A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “Good man.” Harry nodded. “Take the gate next to the hothouse, but be careful. It could be a trap.”

  “Harry! Don’t just stand there!” Lavinia emerged from the tack room with a saddle in her arms. “Come and help me!”

  “I’m happy to help,” I called out.

  “No, thank you, Katherine,” said Lavinia frostily. “We do not need your help.”

  I gave Harry a salute and he jumped down the last few steps and dashed over to where Lavinia was holding Thunder’s bridle.

  Once Lavinia and Harry had ridden out of the yard, I tried Alfred’s door. It was unlocked.

  The flat had been built under the eaves but was fairly spacious. It was furnished simply with a two-seater sofa, coffee table and bookcase. A TV sat on top of a sideboard against the end wall. There was a small kitchen table with four chairs, a kitchenette, a bathroom leading off and one bedroom.

  I took a quick look around. It was neat and tidy. Alfred had very few possessions and as far as I could tell, everything was still there. He hadn’t packed up and fled.

  How well did I really know my mother’s stepbrother? Mum said a leopard never changed its spots and that didn’t just apply to affairs of the heart!

  The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Alfred must have gone to move the drawings.

  Taking the shortcut through the pine forest, I was back at the Carriage House in fifteen minutes. To my relief, my Golf wasn’t there. I was right. Alfred had gone off to move the drawings. What’s more, he must have hot-wired my car because I still had my car keys in my tote bag.

  I glanced at the singing bird clock. Mum wouldn’t be back from church for at least another hour. Church! Another strange development—and Edith insisting my mother go with her was just plain odd.

  It was the perfect time to go and see if Bryan had indeed left his camper van behind the walled garden.

  The Victorian walled garden looked dreary on this wet February afternoon and even more neglected than usual. Within the ivy-clad walls were wide borders that were bounded by a perimeter path that had two main central paths. One ran north to south, the other east to west, dividing the garden into four equal sections. A line of glasshouses stretched along one side. Behind them, hugging the boundary wall, were abandoned hothouse furnaces, potting sheds, tool rooms and a henhouse. It was easy to imagine how beautiful this would have been in its heyday.

  I found the wicket gate and passed through into the field behind.

  Bryan’s camper van was still there. It was screened from the Hall, Honeychurch Cottages, Eric’s scrapyard and Mum’s Carriage House. As yet, there was no sign of the police.

  I peered into the windows. I’d always thought that VW camper vans had a lot of charm and as a child had loved the idea of sleeping under the raised striped canopy roof. Perhaps I had inherited my mother’s genes for life on the road, after all.

  It started to rain again. I tried the door and to my surprise, it was unlocked. I stepped up inside and was hit by the smell of stale cigarettes mingled with alcohol. A duvet and pillow were scrunched up and shoved under one of the seats. I was right. It looked like Bryan had been sleeping here.

  Although I was wearing gloves, I didn’t want to get into trouble with Shawn for touching anything but when I spotted two plastic long-stemmed champagne glasses in the small sink, I couldn’t help myself.

  Bryan had been entertaining.

  I opened the door under the sink and there, in the rubbish bin was an empty bottle of champagne.

  My mother drank champagne.

  I couldn’t stand not knowing the brand. It sounded silly but I knew her tastes. I carefully took out the bottle. It was Freixenet—a cheap sparkling Spanish wine. Mum said she only drank real champagne but with everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, I was ready to believe anything. I’d never seen her drink brandy but she’d been knocking that stuff back last night as if it had been going out of fashion.

  Suddenly, a phone rang and it wasn’t mine. I searched to see where it was coming from but the ringing stopped only to start up again a few seconds later.

  It seemed to be coming from the driver’s area.

  I made my way to the front of the camper van and in the console between the seats was a mobile phone. I nudged it. The screen lit up. There was no password needed. I saw twelve missed calls, three voice mails and 10 percent of battery remaining.

  Someone had been trying to get ahold of Bryan. Someone who couldn’t possibly know that he was now dead.

