Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “And don’t look at me like that,” said Mum.

  “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell him,” I said. “When I get married, I want to be able to share everything.”

  “Sometimes, it doesn’t work like that no matter how much you want it to,” said Mum darkly.

  “I disagree.” I knew I was sounding self-righteous, but that’s what I truly believed. “Honesty is everything.”

  “Alright, alright,” said Mum dramatically. “I’ll tell you why, but you might not like what you hear.”

  “I’m bracing myself.”

  “When I first left the traveling fair and boxing emporium, my people—”

  “Your troupe—”

  “Yes. My troupe! We were one big happy family,” said Mum. “I can’t expect you to understand how lonely I was. I found it hard to adjust to life in a semi-detached house in Tooting.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I missed life on the road. I missed sleeping under the stars. I missed the sound of the fairground at night, the excitement of the boxing ring.” She shrugged. “I adored your father, but … my troupe never forgave me for what I did.”

  I could tell the memory still upset her. “I know that, Mum,” I said gently. “But you can’t help who you fall in love with.”

  In fact, my mother had met my father when he was representing HM Revenue & Customs. Dad was investigating Bushman’s Traveling Fairground and Boxing Emporium for suspected tax evasion. As it turned out, he was right. There was quite a lot of creative accounting going on in the ticket booth. Naturally, when Mum and Dad fell in love and eloped her troupe viewed her decision as the ultimate betrayal.

  “I was very unhappy to start with—not because of Frank, never because of Frank,” said Mum. “But I missed my kin.” She gave me a sheepish smile. “You have no idea how much it means to have Alfred living here.”

  Alfred. Hmm. I was still on the fence about whether having Alfred around was a good or a bad thing. It was Alfred who had suggested that my mother funnel all her earnings into the offshore account in Jersey and it was Alfred who occasionally disappeared overnight with an empty suitcase and a forged passport only to return the next day with a lot of cash.

  “But I don’t see what that has to do with the fact you didn’t tell Dad about your writing,” I persisted.

  “Writing was a way for me to escape,” said Mum. “I could get lost in my imagination.”

  “Lost in your fake migraines,” I reminded her. “If you knew how worried Dad and I were. We kept thinking you had a brain tumor.”

  “I know and I’m sorry.” She thought for a moment. “You know, I never expected to finish writing a book, let alone write one that would sell. I suppose I felt silly, so I didn’t say anything until it was too late.”

  “It’s never too late—”

  “Once I started with the tiny lies, they just got … bigger and bigger.”

  “You’re telling me, they got bigger,” I said. “I’m not judging. I just know that one day it will all come out.”

  Mum stiffened. “Don’t worry about my life, worry about yours.”

  “I can’t help but worry about yours!”

  My mother’s website claimed that not only had my father been an international diplomat who had died in a plane crash, but also she owned a villa on the Amalfi coast and a Devon manor house. One of her publicity headshots showed her holding a Pekinese called Truly Scrumptious.

  “And where did you get the Pekinese? At least tell me that.”

  Fortunately, we arrived at the gatehouses before we could dissolve into one of our childish squabbles.

  “Thank God we’re here,” she muttered. “That was the longest five minutes in history.”

  “I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

  We got out of the Golf with Mum carrying Chucky, as she insisted on calling the Jumeau.

  Mum turned to look over at the parkland beyond where the activity seemed to have tripled since this morning. “Oh,” she said wistfully. “Seeing all those tents takes me back years. We used to set up in that very same spot, too.”

  Pointing to a row of blue Portaloos that stood along the hedge, she added, “Toilets. How flash.”

  “I bet you didn’t have those in the 1950s.”

  I let us into the West Gatehouse.

  “It still smells of paint,” said Mum.

  “I don’t mind it,” I said.

  She started roaming around with a critical air. “You’ve not done much unpacking.”

  “I’m waiting for Alfred to put in shelves,” I said as I ramped up my computer. “There’s no rush, though. It’s not as if I’m going to get any foot traffic up here.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll get lots of people walking by next weekend. There is going to be a entire camp of Royalists and Roundheads right outside your back door.”

