“On any other day, I would happily accept,” said Piers. “But unfortunately not today. I am anxious to see that dagger.”
“We’re certain it bore the Honeychurch crest,” said Mum.
“The crest,” said Piers slowly. “You’re sure of it?”
“Positive. Why? Have you an inkling as to who she might be?” said Mum. “Only, I’m fascinated by the Honeychurch history. You could say that I am the family historian.”
Piers brightened. “I’m the Carew family historian,” he said. “I’m doing research for a book I’m writing.”
“What a good idea. I think the Honeychurches should write one, too,” said Mum. “I’d invite you inside to see my family trees if I wasn’t finishing up Lady Lavinia’s costume for the Skirmish.”
“Perhaps I could come tomorrow?”
“Lovely,” said Mum, beaming with pleasure.
A match made in heaven, I thought.
“Good-bye.” I attempted to withdraw my hand, but Piers wouldn’t let go.
“Not so fast. I want to ask you something.”
I could practically hear the cogs in my mother’s brain working overtime. “I think I left something on the stove top, but that doesn’t mean you have to leave, Mr. Carew. Piers. Sir Piers? Do you have a title?”
“Piers will do.”
“Alright, Piers-will-do, take all the time you need to chat. Chat here. Do.” Mum gave a gay wave and retreated into the depths of the carriageway.
“Your mother is very funny,” said Piers.
“Hilarious,” I said. “But let’s wait for one minute.” I motioned for him to keep quiet until I was sure that my mother had really left. “Okay. I think we’re safe.”
Piers stared intensely into my eyes. “Dinner. Tomorrow night. I won’t take no for an answer. I will come to your door at seven.”
“Oh.” I was so startled that for a moment I didn’t know what to say. “I’m not—”
“Cancel your plans!” he said wildly.
“I’m—”
“Then just a drink.” He gave another mischievous smile. “Just an hour. What’s an hour out of your life? I might even tell you who I think is in that grave—or should I invite your mother instead? Do you think she’d come?”
I laughed. “I’m sure she’d be thrilled to have a drink with you.”
“In that case I will take you both out,” he said gallantly.
“But seriously,” I said. “Do you know who it could be?”
“Let’s just say that I have an inkling,” said Piers. “It’s a very sad story—”
“Who is it? I must know!” Mum suddenly materialized. Of course she had been eavesdropping.
“Ah, Iris,” said Piers. “I’m trying to persuade your lovely daughter to have dinner with me tomorrow night, but she refuses.”
“Nonsense!” Mum exclaimed. “Kat would love to, wouldn’t you?”
I was about to protest again when I thought, Why not? “On one condition,” I said. “Admit that you took something out of the grave this afternoon.”
For a moment, Piers seemed startled. “Me? What an accusation!”
“I saw you,” I teased. “You put something in your pocket.”
“And if I admit I did,” said Piers, “you’ll agree to dinner?”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Katherine!” Mum said crossly. “Yes. Yes. I’ll make sure she’ll go.”
“In that case, yes I did,” said Piers. “So … seven o’clock tomorrow?”
“She’ll be ready!” Mum cried.
We waved him out of the courtyard.
“Goodness. What a handsome man. What a charmer! I can’t believe he is Lady Lavinia’s brother.”
“And he definitely loathes Rupert,” I said.
Mum thought for a moment. “Hasn’t he just inherited Carew Court? Now, they’re very wealthy. Not like the Honeychurches, who are land rich but cash poor.”
“You sound like Mrs. Bennet from Pride and Prejudice.”
“Well, since you and Shawn never got off the ground, you must keep your options open.”
“Mum,” I said. “Piers is completely insane; you do know, that, don’t you?”
“I hardly think charm can be considered an insanity. It’s all that inbreeding within the upper classes that makes them seem insane.” She thought for a moment. “What did you mean when you said you saw him take something from the grave?”
I filled my mother in on what had transpired under the white tent, adding, “The whole family is nuts,” and went on to tell her about Aubrey pretending to be Mr. Brown. “Of course he claims the doll belonged to his first wife.”
