair of leopard print Louboutins on Saturday night,” I said. “When I found her she was wearing Wellington boots.”
“One Wellington boot,” Roxy said firmly. “The leopard print shoes are on the draining board—”
“In the kitchen,” I said. “I saw them there this morning.”
“Are you sure about that?” said Shawn sharply.
“Already bagged up, Shawn,” said Roxy. “Dick’s logged them and everything.”
“Would you identify them please, Kat?”
“I’ll stay here and count the shoes,” said Roxy.
I followed Shawn downstairs where a young lad with terrible acne was seated at Vera’s computer workstation.
“Thanks for coming, Alan.” said Shawn, adding by way of explanation, “Roxy’s brother. He’s a computer genius. Found anything interesting?”
“A journal, hidden away in a folder on her hard drive.”
“Nice work,” said Shawn.
We continued into the kitchen. Just as Roxy had said, Vera’s Louboutins were bagged and labeled on the draining board. “Yes, those are the shoes.”
“Thank you.” Shawn beamed. “Right then. Yes.”
“You had some questions for me?”
“Let’s go somewhere private.”
Somewhere private turned out to be his grandmother’s cottage next door. It had the same layout as Eric and Vera’s place, only there were a plethora of framed family photographs and a lot of lace doilies. Shawn made himself at home in the kitchen and put the kettle on.
I became aware of an unsettling electricity between us. In the confines of the tiny kitchen it made me nervous. I suspected Shawn felt it, too. As he reached for the tea caddy, the lid fell off and the tin dropped to the floor scattering loose tea everywhere.
“Bloody hell,” mumbled Shawn, lunging for a dustpan on the top of a pedal bin. It hadn’t been emptied. Fluff and dirt tipped down the front of his soiled white T-shirt. “Oh dear, I’m hopeless.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I feel your pain. I do that all the time.” And the truth was, I did.
I found a broom behind the door and swept the lot into the corner.
Moments later Shawn put two mugs of tea down on the table and gestured for me to take a seat.
He took out his moleskin notepad. “We’re trying to trace Vera’s last movements.”
I repeated what I’d told William earlier at the stableyard, especially Vera’s hysterical comment that she feared Eric might try to kill her.
“And why was that, do you suppose?”
“She took Eric’s beloved tractor for a joyride.”
“Any idea why?” said Shawn.
“Vera was upset because she thought Eric had stood her up but in fact, she’d gotten the wrong day. I rang the restaurant to check.”
“And you saw her around what time and where?” Shawn licked his thumb and flipped to a new page.
“Ten-ish. I met Vera along the footpath in the pinewoods. She was barefoot and carrying those leopard print shoes. Her dress was muddy.”
“Do you know what she was doing in the pinewoods?” asked Shawn.
“Just that she’d been to see my mother.”
“And what were you doing at the Hall on Saturday night?”
“My mother volunteered me to look after Harry,” I said. “Lady Edith and Lavinia had a social engagement.”
“Yes, I’ve already talked to them—and William, too. He was in the field with a sick horse.”
“I waited until Rupert came back and then I went home.” I hesitated. “Actually, I overheard a disagreement between Rupert and Eric. I got the impression that Gayla had something important that belonged to Rupert.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know…” I hesitated again. “It could be just my imagination but I felt that Vera was somehow involved.”
Shawn’s pencil stopped in midair. “Eric has an alibi.”
“And you believe him? Who else could it be?” I said, surprised. “Everyone was out and Rupert would never leave Harry alone in the house. Unless—what time do you think this happened?”
“Just answer the questions for now,” Shawn said. “I know this must be difficult.”
I thought of Vera lying on the floor of the grotto. “She was hit on the head, wasn’t she? The way her hands were folded across her chest—”
“We’re almost positive that the incident took place elsewhere—”
“You mean someone deliberately took her body to the grotto?” I said. “If I hadn’t lost Harry I may never have gone there. No one ever would have known—”
“Well … not for some time,” said Shawn.
“But that means—”
“Yes,” said Shawn. “Someone knew the garden well.”
The implication that it might not be Eric but someone local—someone here was too horrible to contemplate.
Shawn flipped to a new page. “Let’s go back to your mother. Were she and Vera friends?”
“They hardly knew each other,” I said. “Mum’s only lived here a few weeks.”
“But you said they saw each other on Saturday night?” said Shawn.
“Apparently Vera asked Mum for a loan but she refused—obviously.”
“A loan,” Shawn exclaimed. “Do you know how much and why?”
“One thousand pounds, but as I said, Mum—”
There was a tap at the kitchen door and Dick poked his head in. He seemed excited. “Sorry for the interruption but I think you should come and see what we’ve found.”
Shawn sprang to his feet. “We’ll finish up later. Let’s go.”
Back in Vera’s cottage a pile of neatly labeled Ziploc bags were on the dining room table. One contained yellow Post-it Notes. Dick picked it up and gave it to Shawn who slipped it inside his trench coat pocket.
“And Alan’s found something interesting,” said Dick.
