“There must be some way to keep it all together,” I said and realized I meant it. “Can’t you transfer the property to Harry?”
“He’ll inherit when he’s twenty-one. But by then it may be too late. But there is another option,” said Lady Edith. “Something that would put the cat among the pigeons. Yes, Rupert is set to inherit upon my death but I can still change my mind. I can leave it to whomever I choose. I could even leave it all to William.”
“Did I hear my name?” William seemed to materialize from thin air. I wondered how long he’d been listening. “Edith, you’ll catch your death of cold out here at this time of night.”
“Stop fussing,” she said but I could tell she liked his attention.
We both stood up. William enquired after my mother’s health then gently draped a tartan woolen wrap around Lady Edith’s shoulders. “I thought you wanted to check on Jupiter tonight. The vet said she’s doing much better.”
“That’s because of your magic touch,” said Lady Edith.
“And then we’ll have hot chocolate and marshmallows.”
Lady Edith took his arm and paused. “By the way, I know all about you, dear,” she said to me. “I read the newspapers. I enjoy the gossip columns. They make life more exciting but I will tell you one thing…”
I braced myself for a derogatory comment about Fakes & Treasures, “Yes?”
“If he hasn’t divorced his wife by now, he never will.”
I felt my face grow hot.
“I don’t doubt he loves you,” Lady Edith went on. “But does he love you enough to give up everything?”
Back at the Carriage House I dreaded bumping into Mum. She’d take one look at my face and guess I was upset.
I needn’t have worried. On my bed were a pile of blotch-marked pages to type up and a note saying, “Exhausted. Have gone to bed.”
I retreated to my own with my laptop and Mum’s imagination.
Irene hid the letter behind her back. She was frightened. She’d always been afraid of the earl but now she was terrified.
“Give me that letter,” he commanded but the gypsy girl shook her head. The earl seized her arm and, with his other hand, slapped her hard across the cheek. Irene staggered slightly, allowing him the chance to snatch the paper out of her hand.
As he devoured the contents, the earl’s face turned ashen. “Is it true she’s with child?” he demanded.
Irene shrank back. She didn’t answer.
“Tell me!”
Still she said nothing.
The earl thrust Irene aside and in three quick strides reached his horse, mounted and galloped away.
Irene was frantic. She knew she had to find them. She knew she had to warn them.
She flew along the track toward the sunken garden.
Two shots cut through the still night air.
A woman began to scream hysterically.
Irene froze in her tracks, her heart thundering so hard she feared she would faint. The woman kept screaming and suddenly, Irene knew. She was too late. This was all her fault.
I turned to the next page but Mum had scribbled “discarded cartridges, cordite, nostrils, and macaroni cheese.” Other words were illegible because of smudged ink and watermarks. I wondered if Mum had been crying.
I sank back into the pillows deep in thought.
If the Lady Evelyn in Mum’s story was based on the Lady Edith of Honeychurch Hall, was the “wicked” earl supposed to be her beloved brother, Rupert, or her own husband? Had the real Lady Edith been pregnant? Who fired the fatal shots in the sunken garden and who died?
Most telling of all, was Irene the gypsy girl my own mother?
Chapter Twenty-one
William’s voice woke me after a restless night of horrific dreams. Instead of finding Vera dead in the grotto, it was my mother lying there dressed in gypsy clothing.
I looked out of my bedroom window. William was sliding a railway sleeper under the chassis of Eric’s Massey Ferguson. A winch and chain were attached to the axle of the tractor and connected to a battered old blue T-Ford. Rupert sat in the open cab.
“Let’s have one more crack at it,” shouted William. He planted his feet firmly apart like a Sumo wrestler, squatted, and yelled, “Ready on three!”
“On the count of three,” Rupert shouted back.
“One, two, three!” shrieked a familiar voice. Harry stood below watching as Rupert floored the T-Ford. The engine roared and William lifted the sleeper a few inches, straining so hard that I could see his eyes popping and veins bulging on his forehead.
