I gave Mum a hug. “Why don’t we get a memorial plaque or something? Perhaps Edith will allow you to have that put in the churchyard?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I’m not sure he would have approved of my new life.”
“Mother,” I said, exasperated. “It’s also a bit late for all that, too. I think Dad would have been very proud of what you have accomplished. I really do.”
“I sometimes feel you missed out on so much because we eloped,” said Mum. “In fact, I don’t even know where half of my family are buried. Does that mean they’ll get forgotten over time?”
“I can assure you that you won’t get forgotten,” I said, jollying her out of what I could tell was turning into one of her maudlin moods. “You’ll be immortalized by all your books.”
“It’s not the same,” Mum said. “We never put down roots. Or had a place to call home.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “We all lived in Tooting for decades and now this is your home.”
“It’s not the same,” she said again. “Six hundred years of Honeychurches and all their tenant families worshiped here—were born here, loved, married, died … right here.” Mum turned to me in earnest. “Who was the woman in the grave, Kat? I know you want to know as much as I do.”
“Of course I do,” I said as I stood in front of the plaque commemorating Lady Frances Honeychurch. “Mum! Did you know that Lady Frances had a sister?”
“What do you mean?”
“Read that plaque. It says beloved sister of Eleanor.”
“Eleanor. I don’t know anything about an Eleanor Honeychurch.” Mum’s excitement was plain. She whipped out her Post-it notes that she always seemed to carry on her even when it appeared she had no pockets. “There’s no portrait of an Eleanor Honeychurch hanging at the Hall, either.”
“Well—that doesn’t really mean much. It could be in one of the abandoned wings,” I said. “That’s why we need to find those Parish registers. Eleanor’s birth would have been recorded there—”
“And her death,” Mum pointed out.
“To the vestry!”
We walked up the aisle. Mum paused at the rood screen beneath the chancel arch. Behind the Elizabethan pulpit a moth-eaten velvet curtain covered a low archway. The smell of bacon seemed more pungent here.
My mother pulled it aside. “Not through here. Just a narrow flight of stairs.”
“That would lead to the rood loft,” I said. “The vestry will be off the chancel. Don’t you know these things?”
“I have never been a churchgoer, but that doesn’t mean to say I don’t believe in Him.”
She gestured to a stone pillar where a hymn board with sliders bore three hymn numbers. Mum shivered. “I suppose those were the hymns sung at Fred Jarvis’s funeral.”
I pointed to a pair of eighteenth-century torchieres that were topped with vases of wildflowers and gladioli. “But I’m quite sure those were not his flowers. It was two weeks ago. Someone is still doing the church flowers. How strange.”
“Maybe it’s the same person who likes bacon sandwiches.”
We passed through to the altar that sat beneath a beautiful stained-glass window. Traditional scenes from the Bible were mixed with knights riding white chargers bearing fluttering pennants with the Honeychurch motto ad perseverate est ad triumphum.
The door to the vestry stood open. It was a sparsely furnished room. There was just an oak table, a high-back chair, an ambry set in the wall and the Parish chest. The chest was made of oak and had thick iron bands, a lock plate and an iron hasp from which dangled a shiny new padlock. It was enormous—big enough for me to climb into and lie down flat.
“The key must be somewhere,” said Mum.
“The padlock looks new.”
“I thought you said that her ladyship hadn’t been here for years.”
“Edith hasn’t, but someone obviously has.”
“The flower lady who likes bacon sandwiches?”
We scanned the room. Scattered around were various odds and ends—a chipped headstone, a stack of moth-eaten Bibles and, bizarrely, four croquet mallets.
Behind the door stood a plastic bucket containing a mop, bleach cleaning fluid, disposable gloves and several old rags.
I opened the ambry. At one time it would have housed altar artifacts, but today it held a half-empty box of beeswax candles and a box of matches.
Mum searched all three of the black cassocks and grubby white surplices that hung from a row of pegs for vestments. “No. Nothing here, either.”
