Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “How important was the parcel?” Muriel said suddenly.

  “Very important.”

  “Oh dear,” said Muriel. “So what happens if it never turns up?”

  “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied, “but it means a lot to my mother.”

  Muriel frowned. “Let me think a moment.” She nodded slowly. “I seem to remember a package being addressed to Goldfinch Publishing? Would that be right?”

  “I don’t remember,” I lied again.

  “I thought to myself, Goldfinch Publishing in London. Now, that rings a bell.” Muriel cocked her head. “I even thought for a minute that maybe Iris fancied herself as the next Krystalle Storm.” Muriel laughed, showing all her teeth. “Fancy that.”

  “Krystalle who?” I said, feigning innocence.

  “She publishes the Star-Crossed Lover series.” To make her point, Muriel retrieved a dog-eared copy of Forbidden, Mum’s last book, from under the counter and showed me the spine. “You see here?” She jabbed a finger. “That’s their logo. A goldfinch.” Muriel regarded me keenly. “As I said, not much gets past me. It’s part of my job to be vigilant.”

  How infuriating. I hated being put in such an awkward position, but there was no question of me confirming her suspicions. I felt a rush of annoyance at my mother and her ridiculous obsession with secrecy.

  “It would make sense, though,” Muriel persisted. “I mean, what does Iris do up at the Carriage House all day?”

  “At the moment, she’s sewing costumes for Lord and Lady Honeychurch and you,” I said drily.

  “Well, all I’m saying is that my niece Bethany has the Internet and she told me that on Krystalle Storm’s website it says she has a manor house in Devon and a villa on the Amalfi coast—”

  “And a Pekinese called Truly Scrumptious,” I said. “My mother doesn’t have a dog.”

  “I thought you hadn’t heard of Krystalle Storm,” Muriel said suspiciously. “Anyway, Bethany said the dog looked stuffed.”

  I stifled the urge to laugh. “Perhaps Krystalle Storm lives in Italy most of the time.”

  “Say what you like. I’ve got a feeling in my water.”

  “Why would you think it was my mother anyway?” I couldn’t help but say. “There are other people who are new to the area.”

  Muriel sat up straight. “You’re right. There are. Pippa whatever her name is has moved into Honeysuckle Cottage with that naughty little boy Max—he’s a bad influence on Master Harry. I’ve seen them stealing sweeties right under my nose. No, perhaps … Have you met her ladyship’s new stepmother?”

  I was beginning to feel quite tired from hearing all of Muriel’s observations. “No.”

  “Likes to be called Jess, so I’m told.” Muriel leaned in conspiratorially. “Had plastic surgery, if you know what I mean—and she’s young enough to be his daughter. The old earl has got to be decades her senior, but the Carews have money, you see.”

  “There you are,” I said. “Maybe Jess has a villa on the Amalfi coast and it’s where she writes her racy novels.”

  “Yes. She looks the type. A proper gold digger.”

  “Am I the type?” We both looked over to see an elegantly dressed woman wearing a pale-blue leather jacket and white Capris. She was pretty, with an elfin face and a blond pixie cut. The minute she saw me she gave a gasp of pleasure. “Oh! I don’t believe it! You’re Kat Stanford from Fakes & Treasures. I’m your biggest fan … but who on earth is Krystalle Storm?”

  Chapter Nine

  To say I was embarrassed was putting it mildly. I had never thought of myself as a gossip, and even though I had been trying to steer the subject of Krystalle Storm away from my mother, it didn’t make it right to start a rumor—however innocuous—with someone like Muriel Jarvis.

  I suspected Jess and I were about the same age. Recalling Muriel’s catty remark about plastic surgery, I had to admit she could be right. Jess’s breasts seemed completely out of proportion to her slender frame. On her shoulder she carried an oversized white leather Tory Burch tassel handbag. A silver bangle and simple platinum wedding band were her only jewelry.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you both,” Jess said pleasantly. “But I am neither a gold digger nor do I write racy novels.” She smiled to reveal a set of perfectly capped teeth that she pointed to with one of her perfectly manicured fingers. “Although I do have veneers, I have never had plastic surgery. Not so much as a chemical peel.”