The tractor shot out of the gulley accompanied by cheers all around.
William dragged the sleeper out of the hole and laid it to one side. I threw open the window and cried, “Bravo!”
“Yes, bravo!” Harry exclaimed as he dashed over to join his father who had turned off the engine and jumped down.
From my vantage point I was able to make out an exposed brick wall.
“Looks like the foundations of an earlier house,” said William, peering into the void.
“Well, I’ll be buggered.” Rupert gave a laugh of delight. “I don’t believe it!”
“Yes, I’ll be buggered!” Harry peered down. “Is it a cellar to keep German prisoners?”
“It’s part of the old secret tunnel that runs underground back to the Hall,” said Rupert.
“A tunnel!” shrieked Harry. “Can we go down? Please!”
“Not today, it’s flooded and far too dangerous,” said Rupert.
“Tomorrow—?”
I left them all to it. By the time I was dressed and downstairs, Mum was chatting to William, Rupert, and Harry in the kitchen about the tunnel.
“Kat! Guess what?” cried Harry as I entered the room. “Father used to go down there all the time when he was nearly seven. He had a sword and everything.”
“We played Roundheads and Cavaliers,” said Rupert. It was the first time I’d seen him genuinely smiling. “A lot of kids lived on the estate in those days. I was a Royalist—of course—and Eric always played the role of Oliver Cromwell.”
“Where is Eric?” I asked.
“Still at the police station but apparently, he has an alibi,” Mum declared.
“What’s an alibi?” said Harry.
I gave Mum a warning look and hoped she got the hint not to talk about Vera in front of Harry.
“What would you be, Harry?” I said, changing the subject. “A Roundhead or a Cavalier?”
“A Cavalier of course!”
I turned to William. “And you?”
“William wasn’t born here,” said Rupert. “He’s not one of us. He’s from the north. Blackpool.”
“I thought I detected an accent,” I said. “Mum’s got family connections in Blackpool. What brought you here to Devon?”
“Yes,” said Rupert with an ill-disguised sneer. “Why don’t you tell them? It’s a fascinating story.”
“William was the strongest man in the world,” Harry chimed in. “He worked in a circus.”
“Not a circus.” William laughed and patted Harry’s Biggles helmet.
“Yes, you did,” said Harry, batting William’s hand away. “You did! You told me so.”
“And there lies the mystery,” Rupert said.
A flicker of emotion crossed William’s features, something hard to describe—irritation? Alarm? His eyes darted over to the oak dresser as if looking for something, and then returned back to me.
“I was lucky,” he said. “A few years ago I met Edith at a horse show and she took a shine to me. Offered me a job.”
“And now she can’t live without you,” Rupert said dryly.
“Who can’t I live without?” came a crisp voice followed by a tap on the kitchen door. Mr. Chips bounded in followed by Lady Edith dressed in her usual riding habit.
“Mr. Chips!” cried Harry, hurling himself at the little dog and chuckling as he was covered in slobbery kisses.
William snapped to
attention and fumbled for his pager in his top pocket.
Lady Edith was carrying a large padded brown envelope. “This was delivered to the stables by mistake.” She gave a heavy sigh. “Our new postman is absolutely hopeless.”
“I’m sorry Edith,” said William. “My pager didn’t go off.”
“I didn’t page you,” Lady Edith replied. “Oh, Rupert, I trust you were successful pulling out Pugsley’s tractor?”
“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Mother, but yes, I was successful,” said Rupert. “Come along Harry, let’s take the tractor back to the barn. Do you want to drive?”
He headed to the door followed by Harry shrieking, “Yes! Yes!”
It was nice to see father and son enjoying each other’s company. I found myself changing my earlier opinion of their relationship. Rupert clearly adored Harry.
William headed for the door, too. “I’ll tack up Tinkerbell.”
“Not now. I told you I wanted to ride at eleven,” said Lady Edith. “Tinkerbell hates standing around tacked up.”