“Maybe whoever does the flowers and cleans the church has it.” I ran my hands over the Parish chest. “This oak tree was probably felled in the late fifteenth century. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Let’s hope that since this chest is locked, the Parish registers are still inside. Let’s go and find out who cleans the church.”
As we left St. Mary’s, we bumped right into Shawn. “Good, I was hoping that I hadn’t missed you.”
“Do you know who arranges the flowers and cleans the church?” Mum demanded.
“Violet Green,” said Shawn. “She’s been doing it for decades. Why?”
“Even though there aren’t any regular services?”
“I have no idea. Why don’t you ask her?” Shawn looked at Mum and then again at me. “A quick word with Kat, if you don’t mind?”
“I’ll meet you back at the car, Mum.”
For once, my mother did as she was told.
Shawn looked sheepish. “It’s about tonight,” he said. “I’m afraid something came up—”
To my surprise I was actually really disappointed. “It’s fine, honestly.”
Shawn looked wretched. “I really am sorry, Kat.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” Of course I understood his reasons, but I couldn’t help thinking that if he really wanted to see me as he claimed, then he would have found a way—even if it had been for just an hour.
“I’m pretty tired anyway,” I said, and I was. “I could do with an early night.”
When I got to the car, Mum said, “He canceled you again, didn’t he?”
I turned on her angrily. “It’s none of your business, Mother.”
“I’m only trying to help,” Mum bleated. “And how many times has he canceled? Five? Six?”
“Did you want to ask Violet about the key now?” I snapped.
“I don’t need to see Violet,” said Mum. “I have a better idea.”
“What about Muriel?”
“I don’t need to talk to her, either,” said Mum. “I have a better idea on that, too.”
“Fine. Well, whatever it is, I don’t want to know.”
“Fine. I won’t tell you.”
We drove back to the Carriage House in an icy silence until Mum said, “Where’s Jazzbo?”
She was right. My Merrythought Jerry mouse was not sitting in his usual place on my dashboard. “I must have left him in my tote bag.”
“No wonder we had difficulty parking in the village. What good is a parking mascot if you don’t put him in the car?”
I didn’t bother to answer.
Alfred and Mr. Chips were waiting in the courtyard. Alfred gave a friendly wave and came over.
Mum got out of my car and slammed the door extra-hard.
I opened the window to say hello.
“Thought I’d stop by for a spot of lunch,” said Alfred.
“Well, you won’t have the pleasure of Katherine’s company,” said Mum stoutly. “She’s not staying.”
“I’ve got work to do this afternoon,” I said equally stoutly. “I do have a business to run, you know.”
“And so do we,” Mum retorted. “Did you get that tracking device for his lordship’s car, Alfred?”
“Iris!” Alfred said sharply. “Loose lips sink ships.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “You’re not seriously going to track Rupert’s movements, are you?”
“I was just
joking,” said Mum, but I knew she wasn’t. “Alfred prefers the old-fashioned surveillance method, don’t you? And perhaps you can put your lock-picking expertise into good use? I need to get into the Parish chest in St. Mary’s. Probably better to do it after dark.”
“That should be easy.” Alfred gave a toothless grin. “I like to keep my hand in. Those skills need practice.”
“So will your table tennis if you get arrested again,” I said.
“I also need you to take a look for five pages that are somewhere in that wretched Muriel’s cottage,” Mum went on. “I told you I had a better idea, Kat.”
“It sounds like you’re going to have a busy night,” I said. “I’ll leave you both to your scheming.”
I drove back to the gatehouse and spent the rest of the afternoon going through my stock. My mother had upset me, but it was also my fault. I shouldn’t let her push those buttons and take the bait. Why did she exasperate me so? I was sure I did the same to her, too.
It had been a trying day and I welcomed the distraction of putting my office in order. In fact, I was so absorbed that I lost all track of time until I heard a smart rap on my front door.
It was Piers Carew. He was holding a bunch of gerbera daisies. “Are you ready?”
