Perhaps he’d seen Mr. Brown. I slowed down and opened my window.
The man didn’t look very well. He was sweating and his complexion had a sickly grayish tinge. Large dark circles surrounded bloodshot eyes. Close-cropped hair was at odds with salt-and-pepper stubble.
“Excuse me,” I began.
“No thanks. I appreciate it,” he said curtly. “I like the walk.”
I hadn’t planned on giving him a lift—in fact, it had been engrained into me since childhood never to accept a lift with a stranger or even consider offering one. I detected a brummie accent. Edith had mentioned that the Skirmish would attract a variety of people from all over the country. It would seem that she was right.
“I just wondered if you happened to see a man in his seventies on foot?” I pointed vaguely in the direction I had come. “There was an accident a mile or so back there and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”
The man nodded. “Yeah. I wondered what the noise was. I heard a car horn and then a crash.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I was on the other side of the valley.” He started to cough. It was a wretched, hacking cough.
He really shouldn’t be walking in this heat, but I didn’t want him in my car, either. Even so, I heard myself say, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Never better.” And with that, he touched his forelock and I drove on.
I spent the next half an hour combing the country lanes, but there was no sign of Mr. Brown—and finally circled back to the Volvo. It was still there with its nose stuck in the hedge.
There was not much else I could do except wait for Mr. Brown to call me and pick up the doll.
I passed the scruffy man with the cough once more on the outskirts of Little Dipperton. He was climbing over a wooden stile. I’d walked that way myself many a time. The public footpath ran along the boundary of a cow field and came out at the rear of the Hare & Hounds.
I had a thought. Perhaps Mr. Brown had decided to cut across the fields and had not walked the lanes at all.
Checking my watch, I realized I had left it far too late to go riding now, so I headed straight to Mum’s.
As I swung into the cobbled courtyard I was struck at how pretty the Carriage House looked now. When I’d first seen her new home I’d been horrified. Although the two-story redbrick building had been covered in swathes of wisteria and Virginia creeper, it couldn’t hide the crumbling brickwork, cracked and broken windows and a slate roof full of gaping holes.
Thanks to my mother’s vast royalty checks that came in regularly, only to be squirreled away in an offshore account in Jersey—the details of which I really did not want to know about—Mum had enlisted her stepbrother, Alfred, to help smarten it up.
Windows had been replaced and the roof and skylight that ran the length of the old carriageway had been repaired and cleaned. Alfred had painted the arched double carriageway that spanned both stories, all the trim and even the timber cupola beneath the ogee dome a pale blue. He’d also removed the old horse weather vane and burnished it until it shone once more. Now the sunshine caught the trusty steed as it gently swung in circles to catch the afternoon breeze.
Knee-high weeds dotted with buttercups, thistles and ragwort had been replaced with red, pink and white geraniums flowering in the window boxes. Wooden planters filled with roses sat on the steps of the stone mounting block. Wild honeysuckle wrapped around the wishing well and wisteria tumbled over the walls of the semi-derelict outbuildings that ranged around the courtyard.
The only thing that marred the scenery was the rear entrance to Eric Pugsley’s scrapyard. Even though the corrugated iron gate topped with razor wire was partially shrouded by unruly elderflower bushes, the ominous warning TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED: POACHERS WILL BE SHOT spray-painted in crimson lowered the tone—at least that’s what Mum was always grumbling about. I can’t say I blamed her.
I drove through the double doors and into the carriageway beyond. It was easy to imagine what this place would have been like in its heyday when there was room for four horse-drawn carriages.
All the original fixtures remained. A row of stalls stood on either side accessed through redbrick arches bearing the family crest of arms and motto, ad perseverate est ad triumphum—To Endure Is to Triumph. Judging by what I’d learned of the history of the family, they’d certainly endured.
Alfred had made a start on clearing up the interior as well. Just stripping the invasive ivy that had crept under the rafters had taken him two whole weeks. I wasn’t sure of my mother’s long-term plans, but there had been talk about using the stalls again and having some of Edith’s horses here.
They had discussed leaving the iron railings, newel posts and dividers—and the original bite and hoof marks—alone. Also the triangular water troughs and iron hayracks. Only the metal name plaques attached to each stall door would be replaced by ones with the names of the new residents. The old ones would be moved to the tack room along with the ancient saddles and bridles that Edith insisted on hanging on to out of sentimental value. Sometimes I wondered what would happen to them when she passed on. Would her successor honor Edith’s wishes?
The entrance to the living area was rarely locked. I trooped upstairs to Mum’s office and rapped smartly on her door.
“I’m busy!” came the terse reply.
“Did you eat lunch?”
“No. And don’t slice the cheese so thick. And don’t bring that dog in here!”
“We left Mr. Chips with Alfred,” I said, and returned to the kitchen to rustle up a quick cheese and pickle sandwich for my mother.
Moments later I was in her office, tray in hand. “Whatever happened in here?”
Mum’s office was in complete disarray. There were piles of fabric on every available surface. A bolt of blue velvet was draped over the wing back chair. A mound of lace was heaped on the floor. Costume reference books that she had taken out of the library were open on her roll-top desk. Saucers of pins and reels of cotton were lined up on the windowsill.