  “Do y-y-ou want to buy some s-s-tamps?” Muriel stammered.

  “You should have seen my teeth when I was a teenager,” Jess went on. “They used to call me Buck Rabbit at school.”

  The fact that Jess had dealt so graciously with our insults made me feel even more embarrassed.

  “Mine was Rapunzel,” I said.

  “I know. And I’m so jealous. I’d do anything to have hair likes yours. Mine is so thin.” She offered her hand. “I’m Jessica Carew, but all my friends call me Jess.”

  “Do you want to buy some stamps?” said Muriel again.

  “Not today, thanks, Mrs. Jarvis.”

  “Call me Muriel.”

  “Do you carry Lemsip?” Jess asked. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  Muriel pointed to the far corner of the general store. “Top shelf,” she said. “Out of reach of the kiddies, but if you want my opinion, the only way to knock a cold on the head is to have a glass of port and brandy and go straight to bed.”

  Whilst Muriel rang up Jess’s purchase, Jess said, “Are you visiting or here for that silly Skirmish—such a funny name.”

  “No. I live in the area now.”

  Jess’s eyes widened. “Really? Here? In Little Dipperton?”

  “Yes. On the Honeychurch estate.”

  “But that’s wonderful!” she enthused. “We’re going to be neighbors. We’re converting the barn in the field behind that old abandoned church.”

  “It’s not abandoned!” Muriel exclaimed. “What a thing to say!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Jess looked mortified. “It’s just that—Aubrey told me that there hasn’t been a vicar there for years and … well—the churchyard is knee-high in weeds. I mean—when was the last time there was a service?”

  There was an excruciating silence until Muriel finally spoke. “The last time there was a service was two weeks ago when I buried my husband, Fred.”

  Jess paled. “Oh God, I am so sorry—so terribly sorry for your loss. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I said. “How could you have known? It’s an easy mistake.”

  Jess shot me a look of gratitude and mouthed, Thank you.

  Muriel’s expression was stony, but then she seemed to relent. “We don’t take kindly to outsiders,” she said. “We’re Honeychurch folk here, not Carew.”

  Jess frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Quickly I explained the centuries-old rivalry between the Royalist Honeychurches and Roundhead Carews and about the upcoming re-enactment. “So you could say you’re in enemy territory,” I joked. “Don’t you agree, Muriel?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jess seemed amused. “We outsiders had better stick together, Kat. How many years does it take to become a local?”

  “At least forty,” said Muriel. And she wasn’t joking. “That reminds me, I have another letter for you. You may as well take it now since you’re here.”

  Muriel disappeared into the sorting room, leaving the pair of us alone.

  “God, I really put my foot in it, didn’t I?” said Jess.

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. I do it all the time.”

  “But honestly, that church—I mean, have you been inside? It’s practically derelict.”

  Muriel emerged from the sorting room. “I hope you feel better before you go to Roscoff.”

  Jess frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  Muriel tapped the return address
on the envelope. “Brittany Ferries.”

  Jess seemed startled. “Oh. Yes. Me too. But it’s just a brochure. I think it’s junk mail, actually.”

  “I’ll throw it away then, shall I?” I spotted a glint of malice in Muriel’s eye.

  Jess snatched the envelope. “No need. Thank you. Goodness. I really must be going. Thank you for the Lemsip—but I’ll try port and brandy, first.”

  “I must go, too,” I said.

  “I hope your mother finds her package,” Muriel called after us.

  I found Jess waiting for me outside in the sunshine.

  “Look, I want to tell you something important.” She linked my arm in hers and, before I could protest, drew me away, across the lane and into the churchyard. “I overheard your conversation.”

  I felt my face grow hot. “I’m sorry—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said dismissively. “I’m used to it. I know people are critical of our age difference, but I don’t care. Look at Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones. You can’t help who you fall in love with, can you? And I do love Aubrey. I really do.”

  This was too much personal information for someone I had known for less than five minutes.