Chapter Eighteen
“They mean innocence, purity and cheerfulness,” said Piers.
I must have looked horrified, because he laughed. “We can have a drink if you’re too busy, which”—he peered over my shoulder—“I can see that you are.”
“I d-d-idn’t think we had a definite p-p-lan,” I stammered, and gestured aimlessly to the chaos behind me. “I was—”
“Unpacking?”
“Unpacking and packing,” I said. “I’ve brought my stock down from London—I was going to open a shop in Shoreditch, but my plans changed.”
“And I’m glad they did.”
I groaned. “Seriously?”
“But I am glad!” He laughed. “However … why are you packing? I hope you’re not thinking of leaving when we’ve only just met.”
“Not leaving yet,” I teased. “But I am thinking of renting a space at Dartmouth Antique Emporium.”
“Good idea,” he said. “You’re a bit off the beaten track up here.”
His comment echoed Muriel’s and justified my decision—all being well. “I’ll still use this gatehouse as a showroom and an office, though.”
“Good.”
We hadn’t moved from the front door. I noticed that Piers had Lavinia’s blond coloring, but his eyes were hazel with dark-green speckles. He exuded an aura of confidence that Shawn did not have. For a moment I felt a twinge of guilt that was really ridiculous. It wasn’t as if Shawn and I had ever been an item.
“Do you want me to put those gerbera daisies in water or should I hold them until they wilt?” he said.
“Yes. I mean, no,” I said. “You may as well come in.”
“Kitchen?” he said as he breezed on by.
“Left-hand door,” I said, and watched him pick his way through boxes of toys, bears, dolls and other random items that I’d taken a fancy to or hoped would sell well.
He returned with the daisies in a water glass. “I couldn’t find a vase.”
“I don’t have one here.”
Piers scanned the room. “I hear you specialize in toys.”
I remembered Aubrey’s comment about his first wife. “Didn’t your mother collect antique dolls?”
Piers seemed incredulous. “You obviously never met Primrose Carew. My mother was the proverbial tomboy. Hated the name Primrose and insisted everyone call her Prim, which she was—prim to the extreme. But she was a great shot, stag-hunted, raced at point-to-points … knew how to fix a car … that sort of thing.”
“And your father never owned a Jumeau?”
“A what?”
“It’s an antique French doll,” I said, “very valuable.”
“Why do you ask?”
I hesitated. Aubrey had lied to me, but I certainly didn’t know Piers well enough to tell him so. “No reason.”
“But I prefer bears,” he said. “I still have a Steiff bear called Mortimer.”
“How very Sebastian Flyte,” I teased.
“But Mortimer is far more dashing than Aloysius,” said Piers. “And besides, my bear kept all the bullies away when we went to boarding school. You must meet him.”
There was no denying that Piers was charming. I could feel myself begin to thaw. What kind of man admitted he still owned a childhood bear? So I told him all about my Merrythought Jerry mouse Jazzbo Jenkins.
“Well … where is he?” Piers demanded. “Introduce us!”
But when I picked up my tote bag Jazzbo wasn’t in there after all. “I must have left him at Jane’s Cottage. Another time.”
“I like the fact there will be another time,” said Piers.
I groaned again. “Please. No more corny lines.”
“But I mean it!” He pretended to look hurt, but I wasn’t fooled. “Did you want some help with unpacking and packing?”
“No. I think I need a break. Would you like a cup of—actually, I only have tea here.”
“I was supposed to be taking you out.”
“Oh, but—I didn’t think—I’m hardly dressed for going out.” In fact, I was still wearing the same clothes I’d thrown on so hastily that morning. I had also scraped my hair back with a bandana because it kept falling over my face. I hadn’t even showered, but I had cleaned my teeth.
“This is Devon, not London, and besides, you’re so beautiful, no one will notice,” said Piers. “And I meant that, too.” He moved closer and undid the bandana from my hair and helped my curls cascade onto my shoulders. It was an intimate moment and I felt myself blushing like a sixteen-year-old. “There. Much better.” He gently brushed a lock away from my face. “You remind me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.”
