Murderous Mayhem at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  It had been such a strange twenty-four hours I hardly knew what to think. But I couldn’t shake this feeling of premonition that something awful was about to happen.

  * * *

  It was four in the morning when I heard a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. I sat bolt upright in bed with my heart racing until I smelled the overwhelming scent of sweet honey mixed with the salt of the ocean in my bedroom. Once again the room was icy cold, but this time I felt as if cold fingers were creeping over my skin.

  The room felt heavy and oppressive. I switched on the lamp and slowly became aware of a dark shadow standing at the top of the spiral staircase. It had no form, no real shape, just gazillions of molecules racing around like an old-fashioned television set that had been set to the wrong channel.

  Was this what ghost hunters called an apparition? I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. All my senses refused to believe it.

  But yes—there was the outline of a gown, a face, but whose features I could not see, and long curling ringlets. The specter hovered above the ground just watching me. I sat there, gripping the sheets, terrified beyond anything I had ever experienced before.

  I found my voice.

  “We know what happened to you, Eleanor,” I said aloud. “We’re going to reunite you with your husband, I promise.”

  Suddenly the window blew open with such force that it whipped my hair away from my face. I scrambled out of bed, unsteady on my feet, and tried to close it. When I turned around the specter had gone. But instead of silence, I heard the sound of running water.

  Downstairs, every tap was turned on full blast in the kitchen and the bathroom. All my birthday cards had been tossed about the room.

  “What do you want from me?” I shouted. “Tell me what you want!”

  And then it was over. The torrent of water abruptly ceased.

  I knew she had gone. I just had to talk to Alfred. He would know what to do.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Where’s Alfred?” I demanded as I walked into the kitchen and went straight to the kettle and flipped the switch. “I need coffee!”

  “Good God, what happened to you? You look like something the cat dragged in,” said Mum with a knowing wink. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I had a horrible night. I need to talk to Alfred right now.”

  “You know where to find him.” Mum regarded me with curiosity, but she must have seen something in my expression, because she said, “Go and sit down. Let me make you some breakfast.”

  I allowed her to take care of me. It was one of the many things I loved about my mother. True, she irritated the hell out of me a lot of the time, and vice versa, but when it really mattered she was the best mum in the world. And she was mine.

  “Toast would be nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Mum got busy. “Did you go out with Piers again? Is that why you feel so tired?”

  “Oddly enough, no,” I said, and went on to tell her about Violet’s car accident and going to rescue Pippa.

  “Well, well, well,” said Mum.

  “You sound like a policeman.”

  “Pippa was telling the truth about one thing,” said Mum. “Rupert’s Range Rover was stolen last night. Alfred called and told me.”

  “Was Alfred following Rupert last night?”

  “Unfortunately. No. After the upset with the police yesterday afternoon, he got spooked.”

  “Where did Rupert say the Range Rover had been stolen from?” I asked.

  Mum laughed. “Where do you think? Outside the Hall.”

  “Pippa told me the car was stolen from Bridge Cottage whilst they were distracted—that was the word she used.”

  “So Rupert must have walked home,” Mum mused. “He’s got himself in a bit of pickle, hasn’t he? It will all come out. It always does.”

  I had a wild thought that maybe, just maybe, Piers had followed Rupert and Pippa and had deliberately stolen the Range Rover just to expose his sordid affair, but I decided to keep that theory to myself.

  “What are you doing today?” Mum said.

  “I’ve got that appointment at the Dartmouth Antiques Emporium,” I said.

  My mother pulled a face. “Opening a stall?”

  “Not a stall. A space. I just want to take a look and see if it’s worth me having one during the summer months.”

  Mum frowned. “But you’ve got the gatehouse.”

  “I already told you that I hardly get any foot traffic along Cavalier Lane,” I said. “Anyway, the other day you thought it was a good idea!”

  “Are you alright for money, dear?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Why?”

  “You should let that flat in Putney go.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before,” I said. “I want to keep it.”

  “I can give you some money,” said Mum. “You’re going to get all of it when I’m dead, so why not have some now? I’ve got loads.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Anyway, you might need it if you get caught and have to pay all those back taxes whilst you are in prison.”

  Mum scowled. “Not funny, Katherine.”

  “You keep telling me to go out more. I’ll meet a lot of people in Dartmouth.”

  “If you’re going into Dartmouth, you should change that silver bangle,” said Mum. “The shop is on the quay. You can’t miss it.”

  Half an hour later I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling at a snail’s pace into the town. I had completely forgotten about the annual music festival.

  Finally I crested the brow of the hill where the magnificent building, home to the Britannia Royal Naval College, afforded a spectacular view of the fishing port below. The River Dart was full of all manner of sailing vessels and the entire town was decorated with bunting. Trying to park was always a nightmare, but fortunately, Dartmouth Antique Emporium was not located in the center. The newly converted barn and outbuildings had its own car park for customers.