  “You think they’ll be in the mood to buy bears?” I said.

  Mum gave an exasperated sigh. “I know you wanted a little antique shop in Brick Lane. I know I ruined your plans, but you didn’t have to move—”

  “I’m here now,” I said firmly. “And I am happy in Devon. Okay? Anyway, I’m looking at an additional space at Dartmouth Antique Emporium this weekend. Just for the summer.”

  “Oh good,” Mum enthused. “It will get you out a bit. I worry about you living like a hermit.”

  “Ah—success,” I said as the Royal Mail website came up. “Finally.”

  Mum handed me the registered post slip. I typed in the tracking number.

  “Did you know that it was King Henry the Eighth who founded the Royal Mail in 1516?” said Mum. “You’d think he wouldn’t have had the time what with juggling all those wives.”

  I frowned. “There must be some mistake.” I re-entered the tracking number—then again. “Oh dear.”

  Mum peered over my shoulder. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  I tapped the screen. “It says the package is still in Little Dipperton.”

  “What?” Mum shrieked. “What do you mean it’s still in Little Dipperton? I don’t understand.”

  “I told you to go to the post office in Dartmouth,” I said. “Obviously Muriel must have registered it and … maybe she put it to one side and forgot to post it.”

  “She forgot!” Mum shrieked again. “How can she forget? She’s the postmistress!”

  “I think that was around the time her husband had just died.” I thought back to the check for three hundred pounds that I had written her just this morning. I decided not to mention this to my mother. “I expect she got distracted.”

  “I don’t care! And I can tell you right now King Henry would have had her head off for a lot less. I’m going down there right this minute.”

  “Not for Muriel’s head, I hope,” I said. “Let me go.”

  “I’m so upset—”

  “We don’t know for sure,” I said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Let me find out what happened. You’ve got to finish sewing the costumes, remember?”

  Mum’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “You’re right. I do.”

  “I’ll be back within the hour,” I promised. “And look on the bright side. The manuscript is most likely still there. It won’t have been lost at all.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ten minutes later I parked my Golf behind St. Mary’s and took the shortcut through the churchyard to the post office. From this perspective, I had a good view of the crescent of cottages beyond the low moss-covered stone wall that embraced the churchyard boundary—and they had a good view of me.

  The churchyard was lined with lichen-covered headstones and raised tombs. Some were enclosed by wrought-iron railings and watched over by stone angels. Most of the graves were family plots. There were about a dozen surnames that I recognized from those who lived and worked on the Honeychurch estate or were still tenants living in the village.

  I thought again of the dead woman who had lain forgotten in Cromwell Meadows for so many ye
ars. Someone had to have known who she was and how she met with such a violent end.

  As I picked my way through the graves, I spotted the imposing Honeychurch mausoleum in the corner framed by two ancient yew trees. The Honeychurch motto was carved above heavy bronze doors that were framed by a pair of hawks in flight. The style was very much in keeping with the architecture of the Hall only in miniature.

  Although the grass surrounding the mausoleum was neatly mown, most of the churchyard was ankle deep in thistles, clover, buttercups and daisies.

  Only Fred Jarvis’s brand-new headstone stood out. Built of granite and etched in gold, it looked expensive. A fresh vase of roses sat beneath the inscription that brought a smile to my lips. My dad used to say the exact same thing to my mother.

  YOU’LL MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE

  FREDERICK JARVIS

  AUGUST 8, 1942–MAY 3, 2017

  ALWAYS TOGETHER

  It was also hard to miss the wheelbarrow that was blocking the grassy path. It still contained Fred’s gardening implements—a hoe, fork and shovel—that he had been using on that fateful day.

  According to Mrs. Cropper, the cook, Muriel forbade anyone to move the “barrow of death” for mysterious reasons of her own, but with St. Mary’s church holding a “living history” exhibition as part of the re-enactment next weekend someone was going to have to.

