Self-consciously I readjusted my scarf.
“What was the name again?” I could hear the hostess say, flipping the pages of the reservation book back and forth.
“Roger Matthews,” said Piers easily. “That’s ‘Matthews’ with two t’s.”
My heart sank. Who on earth was Roger Matthews?
Sabrina’s frown deepened. “And you called and made a reservation?”
“My personal assistant called three weeks ago. She then called and reconfirmed yesterday. Is there a problem?”
“Piers!” I hissed, but instead of answering, he reached back and pulled me closer.
Sabrina was getting flustered. “Let me check again.” She shot me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
Piers leaned over the hostess station and lowered his voice. “Now look, Sabrina, I don’t want to make a fuss, but I’m here on behalf of the Air France in-flight magazine. I’m writing a restaurant review for the December edition.”
I wanted the floor to open and swallow me up. The word “embarrassed” didn’t even come close to how I was feeling. It was beyond mortifying. Really, my mother should have taken my place. The two would have been brilliantly suited.
Complaints from behind began to rumble. I turned to see a few disgruntled patrons who clearly did have reservations at NINE.
“Why don’t you have a quick word with your manager,” said Piers.
“I shall. Please wait here.” She stepped away whilst the line behind us grew more vocal. I heard someone say, “Isn’t that Kat Stanford?” followed by, “Seems they don’t have a reservation, but I suppose she’s pushing her way in.”
“Piers,” I begged. “Please. Let’s just go.”
I saw his jaw harden, and although his eyes were sparkling, he really was being a complete and utter twit. Edith was right.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he said.
But before I could answer, Sabrina returned all smiles. “I apologize, Mr. Matthews,” she said. “Please let me personally show you to your table. Come this way. After you, Ms. Stanford.”
She had recognized me, too.
Somehow I had a feeling that the evening was going to get extremely awkward.
Chapter Nineteen
Sabrina weaved through the tables and mounted the steps into a private alcove with floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Plymouth Sound was spectacular. It had to be the best table in the house.
As Sabrina left us to settle in I said, “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I just like to prove how shallow people can be.”
“Shallow?” I exclaimed. “That’s hardly fair. She was being polite and you put her in an awful position. If you were writing a review and she questioned your identity, wouldn’t that garner an automatic black mark?”
“True,” Piers admitted. “But she should have asked for my business card.”
“What would you have done if she had?”
Piers reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a business card. Although it carried the Air France logo, it was made of flimsy paper and was so obviously fake that I laughed.
“You’ve done this before!”
“Only when I need to impress beautiful women.”
I noted the plural. “Oh please. Save me from your charms.”
“Just kidding,” he said. “I had this one made specially for this evening.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said. “Ah, here they come.”
The maître d’, the sommelier and an earnest headwaiter surrounded our table. Napkins were placed on our laps, menus were presented, iced water was poured into cut-crystal glasses and warm bread was offered along with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
The sommelier handed Piers the wine list with a flourish. As Piers seemed to study it forever, the sommelier began to get nervous.
Finally, Piers gave his nod of approval. “Very extensive. Good.”
“Our manager, Mr. Roberts, insists on selecting your wine this evening. With his compliments, naturally,” said the sommelier. “That is, if Sir and Madam would allow?”
Piers smiled. “Please thank Mr. Roberts,” he said. “I am looking forward to sampling his selections.”
The headwaiter stepped forward. “And if Sir and Madam would also allow, the chef would like to create a personal menu for this evening. And again, with his compliments.”
“I think we’d like that very much.” Piers turned to me, “Wouldn’t we, darling?”
I was so dumbfounded all I could do was nod.
The three bowed obsequiously and moved away.
“I can’t believe you could do this!” I said again. “With their compliments? Does that mean we don’t have to pay for dinner?”
“You wouldn’t have to pay regardless.” Piers picked up my hand and kissed it. “Thank you for joining me—”
“What if we’re arrested for impersonating this Roger Matthews? Who is Roger Matthews anyway?”
“A chum.” Piers grinned. “We play pranks on each other all the time.”
I thought for a moment. “Who do you think you are? George Clooney and Brad Pitt?”
“We were playing pranks years before they started. They must have got the idea from us. Roger and I went to Eton together.”
For some reason this made me feel better, although logically I couldn’t think why.
“So Roger is a food critic?” I ventured.
“Good God, no. He’s a hedge fund manager in the City.”
“And you’re doing this because you wanted to prove how shallow they are or because you wanted to impress me?”
“Both.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
The evening passed in a whirlwind. Wave after wave of courses appeared with sorbets in between to clean our palates. As each arrived, so the wineglasses were changed and the sommelier told the story of each wine and why he had carefully paired it to each course.
The food was spectacular and the wine incredible. I was becoming light-headed and felt I was laughing too loudly, but Piers was so entertaining, I couldn’t help it. I noticed he hardly drank at all—just sampled each glass and left it relatively untouched.
“So what do you think about Father’s new bride?” Piers said suddenly.
“I’ve only just met her, but she seems nice enough,” I said. “Do you like her?”
