Mum looked at them blankly. “Who are H & P Developments? What is PlayScapes?”
“They’re plans to develop Honeychurch Hall,” I said and squeezed Mum’s shoulder. “And the Carriage House is slap bang in the middle. See?” I pointed to the blueprints. “Right there.”
It was exactly as Lady Edith had described. The Hall itself would be divided into twelve luxury flats. Cromwell Meadows would house a go-kart track. The parkland would become an adventure playground called Wizard Wonderland and Lady Edith’s beloved equine cemetery was earmarked as a caravan park “with spectacular views over the River Dart.” The Carriage House was labeled RESTAURANT: OFFICES: PUBLIC CONVENIENCES.
Mum’s eyes welled up with tears. “Did you know about this?”
“Lady Edith told me last night,” I said. “I was going to tell you.”
“How nice of you,” Mum said bitterly.
“Gayla must have found out,” I said. “My guess is that when Rupert dumped her she decided to get her revenge by stealing the plans and telling Lady Edith so she’d disinherit him for good.” Quickly, I filled Mum in on the conversation I’d had with her ladyship in the equine cemetery.
It all made sense—Gayla’s panicked reaction upon seeing Rupert’s car at the top of the driveway on Friday night and Eric’s role in trying to retrieve the plans that hadn’t been destroyed after all. But what still puzzled me was how Vera fit in and how she ended up dead in the grotto.
“If Lady Edith knew all this,” said Mum, “why doesn’t she disinherit Rupert anyway?”
“I asked her the same question. Lady Edith told me that Harry would get everything when he turns twenty-one but of course, Rupert would manage the estate until then—unless she decided to leave it to someone else—”
“You mean, William,” said Mum flatly. “No wonder Rupert wanted me to move to Sawmill Cottage—”
“And Eric’s role was just to make your life difficult so that you’d do just that,” I went on. “We should inform the police. These are vital clues in Gayla’s disappearance. She may well have posted these plans from Dartmouth but we still don’t know if she is safe.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“Let’s take these plans straightaway. Perhaps we can even get the sale of the Carriage House voided because you bought it under false circumstances.”
“I’m not moving, now,” Mum said stubbornly. She gestured to the blueprints. “It’s obvious that without the Carriage House they can’t really develop Wizard—whatever it’s called.”
“Mum, you know as well as I do that eventually, the developers will get their own way,” I said. “They always do.”
“I can’t—I won’t betray Lady Edith again,” said Mum hysterically. “I let her down all those years ago. I was tricked. He tricked me.”
“Who tricked you?” I said gently. “Who?”
“I didn’t tell him about Billy,” she said. “He already guessed he was her son.”
“You’re Irene, the gypsy girl in the story, aren’t you?” I said. “The go-between Lady Evelyn and Shelby.”
Mum nodded. “You guessed.”
“And was there a love child?” I asked.
Mum nodded again. “Yes. It was Billy but of course I didn’t know until … until…” She bit her lip. “I was five when Billy suddenly joined our family. Aunt June said that the stork had brought a baby to us.”
Mum was visibly upset. I reached over and took her hand. “I carried Lady Edith’s love letters for years. I thought it terribly romantic—very Lady Chatterley and Mellors the gamekeeper.” Mum went on, “It was a different time back then. They could never marry.”
“And then Lady Edith’s brother found out?” I prompted.
“Yes, it was my fault,” said Mum. “He was very protective of her—especially after their parents died in the Blitz. At least that’s what Aunt June told me.”
“How did it end?”
Mum fell silent at the memory. Tears filled her eyes. “I was taking a letter and the earl—that would be her brother, Rupert—stopped me.”
“How can it be your fault? How old were you?”
“Fifteen,” said Mum. “Oh Kat, Honeychurch Hall was the only place I ever felt happy. I feel as if I have come home.”
“At least now I understand why you chose here and want to stay.”
“They were wonderful summers,” said Mum. “It was only later I realized we were allowed to camp here so that Lady Edith could see her son.” Mum wiped away a tear. “And then I ruined it. His lordship challenged Stark to a duel.”