  I paused at the lych-gate where directly opposite Violet’s dark-green Morris Minor Traveller had reclaimed its rightful space between Rose Cottage and Honeysuckle Cottage, Pippa’s new abode.

  Violet might have had a point about Pippa trying to steal her customers.

  An elaborate sign embellished with curlicues peeped between frothy lace curtains in Pippa’s front window.

  DEVONSHIRE CREAM TEAS IN MY SECRET GARDEN

  £7.50

  REAL CLOTTED CREAM AND LOCAL JAM

  HOMEMADE SCONES AND CAKES FRESHLY MADE TODAY

  I had to admit Pippa’s cream teas seemed far more enticing than poor Violet’s efforts. Pippa’s cottage was covered in fragrant honeysuckle climbing either side of the front door and over the pitched porch. Violet’s cottage looked positively bald without her signature climbing roses that had covered the flaking whitewashed bricks that were now a dirty gray. No wonder she had been upset. Even worse, the victims of Fred’s zealous secateurs still pooled in pathetic dead piles under the front windows and around the side footpath between her cottage and the post office. Since there was no one who was likely to clear it up, I decided to come back over the weekend and volunteer.

  Pippa had also undercut Violet’s price for a traditional Devonshire cream tea and a pot for two by three whole pounds. Although I had to admit you could fell an elephant with one of Violet’s fruit scones.

  I wondered if Pippa realized that she was alienating the locals who always seemed to regard any outsider—and I was speaking from experience—with caution bordering on hostility. I suppose someone would have to tell her and that someone was probably me.

  The door to the post office and general store stood open. I stepped down into the gloom. No matter how sunny it was outside, the place always seemed claustrophobic. The low-beamed ceiling didn’t help.

  The store was jammed to the gunnels with items ranging from tiny sewing kits to fly-spray killer. Shelves were haphazardly stacked with pliers, tinned goods, jigsaw puzzles and hemorrhoid cream. A revolving wire display stand offered picturesque postcards of Devon for sale.

  I always felt like I had stepped back in time here. On the counter sat an old-fashioned cash register and brass bell. In front stood a low bench spread with a selection of trashy magazines, national newspapers, the local Dipperton Deal and the dreaded Star Stalkers. Along the back wall were shelves filled with large glass jars containing old-fashioned sweets that I tended to buy just too often these days—Sherbet Pips, Fruit Chews and Black Jacks.

  In one corner a Plexiglas window encased a small cubbyhole that bore the sign POST OFFICE. On the notice board the usual flyers and handwritten cards that offered a variety of services and local events had been overshadowed by the upcoming Skirmish. Piers Carew’s bloodthirsty appeal for dead bodies was tacked alongside a heavily embossed invitation from the Master of Weapons inviting anyone in need of practice with “pike, musket or rapier” to “muster” in the grounds of Carew Court on Saturday at nine a.m.

  I half-expected to see Muriel’s niece manning the fort, but she wasn’t there—nor was Muriel. I rang the brass bell.

  Moments later Muriel emerged from the door behind the counter. I noticed that her black cotton dress had a splotch of red just below the neckline.

  When Muriel saw it was me she smiled. “Oh, Katherine. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness,” she said. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? I’m so embarrassed.”

  “No, I haven’t said a word.”

  “Not even to Iris?” said Muriel. “I know you are close.”

  “Not even to my mother.” Although I had been tempted to. I just hoped that Muriel wasn’t going to ask for money again.

  “Did you want to buy some stamps?” Muriel said brightly.

  “Not today.” I pointed to her dress. “You’ve got something on your—” I leaned in closer. “Is that—I think it’s jam?”

  “It’s Fred’s,” she said, and wiped it off on her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “Eating his jam makes me feel closer to him, somehow.” She gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve still got twelve jars of gooseberry, but it’s the strawberry that was his best.”

  “And I’m looking forward to eating his jam, too.” I thought for a moment. “Any news on your car?”

  Muriel looked blank. “Car?”

  “The car that was stolen from the car park in Tesco?”