“Right.” William stopped in his tracks and walked back to the kitchen table where he seemed uncharacteristically agitated. Again, his eyes darted over to the oak dresser. There was an awkward silence.
“A cup of tea, your ladyship?” said Mum suddenly.
William pulled out a chair for Lady Edith. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No, thank you.” Lady Edith scanned the kitchen. “I thought I’d come and see what you’ve been doing to the place, Mrs. Stanford. You still look a fright.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Mum gave an awkward curtsey.
“Goodness, I haven’t been in here for decades,” said Lady Edith. “What are you going to do with the carriageway and stalls?”
“I’m keeping them as they are—just a coat of paint,” said Mum. “I was thinking that perhaps the stables could be used again.”
Lady Edith nodded thoughtfully. “What do you think, William?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said.
Lady Edith seemed pleased. “Of course you’ll put in new plumbing.”
“I’ll keep as much of the original fixtures as possible,” Mum enthused. “The only structural work will be in the grooms’ quarters—a new kitchen, bathroom, central heating—that sort of thing. I don’t want to change the exterior at all.”
“So you have decided to stay. Your daughter felt you’d be returning to London.”
Mum shot me a filthy look. “I don’t know where she got that idea,” she said coldly. “I plan on leaving here feetfirst.”
Lady Edith showed a yellow-toothed grin. “As do I—”
“And me,” William put in.
“There are so few carriage houses in Great Britain these days that aren’t hideous conversions,” Lady Edith went on. “Your plans, Mrs. Stanford, make me very happy indeed.”
“I love it here,” said Mum.
“Yes, Honeychurch Hall tends to get under one’s skin,” said Lady Edith. “Your daughter tells me you came to Little Dipperton as a child?”
Mum shot me another filthy look. “Yes. That’s right. I’ve always loved Devon.”
“Where did you stay?”
“Um—well—here and there,” stammered Mum.
Lady Edith walked around the kitchen. She took in the coronation china neatly arranged on the shelves above the dresser. “You’ve got quite a collection there. Is that a coronation snuff box?”
“It’s nothing fancy,” said Mum. “Just King George V and Queen Mary.”
Lady Edith inspected the painted china snuff box featuring the new monarchs dated June 22, 1911.
“It’s nothing like your snuff box collection, m’lady,” said Mum.
“No, quite.” Lady Edith picked up the photograph of the boxing emporium on top of the dresser and gave a cry of delight. “Good heavens. Where on earth did you find this?”
Mum turned pale. “I … I … can’t remember. A jumble sale?”
“Tell her that’s you!” I hissed.
Lady Edith studied the photograph closely. It was obvious that she did not recognize my mother—hardly surprising given the fifty-year gap and Mum’s bruised and swollen face today.
“This was taken in the park,” said Lady Edith. “Yes! I’m sure of it. I recognize the old cedar tree.”
“Wait … I think … yes … I found it lying about in the old tack room,” Mum mumbled. “That’s right.”
“The traveling boxing emporium came here every summer.” Lady Edith turned the photograph over and studied the backside. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Good heavens!” she said excitedly. “This is a photo of you, William.”
“What? That’s not—” Mum began but snapped her mouth shut.
“Do look.” Lady Edith gestured for William to come over. “Someone has written on the back, ‘Summer, 1954—Alfred, Billy, and me.’” A shadow passed over Lady Edith’s face. “You were such a sweet boy, Billy—”
Silently, William appealed to us for help. It was obvious that Lady Edith was having some kind of memory lapse.
“Do you remember the cedar tree?” she said wistfully. “It was struck by lightning, you know.”
“Come along, Edith,” said William briskly. “Let’s go and see Jupiter. Remember that we need to give her medication the same time every morning.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Lady Edith gave one last look at the photograph before putting it back into the charger plate. I followed them out into the hallway and bid good-bye.
Lady Edith turned to me. “Did you enjoy your ride on Tinkerbell this morning?” she asked. “She’s quite a handful, isn’t she?”