“Good God,” I said. “In this day and age?”
“Both of them died,” said Mum. “Lady Edith blamed me. I was devastated. We were told never to come back to Honeychurch Hall. Frankly, I was surprised no one questioned me at the time. It was reported as a tragic shooting accident and hushed up.”
“Did Billy know Lady Edith was his mother?” I asked.
“Those things were kept quiet. Illegitimate children were shameful secrets in those days.”
“And she never saw Billy again, either?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Mum shrugged. “When I married your father, I lost touch with everyone.”
“Did Dad know about all this?”
“Of course he did,” Mum said. “It was your father who found the newspaper clipping of Lady Edith in the first place just before he died. I suppose Frank wanted me make my peace with her. It’s haunted me for years and now I find I just can’t do it. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.” Mum looked up. Her eyes filled with tears again. “He said that the only thing that mattered in this life was love and forgiveness.”
“Tell her,” I said. “Tell her everything. No more secrets, Mum. Promise.”
“You don’t understand,” said Mum. “Lady Edith does not forgive.” She abruptly switched gears. “I think I’d better file that complaint against Eric Pugsley—especially if he is really trying to get me out,” she said suddenly. “Do you think the police station closes for lunch?”
With a sigh I said, “Fine. I’ll get my things together and we’ll go.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Is this it?” said Mum, taking in the tiny police station on the outskirts of Dartmouth. “How can anyone solve a crime from this cupboard?”
The police station was just one room with a sparsely furnished waiting area comprised of an uncomfortable-looking bench seat and two hard chairs. A round table held a handful of leaflets—Devon Recycling, Neighborhood Watch, and a few flyers for an upcoming Morris Dancing extravaganza.
A narrow counter kept the general public at bay. A large notice board covered the wall behind it with various pertinent police matters—and a black-and-white poster of Gayla. The photograph showed her standing in front of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square pulling a goofy face for the camera.
“We’ll soon wipe the smile off her face,” said Mum. “What a little minx.”
An old-fashioned bell was on the counter alongside a plaque saying YOUR DESK SERGEANT TODAY IS: MALCOLM.
“Malcolm? Shawn? Clive? Everything is so informal these days,” muttered Mum as she gave the bell a rap.
A uniformed police officer in his fifties—presumably Malcolm—with a hooked nose and wire-rimmed spectacles, emerged from a door that I’d assumed was a cupboard. I caught a glimpse of a kettle and an easy chair.
Malcolm was holding a cheese and pickle sandwich. “Sorry,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “Just making a bit of lunch. We don’t often get walk-ins. Lost a cat, have you?”
Gesturing to Gayla’s poster, I said, “We’ve got important information regarding the missing nanny.”
Malcolm shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and turned to the notice board. I could just about make out, “Should have taken this down,” and “bloody foreigners.”
“You’ve found her!” Mum and I chorused.
We waited for Malcolm to finish his mouthful. “Yep. Got arrested for shoplif
ting on Saturday afternoon and spent the night in Dartmouth. They’re a full-service police station. We don’t have the facilities here.”
“Oh really? I thought this was a cell,” said Mum.
I was stunned. “But Gayla was declared missing. There were teams of police out looking for her and no one thought to inform the Honeychurch family?”
“We only have a skeleton staff at the weekend—oh—my—God!” Malcolm gasped. His eyes raked in my appearance. “Are you on the telly?”
“Fakes & Treasures,” said Mum. “Yes, you have a celebrity in your midst.”
“Kat Stanford!” Malcolm beamed, exposing the urgent need for a toothbrush. “My wife loves your show.”
“I’m so glad.” I beckoned Malcolm closer and said in a low voice, “So what happened to the bloodstained turquoise bandana?”
“Can’t tell you, sorry.”
“Come on, Malcolm,” I said, flashing him my best smile. “Not even for me?”
“Red paint,” said Malcolm flatly. “Something about building a model airplane. Shawn’s pretty pissed off, I can tell you.”