My mother didn’t seem so enthusiastic now. “Well … at least meet Piers for a drink,” said Mum. “Just do it for me. I want to know about this sad story.”
I stayed for supper and afterwards helped her finish up the costumes. It was quite late by the time I got home to Jane’s Cottage.
Perched on a hill that looked over the Honeychurch Hall estate on one side and distant Dartmoor on the other, the little house had been built in the 1800s on the foundations of the former hunting lodge. Warren Lodge—as it was once known—had been razed to the ground when Cromwell’s army came through in pursuit of the Royalists.
The new building was a pretty house constructed of redbrick under a pyramidal slate roof. Two bay windows flanked a Venetian entrance with ionic pilasters that were covered in pink and white climbing roses.
As with the gatehouses, the dowager countess had given me Jane’s Cottage for a very low rent. I’d done a few repairs, installed a wood burner stove, decorated and fixed the leaking roof and guttering. I’d had window boxes and planters put around the front that were now filled with flowering geraniums. I liked it, but it still felt temporary and not really like home.
Much to my mother’s disappointment, I had kept my place in London. I suppose I still wanted a bolt-hole in case everything went pear-shaped. Mum insisted that I wouldn’t really begin to settle into my new life until I had given that up. Maybe she was right.
Having my flat also meant that money was a little tight for me. I didn’t want to rent it out, either. I’d left hosting Fakes & Treasures with a substantial amount of savings, but those were beginning to dwindle much more quickly than I expected, especially as I was building up my stock for Kat’s Collectibles.
I still couldn’t get used to the sense of complete isolation at Jane’s Cottage. On foot, the Honeychurch tenant cottages where the Croppers and Eric Pugsley lived were half a mile away or a brisk ten-minute walk. Mum’s Carriage House was ten minutes farther on from there, with the gatehouses another ten—and that was taking the shortcut through the woods.
At first, I’d been excited about being surrounded by nature and being lulled to sleep by the odd owl—even being awoken by the terrifying shriek of a fox’s mating call. But there was something spooky about the place that I couldn’t put my finger on. I missed my garden flat by Putney Bridge tube station and the sound of the underground rumbling by, the planes en route to Heathrow and the foreign students in the language school around the corner having late-night parties.
A full moon illuminated my front door. As I let myself in, I was immediately struck by an extraordinary fragrance. It was like something I had never smelled before—a hint of the ocean yet sweet like honey with an underlying musky scent that made my senses tingle. I inhaled deeply, wondering what on earth it could be.
But, without warning, the room turned icy cold.
Gooseflesh crawled up my spine.
The hairs on my arms began to prickle.
I had an intense urge to run, and yet I could not move.
This had happened to me before.
A few months ago, I’d had the distinct impression that Rupert was following me up the stairs to the galleried landing at Honeychurch Hall. In fact, I was getting worried about just how close he was when I felt his breath on my neck. I had turned to confront him. But there had been no one there.
Later, I was told it was probably Harry’s great-uncle Rupert, who had been a fighter pilot, and that the Hall was practically overrun with ghosts. Naturally I put that down to Harry’s overactive imagination.
Alfred called them uninvited guests but I still wasn’t convinced that the spirit world existed. I’d believe it when I saw it with my own eyes.
How I felt then was how I felt now. Scared. Yet Dad always said that it’s the living who should be feared, not the dead.
“Come on, Kat!” I said in a cheerful voice. “Let’s have a cup of tea.”
I marched around the house, singing a silly nursery rhyme for courage, turned on all the lights, switched on the television and then on into the kitchen, where I made a cup of tea.
By the time I returned to the sitting room, the smell had vanished. Whoever it was obviously didn’t like my singing, but I still felt unsettled.
I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the sofa. I tried to watch the News at Ten, but I couldn’t concentrate. What a weird day it had been, and now this.
