“Oh God, that’s all I need. Muriel is such a gossip. Why on earth would she think that?”
“Because you are Krystalle Storm.”
“Frankly, Muriel is the least of my problems.”
I knew that the loss of the manuscript could be disastrous. Even if Mum remembered what the story was about it would take her months to re-type it.
“It’s nearly three-thirty,” I said.
Mum groaned. “The costumes.”
“Did you finish them?”
“Almost.”
We headed to my car with the clothes in individual garment bags. I laid them flat on the backseat. Ten minutes later we had arrived at the Hall.
I always found the front of the house very imposing. The architecture was described as Classic Revival with its Palladian front and central porte-cochere and Tuscan columns. Four banks of tall chimneys topped with decorative octagonal pots confirmed the earlier Tudor core. Additional wings stretched in different directions, although most of the house and attics had all been sealed off decades ago.
Thanks to the recent discovery of the Honeychurch mint and the subsequent sale of several rare silver coins, a large portion of the roof had been repaired. Scaffolding that had stood “since the millennium”—according to the dowager countess—had finally been taken down.
Yet, despite the turning circle and graveled forecourt having been cleared of weeds and the fallen cornices and broken roof tiles moved out of sight, Honeychurch still carried a neglected and abandoned air. True, the stone water fountain with its rearing horses in the center of the turning circle now worked, but many of the twelve-pane casement windows on the ground and first floors remained shuttered and the house was in desperate need of a good coat of paint.
Cropper greeted us at the main entrance. He always stank of mothballs. I had never seen him wear anything other than his formal butler attire of starched collar, gray-striped trousers and tails. Even when he was working in the garden he just donned a flat cap and threw on a long, heavy waxed coat over his uniform.
I noticed that Cropper didn’t offer to help carry the costumes. Instead, he ushered us into the inner front porch, smiling at me but pointedly ignoring my mother.
I lowered my voice. “Do we have costumes for the Croppers?”
“Over my dead body,” she answered.
Mum’s petty feud with Cropper’s wife over a love affair that had happened half a century ago had been raging for months—yet another skirmish, I thought, and a childish one at that.
Cropper motioned for us to follow him into the magnificent two-story galleried reception area where a huge crystal chandelier hung suspended between two domed-glass atriums.
He looked directly at me. “Does Mrs. Stanford have his lordship’s coat?”
“Mum?” I asked. “Do you have his lordship’s coat?”
“Tell Cropper that yes, I do have his lordship’s coat.” My mother handed the relevant garment bag to me. I gave it to Cropper.
“I will deliver this to his lordship in the drawing room,” said Cropper with a sniff. “Please remain here.”
Cropper drifted across the black-and-white marble floor in the direction of the drawing room bearing the garment bag aloft as if he were carrying the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter.
“Hmm,” said Mum. “It looks like they’re getting ready for a siege.”
She pointed to a long oak refectory table where an assortment of antique weapons was displayed. There were polearms and halberds, muskets, vicious stiletto knives, rapiers and basket-hilted two-edged mortuary swords.
“Wasn’t all that stuff hanging in the Great Hall?” Mum mused.
I remembered seeing the collection a few months ago in the sealed-off Tudor wing and nodded.
“I wouldn’t want to be stabbed by any of those,” my mother went on. “Give me a swift bullet to the head anytime.”
“I’ll remember that for the future,” I said drily. “But in the meantime, if you want to learn to use one of these, there’s a muster at Carew Court on Saturday morning. I can just see you wielding a rapier.”
“If I’m wielding a rapier at anyone, it will be Muriel.”
I gave my mother a comforting hug. “I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation—oh, look,” I said, anxious to distract her. “I think they’ve moved the family portraits around as well.”
“Except for the dowager countess.” Mum pointed to an ornate portrait of Lady Edith Honeychurch wearing a strapless sapphire-blue evening gown and an exquisite seed pearl necklace. The small gold nameplate stated it was painted on her twenty-first birthday. “She was so beautiful.”
“They’ve moved the William Dobson from the King’s Parlor, too.” It was nice to see it hanging here rather than hidden away.