“When Lavinia and I found out that he had eloped with a woman almost thirty years his junior we were horrified.” This time he did take more than a sip of wine. “I was so sure she was after his money.”
“And is she?”
“I don’t know,” said Piers. “There was no prenuptial agreement, and the moment the barn is finished they’re moving out and leaving Carew Court to me.”
“Isn’t that good news?”
“Hell, yes!” he exclaimed. “Of course I’ve been managing the estate for years, but Father will be officially relinquishing the reins and giving me one hundred percent control.”
“In that case, this is good news. Your father is happy and so are you.”
“I’ve got great plans for the Court,” Piers went on. “All I need is a television company to come along and make a series like Downton Abbey. Do you still have connections?”
“Not really, but—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively. “Lady Carnarvon is a friend. She told us that before Downton Abbey was filmed at Highclere they were going under. Thanks to the show, tours are booked months in advance. Now the castle’s financial future is assured.”
“It sounds like a great plan.”
“Of course we’re listed with the Historic Houses Association, but tours are by appointment only. I want to ramp that up to regular openings. Look into holding weddings, shooting parties, that kind of thing.”
“I’m happy to know that you don’t plan on selling any of it.” I thought for a moment. “How much land do you have?”
�
�Put it this way, we have more land than Honeychurch and we’ve never sold off so much as a tree.”
“That’s amazing.”
“The Honeychurches had just as much as we had two hundred years ago but began selling it off to repay gambling debts.” Piers sounded more than a little gleeful. “The Carew estate stands exactly as it was the day King Edward the Fourth gave the land to my ancestor. But of course, Rupert likes to blame us for his financial misfortunes.”
“You mean his ancestors lost at cards to your ancestors?”
“No. The war.”
I laughed. “Which one?”
“When Cromwell became dictator after the English Civil War, massive fines were levied on the Royalists. Naturally, we collected the money in the West Country. Didn’t make us very popular with our neighbors who picked the wrong side.”
“But that was all so long ago!” I exclaimed. “Can’t you bury the hatchet—no pun intended?”
“Edith’s alright, but it’s Rupert I have a problem with.”
I didn’t like where this particular conversation was heading, but thankfully the sommelier reappeared. “Would Sir or Madam care for a glass of port? We have a very good Graham’s 1966.”
“I’d love a glass,” I said.
“I’m driving.” Piers shook his head, adding, “And if you paid attention, you’d see that I drink a quarter of a glass to every one of yours. I want to keep my wits about me.” He reached across and took my hand, gently kissing my fingers. My stomach lurched. Flustered, I snatched my hand away.
“You’re incorrigible,” I said again. “And a terrible flirt.”
“You’re different from all the others, Kat,” he said quietly, and looked deep into my eyes. I couldn’t hold his gaze and struggled to find something else to say.
“I kept my side of the agreement,” I said. “You must keep yours. What was it that you found in the grave?”
Piers reached inside his jacket pocket. He took out a gold ring. “I took this.”
“But … but … you can’t just do that!” I was appalled. “That’s stealing. It was found on Honeychurch land.”
“I’m well aware of the Treasure Act of 1996,” said Piers mildly. “I know that legally it should belong to the landowner, but I don’t care. The ring belongs to me—or should I say, the family.”
“Oh. And you’re sure of that?”
“Here, be my guest.” He handed me the ring.
I rummaged in my tote bag for my loupe. “I’d say it is a posy ring—late sixteenth century or perhaps early seventeenth? It’s very pretty.”
“There is an inscription inside the band.” Piers turned on my iPhone flashlight so I could see it more easily.
I tried to read it, but it was hard to decipher.
Piers leaned forward and beckoned me to move closer. I could smell his aftershave—it was subtle, with just a hint of sandalwood. “Two Hands, One Heart, Not e’re in Death Shall Us Part,” he said.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered—and romantic.
“I removed the ring from Eleanor’s finger—or rather what was left of it.”
“Eleanor Honeychurch,” I said excitedly. “Frances’s sister. How can you be so sure it is her?”
“You’ve heard of Eleanor?” Piers seemed incredulous.
I told him that my mother and I had seen Lady Frances’s plaque in St. Mary’s church that mentioned she had a sister.
I thought for a moment. “A posy ring was given as a love token—”
“Or a wedding band,” said Piers. “Eleanor was married in secret to my ancestor Nicholas. A Royalist Honeychurch marrying a Roundhead Carew. Can you imagine the scandal were it ever to come out? The repercussions in a time of war?”
“Yes. Terrible.” For a strange moment I had thought I felt a tingle in my hand. I gave him back the ring. “So the dagger with the Honeychurch crest must have belonged to her—oh.” With a sickening jolt I remembered that it had been found embedded in Eleanor’s rib cage. “You mean—you think she was murdered because of this marriage? Murdered by someone in her own family?”
Piers shrugged. “What do you think? All I know is that Nicholas was told Eleanor had run away to France. He never stopped searching for her.”
“But how do you know all this?”
“Family papers,” said Piers. “Love letters.”
“Can you show me these love letters?”
“Of course.”
“You’re quite the romantic, aren’t you?” I teased.
“I was born in the wrong century,” he said.