  In the passenger foot-well was a cardboard box containing a set of headphones and some magazines. I could just make out two of the titles—Treasure Hunting and Searcher. There was also an ordnance survey map and an exercise book.

  It began to dawn on me why Bryan had come back to Honeychurch Hall and when my foot caught the coil of a long metal shaft, I knew.

  It was a metal detector. Bryan’s return had had nothing to do with wanting to find work.

  I thought back to Rupert’s comment earlier that morning. Bryan had been trespassing last August. That was around the time that the underground tunnel was discovered in Cromwell Meadows.

  I remembered how quickly Bryan had turned up out of the blue on Friday. He must have heard about the double-hide on the radio and come straight away to nose around. I bet he was looking for the missing Honeychurch silver coins.

  I picked up the ordnance survey map and spread it over the bench seat.

  It was a detailed map of the Honeychurch Hall estate.

  Bryan had painstakingly labeled everything—the Hall, the Carriage House, stable yard, Jane’s Cottage, Eric’s scrapyard and caravan, the Honeychurch Hall cottages next to the Victorian walled garden, Edith’s equine cemetery, the Victorian grotto, the sunken garden, stumpery—even a boating lake and boathouse that I did not know existed.

  Illegible hieroglyphics in tiny spider scrawl were scattered across the map. A blue line had been drawn in to mark the underground tunnel from the Hall to the exit on Cavalier Lane. A grid covered Harry’s pillow mounds behind Jane’s Cottage. It looked as if Bryan had been systematically working his way across the field.

  Of course he had wanted to talk to Joan Stark. She’d lived at Jane’s Cottage with her family and he probably thought she might have had a lucid moment and remembered something important.

  The camper van door opened with a crash. Startled, I leapt to my feet and promptly hit my head on the roof, tripped over the coil again, lost my balance and fell onto Shawn who then lost his. We both tumbled out onto the muddy grass in an embarrassing heap with my face practically buried into the crotch of his trousers.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled and struggled to push myself away without touching his legs only to collapse on him face-first again.

  “Your elbow!” Shawn yelped.

  “Oh God!” I was utterly mortified and hurled myself sideways, straight into a puddle of muddy water.

  “Here, take my hand,” said Shawn in a voice that definitely sounded a couple of decibels higher than it had this morning.

  “I am so sorry,” I stammered. “You startled me.”

  “So I see,” he squeaked.

  “I was going to phone you about the camper van but it started to rain—”

  “I hope you haven’t touched anything.”

  I held up my gloved hands that were now soaked with muddy water. The rain started to come down again.

  “Let’s get inside.” Shawn gallantly helped me back into the camper van and pulled the door shut behind us.

  “You’ve got mud on your nose,” he said shyly.

  “So do you.” And he had.

  We both self-consciously touched our noses.

  It was the second time that day that I had found myself in an enclosed space with Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper. This time I was acutely aware of a strange tension between us. Shawn’s face was flushed. His curly hair was wet with the rain and I knew that mine had expanded into a wild bush, ju
st as it always did in wet weather.

  “You look like Electra, the Twenty-seven-thousand Volts Girl,” he said lightly. “I can certainly feel the electricity in here, can’t you?”

  I blushed and felt oddly pleased. Was he actually flirting with me?

  “What’s that?” he asked on spotting the ordnance survey map and our moment was broken. “I told you not to touch anything.”

  I was going to lie and say that the map had already been there but decided against it.

  “So this was what Bryan was up to,” said Shawn. “I had my suspicions.”

  “And the tools that were found in the double-hide must have confirmed that the Honeychurches really had minted the coins here,” I said.

  Shaw donned his disposable latex gloves and started going through the cardboard box. At the bottom was a Ziploc bag.

  “Ah-ha!” he exclaimed. “I can never resist a Ziploc bag.”

  “What is it?”

  “It looks like a receipt book,” Shawn said with growing excitement. “Bryan was onto something. Has anyone told you about the role the Earl of Grenville played in the English Civil War?”

