Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “Let me show you.” Valentine opened the rolltop desk and pulled out his iPad.

  “I didn’t know the pub had the Internet,” I exclaimed.

  “It doesn’t,” said Valentine. “But if I stand by the window on one leg and lean at an angle of ninety degrees, I can get a BT hotspot.”

  “I tried that at the Carriage House but there isn’t a signal anywhere. We’re too remote.”

  Valentine opened a document and handed the iPad to me.

  “I’d like you to look at this map of the Great Western Railway that I downloaded earlier today,” he said. “It’s an old map—dated 1930—but it gives you an idea of how extensive the railway system was back then. There are seventeen disused railway stations between Plymouth in Devon and Penzance in Cornwall.”

  I was astonished. There were dozens of red lines that covered the southern peninsula of Devon and Cornwall—some straight, some elaborately curved to follow the natural line of hills and rivers; others just dead-ended at stations with quaint names like Copperhouse Halt and Defiance Platform.

  “I had no idea there were so many,” I said.

  “The storms last winter really put the nail in the coffin,” Valentine went on. “The flooding that hit the West Country completely wiped out the line south of Dawlish, and even though it’s been repaired, it illustrates just how vulnerable the old network is. It needs to be modernized.”

  I remembered those storms. I’d watched the footage on television and had been shocked by the ferocity of the elements and the misery and suffering of so many people who were cut off for weeks. The floods on the Somerset Levels had been particularly brutal.

  “But what’s the connection with Operation Bullet?” I asked.

  “It’s all one and the same.” Valentine took a sip of wine. “Devon needs a new rail system. There is no escaping it.”

  I looked at the map again. “But why does the line have to extend so far south?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” said Valentine. “My job is to solely assess the properties affected for compensation.”

  “You should use this map tonight,” I suggested. “I always feel that people respond more to visual images.”

  “Have you tried getting anything printed in Little Dipperton?” Valentine polished off the wine in his tooth mug and poured himself another. “But try telling that to the ministry. They’ve completely thrown me under the train—no pun intended.”

  “What a horrible position to be in,” I said.

  “Not only that, I arranged to have my presentation materials shipped to the pub from London but they never arrived,” he said. “To be honest, I think someone stole them.”

  “Really?” The idea seemed a bit far-fetched. “How?”

  Valentine shrugged. “The post office? It’s put me in a terrible bind.”

  “But the placards came in time.”

  “Oh yes. Yes, they arrived.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Anyway—enough of that. You wanted to talk about your mother. She lives on the Honeychurch Hall estate, I believe.”

  “Mum lives in the Carriage House,” I said. “But the Hall is a Grade I listed building. It’s stood for six hundred years. There’s been a Honeychurch living at Honeychurch Hall since the reign of Henry V. It’s harbored fleeing priests during the English Reformation and was one of the last Royalist strongholds against Oliver Cromwell in the English Civil War. There’s even an underground tunnel. In fact, the entire area is steeped in history.” I realized I was actually getting quite heated up. “Surely that must count for something?”

  Valentine kept an easy smile on his face but I noticed a flash of what appeared to be alarm begin to register in his eyes. “My job is to solely assess the properties that would be directly affected by the construction and discuss compensation. That’s it.”

  “It sounds so vague.”

  “A lot depends on whether properties fall into what’s known as the safeguard zone.”

  “Which is—?”

  “How far away from the track a property is. If it’s in that zone owners will be paid the market price. In some instances, they may even be able to rent back their homes until they have to move out for demolition.”

  I shook my head with disgust. “Rent their homes back?”

  “It’s better than some who are not entitled to any compensation at all and are stuck overlooking the cutting—which I’m afraid will happen to most of the properties around here.”

  “Like Bridge Cottage,” I said recalling the Gullys’ outburst earlier. “So basically, they’re stuck.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Valentine. “I’m just telling you the truth. All I can suggest is that they should fight it.”

  “How?”

  “There will be an environmentalist speaking here tonight called Benedict Scroope. He might have some suggestions. There could even be a way of proposing an alternate route. You said yourself that you didn’t understand why the train was coming so far south.”

  “But that would cost a fortune!” I exclaimed. “There would have to be land surveyors and permits and civil engineers involved.”

  Valentine looked miserable. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “These folk don’t have that kind of money,” I said. “This is not an affluent village in the Cotswolds where many people commute to the City and earn huge salaries,” I went on. “This is a farming community.”

  “What about the landowners?” Valentine said. “The Honeychurch family must be pretty well-off.”

  “The Honeychurches are like most of Britain’s old families,” I said. “Land rich but cash poor.”

  “But they must have connections,” Valentine persisted. “The old boys’ network for one. Can’t they rustle up some funds?”

  “You’re right. They do,” I said and thought for a moment. “And so do I.”

  One of the advantages of spending years with David Wynne was being introduced to people in positions of power. As an international art investigator David’s skills were highly sought after. He was a notorious social climber and on first-name terms with a number of cabinet ministers. “Who do you work for at the Department for Transport?”

  Valentine looked startled. “Why?”

  “I know people there, too.”