“Is he here?” I said.
“And if so, where?” said Mum, scanning the room. “Under the table?”
“Morning!”
Malcolm’s demeanor immediately changed as WPC Roxy Cairns strolled through the front door accompanied by identical twin boys of around five years old dressed in matching shorts and dinosaur-emblazoned T-shirts. They each had a coloring book and packet of crayons.
“We’ve just heard that you found Gayla,” I said.
“Yes. She took us all for a ride,” said Roxy. “There was no wealthy father or agency called Nannies-Abroad. Why Vera hired her is a mystery to me. Fancy not doing proper background checks on a nanny!”
I handed her the brown envelope. “Gayla sent this to my mother to give to Lady Edith,” I said. “I thought Shawn should take a look at it. We think there could be some kind of connection to Vera’s death.”
“I’ll make sure Shawn gets it,” said Roxy. “As a matter of fact he just called in to say there have been some new developments in Vera’s case. He was actually looking for both of you and wants you back at the Hall ASAP.”
“Cute kids,” I said as the boys tipped out crayons and opened their coloring books on the coffee table.
“Aren’t they?” Roxy said. “They don’t look like Shawn, do they?”
“They’re Shawn’s children?” I was surprised.
“It’s tough being a single parent,” she said, “But he’s a wonderful father and we all chip in, don’t we, Malcolm?”
“That’s right,” said Malcolm.
“What happened to his wife?” said Mum bluntly. “Run off with the postman?”
Sometimes my mother could be so tactless.
“She died,” said Roxy. “Cancer.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” mumbled Mum. “We’d better be going. Come along, Katherine.”
“I’ll be along shortly,” said Roxy. “Be careful what route you take back to Little Dipperton. Avoid Totnes. There’s a huge demonstration over the new railway line.”
“Don’t worry. I know a back way,” said Mum.
Ten minutes later we flashed past the welcome sign: TOTNES: TWINNED WITH NARNIA.
“We’re supposed to avoid Totnes, Mother,” I said. “Give me the map.”
“Do they mean the same Narnia from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?”
Rounding a corner we came to a large group of people chanting and marching in small circles blocking the road and waving banners—VOTE NO TO HS3 and WE DON’T NEED TRAINS. Two traffic cops were standing next to a West Country ITV news van.
“Darn. We can’t get through.” I looked in the rearview mirror. “And there’s a ton of traffic behind me. You’re a hopeless map reader.”
Mum pointed to a narrow alley. “Go down there. It’s a shortcut.”
“Shortcuts are not my specialty and that is a one-way and we’re facing the wrong way.”
“Go on. There’s nothing coming.”
For all of one minute things went well. But then the alley made a sharp right turn and to my horror, my Golf came face-to-face with a silver Porsche SUV driven by—David. Even worse, Trudy was sitting in the front passenger seat.
“Bugger,” I muttered.
Mum gave a cry of alarm. “Good God! Isn’t that David?”
“No.”
“Yes, I distinctly recognize his registration plate—WYN 1. That’s his new car.”
“Then it is David, isn’t it,” I snapped.
“But wait! Who is that in the passenger seat?” Mum gasped. “Good grief! Isn’t that Trudy Wynne? I always think she looks like Cruella de Vil.”
Our car front bumpers stopped just inches away from each other. I tried to stem the tide of boiling fury that was consuming me. “I’m not reversing. Let him bloody reverse.”
“It’s his right of way, dear.”
“Be quiet, Mother.”
I’d never seen David and Trudy together and when two figures leaned forward from the rear seats—namely Sam and Chloe—that was the final straw.
“Quite the family outing,” Mum put in.
Trudy leaned over and hit David’s horn with a gesture that clearly implied that I was in the wrong. Which of course, I was. She wound down her window and leaned out yelling, “Reverse! Reverse, you idiot.”
I wound my window down, too, and screamed back, “You reverse!”
David sat motionless. Trudy turned her anger on him, her mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. David must have said something because he began to reverse—erratically. There was a sickening crunch of metal as he backed into the car following.
