Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “This is wicked! It’s wrong!” Patty shouted. “Prince-Avery shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it!” Many got to their feet, shaking their fists—one woman was in tears. It was awful.

  I wanted to say it was hardly Valentine’s fault, he was just doing his job but I didn’t have the courage.

  “You should have shot him when you had the chance, Patty,” Doreen called out. There were cheers of agreement that were slowly drowned out by another of Eric’s wolf whistles.

  Benedict stood up on the nearest table and clapped his hands. “Listen!” he called out. “Listen to me! We can fight this! We can fight this if we all work together!”

  Slowly people sat down but the mood had turned ugly.

  “We could suggest an alternative route,” Benedict went on. “As you know, I’m an environmentalist. Much of the woodland and hedgerows in the area are hundreds of years old. Has anyone heard of the South Cubbington Wood proposal?”

  No one had.

  “You can find it on the Internet,” he said. “The South Cubbington Wood community formed an action group and drew up a plan to bore a tunnel under the wood.”

  “How do we go about that?” said Roxy. “None of us are experts here—and nor are you!”

  “We hire land surveyors and civil engineers—just like they did,” said Benedict. “And then we submit the proposal.”

  “What about the Civil War angle?” Eric said. “There was a decisive battle fought on Honeychurch land.”

  “Lots of areas in the West Country can claim that honor. No.” Benedict shook his head. “We need to be clever. I feel we can definitely submit a solid plan—if not for a tunnel, for rerouting the line.”

  “Why can’t the track just go around Little Dipperton?” Roxy demanded. There was a chorus of agreement.

  “I’m afraid modern technology demands a straight track,” Benedict said. “It was true, in Victorian times, tracks could circumvent archaeological sites, ancient monuments, and homes, but not now.”

  “I presume you aren’t offering your services out of the kindness of your heart,” said Roxy. “You don’t even live around here.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was born on the Devon-Cornwall border,” said Benedict. “So yes, I feel I qualify as a local.”

  “And how do we go about paying for all this?” Roxy said.

  “My fees are very low,” said Benedict.

  “We’ll have fund-raisers,” Eric declared. “And for those of you who know how to use a computer—” There was a burst of laughter that clearly indicated that not many people could. “We’ve already set up an online donation fund with Stop-the-Bullet as a domain name.”

  “And of course, Kat here has very kindly agreed to be the face of our campaign,” said Benedict, gesturing for me to step up to join him.

  This comment was met with more applause and whoops of delight.

  “Kat—over to you,” beamed Benedict. “Thoughts?”

  I scrambled for something to say. “How about holding an auction?” I said. “Take a look in your home and see what you can part with. I’ll offer a free valuation. It’ll be a glorified car boot sale—”

  “Joyce and Patty know all about car boot sales,” someone yelled out. “They live in one.”

  There was a ripple of unkind laughter.

  “We can host an auction here at the village hall,” I went on. “And support it with homemade cakes—”

  “We’ll contribute the cakes,” chorused the sisters from the tearoom.

  “Can you get television coverage?” said Ginny the reporter. “You’ve got all the right connections.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” This was the last thing I wanted but it seemed I was now involved whether I liked it or not.

  “Let’s get the Dartington Morris Men in,” called out Tom Jones.

  “How about a Heritage Hike?” Roxy suggested. “You know, a sponsored walk around all the places that are going to be destroyed. We could get that televised, too.”

  It looked like my plan to go back to London was about to be postponed again.

  “We could sell T-shirts with STOP-THE-BULLET: SAVE MINUTES, LOSE CENTURIES on them,” Ginny enthused.

  “How do we pay for this?” Roxy said again.

  “I’ve already told you, Roxy,” said Eric. “We’ve established a fighting fund.”

  “A fighting fund for Fred!” Doreen echoed as she made her way to the front holding the duck—wings flapping—amidst the sound of ragged cheers. “And we’ll start right now.”

  Stan appeared with the collection bucket and it was passed around. Pockets were emptied and wallets pulled out. I put in ten pounds. Even Angela put in a fiver. Patty, however, got up and headed in the direction of the ladies’ loo.