I couldn’t help noticing my fortieth-birthday cards that were ranged along the top of my bookcase. I should take them down.
They were from people from my new life—apart from David, who had the nerve to write inside: I hope you find happiness. Don’t hate me. I didn’t hate him; I just felt incredibly sad. My mother had said that sometimes a relationship is only truly over when you have been hurt enough. When David had renewed his wedding vows with his estranged wife and my nemesis, tabloid journalist Trudy Wynne, he had done just that.
Finally I decided to go to bed, but I found it difficult to sleep. I kept thinking of the woman in the grave and my uninvited guest. Were they linked? Was that her perfume or was I really imagining everything? What could she possibly want with me? I had no connection with her or the past, and yet, seeing the barbaric scold’s bridle encasing her skull and knowing that a dagger was found in her breast, I thought perhaps she had a story to tell.
I resolved to swallow my pride and talk to Alfred in the morning.
Chapter Fourteen
I spent a rough night.
My dreams were nightmares where I struggled to breathe. My head felt as if it were being crushed in an iron vise. Earth filled my eyes, my nostrils and my mouth. Shooting pains pierced through my skull, and my chest felt as if it were on fire.
I was drowning in the darkness and utterly paralyzed. I truly believed I was going to die.
And then a shrill, persistent ringing broke through, ringing and ringing before shutting off abruptly.
It was my mobile phone.
Thank God. It had just been a horrible, horrible dream.
I dragged on a silk robe and padded downstairs, heading for the kettle.
My mobile rang again.
“Katherine?” came a male voice. “Aubrey here.”
“Ah,” I said, suddenly jolted back to reality. “You want to come and collect the doll?”
“I’m already at the gatehouse and I don’t have a lot of time.” He sounded impatient. “I left you two messages. One was over an hour ago. Hardly good business practice.”
Stung, I glanced at the clock and was shocked to see it was almost ten.
“Just give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be right there.”
Cursing, I threw on some clothes—a pair of black jeans that were already too tight and a black V-neck long-sleeved T-shirt. I dragged a comb through my curly hair that seemed to have expanded to three times its usual size for no reason at all.
To reach the gatehouses by car was a pain—I had to take the service road, exit the tradesmen’s entrance and circle back to the main gates. But if I walked it would take me twice as long.
I drove.
Aubrey’s damaged Volvo was parked in front of the gatehouse. The colorful banner that Eric had struggled to put up yesterday morning now lay in a heap in the middle of the drive.
“Help me with this,” barked Aubrey as I got out of my Golf. We moved the banner against the stone wall moments before a large truck with Tasty Trotters emblazoned on the side swung into the entrance, nearly mowing us down.
There was a lot of work involved in setting up this annual event. I wondered if it was worth it.
“I’ll phone Eric to come and put the banner back,” I said. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“No. Busy day,” Aubrey said curtly. I would imagine that he could be quite intimidating in court.
I led the way inside. “I apologize for the chaos,” I said. “I’m still getting organized. I’ll fetch the doll.”
I kept the high-value items locked in a large safe that I’d installed in a small box room beyond the galley kitchen. I hadn’t yet got the gatehouses alarmed and made a mental note to do so this coming week. With hundreds of strangers descending on the estate coupled with the random thefts that had been going on in the village, I didn’t want to take any chances.
As I returned with the Black & Decker box I heard Aubrey gasp. “Jess! What are you doing here?”
“I saw your car outside, darling.” She looked elegant in white jeans, a white shirt with the collar up and the pale-blue leather jacket. She was carrying a tiny gift bag.
“I’ve got to see Rupert,” said Aubrey. He took the box from me. “I’m returning this … I’m returning his power drill.”
“I just passed him in Little Dipperton.” Jess looked at the Black & Decker box and then at me. “Don’t ask him to hang a picture, Kat. He’s hopeless at D-I-Y.”
I really didn’t know what to say so just smiled.
“What are you doing here anyway?” said Jess. “Should I be jealous?”