  “Jess … really, it’s—”

  “I don’t want his money. I have money of my own,” she went on in earnest. “Have you been to Carew Court?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s a very grand house, but it’s like a morgue. I hate it. Believe me, I was so happy that Aubrey agreed to move out and convert the barn. It’s a bit of an inheritance tax dodge really, because Piers—have you met him—?”

  “Not yet—”

  “Piers told us that as long as we live somewhere on the estate he avoids the crippling inheritance tax.”

  “You don’t mind giving up the big house?”

  “Good God, no!” said Jess emphatically. “I can’t wait to move out of that place. Sorry, I’ve been rabbiting on. Tell me about you?”

  “There’s nothing to tell really.”

  “I read somewhere that you’d started your own antique business.”

  “Well—”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry,” Jess raced on. “It’s just that I’m starved of female company. I need a good friend and we’re the same age—”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes; you’ve just had a big birthday and so have I.”

  At this, my warning radar went off. It was one of the things I loathed about being in the public eye—everyone knew or thought they knew me personally.

  “Forty is a big one, isn’t it?” Jess grinned. “It makes you take a look at your life. Get your priorities straight.”

  “I suppose so.” In fact, turning forty had been a real shock for me. Never in my wildest imaginings did I expect to still be single and living so far away from London. But I definitely wasn’t about to discuss my feelings with a stranger.

  “Aubrey was so sweet,” Jess went on. “He bought me a brand-new Prius—a total surprise—and took me to NINE. It’s got five Michelin stars. Have you eaten there?”

  I shook my head. My fortieth had passed very quietly playing Snap with my mother and Alfred and eating cottage pie.

  “NINE is in Plymouth and it’s almost impossible to get a table, but Aubrey worked his magic.” Jess stretched out her arm. “And he bought me this bangle. It’s platinum.”

  Even if Jess wasn’t a gold digger, she enjoyed the good things in life. “It’s very pretty.” And it really was. For a moment I was taken off-guard by a memory. My ex-boyfriend David had been very big on giving me jewelry. True, some of it had been obtained from seized and unclaimed property from numerous heists, but even so. He had exquisite taste.

  Jess cocked her head. “Do you really like it?”

  “I really do. I love its simplicity.”

  “Do you have time for a quick cup of tea?” said Jess suddenly.

  “I can’t today,” I said. “Sorry.”

  On an impulse, Jess gave me a hug. “I might just pop in and buy Aubrey a slice of homemade cake. How odd that there are two tearooms side by side. Which one do you recommend?”

  “Whichever one is open,” I said tactfully, and left Jess to it.

  I returned to my car feeling unsettled. There was no doubt in my mind that Lavinia was wrong about Rupert having an affair with Jess. She seemed completely enamored with her new husband. But more important, I had no news of my mother’s manuscript. It was not at the post office and Muriel was adamant that it had been posted.

  I set off for home, but as I crawled past Pippa Carmichael’s new abode, Honeysuckle Cottage, Harry Honeychurch came out of the front door. He was dressed as his alter ego, the fictional World War One hero Squadron Leader James Bigglesworth in trademark aviator goggles, white scarf and flying helmet.

  I stopped and opened the window. “Harry!” I called out. “What are you doing here?”

  Harry hurried over. “Max is the Red Baron. We’re about to have a dogfight. You have to watch! Here he comes! Look out! Argh. He’s got a machine gun!”

  Harry darted across the street in front of my car and threw himself over the churchyard wall just as Max Carmichael raced out of the cottage with a BB gun in hot pursuit. He too was dressed as a World War One aviator. A red T-shirt was emblazoned with the name Red Baron.

  Pippa spotted me from the front door and waved. The coil of blond hair that she wore on top of her head had fallen down. Despite looking hot and annoyed, she managed to make her bohemian dress stylish.

  “This parking situation is infuriating,” she said. “I had to drop the boys off and park up the road.” She jabbed a finger at Violet’s Morris Minor Traveller. “I reckon old Violent had been waiting for me to do the school run so she could grab that space.”

