Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “Her ladyship wasn’t lying when she said that Cromwell Meadows was riddled with the bodies of the fallen,” my mother went on. “Did you know that two hundred thousand people died in the English Civil War?”

  “No.”

  “And the whole population of England was only five million at the time.”

  Suddenly the morning didn’t seem so bright. With the smell of summer in the air, hedgerows flush with the frothy white blossoms of hawthorn and blackthorn, purple dog violets, wood sorrel and golden saxifrage it was hard to imagine that we were standing on the site that saw so much death in the battle to save Honeychurch Hall over 350 years ago.

  “And to think he might have lain there for a few more centuries if that monstrosity hadn’t collapsed.” My mother gestured to what was left of Eric’s battered old caravan that he had been using as an office. “I’ll be glad to see the back of that.”

  For the past three days Eric had been cutting up the old van with an axe and a chainsaw. Now all that remained were the fruits of his labor in an ugly pile and an iron chassis that resembled a beached whale.

  “Perhaps now he’ll change his mind and stick his new caravan elsewhere. Shouldn’t he have to get planning permission?” Mum continued. “You can’t just pick a spot and start digging out a foundation.”

  “Well, there’s no danger of that now,” I said. “The forensic anthropologist will have to cordon off the area. This place will be teeming with experts before you can blink.”

  “I hope it’s not just a peasant from the village,” Mum grumbled. “It would be very exciting if he was a key member of the family. One more for my tree.”

  As the unofficial historian for the six-hundred-year-old Honeychurch clan, my mother had become increasingly obsessed with its lineage. She was determined to be one hundred percent accurate. At first, the fifteenth Earl of Grenville, Lord Rupert Honeychurch, had found her constant questions irritating. But as the months marched on, Mum’s enthusiasm for tracing his ancestors had infected him, too.

  “I think that’s highly unlikely,” I said. “For a start, the Honeychurches were Royalists and fought for King Charles. They wouldn’t wear lobster-tailed pot helmets. Roundheads wore those. And secondly, aren’t the Honeychurches all buried in the family mausoleum at St. Mary’s church?”

  “Oh. Good point.”

  “It might not even be a soldier.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think that is a seventeenth-century helmet.”

  There was something odd about the smoothness of the crown. The skull of the lobster-tailed pot helmet was often fluted. Generally, they were made in two sections joined by a raised comb that ran from front to back. Although this did have a nasal bar, it was so wide that it would have impaired the wearer’s vision.

  As I studied the peculiar iron framework I realized I just had to know if my hunch was right.

  Eric had conveniently left behind a handful of tools, including a bucket to scoop out the water.

  I grabbed it and crouched down at the edge. “Hold on to my hand,” I said.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Mum exclaimed. “You’ll get filthy for your meeting this morning. You’re even wearing a skirt for a change.”

  “I just need to check something.”

  “You told me not to touch anything,” she protested.

  “Well, I’m not touching him, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “Humor me.”

  “I’m always humoring you.” But my mother obliged and gripped my hand tightly as I leaned over the grave.

  I scooped out three buckets of the rank, brackish liquid until the water level was low enough to reveal the entire skull and part of a twiggy collarbone.

  “Katherine!” Mum gasped in horror. “Is that … is that—?”

  “Oh God,” I whispered. “It’s not a man, it’s a woman, isn’t it?”

  “And it’s not a helmet!” Mum exclaimed. “It’s a scold’s bridle! How cruel. How absolutely horrible.”

  Now the headgear was fully exposed, we stared in dismay at the heavy iron hinged framework that encased the skull. The vicious bridle-bit ending in nine sharp iron points left nothing to the imagination.

  “That was in her mouth, Mum,” I said. “It pressed down on top of her tongue—”

  “No!” Mum flapped her arms in alarm. “Don’t tell me any more. It’s wicked! What an evil thing to do.”

  “Those contraptions weighed around fourteen pounds,” I went on. “The victims used to be paraded through the streets. The bridle was often fastened so tightly that if the poor wretch was whipped, the pain caused the jaw to shatter. It’s barbaric!”