Mum was sitting at her sewing machine that she had set up on a collapsible table that Dad had used to eat his “TV dinners.”
“Oh—Dad’s table,” I said, feeling an unexpected pang of nostalgia, but Mum didn’t seem to hear me. “Did you volunteer to make costumes for the entire Royalist army?”
“I did not volunteer,” she said haughtily. “I am being paid, thank you very much.”
“What’s this?” I spotted a dark-green doublet hanging from the standard lamp. It had lace cuffs and braided buttons. The stitching was exquisite and barely visible. “This is beautiful.”
Mum smirked. “That’s for his lordship. Lavinia’s gown is behind the door.”
I turned to see an elaborate creation in deep burgundy. It was still in the pinned-up stage, but I could see it was going to be stunning. “She’ll be happy with that.”
“I’ve just got to finish the hats and red sashes—and all by three-thirty.”
“Why red?”
“The Royalists wore mostly red and the Roundheads a rather ghastly tawny orange to match their leather tunics.”
“And this stuff here?” I pointed to bolts of brown, cream and beige cloth that stood in the corner.
“Camp followers,” said Mum. “I agreed to do Muriel, Violet and Doris from the pub, but that’s about it. The rest of them can wear sacks for all I care.”
“What about your old friend Peggy Cropper?”
“Over my dead body.” It would appear that my mother had still not forgiven the cook for that other business in February.
Mum presented me with a miniature version of Rupert’s outfit. “For Harry.”
“It’s adorable!” I said. “You are clever. And what about us?”
Mum looked blank. “Us?”
“Well, aren’t we going to have to wear something? Get into the spirit of the thing?”
“I suppose so,” Mum said grudgingly. She gave a heavy sigh.
>
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t understand why I haven’t heard from my new editor about Ravished.”
“I thought you had,” I said. “I thought that was why you have been so cheerful.”
“I’ve been putting on a brave front,” said Mum. “Clara St. James called me a high-maintenance author.”
“You?” I laughed. “High-maintenance? Whatever next!”
“She wants me to do personal appearances, and of course I can’t. I wish Graham hadn’t died.”
“Why don’t you call her?” I suggested. “Isn’t Ravished supposed to be out in time for Christmas? That’s in six months!”
“I know and I haven’t even got the notes back yet. She also threw out my idea for the next in the series,” Mum grumbled. “She said there were too many Viking stories on the market.”
I drifted over to the window that looked out over Cromwell Meadows. The chassis of Eric’s caravan remained where it had been felled surrounded by pieces of plywood and metal sidings. A white tent and a white screen had been erected over and around the grave.
“Do we refer to the skeleton as a body or remains or what?” I wondered aloud.
Mum joined me at the window. “Who was she?”
“Edith said something interesting.” I went on to relay my conversation with the dowager countess on our way to the railway station.
“No one of importance!” Mum scoffed. “I’m sure she had a family that thought she was important.”
“Apparently all the Honeychurch ancestors are accounted for and are in the family mausoleum at St. Mary’s church. But she did say that the Parish registers might still be in the Parish chest.”
“I wish I had known about those,” said Mum. “It would have saved me a lot of work, not to mention all the hours I’ve been spending in the library and with the Devon History Society.”
I thought for a moment. “But Edith did think the presence of the dagger—if it really is a Honeychurch dagger—was unusual.”
“Maybe we should get Alfred on the case,” said Mum. “Ask him to do a bit of channeling.”
I groaned.
“Groan all you like, but Alfred has been extremely successful.”
“Won’t he be too busy tailing Rupert?” I said drily.
Mum picked up a long brown serge skirt and settled back at the sewing machine. “Talk to me whilst I hem.”
“You won’t be able to hear me above the noise of the machine,” I said, but moved a pile of fabric and sat in the wingback armchair all the same.
“Then you’ll have to shout.”
“I did a really strange valuation today,” I said loudly, and went on to fill my mother in on the details of my meeting with Mr. Brown. “Far from being thrilled, he was freaked out. Rude, in fact.”
Mum paused and spoke through a mouthful of pins. “In what way?”
“In the end he didn’t even want the valuation. Just threw twenty pounds at me, ‘for my time’—”
“Twenty pounds! How insulting!”
“I know. And he couldn’t get out of the pub fast enough. He didn’t even eat lunch.”
“Skipping lunch won’t hurt you and it definitely won’t hurt your figure.”
I could feel myself bristling.
Mum eyed me shrewdly. “I suppose I could put in an elasticated waist—”
“If you are going to talk about my weight again, I’m going to leave.”
Mum grinned. She knew exactly how to push my buttons.
“Sounds like your Mr. Brown has a guilty conscience,” she went on. “I bet the doll wasn’t his. Maybe it fell off the back of a lorry.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I assumed it belonged to his late wife.” I then told my mother all about finding Mr. Brown’s Volvo nose first in a hedge. “If he had stolen it he would hardly have left it in the footwell of his car.”
“Where is the doll now?”
“In mine.”
“How much is this doll worth?”