“Bloody hell,” I said.
Mum started to laugh.
I was close to tears. “It’s not funny.”
“It is, it is,” she gasped. “Look!”
The driver—presumably from the car behind the Porsche—got out. He was bald with a handlebar mustache and dressed in shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt. The man hammered on David’s window.
Mum squealed. “He’s going to punch him.”
Trudy flung open her door and got out. Mum was right. With her tall, angular frame and sleek black bob she did look just like the Disney villain from 101 Dalmatians.
“No, she’s going to punch him.” Mum was practically in convulsions. “Oh, no! She’s coming this way. Reverse! Reverse!”
I thrust the car into reverse as Trudy stormed toward us, delivered a perfect three-point turn in someone’s open—and fortunately—empty garage, and we sped off. By the time we joined the main road the protesters had moved on.
I was shaking with fury.
“You should have seen her face,” Mum chortled. “It was purple. So unattractive.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” A tear rolled down my cheek. I brushed it angrily away.
“Oh Kat, my love,” said Mum, seemingly contrite. “David is too weak for you. Did you see how he backed down?” She gave a snort. “Literally.”
“This isn’t a romance novel,” I shouted. “People have responsibilities. His father-in-law is dying. It’s hard for David.”
“Yes, poor man,” said Mum. “We must pray for him.”
“You’re impossible!”
We drove on in silence but my mind was whirring furiously. Why did this matter so much? It wasn’t as if David had told me a lie. I knew he was with his family.
I couldn’t possibly understand the intricacies of a broken marriage but I was beginning to understand that divorce was never really final. Screenwriting legend Nora Ephron was right when she said, “Marriages come and go, but divorce is forever.”
It was only when we turned into the courtyard to the Carriage House and saw Detective Constable Clive Banks waiting that Mum broke the silence between us.
“What is it with these Devonshire men and their facial hair?” muttered Mum.
We got out of the car and Clive hurr
ied over. “You’re needed at the Hall,” he said grimly. “Everyone is waiting.”
“Why, what’s happened? We know that Gayla has been found,” I said.
“There have been a few new developments.” Clive paused dramatically then said, “Shawn is going to make an arrest.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“What a grand room,” said Mum as Cropper ushered us into the drawing room. “And how very Downton Abbey.”
It certainly looked like it. Everyone had taken their positions and seemed to be waiting for the word, “Action!” The “gentry” were seated and the staff—Mrs. Cropper, Eric, and William—stood stiffly in a formal line with their arms by their sides.
The atmosphere was tense.
Rupert was in front of the fireplace beneath a magnificent portrait of Charles I—a vivid reminder of Honeychurch Hall’s role in the English Civil War. He did not look happy.
Mum hesitated then whispered, “Where should we go? Over with the servants?”
Lady Edith patted the seat beside her. “Do sit down, Mrs. Stanford.” There was a general murmur of surprise at my mother’s unexpected leap across the void to join the upper classes.
Two Knole sofas faced each other across an antique ebony and mother-of-pearl coffee table. Mum joined Lady Edith on one sofa and Lavinia and Harry sat on the other. It was the first time I’d seen Harry without his goggles or white scarf. It made him look older.
“Kat!” he said, bouncing happily. “Sit next to me.” So I did.
“What are we waiting for?” said Lavinia.
“God knows,” Lady Edith muttered.
“The police, of course,” snapped Rupert.
No one spoke again, giving me the opportunity to take in my opulent surroundings.
The drawing room, with elaborate cornices and decorative strapwork, was exquisite. Red silk wallpaper shared the walls with tapestry hangings. Damask curtains fell graciously from the four casement windows that overlooked the park. The furniture reflected the Hall’s various incarnations from seventeenth-century oak court cupboards to an ugly twentieth-century drinks cabinet. There was the usual plethora of side tables, lamps, and gilt-framed mirrors as well as an overwhelming number of miniatures that took up almost the entire wall to the right of the fireplace. A copper Gibraltar gong stand stood in the corner.
Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery Page 22