  “I’ve said far too much, already.” Valentine seemed flustered. “This conversation was in confidence and I work for a consultancy firm, not directly for the Department for Transport.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Maybe there is a different way to approach this. I can find out on my own. I won’t mention your name, I promise.” I checked my watch. “It’s just gone seven-thirty. I should go back downstairs. It would be really awkward if I was seen leaving your room.”

  “Wait just one minute,” said Valentine. “I hadn’t intended to talk business all the time. I really did want to hear your thoughts on the Chillingford sale.”

  “Of course!” I said. “I’m always happy to talk about my line of business. I love it.”

  Valentine retrieved the sale catalog from his bedside table. He opened it and pointed to a photograph of an automaton dressed as an English country gentleman wearing a red coat and top hat. “This is the one. Lot sixty-two.”

  The item was described as “A rare English gentleman smoking automata by Roullet & Decamps, circa 1880” with a staggering estimate of £20,000 to £30,000. Clearly, whomever Valentine worked for as a consultant was paying him well.

  “That’s rather specialized,” I said. “Did you see the film Sleuth?”

  “Of course, and like Laurence Olivier’s character, I like collecting the weird and wonderful, too.”

  “If you’re talking weird and wonderful,” I said, “you should see the Museum Room at Honeychurch Hall. As well as a life-size polar bear, there’s a stuffed giraffe head, a Polyphon music box, and an armadillo handbag.”

  “I think I’ll call this chap George,” said Valentine suddenly. “Don’t you think he looks like a George?”

  “Definitely
a George.”

  “Why don’t we drive to the auction together?”

  “I don’t think you’d want that,” I said. “I’ll be bringing my mother and if you think I gave you a hard time tonight, that’s nothing compared to what she would do.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Why don’t you give me your mobile number and we’re arrange a meeting point instead—if I survive tonight’s lynching.”

  “You already have my number in your mobile.” I got up and took my empty glass.

  I opened the bedroom door and bumped straight into Angela on the landing.

  “Blast!” I muttered but forced a smile. “Hello, Angela.”

  “There you are!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing up here? Eric and I have been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Well, you’ve found me,” I said.

  Valentine materialized by my side. “I rather think the cat is out of the bag,” he whispered.

  “Oh!” Angela turned pink and regarded Valentine with suspicion.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” said Valentine and stepped back into his bedroom.

  “Um. Sorry for interrupting,” said Angela.

  “You weren’t,” I said and wracked my brains for something to say.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Angela who had seen us leaving Valentine’s bedroom. As I swept past her, Patty was standing at the top of the stairs and judging by her expression, she must have seen me with Valentine and I was certain must have gotten the wrong impression.

  I was about to say something but she shot me another filthy look and turned away.

  “Come on. They’re waiting for you,” said Angela. “Everyone’s so excited.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Whatever for?” Angela beamed. “Because you’re the face of Operation Bullet!”

  Chapter Eight

  The crowd was much bigger than I expected with many familiar faces. Tom Jones—who looked just like his namesake in tight leather trousers and a rockabilly quiff—from Home Farm Muriel, the postmistress and her husband and the two elderly sisters, Violet and Lavender Green, who ran the tearoom.

  All the seats were filled forcing many to stand including Roxy Cairns who was out of uniform and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. I could not see Shawn and overheard someone say that he was attending a piano recital for his kids at the local school.

  Everyone had made short work of the sandwiches. Plates were empty but glasses were continuously being filled from Stan’s seemingly bottomless pitcher of homemade scrumpy. The air was fuggy from a combination of heat from the log fire and the number of bodies in the room. The mood was defiant and conversation lively.

  Set up at the front of the room was a freestanding easel. Valentine—looking distinctly nervous—stood on one side of Eric. On the other was a lanky man in his late forties with a mop of blond hair. He wore a green Guernsey sweater with suede shoulder and elbow pads and beige corduroy trousers. Heavy framed glasses gave him a Clark Kent look that was marred by an unnatural tan. I assumed this had to be Lavinia’s friend Benedict Scroope.

  “Here’s the face of Operation Bullet!” Eric cried. “Let’s have a round of applause for Kat.”

  The face of Operation Bullet! Lending my support was one thing, but being the actual face of the campaign, a completely different thing altogether. I couldn’t think of anything worse but before I could protest, the clapping abruptly stopped and the room fell silent. Those standing parted like the Red Sea as Angela appeared carrying the Wainscot chair from the fireplace.

  “Coming through,” she said happily. “Coming through!”

  There was a universal gasp of horror. One woman even screamed.

  Angela turned ashen. “What’s the matter? What have I done?”

  “You’ve moved Sir Maurice’s chair,” shouted Patty from somewhere within the crowd. “You’re cursed.”

  Still no one moved.

  Angela gave a cry and threw the chair away from her. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Angela, looking stricken, raked the audience for help. I jumped up and hurried over. “Go and sit in the front row.” I put my arm around her shoulders and whispered, “They’re just superstitious. Take no notice.”

  Angela nodded miserably.

  Sir Maurice’s chair was left laying flat on the flagstone floor. Luckily, I was not superstitious. I stepped forward and picked it up. “I’m sorry, Sir Maurice,” I said in a loud voice. “Let’s put you back by the fire, no harm done.”

