“He needs an au pair—or a new wife.” Mum looked pointedly at me.
“It’s not been two years since Helen died,” Roxy said sharply. “She was the love of his life. He’ll never marry again.”
“Oh, I am sorry, dear,” said Mum sweetly. “That must be so hard for you. As I was saying to Officer Cairns, Kat, I’m not sure how I can help.” Mum looked daggers at the plastic shopping bag. I could tell the suspense was killing her. “Do you want to put that down somewhere?”
Roxy clasped it closer. “No, thanks.”
Mum looked over at the singing bird clock above the kitchen door. It wasn’t quite five. “Is it too early for something stronger?”
“You might need to keep your wits about you,” Roxy declared.
I wasn’t sure if she was joking. “Tea, in that case.” I marched over to the kettle and switched it on.
“Can I use your loo?” said Roxy.
“Use the one downstairs just off the carriageway,” said Mum. “Through the door and take the first one on the left. The bowl is Victorian and very pretty. It’s decorated with horse heads and flowers so do take a look before you sit down—shall I hold your shopping?”
“No, thanks.” Roxy clasped the plastic shopping bag even closer and scurried off.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Mum whispered urgently.
“The plastic shopping bag?”
“Shawn’s show-and-tell,” said Mum. “It’s pathetic.”
“We’ll soon find out.” I handed Mum a china mug of tea with a splash of milk.
“She’s so childish.”
“Speaking of children,” I said and went on to tell Mum how concerned I was about Harry. “And what’s more, he has a nasty bruise on his forehead. I think he’s being bullied.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get Alfred to give him a few boxing lessons.”
“Don’t you dare!” I exclaimed.
“Harry’s got to show them who is boss,” said Mum. “Alfred taught me, you know. I’ve still got a very good left hook.”
The doorbell sounded. “I’ll get it,” I said. “I expect it will be Shawn.”
But it wasn’t. It was a man in his early seventies. He reminded me of a slimmer version of an aging Marlon Brando with deep-set eyes, fleshy lips and a strong jaw.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“Bryan—with a y—Laney,” he said and offered his hand. “You advertised for someone to do a spot of D-I-Y?”
“Oh. Yes. I did.” I took in his appearance. With his dark green corduroy trousers and a sports jacket he had an almost military bearing—someone I’d never have taken for a handyman. But then my father had been a tax collector and no one ever believed he was good at D-I-Y, either. Dad had always done our decorating, loved woodwork and was always puttering in the garage making this and that.
“Muriel at the post office told me,” Bryan said. “I used to live around here. I’m in the process of moving back. Need a bit of work, that kind of thing.” He smiled. “Retirement doesn’t suit me.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning so I can show you what needs to be done and then you can give me an estimate.”
“O-nine-hundred hours suit you?” he said.
“Perfect. Do you have a mobile?”
Bryan handed me a scrap of paper with his phone number on it. He’d obviously been prepared. “By the way, I always enjoyed your show. Pity you retired. I don’t think the new host is much good—she’s not got your class.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, secretly pleased.
“Don’t ever cut your hair, Rapunzel,” he said with a wink. “It’s beautiful. Good afternoon.”
I could easily imagine that Bryan had been a bit of a ladies’ man back in the day. I returned to the kitchen and found that Shawn must have slipped in through the carriageway entrance.
“It’s all over the news,” I heard Shawn say. “I heard it on the radio on my drive over.”
“Ah, here she is,” said Mum. “What were you doing?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I said. “What’s on the news?”
“Sounds like Ginny’s been busy spreading the word.” Mum pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table.
“Just that a double-hide has been found at Honeychurch Hall along with some remains,” Shawn said.
“Her ladyship is going to love that,” Roxy muttered.
“No other details yet, of course, and that’s the way we want it to stay—at least for the time being.”
“Apparently, they’ve identified the body,” Mum blurted out.
“Already?” I exclaimed. “Who?”