  “Do you suppose she was a witch?” Mum whispered.

  “Possibly,” I said. “But scold bridles—or branks, as they were sometimes called—were not just put on witches and heretics or women who gossiped in the village. Sometimes it was a form of corporal punishment. If she was involved in the war, maybe she presented a threat of some kind?”

  “Like what?” Mum demanded.

  “You’re supposed to be the historian, not me,” I said. “But I would assume that given the fact that the Honeychurches were Royalists and, literally, just two fields away Lavinia’s ancestors—the Carews—were Roundheads, maybe she was a spy?”

  “Don’t touch anything!” came a familiar shout. “Stay back! Stay back, I say!”

  We turned to see Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper hurrying toward us across the grass waving madly. His trademark beige trench coat flapped open as he ran.

  “Why is he wearing a coat in this weather?” muttered Mum.

  Behind Shawn, but striding far more sedately, came Rupert Honeychurch and then Eric. Rupert looked cool in jeans and an open-necked pale-blue checked shirt with short sleeves. He towered above Eric and his woolen beanie hat and had the walk of a man born to entitlement.

  Shawn joined us. He was out of breath. My stomach did an unexpected flip. The thing was that I was still attracted to him with his large brown eyes, impossibly long eyelashes and tousled curly brown hair. I noted food stains on his Thomas the Tank Engine tie. Whether this tie was a nod to Shawn’s passion for steam trains or whether it was a gift from his twin boys was anyone’s guess. But I had to admit our meeting was awkward.

  It was the first time since I’d seen him after our one-and-only dinner date. Halfway through the meal Shawn suddenly came down with a stomach bug. In his race to get me home, and him to his bathroom—Shawn flatly refused to use the restaurant facilities—he was pulled over for speeding by two of his own men. To make matters worse, Shawn had to dart behind a hedge to save further embarrassment. He didn’t ask me out again.

  We greeted each other with curt nods and brief smiles.

  “We’ve not touched a thing, Officer,” said Mum. “We were standing guard, awaiting further instructions.”

  The three men peered into the grave.

  Eric turned to Mum and me with suspicion. “The water level’s gone down!”

  “It’s the heat of the morning,” said Mum. “But as you can see, the skeleton is most likely a female. That’s a scold’s bridle that she’s wearing. We think she was a witch or a spy.”

  “Not one of ours then, Iris,” said Rupert with a wink. “How disappointing.”

  “Unless someone in the twenty-first century decided to try it on his wife,” Mum quipped.

  “You really are quite witty today, Iris,” said Shawn.

  Mum smirked. She had been in very good spirits ever since she had turned in Ravished a few weeks ago. It was her latest book in the international bestselling Star-Crossed Lovers series that she penned secretly under the pseudonym of Krystalle Storm.

  “I know a few gossips in the village that could take a lesson from seeing one of those,” Rupert put in with a grin.

  “But rest assured, milord,” said Mum, “the Honeychurch family tree is coming along exceptionally well. I’ve almost finished the seventeenth century. Quite a lively bunch.”


  Shawn pulled out a roll of crime scene tape from one of his voluminous trench coat pockets. “I’m sure this is very interesting,” he said. “But until we ascertain what happened here, this area is strictly out-of-bounds. Nothing—and, I repeat, nothing—must be touched.”

  “Surely you’re being a bit overzealous,” said Rupert.

  “Just following procedure, milord,” Shawn said.

  “But … what about my new office?” Eric whined. “I’ve got a Portakabin being delivered tomorrow morning.”

  “Sorry, Eric. The Portakabin will have to wait,” said Shawn.

  Eric looked crestfallen.

  “Or you could put your new office elsewhere,” Mum suggested. “How about over there?” She gestured to a giant car crusher machine at the other end of the field. “I always felt your office was too far away from the action.”

  “Wait a moment—” Rupert took Eric’s shovel and, leaning over the grave, gently pushed the tip into one wall. “What’s this?”