  There was a murmur of appreciation and relief and then conversation picked up once again.

  “Three cheers for Kat!” said Stan.

  There was another enthusiastic round of applause. I took a silly bow. Angela had scooted along the bench and I just managed to squeeze in between her and a young earnest girl from the local newspaper, the Dipperton Deal. She introduced herself as Ginny and promptly took my photograph.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to Angela.

  She gave a weak smile but I could tell the “chair incident” had shaken her up.

  “First of all, please give Benedict Scroope a warm welcome,” said Eric. There was more applause and catcalls. “As you know, Benedict is here to help us Stop-the-Bullet!” Another deafening round of clapping followed.

  “And on my right, meet Valentine Prince-Avery who I am sure, by now, needs no formal introduction.”

  There was an icy silence until someone gave an unsporting “boo!” Valentine straightened his shoulders. He caught my eye and I shot him a sympathetic smile.

  Benedict stepped forward and offered his hand for Valentine to shake. He did. The two men gave curt nods of greeting as if they were about to enter a duel.

  “Mr. Prince-Avery, why don’t you begin by telling us exactly what will happen to our community,” said Eric. “Then Mr. Scroope will discuss the impact it will have on our environment. Following that, we’ll open the floor to questions.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me for not being as prepared as I would like,” Valentine began. “My presentation materials did not arrive.”

  “That’s okay,” said Eric. “We got hold of some stock footage showing other high-speed rail networks from around the world. I’m sure they will give everyone here a clear idea of what’s in store.”

  Valentine smiled again but I detected a flash of alarm. A part of me wondered if he had been set up to fail. Maybe the materials had been stolen.

  “Thank you, Eric,” said Valentine graciously. “I had hoped to have talked to everyone prior to this meeting but I do want to stress that I still intend to visit each of your properties and speak to each of you individually and in private about your options.”

  His statement was met with silence and hostile stares.

  Eric gave a nod and looked over toward the bar. The lights dimmed and a PowerPoint presentation appeared on the white screen.

  The images were harsh and had the desired effect of creating a desperate situation. “Before” and “after” photographs showed the beautiful countryside, ancient churches, idyllic villages, period homes, and lush woodland intercut with ugly concrete-and-gravel strips hundreds of feet wide. The tracks were sealed off with high security fences and tall metal gantries. Even worse, the boundaries were floodlit at night emitting an almost alien-like glare.

  The presentation ended with an ear-splitting sound bite—bursts of noise that afterward, Eric claimed registered ninety decibels. Each lasted several seconds. We were told that these trains would run every two or three minutes from early morning until midnight. The noise would be enough to rattle windowpanes a quarter of a mile away.

  The final image was a collage of woodland animals corralled into a pen. Of course, this was heavily Photoshopped but the message was plain. Doreen’s comment about the wildlife hit me afresh.

  When the lights came up, the audience erupted into cries of outrage and calls for action. Eric gave an ear-piercing wolf whistle to try and restore order. Slowly people calmed down.


  Someone shouted out, “Where’s Prince-Avery?” Another called out, “He’s buggered off!”

  It was true. Valentine had vanished—and frankly, I didn’t blame him.

  “Couldn’t take it,” said Eric with a nasty laugh. “Coward.”

  Benedict was grinning, too, as more insults about Valentine’s manhood flew around and soon everyone was jeering.

  Eric gave another wolf whistle and once again, order was restored. “Now it’s time to listen to our expert environmentalist. Over to you, Benedict.”

  The meeting moved swiftly on as Benedict reeled off facts, statistics, and unheard-of laws dating back to feudal times. He was charismatic and everyone seemed transfixed—even me. It was only when Benedict pinned a large map of the neighborhood onto the easel that the atmosphere changed.

  Using a laser pen, Benedict pointed out the affected areas that were shaded in red, pale blue, and orange. It was blatantly obvious that a quarter of the village—including the Norman church of St. Mary’s—was marked in red for DEMOLITION. The remainder— Honeychurch Hall, the grounds, a wide swathe of farmland including Cavalier Copse and Bridge Cottage—fell into the pale blue SAFETY ZONE and would overlook the cutting. Two large blocks of orange blotted out the Carriage House, Eric’s scrapyard, and the equine cemetery. This was labeled ROLLING STOCK DEPOT.

  In short, the entire community would be destroyed if the plan went through.

  No one spoke. Everyone seemed to be in shock—including me. I was glad that Mum hadn’t known about this meeting.

  Benedict cleared his throat and turned to face us. “What Mr. Prince-Avery would have told you was that those properties standing in the pale blue area—the so-called safety zone—although not earmarked for demolition, are also not eligible for compensation, either.”

  Patty stood up. “So it’s true. Bridge Cottage is in the pale blue zone—”

  “Most of Little Dipperton is in the pale blue zone!” came a shout from the back. There were more cries of dismay as those whose homes also fell in the safety zone realized that they couldn’t sell their properties now and would be condemned to living close to the cutting. They would also be subject to the horrendous noise and rattle of passing trains.