  “I’ve heard bits,” I said. “Rupert felt that the coins had been buried somewhere on the estate when the Royalists had to retreat.”

  “So goes the legend,” said Shawn. “The Honeychurches were closely allied with the Vyvans—a very prominent and influential family in Cornwall. Like many Royalist supporters in the area, they were permitted to collect plate—that would be silver in today’s terms—to melt it down and create money to support the Royalist army.” Shawn pointed to the bag. “I am certain that this is a receipt book that would have itemized what the Honeychurches had taken from neighboring farmers all anxious to support their king.”

  “I wonder how Bryan got hold of it?”

  “I suppose we’ll never know,” said Shawn. “You see, there were pockets of Royalist supporters called Cavaliers, and pockets of Roundheads from Cromwell’s New Army—”

  “Yes, I know about the Roundheads and the Cavaliers—”

  “In fact, Lavinia’s lot—the Carews—fought for Cromwell. Families were often split right down the middle—rather like the American Civil War, in fact, so you see…”

  Shawn droned on about the Sealed Knot and all the different regiments and I duly listened. Much as I liked him, he had this awful habit of pontificating and now in this enclosed space, instead of enjoying the electricity between us, I was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

  “I had no idea you were such an expert, Shawn,” I finally managed to say.

  “I’m a member of the English Civil War Reenactment Society,” he said with a hint of pride. “This summer, we’re hosting a reenactment group here at the Hall. Naturally Rupert will play his ancestor, the Earl of Grenville.”

  “That sounds exciting.”

  “It is,” said Shawn eagerly.

  “And who do you play?”

  “Prince Maurice.”

  I thought of the Dobson painting hanging in the King’s Parlor and suddenly, Alfred and the revelries of the night before at Heathfield Business Park came flooding back.

  Shawn must have seen something in my face. “Sorry. I tend to get carried away. Trains and the English Civil War are my hobbies.”

  “No, it was interesting,” I protested.

  We fell quiet again as the rain continued to hammer down on the roof of the camper van and the windows started to steam up, again.

  Shawn started to poke around as I watched. I couldn’t deny there was some spark between us but I didn’t want a relationship so soon, nor did I want to take on a man who already had two children and a wife who, by everything I’d heard, had been just wonderful. I’d always be second—just like I had been second in David’s life.

  As if sensing my eyes on him, Shawn turned and smiled but then he spotted the plastic champagne glasses in the sink, opened the little cupboard underneath and withdrew the rubbish bin. “Hello, hello, hello! What have we got here?”

  And the policeman clichéd phrases, I thought to myself, could I live with those?

  “Freixenet in the love machine,” said Shawn.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Gran told me that Bryan was quite a Casanova in his day. He used to do a lot of…” Shawn blushed. “Entertaining in this old camper van.”

  Shawn delved into the rubbish bin and withdrew a crumpled greeting card. “Hmm … hello, hello, hello! What’s all this then?”

  No. The clichéd phrases would definitely be a problem.

  Pictured on the front was a floral teapot with a cup and saucer inside a large red heart. The caption said, “You suit me to a tea!” “It’s a Valentine’s card.”

  “It looks pretty old, too,” I said.

  Shawn opened it and together we read the greeting inside, “I’m all steamed up over you my Valentine,” and under that, in spidery handwriting, “Together forever—?”

  I thought of all the cards that David had sent me and that I still had. “Do you think Bryan Laney sent this? It looks like his handwriting.”

  “Someone has been holding onto that card for a very long time.” Shawn removed a Ziploc bag and slid the card inside. “We’ll get this handwriting analyzed.”

  Bryan’s mobile rang from the central console again.

  “Front passenger seat!” I said quickly. “I meant to tell you—”

  But Shawn had already pounced on it. “Hello?”

  I could hear a woman’s voice twittering on the other end.

  “No, this is not Bryan,” said Shawn, all business. “He is unable to come to the phone. Who am I speaking to?”

  More twittering.