I shrugged. “At least ten thousand pounds.”
“Does he know you have it?”
“Not exactly. I left a message on his answer machine asking him to call me. It was a woman’s voice on the recording, so I didn’t get into the specifics.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“He was so secretive, Mum. I just thought being vague was better.”
“Oh dear,” said Mum. “Women can be funny things. She might think he’s having an affair.”
“You’ve got affairs on the brain!” I exclaimed. “Anyway, he was in his seventies.”
Mum shrugged again. “Look at Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones!”
“What about them?”
“There are twenty-five years between them and we know how much you prefer older men.”
“I do not prefer older men. David just happened to be older.”
“That poor policeman didn’t even get a look in.”
I got to my feet. “Okay. Enough. I refuse to discuss my non-existent love life with you. And for your information, poor Shawn is not interested in me any longer. We’re just friends.”
Fortunately, the telephone rang and stopped all further conversation.
“Pick it up, dear,” said Mum.
So I did. “Hello?” I answered. “Let me find out.” Then, covering the mouthpiece, I hissed, “Quickly. It’s your editor asking for Krystalle Storm.”
Mum spat out the pins, threw the skirt aside and leapt to her feet. She snatched up the phone. “Hello? It’s Krystalle here. How are you, Ms. St. James?”
Slowly, the color drained out of my mother’s face. She could hardly speak. Words just didn’t seem to come out at all. Even I could hear the tone of Clara St. James from Goldfinch Publishing on the other end of the line, and it was not friendly.
Finally, Mum managed to say, “Of course there must be a mishap somewhere. What about your mailroom?” Ms. St. James chirped an answer. “Yes. Yes. I will find out straightaway. Thank you. Yes. Good-bye.” Mum replaced the phone and looked at me as if her entire world had come to an end.
“Didn’t she like the manuscript?” I said.
“She never had a chance to like it,” Mum whispered. “The manuscript never arrived. My career is ruined!”
Chapter Seven
“What do you mean, it never arrived?” I said. “Why on earth didn’t they call until now?”
“Apparently, shortly before Graham died he told Ms. St. James that I didn’t work very well under pressure—”
“That’s true—”
“And it wasn’t a good idea to call me and that she wasn’t to worry, because even though I was often late I always turned in excellent work.”
“So that’s a good thing.”
“Oh, Kat!” Mum wailed. “What on earth am I going to do?”
“Now calm down—”
“Calm? I can’t be calm. I’ll never be calm again.”
“All you need to do is send them another copy of Ravished. We can send it overnight. I’ll go into Dartmouth right now.”
There was a deathly silence.
“Oh no,” I cried. “You don’t have a copy, do you? Oh, Mum.”
“And don’t say ‘I told you so!’”
“I don’t need to.” Since my mother refused to use a computer, I had lost count of the times that I had insisted that if she was not going to type with a carbon copy, at the very least she should photocopy everything. The original manuscript really was the original—and only—manuscript.
“Let’s work backwards,” I said. “You posted it in Dartmouth, yes?”
“No. Little Dipperton. I know you told me to go to the main post office, but I was in a rush.” She regarded me with defiance. “But how can that have happened!” Her voice shot up an octave. “I paid for it registered post.”
“Good,” I said. “So that means you have a tracking number.”
“Of course I have a tracking number.”
“Gr
eat. Give it to me and I’ll see what happened.”
With one sweep, Mum had cleared the desk. Fabric, pencils, books and what remained of her sandwich tumbled onto the floor. She rummaged through the dozens of pigeonholes, all stuffed with scraps of paper—bills, envelopes and Post-it notes. “Oh! I’ll never find it in all this mess!”
“Calm down,” I said again. “Let me look.”
“No. I don’t want you poking through all my personal things. I put it somewhere safe.”
“Good.”
Mum wrenched open one of the smaller drawers. “Ah. I thought so. Here we are,” she said triumphantly. “I told you I had it.”
I inspected the date. “You posted it—good heavens, on April the seventeenth.”
“So where is it?” Mum demanded. “What happened to it?”
“Leave this with me,” I said. “I’ll go up to the gatehouse and check online.”
Honeychurch Hall still didn’t have access to any Internet. Little Dipperton was supposed to have broadband installed at some point, but I was able to use a British Telecom Wi-Fi hotspot at the top of the drive.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Walk or car?” I said.
“Whichever is the fastest.”
Mum clambered into the passenger seat of my Golf and put the Black & Decker box onto her lap.
I reversed out of the carriageway and we sped away.
Mum took a peep inside the box and gave a shudder. “Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal. Ever since your father made me watch Chucky, I’ve never been able to look at a doll in quite the same way.”
“You went to see Chucky?”
“Oh yes. Your father always enjoyed a good horror film. He said they made him laugh. It used to scare me half to death.”
“I never knew that.”
Mum’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “There was a lot you didn’t know about him, Katherine.”
“And a lot he didn’t know about you,” I retorted.
Given my mother’s insistence that my parents had had a wonderful marriage, I still couldn’t figure out why she had felt the need to keep her writing accomplishments secret. I was certain he would have been proud of her. I was.
Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 5