“We got in touch with Interpol and we’re ninety-nine percent certain that the woman’s name is Pandora Haslam-Grimley,” said Shawn. “She was an American heiress. The DNA results from the lipstick should confirm it.”
“I told you she was American,” Roxy put in. “The Lucky Strikes gave it away.”
“The last time anyone saw Ms. Haslam-Grimley alive was at the Honeychurch annual midsummer ball in 1958.”
I looked to Mum who just shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“According to our sources, Ms. Haslam-Grimley was a bit of a free spirit,” said Shawn. “After her visit at Honeychurch she had made plans to go on a cruise. It was a full month before anyone realized something was wrong.”
“No one reported it?” I was stunned. “Not even her friends? Surely someone like Pandora would have attracted a lot of media attention?”
Shawn cleared his throat. “Actually, it was overshadowed by a far more tragic event,” he said. “The dowager countess’s brother Rupert died in a freak shooting accident.”
My eyes flew to my mother’s and I saw she’d turned pale. Of course we knew the real story behind the “freak shooting accident.” It had been the subject of Forbidden, my mother’s soon-to-be-published second book in her Star-Crossed Lovers series. But I wasn’t sure if Shawn was aware of the details. So much was kept under wraps in this household. It was hard to tell.
As if reading my mind, Roxy said, “Another Honeychurch hush-up.”
Shawn ignored her. “So that narrows the date down to mid-June in 1958. The police did retrace Pandora’s steps and someone did say they saw her getting on the train at Dipperton Halt, but they were unable to verify it.”
“Who was the investigating officer at the time?” I asked.
“He died in 2003,” said Shawn. “And although my father became a police officer, he was just a kid back then.”
“How convenient,” said Mum.
“We’ll be working with Interpol on this,” Shawn went on. “But we wanted to get a head start, so to speak.”
“But we will be reporting our findings, Shawn,” Roxy reminded him. “So we’re starting with anyone who was here at the Hall in June of 1958—Iris?”
“I can hardly remember what I had for breakfast this morning let alone where I was in 1958!”
Roxy put down the plastic shopping bag to pull on her disposable latex gloves.
“Here we go,” Mum muttered.
With a crackle and flourish, Roxy withdrew the Bushman’s Fair and Traveling Boxing Emporium flyer. “Well, we can confirm that you were here in June of 1958.”
Mum rolled her eyes. “Look, dear, I don’t want to state the obvious, but we camped here in the park every summer. There were dozens of us. We were never invited to the Hall and we certainly didn’t socialize with any of the toffs—and besides, I only found out about the priest-hole thingy this morning. I was just as shocked as everyone.”
Although my mother was a notorious fibber, I honestly didn’t think she’d known about the double-hide. Even so, I knew she was holding something back. I could tell by the way she sat back in her chair with her arms folded.
“My grandfather told me that only three people ever knew the locations of the priest holes,” said Shawn thoughtfully. “The person who built it, the master of the house and the estate steward.
The secret was passed down from father to son.”
“That’s what Rupert told us,” I said.
“Yeah, well … someone else knew where it was.” Roxy looked directly at my mother. “Someone who was, perhaps, jealous of Pandora Haslam-Grimley and everything she stood for. Someone who watched on the outside, wishing for a different life. Someone like you, Iris.”
“Roxy!” Shawn warned.
“Or maybe you’re covering up for someone else?” said Roxy. “Someone in your troupe—or tribe or whatever you call it?”
Mum’s jaw tightened. “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, the only part of Honeychurch we were allowed into was the servants’ wing.”
And that was a definite lie. Mum had made a comment just mere hours earlier when we had first entered the Great Hall. She’d pointed up to the minstrel’s gallery and told Rupert how she and her brothers used to watch the summer balls and spy on the guests.
“We’re only asking if you remember anything about that particular ball, that’s all,” said Shawn. “It was a costume ball.”