  “Violent?” I said.

  Pippa grinned. “Do you like her nickname? I caught her kicking my car yesterday. Put a dent in it, actually. She’s got quite the temper.”

  Pippa’s callousness surprised me. “I suppose Violet is disappointed that you’ve opened a tearoom next door.”

  “I’m offering healthier options.” Pippa glanced behind her and laughed. “There she is, nosy cow, staring at me through the window.”

  “Honestly, Pippa, I’m saying this as a friend,” I said. “Be careful. One thing I’ve learned is that as a newcomer to the village it’s important to get along with everyone.”

  “I don’t care what people think about me.”

  “This isn’t London. You can’t be anonymous here,” I said. “Everyone knows everybody’s business and that’s just the way it is.”

  Pippa gave a heavy sigh. “Sorry. You’re probably right. I’m just frazzled. I’ve had a hellish week. How are you?”

  “I didn’t know you were moving into the village.”

  “It was all very sudden,” said Pippa somewhat defensively. “Don’t give me a hard time, Kat.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I said, stung. “I would have helped you move, that’s all.”

  “It’s just hard to juggle everything sometimes.”

  “I know. I understand it can’t be easy.” And I guessed it couldn’t be. As a single mother Pippa struggled to make ends meet, and Max was a handful at the best of times.

  As if reading my thoughts, she yelled, “Max! Harry! Get off those graves! Come here right now!” She turned to me. “Boys will be boys.”

  Harry and Max darted toward us flapping their arms and making pretty convincing aircraft engine noises.

  Harry screeched to a halt and lifted his aviator goggles. “We’re getting ready to go on surveillance, Stanford.”

  “I thought you two fought on opposite sides?” I teased. “Isn’t the Red Baron German?”

  “I’m only the Red Baron when I am wearing this T-shirt,” said Max gravely. “But when I take it off, I’m—”

  “Flying Officer Carmichael!” Harry shrieked.

  “Go inside and play quietly until it’s time for Harry to go home,” sa
id Pippa.

  “Did you charge my camera, Mum?” Max demanded.

  “Yes. I did.” Pippa rolled her eyes. “Max is convinced the churchyard is haunted. He wants to take photographs.”

  “It probably is haunted,” I said.

  “The Hall is haunted,” Harry put in. “We’ve got tons of ghosts there.”

  “Well, I don’t believe in all that ghost rubbish,” said Pippa.

  “Why don’t I take Harry home?” I offered. “I’m going back there now.”

  “Thanks, but I have to go there anyway.”

  “Oh?” I was surprised.

  “I’m overseeing the catering for the Hog Roast for next weekend’s re-enactment. What do they call it … a Skirmish?”

  This was a big surprise. “Oh. But I thought—never mind.”

  “Kat. Seriously?” Pippa gave an exasperated sigh. “I can’t tell you everything that is going on in my life.”

  Again, I was surprised by Pippa’s attitude. “Well, I really must be going,” I said, and waved a good-bye.

  As I drove home I thought the word “skirmish” summed up what was going on in the village perfectly. The English Civil War had been over for hundreds of years and had been fought for much loftier causes, but right here, in the twenty-first century, I found myself inexplicably embroiled in village trivia and didn’t like it one bit.

  So far, it had been such a strange day. The discovery of the skeleton, Lavinia accusing Rupert of having an affair with her stepmother—who seemed very nice—Mr. Brown’s peculiar reaction about the Jumeau doll and now Pippa Carmichael had moved into the village and was already making waves.

  Sometimes I looked back on my life in London and thought everything seemed so much simpler then.

  But meanwhile, I had the grim task of telling my mother that Ravished was indeed missing.

  Chapter Ten

  “What am I going to do?” Mum wailed for the umpteenth time.

  “Are you positive that you put in the right address?” I said. “Some of these bigger buildings require a suite or floor number.”

  “I thought you said that the manuscript never left Little Dipperton?”

  It was true. I had said that. “But at least Muriel remembered the package,” I said. “She asked if you were planning on being the next Krystalle Storm.”