Taken aback I said, “I didn’t ride—”
“Something came up at the last minute,” said William quickly. “Kat changed her mind, didn’t you, Kat?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “But I’d love to ride out another time.”
William shot me a grateful look.
I returned to the kitchen. “I think Lady Edith really is losing her mind—” I stopped in my tracks. “What’s wrong? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
Mum was sitting at the kitchen table staring at the mail Lady Edith had brought in. Her face was ashen.
“Look,” she whispered and pushed a white envelope toward me. “It was stuck underneath that brown one.”
The envelope was addressed to William Bushman, The Stable Yard, Honeychurch Hall, Little Dipperton. The return address was from a Mrs. Joan Stark, Sunny Hill Lodge Residential Home.
“Isn’t Joan Stark, Vera’s mother?” I said. “William must have broken the news. I must say he seems very—”
“Don’t you see?” said Mum sharply. “Bushman. Billy Bushman? No, not possible—not possible at all.”
“You mean—Bushman as in Bushman’s Traveling Boxing Emporium?” My jaw dropped. “William is your stepbrother Billy?”
“No, of course he’s not!” Mum cried.
“Mum—it could be Billy,” I said slowly. “You told me that Lady Edith gave you and Billy each a toy mouse. Billy’s has badges on the cardigan—badges of piers. One is Blackpool Pier. How else could the Ella Fitzgerald mouse end back here?”
“Billy was smaller. Whippier,” said Mum. “He was a boxer, not a tug-of-war kind of man—I need a gin and tonic.”
“So do I,” I said and quickly made two.
“He’s trying to pass himself off as my Billy,” Mum exclaimed. “And it’s not him. I’d know!” Mum shook her head vigorously. “It’s not him. It can’t be. When Billy turned professional, his nose was squashed flat in the boxing ring and he had a cauliflower ear—the left one.”
“Well, there’s always plastic surgery,” I said doubtfully.
“Why can’t you be serious,” Mum snapped.
“I am. I’m trying to make sense of it all,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Billy?”
Mum shrugged. “I don’t know … 1962.”
“And how old would he ha
ve been?”
Mum shrugged again. “Fifteen.”
“So you haven’t seen Lady Edith or Billy for over fifty years.”
Mum shook her head vigorously again. “I would know Billy anywhere and besides, his brother Alfred said he died of an aneurism on Blackpool Pier. Remember? Hardly something you’d make up.”
I had to admit she had a point—and then I recalled the conversation I’d had with Lady Edith in the equine cemetery the night before. “Lady Edith mentioned she might even leave the estate to William and frankly, I wouldn’t blame her.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!” said Mum.
“Does it really matter if William is—or isn’t her son?” I said. “It was all so long ago.”
“Of course it matters!” Mum cried. “He’s an imposter!”
“Why don’t you talk to Alfred again?” I said. “Wouldn’t there be a grave or something?”
“Alfred told me that Billy’s ashes were scattered off the end of Blackpool Pier.”
“Then ask William,” I said. “It’s too much of a coincidence, Mum. Surely you see that.”
“I refuse to discuss this anymore. The subject is closed.” She jabbed a finger at the large brown envelope that still lay unopened on the table. “Now you can make yourself useful and open that.”
“I don’t understand you,” I said. “Don’t you want to know?”
With a heavy sigh, I ripped open the large brown envelope and withdrew several large sheets of paper folded into quarters. “What on earth—?”
A handwritten note fell out and Mum bent over to pick it up. Her eyes widened in shock. “Well, I’ll be blowed!” she cried. “Look, it’s from Gayla!”
I grabbed it. FOR LADY EDITH. URGENT. CONFIDENTIAL. “When was this posted?”
Mum studied the postmark on the brown envelope. “Dartmouth. Stamped Saturday morning,” she exclaimed. “I thought you said she was going to Plymouth railway station?”
“That’s what she told me,” I said.
“What a naughty girl. Crying wolf and causing all that fuss! Why would she do that? What are these papers?”
My stomach sank. “They’re drawings.”
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 21