“They were all costume balls,” said Mum. “From what I can remember. I was only fifteen.”
“That would explain the unusual dress that Pandora was wearing,” Shawn said to Roxy. “You see, Iris—you are helping us with our inquiries, after all.”
Roxy continued to stare at my mother. “And let’s not forget the heart-shaped necklace with the fake diamond.”
“I don’t know why you keep staring at me,” said Mum.
Shawn and Roxy exchanged meaningful glances. He gave her a nod and she retrieved Lady Chatterley’s Lover from the plastic shopping bag.
“Do you recognize this book, Iris?” said Roxy.
“I saw it earlier. Yes. I recognize this book.”
“So today was the first time that you’d seen this book?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Roxy put the book on the table and opened it. The end board was completely covered with the shelf-liner paper—right up to the inner hinge where it had been slit open. Roxy withdrew a small penknife from her pocket.
“Careful!” I exclaimed. “That book is a first edition and very valuable.”
With painstaking precision, Roxy gently removed the paper. There was no dust jacket underneath. She showed Mum and me her handiwork. “Recognize this?”
There, written in ink on the end board itself were the damning words, This book belongs to Iris Bushman.
“Mum?” I gasped.
“That’s not my handwriting,” Mum exclaimed. “I’ve been framed.”
“If I had a pound for every time I heard that,” Roxy said, “I’d be able to live at Honeychurch Hall myself!”
“Anyway, you can’t prove anything,” said Mum.
“How do you explain the Bushman flyer being inside the book?”
“When you’re being framed, it’s hard to explain anything. That’s what being framed means.”
“There’s no way my mother could have bought this book. As you know it was printed in Italy.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe it belonged to Pandora? I can’t think how else it would have gotten into the country and as you said, Shawn, she was quite the traveler.”
Chuffah-chuffah-chuffah-chuffah erupted from Shawn’s pocket. The chuffing sound grew louder drowning out all further speculation as Shawn fumbled in his pocket and took out his iPhone.
Shawn hit the answer button and barked, “Cropper,” and turned away to take the call.
“Saved by the Scarborough Spa Express from Wakefield Westgate to Ardsley Tunnel,” Mum declared, shooting Roxy a mutinous look.
There was an awkward silence as we waited for Shawn to hang up.
“Right, Dick and his photographer have finished,” Shawn said to Roxy. “They’ll be removing the body tomorrow. But the Yard are sending their own forensic anthropologist over and we’ve already had phone calls from the local historical society.”
“Does that mean I can go and take the paintings?” I asked.
Roxy looked puzzled.
“I’ve been asked to do a valuation,” I said. “For the auction.”
“Kat is helping the dowager countess raise money to repair the ceiling,” said Mum.
“Tomorrow should be fine,” said Shawn. “But we’ll be holding onto the tools just in case.”
“Of what?” Mum demanded.
“We’re still not clear on exactly how Ms. Pandora Haslam-Grimley died.”
“I thought her neck was broken,” I said.
“As I said, when we’re sure, we’ll let you know.” Shawn gave a nod to Roxy who put the book and the flyer back into her plastic shopping bag. “Thank you for your time. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Roxy paused at the kitchen door. “Don’t go anywhere, Iris,” she said darkly. “We’ll be back.”
“Well?” I said to Mum, the moment we heard the front door slam. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
“Of course I remember Pandora Haslam-Grimley,” Mum exclaimed. “She was a horrible, horrible girl, nasty, vindictive and a complete tramp. I’m glad she’s dead!”
“Oh, Mum!” I wailed. “Please don’t tell me you had something to do with this.”
“I can’t believe you would think such a thing!” Mum was indignant. “If my own daughter thinks I’m guilty, it’s no wonder that the police have practically got me mounting the scaffold.”
“And the book, Lady Chatterley—is it yours?”
“Not exactly,” said Mum sheepishly.