  It was only when I parked that I remembered that my parking mascot, Jazzbo Jenkins, was still missing from his usual place on the dashboard. I double-checked all the footwells. It was most odd and more than a little worrying. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually seen Jazzbo Jenkins at all.

  I met Fiona Reynolds, who managed the Emporium. She was around my age, with a friendly smile. I liked her immediately and, like me, Fiona had relocated from London. She had been living in Dartmouth for the past ten years.

  “I must say having you here will definitely boost sales,” she said warmly. “Perhaps we could even host a fakes and treasures day once a month to lure in the locals. We do a roaring trade during the summer months, but in the winter it tends to be trade only.”

  “I love the idea.” And I did. I realized just how much I had enjoyed working with the general public. Fiona outlined the terms of renting the space and her commission. “And of course, we all help each other out. You don’t have to sit here every day. You’ll find we’re a friendly bunch.”

  Fiona showed me to a prime space that was closest to the main entrance. It caught the natural light through a large window that would have originally been a door that opened into the interior courtyard. My predecessor had left some dusty old shelves and a ragged rug, but I could easily replace both.

  The Emporium also boasted a coffee shop selling homemade cakes. Everything was classy, with top-notch fixtures and fittings.

  “There is another woman who deals in antique dolls, bears and toys,” Fiona went on. “She’s located at the far end by the coffee shop. You probably know her? Cassandra Bowden-Forbes?”

  How could I forget such a name? It was Piers’s betrothed. “I haven’t met her.”

  “She’s pretty new at the game,” Fiona went on. “We do have security cameras, but they don’t cover the entire interior. I assume your stock will be valuable, so I urge you to install your own. Unfortunately, we do suffer fro
m the occasional theft or misplaced object. Cassandra had a Jumeau stolen, but then it turned up just yesterday on a shelf in our rather marvelous antiquarian book section. The place gets exceedingly crowded at times, especially when it rains and the tourists all seek refuge in here. And of course, I’m sure you’ve heard of next weekend’s Skirmish? The English Civil War re-enactment?”

  “Yes. I live on the Honeychurch Hall estate,” I said.

  “It attracts a wave of fans from all over the country, and given that we’re just a mere ten miles away, it can be a very lucrative time for us.”

  I began to feel a stir of excitement and realized just how much I had missed being part of this world, interacting with other dealers, talking with the general public and just being surrounded by beautiful things. Of course, I’d still keep the gatehouses as my base, but this would make a huge difference, and besides, I didn’t have to be at the Emporium every day.

  “I’ll take the space,” I said happily.

  We disappeared into a small office next to a huge armoire. Fiona produced a contract offering a one-year lease. “I’ll start moving in tomorrow if that’s okay.”

  I spent the rest of the morning taking measurements and photographs and getting to know the other dealers. I even sought out Cassandra—curious to see Piers’s intended—but I was told that she was rarely there.

  At lunchtime, I took a walk to the quay to find the jewelry shop. The place was packed. I’d never seen so many different kinds of music on offer—from classical to swing dancing; sea shanties to jazz and choral music to big band. The whole town was buzzing.

  The day was beautiful. The sun was shining. Spirits were high. For the first time in ages I felt that things were looking up!

  The jewelry store was packed with tourists, too. I soon found my bangle. It was in a locked glass case along with exquisite earrings and matching pendants. The tag said “Made locally by Vivienne.” I couldn’t see the price.

  “Madame would like to see?” said a man in his sixties wearing a red silk cravat. He had to be boiling hot. There was no air-conditioning in the shop and the number of browsers was making the place claustrophobic.

  I retrieved the bangle from my tote bag and unwrapped the tissue paper. “I’d like to change this for a larger size please.”

  The man smiled and took the bangle. He put in a loupe and inspected the inside.

  “It was a gift,” I said.

  The man kept turning the bangle around and around. “Would Madame have the box?”

  “No. It was given to me in a gift bag,” I said. “But obviously, my friend purchased it here—unless Vivienne sells elsewhere?” I hadn’t thought about that possibility.

  “No,” he said slowly. “This was definitely purchased here. Each bangle carries its own unique stamp. Would you wait here a moment please?”

  “Of course.” I stood and waited for what seemed like forever. As I hovered about in the shop, a couple in their fifties who were clearly on holiday, judging by the size of his camera, asked if I was Kat Stanford “from off of the Telly.” I was in such a good mood that I chatted with them for a little while and agreed to have my photo taken.

  Finally, the man returned. “Would you mind following me for a moment?”

  I started to get a horrible foreboding that only increased when we stopped outside a door marked: EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “This way, please.” He opened the door and gestured for me to go first. We stepped into a narrow corridor and stopped outside another door marked: MR. BRYCE. MANAGER.

  Behind an oak partner’s desk sat a very thin man with the red-veined cheeks of the hearty drinker.

  Mr. Bryce got to his feet and pointed to a chair. “Do sit, Ms. Stanford.”