  Patty’s exit prompted everyone to head to the bar. The meeting was over. I said my good-byes to Ginny and we exchanged phone numbers.

  “I know you must get this all the time,” said Ginny shyly. “But I’m one of your biggest fans.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And I’ll see what I can do about a camera crew.”

  “We’ll meet in a month,” Eric shouted, trying to make his voice heard above scraping chairs and excited chatter.

  Benedict joined me. “Thank you for your support,” he said. “I believe Lavinia and I will be meeting your mother tomorrow morning at the Carriage House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pity about that Prince-Avery fellow,” said Benedict. “I must say I was a bit disappointed that he scuttled off like that. I had been looking forward to a bit of a fight.”

  I noticed Muriel from the post office knock back a schooner of sherry and recalled Valentine’s suspicions of theft. “Do you think Mr. Prince-Avery’s presentation materials really were stolen?”

  “Take a look around,” said Benedict. “What do you think?”

  “The placards still made it though.” I hadn’t thought to ask Valentine exactly how so many boards got shipped to Devon and where they had been delivered.

  “Placards?” Benedict frowned. “What sort of placards?”

  “I saw ten,” I told him. “There could be more. They said HS3 CROSSING FROM HERE and are staked out in the two fields near Hopton’s Crest leading down to Cavalier Copse.”

  “That’s the perfect photo opportunity,” said Benedict. “We could have you standing next to one of them looking angry.”

  “Alright.” I felt so conflicted. On the one hand, of course, I wanted to lend my support, but to be practically spearheading the campaign was definitely not what I had wanted.

  Angela bobbed up from nowhere. “Hello!” She beamed. It would seem that she’d gotten over her earlier mishap with Sir Maurice’s chair. “Sorry for interrupting but I need to ask Kat something.”

  “Not at all,” said Benedict. “Excuse me, I am being summoned by the hordes.”

  “Do you mind if I cadge a lift back with you,” she said. “Eric’s not ready to leave and I’m really tired. I’ve got to be up at five tomorrow to blacken the grates.”

  “You do know it’s the twenty-first century,” I teased.

  Angela reddened. “I like doing them. Really.”

  We fought our way through the throng to the front door but were stopped by Doreen who still had Fred tucked under her arm.

  “Patty asked me if you wouldn’t mind running her home,” she said. “It’s not out of your way and Stan’s tied up at the bar.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Patty!” yelled Doreen. “Kat will take you.”

  Patty trudged over clutching her string bag that was now jammed full of canned produce, boxes of crackers, and a foil container.

  “Now, just pop the oven on at four hundred degrees and give that pie about twenty-five minutes,” said Doreen to Patty. “Tell Joyce I’m sorry she wasn’t feeling very well. I’ll call you tomorrow if Stan isn’t able to come and pick you up. You really need to get your phone fixed, luv.”

  Patty simply scowled, grunted somethin
g inaudible, and barged her way out of the front door.

  “Remember to hand out my Ravishing Romantics Book Club flyer,” said Angela. “Please Doreen, please.”

  Ravishing Romantics! Seriously? Mum would get a kick out of that.

  Angela’s eyes glittered and she swayed slightly on her feet. I wondered how many glasses of scrumpy she had imbibed. The stuff was lethal and always seemed deceptively harmless.

  “For the fiftieth time,” said Doreen wearily. “I told you. I won’t forget.”

  Outside in the car park I wasn’t surprised to see that Valentine’s Suzuki had gone. Judging by the amount of wine he’d been drinking earlier, I hoped that he wouldn’t get stopped by the police and given the Breathalyzer test.

  I helped Patty into the back of my Golf. As I expected, she didn’t offer a word of gratitude.

  Angela climbed into the front and grabbed Jazzbo from the dashboard. “Oh! What a cute little mouse. He’s so sweet! Hello, little mousie.”

  She really stank of cider and chattered on in the most peculiar accent that I had ever heard.

  “Do you really think we can win?” said Angela as we sped through the country lanes.

  “We? We?” Patty finally spoke. “Why should you care? You’re not from these parts.”