I hesitated. What was wrong with me? Piers was an attractive and entertaining man. And—best of all—he was single!
“It’s just a drink, Kat,” he said gently. “I’m not going to ravish you.”
I found myself blushing again. “Well—”
“Besides, don’t you want to know what I found in the grave yesterday?”
I gasped. “You admit it!”
“I admitted it when I asked you out and we struck a bargain.”
I relented. “Alright. You win. Just give me a couple of minutes.”
I grabbed my tote bag again and retreated to the small bathroom. Fortunately, I always kept lipstick and mascara in a tiny makeup bag. I dabbed both on and hastily dragged a comb through my unruly hair. I also remembered that I kept a pair of heels and a red silk scarf in the gatehouse just in case a client turned up unannounced.
Moments later the Mercedes—which had been “washed in my honor”—was roaring through the narrow country roads so fast that I instantly regretted my decision. I had my eyes closed at every hairpin bend.
“Relax!” said Piers with a laugh. “I know these lanes like the back of my hand.”
“You’ll get caught for speeding.”
Piers pointed to a gadget below the dashboard. “Allow me to introduce the Target Blu Eye. It spots a police car or emergency vehicle up to a thousand yards away.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Nope!” said Piers. “Although the police did try and ban it.”
As we turned onto the main road toward Plymouth, I said, “Where exactly are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Piers handled the Mercedes with such skill that I was embarrassed to admit that I felt a tiny frisson of excitement. I couldn’t deny that being driven to a mysterious location with a very attractive and entertaining man was an adventure. I began to get used to his insane driving and the constant warning beeps and flashing lights from the scanner.
Piers put on some music. It was Cuban, sultry and sexy. To my surprise, I began to relax.
Maybe my mother was
right. I did need to take a chance.
When my relationship with international art investigator David Wynne ended, so did my social life. With David, it had revolved around mixing with other TV celebrities and his well-connected cronies. As mini-celebrities ourselves, we were always out at the theater or a concert, attending a gallery opening, having a box at Wimbledon, to name just a few in-the-public-eye scenarios—in fact, David and I epitomized the clichéd London scene that graced the pages of society magazines.
But tonight, I felt alive again and it felt good! And yet, as we approached the bright lights of Plymouth I began to feel a twinge of alarm and when we pulled up outside a very fancy restaurant called NINE and two valet parking attendants swarmed around the Mercedes, I began to have serious second thoughts.
“I thought we were just going to a pub for a drink,” I protested. “I’m hardly dressed to go here.”
And then I remembered where I’d heard of this restaurant before. Jess had celebrated her fortieth birthday here. She’d also said it was virtually impossible to get a reservation, and here we were, just rolling up.
Piers leaned over and grabbed a jacket from the rear seat.
“You came prepared!” I said crossly. “Look at me!”
“They’re just strict on men wearing a jacket,” he said. “Stop worrying. You look gorgeous.”
We left the Mercedes with the valet parking attendants and headed for the restaurant.
“Did you make a reservation?” I demanded.
“Why?”
“I’m told it’s impossible to get in without one.”
“Just wait and see,” said Piers with a wink.
“You’re not going to embarrass me and use my name, are you?” I whispered.
“Do you still have that kind of influence?” he teased. “Stop worrying.”
“You make me feel worried,” I said, and I meant it. I felt off-balance and unsure of myself.
NINE was all smoked glass, slate and marble. A huge fish tank stretched the length of the rear wall, filled with exotic angelfish of every color imaginable.
We approached the hostess station.
I hung back as Piers greeted an impossibly thin hostess dressed in black. Her dark hair was severely pulled back into a tight knot at the nape of her head. She wore crimson lipstick and had accentuated her eyebrows and eyes in kohl pencil. The name pin said “Sabrina.”
Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 14