The painting portrayed Prince Rupert of the Rhine, Prince Maurice of the Palatinate and Lord James Honeychurch—three Royalists—drinking a flagon of wine. They were seated at a gateleg table and had their glasses raised in a toast presumably to their ill-fated king, Charles I. In the foreground stood Boy, Prince Rupert’s white standard poodle.
Two portraits flanked the Dobson painting, neither of which I had seen before. One was of Lady Frances Honeychurch, who, with her dark-blue eyes and pale skin, bore an uncanny likeness to Edith as a young woman.
“Look, Kat!” Mum exclaimed. “Lady Frances is even wearing the same necklace. That’s incredible!” She suddenly shivered. “I just felt as if someone walked right over my grave. Did you feel that?”
“Nope.”
“The Roundheads murdered Lady Frances,” she declared.
“So Harry is fond of telling me.” In fact, each time Rupert’s son told the story of how poor Lady Frances was drowned in the pond in the sunken garden he added more and more lurid details. The latest version involved a man-eating octopus.
“What do you know about him?” I pointed to Lord James Honeychurch. He looked dashing, as all Royalists seemed to do in their portraits, with a particularly flamboyant hat and feather, but there was something cold about his eyes that I did not like and I said so.
“And his lips are too thin,” Mum agreed.
“I’m surprised you can see them under that mustache.”
“I can just tell.” She thought for a moment. “This is embarrassing. I really don’t remember a James. Perhaps he was a cousin?”
“He must have been fairly important to be painted drinking wine with the two princes.”
Mum frowned. “I can’t understand why I haven’t heard of him before.”
I spied the butler emerging from the library. “Maybe Cropper might know?”
“Be my guest,” said Mum stubbornly. “You ask him.”
So I did.
“That’s Bootstrap Jim,” said Cropper with a sniff.
Mum rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to be facetious.”
“He sounds like a pirate,” I said.
“Lord James was a cousin,” Cropper said. “And the correct term is ‘a soldier of fortune.’”
Mum perked up. “You mean he really was a pirate?”
“According to my grandfather, who was also the butler here, Bootstrap Jim was the black sheep of the family.”
“Was … Bootstrap Jim born here at Honeychurch?” I asked.
“If he was, his birth and death would be recorded in the Parish registers in St. Mary’s church,” said Cropper. “But from what’s been passed down from generation to generation, he wasn’t very popular.”
“Did he die in the English Civil War?” Mum mused.
Cropper feigned surprise. “Are you talking to me, Iris?”
“Of course I am talking to you, Seth,” Mum said. “You know I’m researching the family tree for his lordship—”
“I think the less said about Bootstrap Jim the better,” said Cropper.
“Surely that’s for his lordship to decide?” said Mum.
Cropper turned pink. “Very well. If it’s his lordship who is asking.�
�� He thought for a moment. “All I can tell you is that if Lord James had been killed in the war it’s most likely that he will be found in the Honeychurch mausoleum—”
“Cropper!” The drawing room door opened and Rupert poked his head out and beckoned for us all to join him inside. So we did.
My mother fell into raptures; even I was dazzled.
“Oh, milord! You look very dashing!” said Mum. “D’Artagnan!”
Rupert did indeed look very dashing in his dark-green doublet with large loose sleeves that were slashed in front and had a collar covered in a falling band of rich lace. He wore long breeches fringed at the bottom that perfectly met the tops of his wide leather knee-high boots that were adorned with more lace ruffles. A red sash and a sword, together with a plumed large-brimmed hat beneath which a cascade of dark ringlets fell to his shoulders, completed the outfit. He’d even managed to curl his mustache.
“Nice job, Mum,” I whispered.
Rupert swept his hat off in an elaborate bow.
Mum giggled and curtsied in response. “You look just like a musketeer, milord!”
He grinned broadly. “What an excellent job you’ve done with my lace cuffs, Iris.”
“I replaced them with some Belgian stuff I found,” said Mum. “I’m glad you like them. Where would you like me to put the other costumes?”
Rupert’s eyes widened. “How many do you have?”