  “Milord,” Shawn cried. “I must protest! I must caution you against touching anything in the grave until we have gone through the proper channels.”

  But Rupert was on a mission. “I’m just going to see what it is!”

  Gently he worked at the earth until the sides began to give way to expose a broken lattice of ribs. Lodged between two of them was a dagger crusted with earth.

  Mum gasped. “Is that a knife?”

  “Milord!” Shawn’s protestations met deaf ears as Rupert swiftly retrieved a cotton handkerchief from his pocket, knelt down and pulled the dagger free. It was long—about twelve or thirteen inches.

  “It’s a dagger alright,” he said, grimly presenting it to all of us.

  “It looks like a main gauche,” I said.

  “A what?” Mum demanded.

  “A main gauche was a dagger that was used to parry incoming thrusts with one hand whilst the other wielded a rapier,” I said.

  “So she was a soldier,” said Mum.

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. A man wouldn’t be wearing a scold’s bridle.”

  Rupert began to wipe the blade clean. “Do you have your loupe handy, Katherine?”

  Given the fact I had neither handbag nor pockets, I wondered where he thought I kept it.

  “Sorry, no. I could run and get it.”

  “No need,” said Rupert. “It looks as if there is a crest engraved on the blade.”

  We all crowded around to take a closer look.

  “That’s the Honeychurch crest,” Mum declared. “I’m certain of it.”

  “Your eyesight is far better than mine,” I said.

  “I must protest,” Shawn said again.

  “I’ve been staring at the Honeychurch coat of arms or crest or whatever you want to call it for months” said Mum. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

  “You’re right,” said Rupert excitedly. “There are the two hawks flanking our shield. These daggers were made specifically for their owner at great expense. It’s most unusual for such a thing to be left behind.”

  “Unless it was deliberate,” said Mum.

  “Deliberate?” Rupert regarded my mother with growing incredulity.

  “Mum … the placement of the dagger—”

  “But surely you aren’t implying—”

  “I most certainly am!” Mum exclaimed. “Whoever is lying in that watery grave was murdered.”

  Chapter Three

  “For once, I agree with Iris,” Shawn said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to declare this a crime scene.”

  Mum laughed. “I would think it highly unlikely we’d catch the culprit now, don’t you, milord?”

  “It’s not like we’ve discovered the remains of Richard the Third,” Rupert agreed.

  “But taken into consideration the scold’s bridle … she was probably tortured before she was murdered.”

  “That’s awful,” I whispered. “But who was she? Why go to all that trouble?”

  “She was a spy,” Mum said again. “Caught in the act and dispatched by whoever owned that dagger.”

  “And to think I’ve been above her all these years,” whispered Eric. “You know, it’s strange, because sometimes I used to feel I was being watched.”

  Mum rolled her eyes.

  “Do you have some stakes, Eric?” Shawn asked.

  “She’s hardly a vampire,” Mum muttered.

  Eric nodded.

  “Go and get half a dozen, there’s a good man.”

  So Eric did.

  “What do you think will happen to her?” I asked.

  Rupert shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  “It doesn’t seem right that she should have suffered so much only to end up in an unmarked grave,” I said.

  “If you ask me,” Mum said slowly, “I think there was a bit of jiggery-pokery going on.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Rupert was stunned. “Jiggery-pokery! What exactly are you suggesting?”

  “I’m just saying that the Honeychurch clan are notorious for hushing up scandals.” Mum reddened. “I don’t know why I said that. It just came out.”

  “And I’m glad it did, Iris.” Shawn chimed in. “Because I agree with you again. That’s twice in one day.”

  “What kind of jiggery-pokery?” exclaimed a voice heavy with adenoids. We turned to greet Rupert’s long-suffering wife, Lady Lavinia Honeychurch, plodding toward us.

  Mum and I looked at each other and gasped. “Whatever happened to you?”

  Lavinia looked awful. Her pale aquiline face was marred by an enormous black eye. Her lip was puffy and swollen.

  “Lav, darling!” Rupert exclaimed. “You really should be resting!”