  “Oh, that,” said Muriel, settling onto a stool behind the counter. “No. Not yet.” She retrieved a copy of last Saturday’s Dipperton Deal from under the counter. It was folded to page 4. Muriel had circled a tiny paragraph in the sidebar. The piece was so small I hadn’t even noticed it earlier in the day at the Sea Trout Inn. “But thefts are on the rise. Take a look at that.”

  I read: A china Dalmatian dog and a tin tea caddy were stolen from an Oxfam charity shop in Dartmouth last Friday.

  It was hardly in the same league as her car, but I said, “Well, just make sure you keep your door locked.”

  “And you, too. Did you say you wanted stamps?” Muriel asked.

  “Actually—” I plunged in. “I need to talk to you about a parcel that my mother registered a few weeks ago.”

  A tide of red raced up Muriel’s neck and flooded her face. She couldn’t have looked guiltier if she tried. “A parcel, you say?”

  “I have the tracking slip,” I said, and gave it to her.

  Muriel got to her feet and unlatched the half door that separated the post office from the general store. She sank onto another stool behind the Plexiglas divider.

  Muriel glanced at the receipt. “It left here on April seventeenth. That’s what it says. You see?” She drew a circle around the postmark and slid it back under the glass looking defiant.

  “I know,” I said gently. “But I went online and I was able to track it. It says the parcel never left the post office.”

  “Well, that’s wrong,” she declared. “It did.”

  “I know you’ve had a lot going on what with losing Fred—”

  “Not to mention Violet,” Muriel put in. “She refuses to pay me despite what the judge said. She had another accident, you know. She really shouldn’t be driving with her eyesight—”

  “Would you mind looking in your sorting room or wherever you keep things before they’re picked up?” I said. “Maybe it’s still there?”

  “Of course it won’t still be there,” said Muriel with scorn.

  “Do you mind if I take a quick peep?”

  “You’re wasting your time, but alright then.” She gave a heavy sigh and lifted the countertop. I followed her into a small windowless room pain
ted lime green that jarred with a pair of shocking pink Crocs that she was wearing. On top Muriel might well be in mourning, but her footwear certainly held a spark of life.

  The sorting room was highly organized, with three large canvas bins for incoming and outgoing mail and one for parcels. There was an entire wall of pigeonholes with the names and addresses of every resident in the village, all neatly labeled in black ink. I felt an odd thrill at seeing mine—MS. KATHERINE STANFORD/JANE’S COTTAGE.

  I peered into the outgoing mail bin. It was empty. The incoming bin only had a handful of letters, too. I imagined what the village post office would have been like before e-mail.

  “People don’t write letters so much anymore,” said Muriel as if reading my thoughts. “I remember when sorting the post was my Fred’s full-time job and he didn’t have to beg for work.”

  “You’re very organized,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  “Nothing gets past me,” said Muriel with a hint of pride.

  And it also went a long way to explain why Muriel knew everything that was going on in the village.

  I noticed a brand-new label—CAREW/THE OLD BARN. “Is that the barn conversion behind St. Mary’s?”

  “That’s the one,” said Muriel. “Lady Lavinia’s father and his new wife.”

  “Oh.” I continued to scan the room for any sign of my mother’s parcel, very conscious of Muriel’s eyes boring into the back of my skull.

  “And she’s already getting packages,” Muriel went on. “Set herself up a nice little mailbox, as they say in America. Why she wants it sent there instead of Carew Court is beyond me. The barn won’t be ready for months. Have you seen it? It’s a shell.”

  “How many times a day does the post get picked up?”

  “Once,” said Muriel. “Used to be three posts a day when I was a little girl, but now—” She shrugged. “Bill-the-post picks up at ten in the morning. The letters and parcels are put on the train to Exeter and then go on up to London.”

  “You’re right,” I said, defeated. “Mum’s parcel isn’t here.”

  We returned to the post office and general store. Muriel settled back behind the counter again. I saw a half-eaten piece of toast on a plate and a jar of Fred’s famous strawberry jam.