Alan was still seated at Vera’s computer workstation. “A lot of e-mails sent on Friday night to someone called Trudy Wynne—and again, on Saturday.”
My heart sank. “She’s a tabloid journalist who focuses on celebrity stories.”
“I thought I recognized the name,” said Alan. “Doesn’t she have a new reality show on the telly?”
“That’s right,” said Dick. “She also writes that column in the Daily Post—Star Stalkers—or something.”
“For which good money is paid,” said Shawn. “And we know that Vera was short of cash.”
“Got something interesting here, Shawn.” Clive appeared from the kitchen. He was carrying two boxes of Marks & Spencer sausage rolls, a box of vol-au-vents, and a metal keepsake tin shaped like the Eiffel Tower with PARIS emblazoned on the lid. “Found this lot in the freezer in the potting shed out the back. You’ll never believe what’s inside.”
Clive emptied the contents from the two sausage roll boxes onto the table. “Credit card statements,” he said. “Obviously hiding them from Eric. If my Janet did this, I’d feel like killing her.”
“Not funny, Clive.” Shawn poked around the statements and picked up a couple at random. His eyes widened. “Vera’s been paying off the balance in chunks. Not just the minimum payment, either.”
“And get this.” Clive removed a wad of notes from inside the box of vol-au-vents. “One thousand quid in fifty-pound notes.”
Shawn turned to me and said, “One thousand pounds.”
“Mum told me she didn’t give Vera any money,” I protested.
“There’s your motive,” Clive went on. “Clear as day. Eric told me that if he caught Vera using her cards again she’d live to regret it.”
“Well, she didn’t live, did she,” said Shawn grimly.
“Eric must have known she was getting the money from somewhere,” I pointed out. “The shoe collection alone is worth thousands and I can’t imagine Vera got paid much as a housekeeper. And what about the new tractor Eric bought? Where did he get the money for that?”
The three men looked at me with surprise.
“And I saw Lady Lavinia here this morning, too,” I went on. “She was in the potting shed.”
“What were you doing here on a Sunday morning?” Clive’s voice was heavy with accusation. “Covering your tracks?”
“Of course not!” I exclaimed. “I came to deliver those parcels.” I pointed to the boxes on the dining room table. “They were sent to the Carriage House by mistake—actually, they were addressed to the Carriage House. There are shoes and lingerie from Ann Summers…”
“Took a good look, did you?” said Clive.
“No,” I said, exasperated. “The brands are marked on the side of the box. Obviously, Vera did not want Eric to know what she was up to.”
Shawn picked up the Eiffel Tower keepsake tin. “Let’s see what’s in here.”
“Nothing much,” said Clive. “I already looked.”
Shawn ignored Clive and removed the lid. Inside was an EpiPen and an expensive Waterford fountain pen engraved with the letters L.M.C.H. The tin reminded me of Gayla’s bamboo keepsake box I’d found in her rubbish bin.
Shawn picked up the EpiPen and inspected it closely.
“That’s for people who have allergies,” I said.
“Yes. I am aware of that.” Shawn frowned. “Why would Vera put the tin in the freezer?”
“Is there anything I can do?” Mrs. Cropper stood in the doorway looking pale and drawn.
There were warm greetings all around and it was obvious that these men had grown up together and were fond of Shawn’s grandmother and she of them. Clive steered her over to the dining room table and pulled out a chair but Mrs. Cropper waved him away. “Don’t fuss, so.”
Mrs. Cropper gave me a nod of acknowledgement and said, “And you can tell your mother that I didn’t appreciate being woken up on Saturday night.”
“When was this?” Shawn cried. “Yesterday? Last night?”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Cropper. “She was hammering on Vera’s door demanding to be let in.”
Shawn regarded me with suspicion. “But you said your mother didn’t leave the house—”
“I knew she was lying,” muttered Clive
“I—we—sorry, I didn’t know…” I finished lamely, thinking I could throttle my mother.
He turned to Mrs. Cropper and presented the metal tin. “Do you recognize this, Gran?”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Cropper. “It belonged to that tart, Kelly. It was a keepsake from her honeymoon in Paris when his lordship took her to the Eiffel Tower.” Mrs. Cropper’s expression filled with distaste. “I’d be lying if I said his lordship wasn’t better off without her—God rest her soul.”
“It was in Vera’s freezer, Gran.”
“Kelly’s keepsake tin was in Vera’s freezer?” Mrs. Cropper’s jaw dropped. “How did that happen? The two girls hated each other.”
“And these pens were inside.”
“Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. Cropper clutched at the table for support and sank onto the dining room chair. Her face was ashen. “It’s Kelly’s EpiPen.”
“Wasn’t Kelly allergic to bees?” I said. “Why would Vera hide it in a tin?”
“My cherry brandy,” she whispered. “Oh Vera! Vera!”
“Vera, what, Gran?” said Shawn urgently.
“No, no, I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it!” Mrs. Cropper got back on her feet, pushed Shawn aside with surprising force, and hurried out of the cottage.