  “I’m perfectly alright,” she said with a slight lisp that exposed a missing front tooth. Upon spotting the skull in the watery grave, she added, “And obviously much better off than whoever is laying down there!”

  Dressed in her usual attire of jodhpurs and short-sleeved polo shirt and with her blond hair crushed beneath a heavy slumber net, Lavinia looked even more disheveled than usual.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Came off and then got kicked in the face,” she said cheerfully.

  “Which horse?” I said.

  “Jupiter got stung by a horsefly.” Lavinia winced. “Got three cracked ribs—ouch.” She bent over in pain.

  “Ribs seems to be the nom du jour,” said Mum.

  “The vet strapped me up,” Lavinia went on.

  “The vet?” said Mum.

  “Much better than old Bodger our G.P. He’s ab-so-lute-ly hopeless—ouch!” She winced again. “Golly.”

  “Lav, darling,” said Rupert again. “Please go and lie down. You must rest.”

  It made a change for Rupert to show his concern for her. Usually he seemed so indifferent.

  “I’ve got some Vicodin left,” Mum said. “I’ll give you a few. They’re really good.”

  “Mum! You mustn’t,” I said.

  “She can’t take drugs,” Rupert said. “She’s allergic.”

  “They must have expired anyway,” I said. “It was ages ago when you broke your hand, Mum.”

  “Rubbish. Expiry dates are just one way those drug companies make you buy more drugs.”

  It was then that Lavinia noticed the dagger in Rupert’s hands. “Goodness. Is that one of yours … or one of ours?”

  I thought it amusing that after centuries the Royalist Honeychurches and the Roundhead Carews still seemed to be on opposite sides.

  “His lordship found it in the grave,” said Mum.

  “You must get Daddy to take a look, Rupert—he’s an expert at this sort of thing—or my brother.”

  “I’ll certainly confer with Aubrey,” said Rupert. “But I’m definitely not involving Piers.”

  “And who is Aubrey?” Mum asked politely.

  “Daddy is a whiz at military history and armor and swords. He’s got an even larger collection of weapons than Rupert—”

  “
Not by that much,” said Rupert.

  “The Roundheads were much better equipped than the Cavaliers—”

  “Royalists,” said Rupert. “We prefer to call them Royalists—”

  “And much better soldiers,” Lavinia went on. “That’s why we won.”

  “Only because we had to pay outrageous, crippling fines to Oliver-bloody-Cromwell,” snarled Rupert. “And your wretched family.”

  “I thought the Hall was saved by your steward?” Mum put in.

  “It was,” Rupert said. “But … I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s move on now. Iris? How are the costumes coming along?”

  “I’m finished with yours and Master Harry’s,” said Mum. “I’ve nearly finished the dowager countess’s and Lady Lavinia’s.” My mother’s handiwork with the needle was well known to everyone at the Hall. In fact, I had a steamer trunk full of beautiful costumes she had made in her teenage years for the traveling fair and boxing emporium.

  “Good,” said Rupert. “You can deliver them all this afternoon.”

  “T-t-oday?” Mum stammered. “Yes. Yes of course.”

  “Come at three-thirty.”

  “I’ll be taking the dagger, milord, if you don’t mind,” said Shawn. Rupert handed it over somewhat reluctantly, whereupon Shawn promptly dropped it into one of his ever-ready Ziploc bags.

  “And Lav, go and lie down and rest.” And with that, Rupert walked off.

  “You should do what his lordship advises, milady,” said Mum.

  “I know.” Lavinia stood there but made no attempt to move. She glanced over at Shawn, who was deep in discussion with Eric a few yards away. “I’m frightfully parched, Iris. Aren’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “But you must be,” Lavinia insisted. “Standing out here in the hot sun. You look fit to drop.”

  “I’ve got the costumes to finish—”

  “But you must be parched,” she said again.

  “Really I’m not. Or … should I be? Oh. I see.” Mum took the hint. “Would you care to come inside for a cup of tea or coffee, milady?”