“Lady Lavinia’s, Harry’s and—although I wasn’t asked to make something for the dowager countess, I did so anyway. I found a lovely brushed velvet in midnight blue.”
“And Cropper and Mrs. Cropper?” Rupert asked. “What delights did you conjure up for them?”
“We’re perfectly happy with the old costumes we’ve been borrowing from the Little Dipperton Players, your lordship,” said Cropper in a tone that clearly meant they were not. “And besides, Mrs. Stanford is far too busy.”
“I am busy,” said Mum. “Very busy. But I do need Lady Lavinia to try hers on.”
Rupert admired his cuffs for the umpteenth time. “Cropper? Is Muriel here yet?”
“Not yet, milord.”
Mum stiffened. “I haven’t finished Muriel’s costume yet.”
“Never mind. But you do need to be paid for the fabric, this wonderful lace and your time,” said Rupert. “Fred was the treasurer for the Skirmish, but now he’s no longer with us, Muriel insisted on taking over.”
“Oh. Good,” said Mum. “I’d love to see Muriel.”
“You’re not going to do anything rash, are you?” I whispered. “Please, Mum.”
“It depends.”
“Cropper, can you go and find my wife?” Rupert said. “She was supposed to be here.”
“Mrs. Cropper is with her now,” Cropper replied somewhat cagily.
“Mrs. Cropper? Whatever for?”
“I believe she is not feeling quite herself. Shall I—?”
“Yes. Go and get her,” said Rupert curtly. Cropper did as he was told and left.
We fell into an uncomfortable silence. I took in the drawing room, always struck by how beautiful it was with its elaborate cornices and decorative strapwork. Shabby silk wallpaper shared the walls with tapestry hangings. Damask curtains fell graciously from the four casement windows that overlooked the park where three enormous marquees now stood.
The furniture reflected the Hall’s various incarnations from seventeenth-century oak court cupboards to an ugly twentieth-century drinks cabinet. There was the usual plethora of side tables, lamps and gilt-framed mirrors as well as an overwhelming number of miniatures that took up almost the entire wall to the right of the fireplace. A copper Gibraltar gong stood in the corner next to a very fine eighteenth-century French tulipwood and parquetry display cabinet that contained Edith’s coveted snuffbox collection and some early glassware.
Lavinia entered from a side room wearing nothing but a flimsy silk robe and holding a packet of frozen peas to her black eye. She made a beeline for one of the two Chesterfield sofas and threw herself onto it with a leg flung over the arm, allowing anyone who cared to look a view of one pale skinny leg.
“Lav!” Rupert exclaimed in horror. “For heaven’s sake! Cover yourself up! We have guests.”
Lavinia ignored him and waved the bag of frozen peas theatrically. “Hello, guests!” she cried. “Golly, Rupey. You look so yummy in that get-up. Where’s my cozzie, Iris?”
“Kat has it, your ladyship.” Mum shot me a worried look and mouthed the word, Vicodin?
“I can’t wait to see it.” Lavinia giggled. “I hope I look as yummy as Rupey.”
“I’m glad you are feeling brighter,” said Mum.
“Oh yes. Very much so,” she said. “Can’t feel a thing. Ab-so-lute-ly no pain. Must get some more of those pills.”
“Pills? What is she talking about?” Rupert demanded.
“Nothing,” said Mum quickly. “Let’s go and try on your costume. Kat—give it here.”
I removed the garment bag to reveal the gown of dark-burgundy silk with full sleeves and a lace collar. Mum had embroidered the bodice with fake pearls. Beneath the skirt peeped masses of petticoats.
It was stunning.
Lavinia squealed with delight. “Oh! It’s delicious!” She scrambled to her feet as Rupert continued to watch her with growing alarm.
Lavinia touched the gown and promptly burst into tears. “I’ve never worn anything so beautiful.”
“Lav! For God’s sakes! Get a grip!” hissed Rupert.
“I told her to only take half,” Mum whispered. “She’s obviously having some sort of reaction.”
Cropper opened the drawing room door and announced, “The Earl of Denby, Lord Aubrey Carew—”
“Oh look, Daddy. Isn’t this divine?” Lavinia spun around, clutching the gown to her chest.