“Oh my God, it is yours!”
“Let’s have a gin and tonic and then I can explain everything.”
Chapter Six
“You stole it?” I gasped. “From who?”
“Whom, you mean. From whom. And I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it. Completely different.”
“And you covered it in that funny paper.”
“It’s shelf liner,” said Mum. “But no. It was already like that.”
“But your name is inside.”
“That’s not my handwriting,” said Mum. “And anyway, I’d hardly go to the trouble of covering it with shelf liner and then promptly writing my name inside. Surely you’re not that dense.”
“You would if you didn’t want anyone to see what you were reading.”
“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
“Sorry. You’re right,” I said. “You talk and I’ll listen.”
“I found the book in the hayloft—”
“Hayloft? What, here? At the Carriage House? What were you doing in the hayloft?”
“I thought you were going to let me speak?”
“Sorry.”
“When we left the park that summer—for the last time, I may add—I put it back. End of story.”
“So … are you saying that the book belonged to someone else? Someone below stairs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should ask Alfred to do a bit of channeling?” I joked. “He’s good at communicating with the dead.”
“You leave Alfred out of this,” said Mum quickly.
A peculiar feeling came over me. “Is this something to do with Alfred? Are you protecting him?”
“No,” Mum exclaimed. “What a notion!”
Much as I’d grown to like Mum’s stepbrother, I still wasn’t sure what to make of him. With a prison record as long as my arm that covered a wide variety of offenses ranging from armed robbery to fraud, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was somehow involved.
“That must have been pretty racy stuff for you to read at age fifteen,” I said.
“You did.”
“I studied D. H. Lawrence for my A levels,” I said. “And to be honest, I didn’t really understand it.”
“Well, nor did I. I just wanted it for some ideas.”
“What kind of ideas?”
“Oh nothing like that,” she said quickly. “No prancing around naked in the rain or threading flowers through the hair on a man�
��s chest—no, I had already started writing stories and wanted to put in a bit of hanky-panky but hadn’t a clue where to begin.”
“I trust you found it informative.” I knew I was being sarcastic but Mum didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh yes,” she said dreamily. “I think that’s when I realized I wanted to be a romance writer. The way that D. H. Lawrence describes his love scenes…” She gave a shiver. “Yet the passion licked round her, consuming and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels—”
“Stop right there!” I exclaimed. “I get the picture.”
“I had to read the book in secret in case Aunt June caught me,” Mum went on. “It was very cramped in our caravan. There were five of us, you know. I don’t remember when the ban was lifted, do you?”
“In 1959,” I said.
“Isn’t it funny how things change,” Mum mused. “Only last week I was in the hairdresser’s in Dartmouth and I overheard two young women chatting quite openly about bondage in Fifty Shades of Grey.”
“Weren’t you curious as to how a banned book happened to end up in Little Dipperton? It’s hardly something you’d pick up at the post office and general store.”
“Sometimes,” said Mum. “At one point I thought it belonged to Mrs. Cropper.”
“The cook?” I laughed. It was hard to imagine the somewhat dour Mrs. Cropper as someone who devoured racy books in secret.
“Don’t look like that. We were all young once,” said Mum. “The summer nights were long and hot. Hormones were raging. It was marvelous!” Mum thought for a moment. “Why don’t we see who else might have been around in the summer of 1958?”
“Well—yes, on the estate,” I said. “But what if one of the guests decided to get rid of Pandora?”
“Just humor me,” said Mum. “Come on. I’ll top up our drinks. You find some nibbles.”
Moments later we were in Mum’s office upstairs and she was wheeling her office chair over to where two family trees labeled ABOVE-STAIRS and BELOW-STAIRS were spread across the far wall.
My mother’s office seemed more chaotic than usual with her new rolltop desk—a Christmas present I’d bought her to take the place of the old dining room table—covered in scrunched-up balls of paper that also littered the floor.
A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall Page 5