Aubrey seemed to pull himself together. “Kat has a lobster-tailed pot helmet that she very kindly offered to loan our farm manager.”
“Oh. That.” Jess gave a dismissive wave. “I feel like I’m the only person in the world who is not going to the ball.”
“I’m sure my mother would make you a costume,” I heard myself say, then wished I hadn’t.
Jess pulled a face. “Not my thing.”
“Must be getting on,” said Aubrey, and began to sidle to the door. “Oh, are the workmen at the barn this weekend?”
“No,” said Jess. “There seems to be some delay with the materials—don’t forget your fish helmet thing.”
“I need to clean it up a little first,” I said, and again wondered why I would lie for someone I barely knew. Maybe my mother’s penchant for storytelling was in my genes, after all.
“Wait!” Jess darted to Aubrey’s side and kissed his cheek. “I made you a curried chicken sandwich by the way. You know how caught up you get and forget to eat. Love you.”
Aubrey turned scarlet and mumbled something incomprehensible before making his escape.
“Isn’t he adorable?” said Jess. “I love it when he blushes.”
“Very,” I said, and wracked my brains for something to say. “How is the barn conversion coming along?”
“Excruciatingly slowly, especially when they don’t turn up for work. But we’ll be in by late October, I hope,” said Jess. “There is no way I’m spending a winter at Carew Court. It’s freezing cold inside even now and we’re in the middle of a heat wave. There are no showers. Just old claw bathtubs, and when the heating is turned on the pipes rattle so hard that I fear the radiators will fall off the walls. The entire place smells of mold and mothballs. The house is on a hill and gets the north wind whistling down through the valley. I’ve seen the carpet on the landing literally levitate because the windows don’t fit.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
“It’s like the upper classes were born with a gene that protects them from draughty hallways.” Jess grinned. “I’ve told Aubrey I want under-floor heating and a state-of-the-art kitchen.”
“It sounds lovely,” I said.
“Sorry! I am going on as usual. I almost forgot why I came this morning.” She passed me the bag. “Happy birthday!”
“Oh—thank you. B
ut really, there is no need.”
“Of course there is. Turning forty is huge. I hope you like it.”
The little bag was stuffed full of tissue paper and sparkles. I brought out a clump and unwrapped it to reveal an identical bracelet to the one Jess had been wearing the day before.
“Jess! I can’t accept this!”
“You admired mine and I thought … why not. We’re going to be firm friends, after all.”
My heart sank. I’d been through this kind of thing many a time before. Fans would send inappropriate gifts in the hope that I would become their friends. But back then I didn’t have to worry about hurting any feelings. My publicist would send the giver a warm and appreciative thank you letter and then promptly donate the gift to a hospital or a women’s shelter. But here I was faced with a truly awkward situation.
“I’m sorry, I just…”
“You hate it,” she said.
“No, not at all.” And I didn’t. I liked it a lot.
“It’s just a little something. A trinket,” said Jess. “I bought it from a jeweler in Dartmouth. I always like to support local artists, don’t you?”
“Well, in that case, thank you,” I said.
“Try it on. The catch can be a little tricky,” said Jess. “I hope it fits. I had to guess your size. The idea is to collect charms. But I prefer a more simple look.”
“Can I get the key?” came a familiar voice. Eric strolled through the front door.
And then the most extraordinary thing happened.
All the color drained out of Jess’s face.
Eric turned beet red. “Maureen? What on earth are you doing here?”
Chapter Fifteen
Jess made a swift recovery and flashed Eric one of her dazzling smiles. “Maureen? Who is Maureen?” She laughed. “Sorry, but you must have mistaken me for someone else.”
Eric’s color deepened. “But you look—”
“I’ve got a common face,” she joked. “I always look like someone somebody knows—or they call me Tinker Bell because of my pixie cut.” She turned to me. “Not like you, Kat. I wish I had your hair.”
Jess held my gaze just a little bit too long. I knew that look; my mother had perfected it over the years and it usually meant she was lying.
Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 11