  “This is Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper,” said Shawn.

  More twittering that I could tell was becoming hysterical.

  “I’m not at liberty to say, madame. Can you identify yourself? Oh!” Shawn’s eyes widened with surprise. “I’m afraid I can’t give out that information on the telephone,” he said firmly. “Let me take your address.” He fumbled in his top pocket. I helped him find a pen and opened his notebook for him.

  “Hello? Hello?” Shawn looked at me and shook his head. “She hung up.” He put Bryan’s mobile into a fresh Ziploc bag. “We should be able to trace her address from Laney’s phone.”

  “Who was it?”

  Shawn paused for a moment before saying, “It would appear that Bryan had a wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “She was calling from a Plymouth area code,” said Shawn as we left the camper van. “Judging by her reaction, Bryan seemed to make a habit of disappearing and losing his phone.”

  I thought of the missed calls and ignored voice mails.

  “Do you think his wife called to cover her tracks?” I suggested. “Plymouth isn’t so far away.”

  “You mean, did she discover Bryan with another woman—but who?”

  I shrugged. “That’s why you are a detective and I’m not.”

  The rain had finally stopped. We cut through the walled garden in silence. Shawn seemed preoccupied and was walking quickly.

  “Any news on Ginny?” I said.

  “What?” he said distractedly.

  “Ginny? Is she still in hospital?”

  He nodded. “We’ll be talking to her this afternoon.”

  “Will you let me know when I can go and visit her?”

  He nodded. “I’m just going to pop in and see Gran.” I noticed his panda car was parked outside the Croppers’ cottage.

  I headed back to the Carriage House wondering about Shawn’s grandmother. The cottage was just a short walk from the camper van. Mrs. Cropper had said she’d heard a man and a woman arguing but perhaps she was lying? If she were involved, I wondered what Shawn was going to do about it.

  Back at the Carriage House, my car still wasn’t back. Hopefully Mum was home from church and might know what Alfred’s plans were.

  I found Mum upstairs in her office sitting at her desk and pori
ng through the cash box.

  “How was church?” I said.

  “Good God!” she shrieked and shot out of her chair. “Why didn’t you knock?”

  “Were you struck down by lightning?”

  Mum shoved something into her cardigan pocket and snapped the cash box lid shut. “What did you say?”

  I regarded her with suspicion. “You’re up to something.”

  “No, I’m not,” she protested.

  “What have you got in your pocket?”

  “Nothing!”

  I made a quick lunge for her hand. My mother spun away and dashed out of the office with me in hot pursuit. She darted into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  I tapped quietly. “Hello? What are you doing? Flushing whatever it is down the loo?”

  “I’m just having a pee. Why do you have to follow me everywhere?” Mum called out.

  “Okay—well, that’s a shame because I had something really interesting to tell you but I suppose I can’t now.”

  There was a silence. And then:

  “How interesting?”

  “About Bryan Laney—or should I say, Mrs. Laney.”

  There was another silence and then the door opened a crack. Quick as a flash, I barged in and grabbed her wrist.

  “Ouch, ouch! That’s my bad hand!” Mum squealed as I plunged my own into her cardigan pocket.

  “Ah-ha! What is this?” I withdrew a heart-shaped pendant with a fake diamond. It was identical to the one that Shawn had shown us in the library—and on Pandora’s body.

  “Really, Katherine,” Mum said crossly. “You can be so dramatic!”

  “Oh, so you have a necklace, too?”

  Mum gave a heavy sigh and sank onto the edge of the bathtub. “I don’t want you to jump to the wrong conclusions but…” She paused. “Alfred was right when he said these necklaces were all over the place. Bryan was very good at hook-the-duck—”

  “I’m sure he was,” I said dryly.

  Mum smirked. “He used to win these necklaces all the time and give them to us girls. He was such a flirt, always swearing undying love to whomever caught his eye.”

  Mrs. Cropper had told Shawn the same thing. “Obviously I’m relieved that you have kept your necklace—”