We all looked at each other in confusion.
“Gran was very fond of Vera,” Shawn said finally.
* * *
“Two hundred and three,” Roxy announced as she entered the room. “What have I missed?”
“Everything,” said Clive.
“Shawn? Are you alright?” Roxy asked.
“Yes. No. Excuse me, I must see if Gran’s okay and Kat—” Shawn turned to me, his expression grim, “Please tell your mother we will need to take a statement from her.”
I walked back to the Carriage House thoroughly disturbed. Yes, I could quite see Mum giving Vera a thousand pounds and lying about that but I couldn’t see her hitting her on the head with a blunt object and dragging her—with one hand—down the steps and into the grotto.
But after all of today’s revelations I realized I didn’t know my mother at all.
Chapter Nineteen
“I have a horrible feeling that my mother might be involved in Vera’s death,” I said to David as we were tucking into a delicious steak and kidney pie at the Hare & Hounds.
It was a busy Sunday night thanks to the arrival of the local Morris Men who were now raucously telling jokes.
“What a noisy rabble,” David exclaimed. “And why are they dressed as chimney sweeps?”
“They’re Morris Men.”
“With blackened faces?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said, David?”
“Of course I did. I’ve always thought Iris capable of murdering me.”
“I’m serious!” I cried.
David turned to me. “Why? Do you think she did it?”
Of course not,” I said hotly. “Mum’s only got one hand.”
“You only need one hand to lift a hammer.”
“Who said anything about a hammer?”
“Don’t get in a fizz,” said David. “Your mother would have to have a motive.”
“Well…” I hesitated. “Vera asked my mother for a thousand pounds.”
“So she said no. Big deal.”
“They found one thousand pounds in Vera’s freezer.”
“Why the hell would Iris give her the money?” said David with a sneer. “What a fool.”
“She’s not a fool!” I exclaimed. “My mother…” I hesitated again. “My mother is a successful romance novelist and values her privacy. She was afraid of being blackmailed.”
“Your mother?” David gave a snort of disbelief. “Would I have heard of her?”
“Krystalle Storm? It’s a pseudonym, obviously.”
David’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. The Krystalle Storm? Trudy read her for a joke but liked her so much that she told all her friends.” He laughed. “Krystalle Storm is supposedly a recluse. Trudy’s wanted to interview her for months. Can you ask your mother if she’ll do an exclusive?”
“This isn’t about Trudy,” I said as alarm bells began to ring in my head. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“So Vera found out who your mother really is. So what?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that.” I told him about the villa in Italy, the manor house in Devon, and my father’s untimely demise.
David roared with laughter. “No wonder she wanted to keep Vera quiet.”
“Don’t say that!” I said angrily. “It’s not funny.”
David reached over and took my hand. “Hey. I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Iris will be fine.”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone. Please David.”
David shrugged. “I promise. Pity though. Trudy would have gotten a kick out of that. Anyway, enough of your mother—I’ve got something far more important.”
“More important than my mother being a murder suspect?”
“I’m just trying to take your mind off things,” said David soothingly. “Tell me about Lady Edith’s snuff boxes. Does she have anything else of value?”
I described the collections in the museum room in
great detail. “The Polyphon music box is extremely rare. Oh—and there’s also an early nineteenth-century taxidermy giraffe and a huge polar bear.”
David nodded. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.” He reached into his blazer jacket pocket and withdrew a thick sheaf of papers. “Here is a list of items stolen from the Hall on June twenty-first, 1990.”
I grabbed it. “Clever you. That was fast.”
“I thought you’d be pleased.” David’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “I called in a few favors.”
I skimmed the list. There were a couple of paintings by John Collier, some pocket watches, silverware, and a handful of Victorian toys. “Wow,” I said. “The insurance claim was for one million pounds.”
David pulled out a handful of color photographs and handed them to me. “Is this the necklace you were interested in?”
The seed pearl parure was displayed in its blue velvet case. There was a necklace, two bracelets, a pair of earrings, three brooches, and an elaborate corsage ornament. Up close, the workmanship was exquisite. Each piece was made of gold filigree that featured a leaf motif with a curved apex, midrib, margin, and veins, all depicted by strands of seed pearls sewn into the design.
“Yes! That’s it!” I cried.
“It’s officially known as the Honeychurch Suite,” said David. “A complete set such as this is extremely rare and a collector’s dream.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Elizabeth Taylor’s Daisy Parure by Van Cleef & Arpels went under the hammer in New York in December of 2011 and fetched a staggering seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds,” said David. “The Honeychurch Suite is in the same league.”
“Do you think it’s been broken up?”
“I’m coming to that,” said David. “When Lady Edith’s husband died just two months later, the death duties—as they were called at the time—were just over one and a half million pounds. Convenient, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“The family sold off a place called Home Farm and some land for around five hundred grand. With the money from the insurance claim, they were able to cover the death duties and keep the Hall.”
“Are you saying you think it was an inside job?”
“Take a look at the list again,” said David. “Recognize anything?”
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 19