  “Nor am I!” I said lightly. “But I care.”

  “I love your auction idea, Kat,” said Angela. “Is it true you used to do car boot sales, Patty?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m just saying, maybe you can sell some of your junk for the campaign.”

  “Bloody cheek!” Patty exclaimed. “I’ve got some real quality stuff but no one is buying these days. It’s programs like Fakes & Treasures that have ruined it for all of us. You can’t get a bargain anymore.”

  “So sell it at Kat’s auction,” said Angela.

  “If I’m selling anything, the money goes straight into my pocket,” Patty declared. “Charity begins at home.”

  “Not always,” said Angela. “I believe in what goes around comes around.”

  “You said it.” Patty leaned forward and whispered into Angela’s ear. “You sat in Sir Maurice’s chair. He doesn’t take kindly to that. Something horrible is going to happen to you. Just you see.”

  “What do you mean?” Angela exclaimed. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Don’t take any notice of Patty,” I said. “It’s just superstitious nonsense.”

  “You can think what you like,” said Patty. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  No one said another word until we turned into the narrow lane and descended the steep hill to Bridge Cottage. I noticed that the stream that ran alongside the road was running high from all the rain.

  Suddenly, Angela shouted. “An animal! Don’t hit it!”

  I slammed my foot on the brakes. “What on earth—?”

  “It’s not an animal!” Angela cried. “No, wait … what’s on the side of the road?”

  “There’s something in the water.” My stomach lurched. “Oh God.”

  Illuminated in my headlights was a mobility scooter. It had flipped over and was laying half in and half out of the stream.

  Patty gave a shriek. “Mother! She’s fallen! Oh!”

  “Wait right here,” I said quickly and cut the engine. “Angela, call for an ambulance. Stay with Patty.”

  But Patty was already scrambling out of the car, too. She was hysterical. “Mummy, oh Mummy!”

  I grabbed Patty’s arm, pulled her into my shoulder, and held onto her tightly. “Don’t look. Just don’t look.”

  But I did.

  Joyce lay facedown in the water in her purple-knitted coat. Her hat had fallen off revealing a halo of gray hair that skittered in the current.

  Gently, I steered Patty away and back toward my car.

  Chapter Nine

  Fortunately, help was close at hand. Along with Roxy and the paramedics, Tony and John Cruickshank—identical twins sporting ruddy faces and curly brown hair—had been at the protest meeting. They speculated that given the slippery conditions coupled with the age of the scooter, Joyce had just lost control and veered off the road. Even so, there would have to be an inquest.

  Doreen dropped everything and bore an almost catatonic Patty back to the Hare & Hounds. It was Roxy who insisted that the mobility scooter shouldn’t be touched until Shawn could take a look at it.

  “Why?” Angela asked for the third time. “Do you think something weird happened?”

  “No,” said Roxy curtly. “I told you, this is just procedure.” But Roxy seemed distracted as she trained her flashlight back and forth over the slick road surface that was covered in mud and leaves. I, too, could see what looked like skid marks. “Looks like her brakes failed.”

  “I mean, why was Joyce out at all?” Angela went on. “Doreen said that she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “She must have changed her mind,” I said.

  “But why—?”

  “I hope you’re not driving, Angela,” said Roxy coldly. “You’ve had a bit too much to drink.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m taking her home,” I said. “We’re leaving. We just … I wish…”

  “Are you okay?” Roxy asked.

  “Not really.” And I wasn’t. I was feeling nauseous. I still had bad dreams about finding Vera’s body in the grotto and now, here was another one! Maybe there was some truth to Sir Maurice’s curses.

  Angela and I got back into the car and headed up the hill for home.

  “Maybe Joyce saw something,” Angela banged on. “Mrs. Cropper told me about a phantom horse and rider who lured a platoon of Roundheads to Coffin Mire—Oh. My. God! It’s Sir Maurice, isn’t it? He did it. Oh. My. God. It could have been me.”

  “I didn’t know you had a mobility scooter,” I said.