  “Yes. Is there a problem?” I said again.

  “Where did you get this bangle?”

  “A friend gave it to me for my birthday.”

  Mr. Bryce looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid this is stolen property. Ms. Stanford, I’m going to have to call the police.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “What!” I was horrified. “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Each piece is carefully marked. Vivienne only makes a limited number of bangles.”

  “I would never steal anything!”

  “That’s what Winona Ryder said when she was caught red-handed in Saks Fifth Avenue,” said Mr. Bryce somewhat nastily.

  “This is ridiculous!” I was furious and more than a little worried. Jess must have stolen this bangle and given it to me as a gift. But no, I just refused to believe it. I recalled her delight at giving me the present. I just couldn’t imagine her stealing it. She wouldn’t need to. She’d told me a gazillion times how generous Aubrey was. Aubrey was a magistrate for heaven’s sake.

  There had to be an explanation. My thoughts flew to Piers and his childish pranks. Was this something he would have done out of spite? He had made it clear that he didn’t like her.

  “Perhaps my friend purchased this directly from the artist?” I said.

  Mr. Bryce shook his head. “No. This was in our inventory.”

  “Do you have CCTV in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then please, at least look at that first.”

  “Very well. We will turn over the CCTV footage to the police when they get here.”

  “You’re calling them now?” I was stunned.

  “Of course.” Mr. Bryce opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a business card and dialed a number.

  “Ah, Detective Inspector?” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but you did say that if it was important I should call you immediately.” The answer on the other end was short. Mr. Bryce replaced the receiver. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  We sat in an awkward silence. My eyes caught yesterday’s Star Stalkers with my face splashed across the front page from the humiliating experience at NINE. It was little wonder that Mr. Bryce didn’t believe me.

  Ten excruciating minutes passed until there came a knock on the door.

  To my astonishment, the police officer was none other than Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper. He strolled in wearing jeans and an open-neck shirt. The minute he saw me his jaw dropped.

  “Kat!” he exclaimed. “What on earth is going on?”

  I had never been so pleased to see him in my life. “Thank God it’s you!”

  Mr. Bryce regarded us both with surprise.

  “I’ll take it from here, Tim,” said Shawn. “If you don’t mind. Would you leave us for a moment?”

  Mr. Bryce shot me another filthy look and left the room.

  Quickly I filled Shawn in on how I came to acquire the bangle and that I needed a larger size. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “All very interesting,” said Shawn thoughtfully.

  “But why are you here in Dartmouth?” I cried. “This isn’t your jurisdiction. And why did the manager have your cell phone number?”

  “I was taking the boys to listen to the sea shanties.” Shawn gave a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, but I am not at liberty to tell you. Believe me, I wish I could. But for now I suggest you give all the Carews a wide berth and if you do see any of them you must act completely normally.”

  “This is to do with Piers, isn’t it?” I exclaimed.

  Shawn stiffened. “Your personal business is nothing to do with me. But I’ve known Piers Carew for a very long time and you need to be careful.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said crossly. “I was only having dinner—”

  “A dinner that neither of you paid for—”

  “I already told you. We were talking about the skeleton in Cromwell Meadows,” I retorted hotly. “Piers thinks she is Lady Eleanor Honeychurch and that she was murdered by her cousin.”

  “That sounds like a Piers Carew theory,” said Shawn. “His imagination is even wilder than your mother’s.”

  “Am I going to be char
ged?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But I want you to continue to wear the bangle. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more—and I know this annoys you—but in this instance, I am not the officer in charge of the investigation.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Shawn. “But there is something I am able to tell you. Violet Green will make a full recovery. She has two broken ankles and a nasty bump on her head where it struck the steering wheel.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “So perhaps you can tell me why you asked her to pick the dowager countess up from Totnes railway station in the middle of the night?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said. “Edith isn’t due home until tomorrow.”

  “Apparently, a note was slipped through Violet’s letterbox asking her to do you a favor. It was signed by you.”

  “But I’d never do that!” I exclaimed. “Where is this note?”

  “I don’t have it with me right this minute,” said Shawn sheepishly. “But that’s why she raced off to meet the last train from London. There isn’t even a train that comes in at that hour.”

  “You know I’d never ask that of Violet, Shawn,” I said.

  He hesitated for a moment. “We’ve since learned that the brakes on her Morris Minor were cut.”

  “You mean … it was deliberate?” I was astonished. “But why would anyone do that? It makes no sense.”

  “You seem to forget that Violet is a witness. She saw two people in the churchyard on the night that Muriel was killed.” He hesitated again. “How well do you know Pippa Carmichael?”

  “Why?”

  “Well … you were the person she called for help.”

  “I don’t know what’s she’s up to,” I lied.

  “It’s a bit of a coincidence that Violet’s accident occurred right where Ms. Carmichael was taking a midnight stroll.”

  He was right. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.