And, looking at him, I had to agree.
“What are you going to tell Rupert?” I said.
“I want to bury Eleanor where she belongs. With us.”
“You don’t like Rupert very much, do you?” I said. “And it’s got nothing to do with the Royalists and the Roundheads.”
“Damn right I don’t like him,” said Piers. “Pippa Carmichael is your friend, isn’t she?”
The change of subject threw me completely. “Yes. Why are you asking?”
“I want you to tell her to stay away from my brother-in-law.”
“You think there is something going on between them?” I was shocked. “I can’t imagine Pippa doing that,” I said. “Her own husband cheated on her, so the fact that she would do that to another woman is hard for me to accept.”
“You don’t know Rupert.”
I didn’t really know Pippa that well, either. True, we had exchanged conversations about Harry and Max and we’d even gone out for a glass of wine once or twice. But when I had asked Pippa about her love life, she’d been evasive and, to be honest, if she was sleeping with Rupert she’d hardly tell me.
“Lavinia is my sister,” said Piers. “I’m sick of Rupert cheating right in front of her face. It’s humiliating. His affairs have been going on for too many years, but she won’t leave him. And he’ll never leave her because it’s our money that keeps Honeychurch Hall afloat.”
Lavinia’s comment about Piers cutting her off hit me afresh.
“Surely that was Lavinia’s choice,” I said quietly. “She knew what Rupert was like before she married him.”
“It’s my duty to protect her,” said Piers somewhat pompously.
“This is really nothing to do with me, Piers,” I said firmly. “It’s making me feel very uncomfortable. Can we change the subject?”
Fortunately, the maître d’ and a tall man in glasses approached our table and stopped all further conversation.
“Allow me to introduce our manager, Mr. Roberts,” said the maître d’.
Piers smiled and made some joke that I didn’t hear. I was still unsettled by the turn of our conversation. It had cast a pall over the evening.
“I hope that everything was to your satisfaction, Mr. Matthews?” said Mr. Roberts.
“Delicious,” said Piers. “You can count on a five-star review.”
“Ms. Stanford?”
“Yes. It was very good. Thank you.”
“We’re delighted to have you here at our restaurant, Ms. Stanford,” Mr. Roberts went on. “My wife was so disappointed when you retired from Fakes & Treasures. The new host isn’t nearly so charming—or beautiful.”
“Thank you. I really enjoyed doing the show.” And frankly, at this moment, I would do anything to turn back the clock.
“Kat’s started her own business,” Piers said. “I think she should have a grand opening party here at your restaurant.”
“What an excellent idea,” beamed Mr. Roberts. “We could have an auction or invite guests to bring their fakes … and treasures!” He laughed, but I could only just force a smile. Of course I appreciated Piers trying to drum up business, but had he forgotten that as far as Mr. Roberts was concerned, Piers was a food critic for the Air France magazine?
“Do you have a business card?” Mr. Roberts asked as he produced his own.
I took one from my purse and we exchanged.
“Would you mind very mu
ch having a photograph taken?” Mr. Roberts waved Sabrina over. “We have a very active Facebook page and I know our fans would love to know that you dined at our establishment.”
A feeling of dread settled into the pit of my stomach.
“And of course it’s an honor to have you review our restaurant, Mr. Matthews.” Mr. Roberts gestured for Piers to be included.
For once Piers faltered a little and didn’t seem so confident now. My good mood had evaporated and I was no longer amused at his immature bet with his childhood chum. He suddenly retrieved his iPhone and glanced at the caller I.D. “Sadly, I have to take this, so you will have to go ahead without me.”
I suspected there was no phone call. He just needed an excuse to leave.
Piers jumped up and headed in the direction of the toilets, leaving me fuming.
Moments later the diners in the restaurant were not only watching me having my photograph taken with the manager but also snapping many of their own.
The moment the fuss had died down, Piers reappeared. “Time for us to go.”
“Would you be able to stay for a tour of the kitchens?” said Mr. Roberts.
“Another time,” said Piers, flashing a hasty smile. “You’ve been more than gracious.”
“Can we validate your parking?” said Mr. Roberts. “Do you have coats?”
Just as we got to the hostess station, my heart practically stopped. I couldn’t believe it.
There, emerging from the cloak cupboard, was Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper.
Chapter Twenty
For a moment I felt as if I’d been caught in a lie, but it was Shawn who had claimed to be working—or was he?
Shawn was dressed in a pair of neat trousers and sports jacket—no trench coat for him tonight—and when a very pretty strawberry blonde in her mid-thirties emerged from the cloak cupboard brandishing a cloakroom ticket it was obvious he was on a date.
And then he saw me.
He looked horrified. “Kat? What on earth—?”
“Damn it,” I heard Piers hiss in my ear. “What’s Cropper doing here?” Piers took my elbow. “We’ve got to go.”
Shawn looked from Piers and then to me with confusion that turned into first disbelief and then disapproval, but before he could say a word Sabrina slipped between us. She gave Piers his validated parking ticket. “Your car is already waiting outside, Mr. Matthews. Mr. Roberts didn’t get your business card. Do you have one handy?”
Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall Page 15