  “No. But … Joyce didn’t even sit in Sir Maurice’s chair and I did. If that happened to her—”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Angela,” I said crossly. “Pull yourself together.”

  “Muriel from the post office told me that Eric’s wife, Vera, saw a ghost in the grotto and died of fright. I didn’t believe her … but now I do.”

  “I don’t take any notice of local gossip—and you shouldn’t, either.”

  Angela slumped back in her seat. “I’ve never seen a dead body before. Have you?”

  “No,” I lied and just wished she’d stop talking. The drive to Honeychurch Cottages was only minutes but it seemed to take hours.

  “Muriel said that William the stable manager wasn’t really called William but I forget what his real name was. He’s gone off on a sabbatical. Something about the Himalayas.” Angela gave a really unattractive belch and I caught a waft of rancid cider breath. “I feel a bit funny in the head.”

  “Scrumpy will do that to you,” I said. “Just drink lots of water before you go to bed.”

  I could feel Angela’s eyes on me. “You’ve got really nice teeth and you’re a really nice person.” She gave a heavy sigh and leaned her head against the car window. “You’re really nice. Really. Really. Nice. Not like a stuck-up celebrity at all. No wonder David wants you back.”

  I let her ramble on knowing that she’d regret it all in the morning when she woke up with a vicious scrumpy hangover.

  “Still, you’ve met someone else now, haven’t you?” Angela said wistfully. “I don’t blame him for leaving the meeting. Was it true that Patty tried to shoot him?” Angela gave another belch. “Sorry.”

  “It was Joyce, actually,” I said.

  “Oh! And now look at her,” said Angela. “Dead as a doornail.”

  I changed the subject. “What about you? Anyone special? How about Eric?”

  “Eric!” Angela was so startled she had a coughing fit. “Blimey. Are you kidding? With those eyebrows? It’s like they’re alive!”

  Despite myself, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  Moments later we stopped outside the Honeychurch Cottages that stood next to
the Victorian walled garden. The terrace of three had been built toward the end of the nineteenth century for the gardeners when the Hall was in its heyday.

  Tonight, a light burned in the upstairs middle window of number two where Mr. and Mrs. Cropper had lived for all of their married life.

  “Will you come inside with me?” said Angela. “Just until I turn on the lights?”

  We stepped out into the darkness. It was so quiet that when I first came to stay with Mum, I couldn’t sleep. The silence made my ears hum. A fox uttered a murderous scream. Angela grabbed my arm. “Did you hear that noise? Is that a ghost?”

  “You’re a bit pathetic for a country girl,” I joked although I, too, had had the same reaction when I’d first heard a fox’s distinctive mating call.

  I helped Angela indoors and she groped for the light switch. Like the other two cottages, it was a “two-up, two-down” with a kitchen and downstairs bathroom tacked on under a catslide roof. I’d heard that Angela’s cottage had stood empty for a very long time. It was sparsely furnished but clean and warm, thanks to a small wood-burner stove in the corner.

  Angela, still wearing her coat and clutching her handbag, flung herself onto the sofa. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

  “Not really,” I said, although, in truth, I had felt a presence on more than one occasion and in more than one location at Honeychurch Hall.

  “Wait! I know!” Angela rummaged in her handbag and produced a large bulb of garlic. “At least I’ve got this.”

  “I think that’s for vampires.”

  “Oh.” She laughed and delved back into her bag again. This time she withdrew a pink flyer. “I’m sorry Iris couldn’t come tonight. Will you give her this?”

  RAVISHING ROMANTICS BOOK CLUB

  READ AND DISCUSS GYPSY TEMPTRESS BY KRYSTALLE STORM

  OCTOBER 22ND AT 7:00 P.M.

  PLACE: BUZZ CAFÉ!

  CALL 07781 80529 FOR QUESTIONS

  I was startled by Angela’s choice and hoped my face didn’t betray my surprise.

  “Did you know that the author is rumored to live in Devon?” she said. “I heard it could even be somewhere around here.”

  “Really? How interesting.” I waved the flyer. “Yes, I’ll give this to my mother. Good night. Sleep well—and remember what I said about drinking lots of water.”