“Aubrey,” said Rupert. “Allow me to introduce Iris and Katherine Stanford.”
As Mum and I turned to meet Lavinia’s father, my jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it. Lavinia’s father was none other than Mr. Brown.
Chapter Eleven
Mr. Brown turned ashen. For what seemed like eons we just stared at each other.
“Aubrey is our local magistrate, a renowned expert on antique weapons and armory … and leader of the enemy,” Rupert went on with relish. “Iris is our excellent seamstress and you’ve probably come across Katherine? She was the TV host for Fakes & Treasures.”
I suppressed the urge to demand an explanation. Judging by a variety of expressions Aubrey gave me from across the room, I was certain that would come later. But for now, I offered my hand and smiled. “Very nice to meet you.”
Aubrey gave a nod of greeting. “Mrs. Stanford. Ms. Stanford … a pleasure.”
“If you’d like me to run you up an outfit, you’d better let me know quickly,” said Mum. “I’ve not made a single costume for the Roundheads and I’d quite like to tackle a bit of leather.”
Aubrey looked startled. “Oh. Thank you. But that won’t be necessary.”
“We’ve asked Aubrey to take a look at the dagger that was found in the grave this morning,” Rupert went on. “Unfortunately, Detective Inspector Cropper isn’t here yet.”
“Just show me where it is,” said Aubrey, who, now he’d recovered from the shock of seeing me and realized I wasn’t going to spill the beans, spoke with the unnerving authority of a man used to be obeyed.
“I’m afraid Shawn—Detective Inspector Cropper—took the dagger with him.”
“He took the dagger with him?” Aubrey exclaimed. “That is highly irregular. It is vital that I see the weapon in situ.”
“I’m afraid our policeman considers the grave a crime scene and until we know—”
“I bet pompous Shawn has it in a Ziploc bag,” Lavinia said dreamily. “He’ll have a plastic shopping bag and in the plastic shopping bag will be the Ziploc bag. I bet you a thousand pounds!”
“Be quiet,” Rupert hissed again.
Aubrey checked his wat
ch. “How long do you think this Detective Inspector is going to be? I have much to prepare for Saturday’s muster.”
“Aubrey is our Master of Arms for the Skirmish,” Rupert explained. “He’ll be organizing the muster on Saturday morning along with Piers— Where is Piers? I thought he was coming with you?”
“You know my son,” said Aubrey. “He’ll be here in his own time.”
Rupert looked annoyed.
“But I do know he has seventeen volunteers willing to play dead,” Aubrey said with a chuckle.
“I hope he hasn’t offered anyone money this year,” said Rupert.
“I believe payment in Scrumpy was mentioned,” said Aubrey. “He feels that if someone has to lie in a field full of cow manure on a hot day they should get something for it other than insect bites.”
“Well, he should have checked with me first,” growled Rupert. “Free Scrumpy was not in the budget.”
“He doesn’t like you, Rupey,” Lavinia said wistfully, still clutching her gown. “I wish you loved each other. I love you, but I love Piers because he’s my brother. I can’t choose.” Lavinia started to sniffle. “Don’t ask me to choose. I really can’t.”
Aubrey rounded on Rupert. “What have you done to her this time?”
“I have no idea what she’s sniveling about!” Rupert exclaimed.
“Let’s go and try on your costume, your ladyship,” said Mum cheerfully. “Come along now. Where should we change, milord?”
“Take her to the downstairs loo, Iris,” Rupert said, but Lavinia dug in her toes.
“Did you know that we can’t use cannon anymore?” she suddenly announced.
Mum looked puzzled. “Cannon, your ladyship?”
“Isn’t that right, Daddy? No cannon! And ab-so-lute-ly no live ammunition! Health and Safety spoil everyone’s fun.”
“That’s quite right, dear,” said Aubrey, shooting daggers at Rupert.
“Shatters the windows. Glass everywhere.” Lavinia nodded sagely. She paused for a moment. “When you shoot a gun now you have to shout … BANG!”
She yelled so loudly that Cropper fell into the Gibraltar gong with a deafening clatter.
Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 8
