A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

  “I changed my mind. I thought I was imagining it but I asked Eric to come over. He felt it might have been someone casing the joint. All my stock is there.”

  “Just be careful, Kat.” Shawn thought for a moment. “I would have said with the break-in at Luxton’s warehouse there could be a gang going around.”

  I definitely wanted to steer clear of talking about Luxton’s and changed the subject.

  “Did you find out any more about Bryan’s wife?” I asked.

  “Yes. All very interesting,” he said. “She was his fifth wife.”

  “Fifth!”

  “They met at one of these treasure hunt meetings just five years ago. She’s secretary of the Plymouth Detector Club; manages their Facebook page and all that sort of thing.”

  “But why on earth didn’t Bryan say so?” I exclaimed. “Why all the secrecy?”

  “I have no idea,” said Shawn.

  But I did.

  Bryan still wanted to be seen as a lothario!

  “And before you ask,” Shawn went on. “Yes, Mrs. Laney has a firm alibi for Saturday night. She was giving a presentation on metal detectors at Torpoint Community College. It was posted on Facebook so she’s in the clear.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Obviously, she was upset but not as much as I would have thought,” said Shawn. “It sounded like he was a bit of a rogue. But she did mention the receipt book.”

  “The one in the Ziploc bag?”

  “Apparently it has been in Bryan’s family for centuries. He was worried that Rupert would insist it belonged to the Honeychurch Hall English Civil War collection.”

  “He had a good point,” I said.

  “It proved that one of Bryan’s ancestors—a wealthy farmer in fact—gave the earl their silver to support the king but he was never paid back. Bryan believed part of the Honeychurch mint should belong to him.”

  I found that hard to believe and said so. “But that was centuries ago!”

  “People don’t forget, Kat,” he said. “You’re dealing with families who were born here and never left. Families listed in the Domesday Book. There’s something else…”

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that I might not like the something else.

  “Mrs. Laney was convinced Bryan was seeing another woman—someone here.”

  I thought back to the cheap champagne, the two glasses in the sink and the Valentine’s card. “But who?”

  “Someone who still held a candle for him,” said Shawn. “Not my grandmother, in case you were wondering.”

  “Nor my mother,” I said. “Then who?”

  Shawn frowned and stepped over to the window and took something off the ledge. “Aren’t these your pearl earrings?”

  David hadn’t taken them after all.

  “I noticed you weren’t wearing them.” Shawn dropped the earrings into my hand. I was about to say I didn’t want them but then I began to wonder.

  “The Valentine’s card,” I said slowly. “Bryan had given it—”

  “Allegedly.”

  “Allegedly. So perhaps his visitor had given it back to him in a fit of pique.” Just like I had given my earrings back to David. “And maybe … just maybe … the pendant necklace that you found in the shrubbery by the culvert could have been one that Bryan had given her, too.”

  “The attack had been particularly violent,” said Shawn thoughtfully. “It felt personal.”

  “Believe me. I can understand how that could happen,” I said as I thought of David.

  An awkward silence fell between us.

  “I actually came to find you this morning because I wanted you to know that her ladyship has found Pandora’s thank you letter.”

  “I’m so relieved Edith came forward,” I said. “So my mother is in the clear?”

  “Not quite,” said Shawn. “We need to match the handwriting in the letter to that in the flyleaf of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. In fact, we’ll be asking for samples of everyone’s handwriting—”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, those still living,” said Shawn. “Like Alfred, for example.”

  “Alfred? Whatever for?”

  “Just to eliminate him from our inquiries.”

  “That tired old line,” I said, attempting a joke but deep down I was worried.

  “They teach us those special phrases at the police academy.” Shawn’s face softened. “Kat, if you change your mind about anything, anything at all—call me.”

  “I know. I will.” But I knew I wouldn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “We have to find Alfred,” I said to my mother at lunchtime. “Don’t you have any idea where he’s gone?”

  We were sitting in the kitchen eating a ham and cheese sandwich, or rather I was. Mum seemed to have lost her appetite. She looked pale and drawn.

  “Of course I don’t,” Mum snapped. “And anyway, I daren’t leave the house. What if her ladyship comes back with grapes or something?”

  “She just might.”

  “Oh, Katherine, what if … what if Alfred has gone? You know, really gone. Done a runner?”

  It was exactly what I had been dreading. I hadn’t been sure whether to tell Mum about David’s appearance but in the end I thought she would welcome the distraction.

  Mum’s jaw dropped. “How gallant of Shawn,” she enthused. “He can be so pompous but … well, I am surprised.”

  “It was very sweet of him,” I said.

  “He actually brought my MINI back this morning,” said Mum. “When I saw him standing at the door I almost had a heart attack.”

  “That’s the voice of a guilty conscience,” I teased.

  “Are you alright about it all now?”

  “About what?”

  “About David.”

  “Yes. I’m completely over it,” I said and I was. “But we will have a problem. David is on the warpath. He knows about the drawings.”

  “How silly of Eric to sign his name when he dropped them off,” Mum said with scorn. “He left a paper trail.”

  “It was hardly Eric’s fault.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Mum put her head in her hands. “We’re ruined—but wait—perhaps it’s better if Alfred doesn’t come back at all.”

  “I think it would be for the best,” I said. “Shawn wants to see samples of everyone’s handwriting so he can compare the thank you letter and the signature in Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

  “Fine. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Shawn said something else.” I told Mum about the fifth Mrs. Laney. “Apparently they were keen treasure hunters.”

  “What a cheek!” she fumed. “Bryan invited me back to his camper van for a tot of rum, you know.”

  “You didn’t mention that bit.”

  “I said no.”

  “Was this before you hit him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait—he asked you for a tot of rum. Not a glass of champagne?”

  “Bryan? Champagne? No. Why?”

  “Does Mrs. Cropper drink champagne?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “She came to see me this morning in the tack room,” I said. “But I don’t want you to get angry. I’m just the messenger.”

  As I filled her in on Mrs. Cropper’s views on Alfred’s temper, Mum got angrier and angrier. “The nerve! And she said she was my friend!”

  “I don’t think she is any friend of yours,” I said. “But I do think she is hiding something. “I brought up Joan Stark and Mrs. Cropper got very defensive. Said to leave Joan out of it and that she’d suffered enough.”

  “Right. Let’s go and pay Joan a visit,” said Mum.

  “I think Bryan went to see her on Saturday,” I said.

  “And look where that got him? Dead as a doornail.” Mum shook her head with frustration.

  “Personally, I think it’s a waste of time. And besides, we daren’t leave the Carriage House in case Edith comes.”

  “Rubbish. I
’m not waiting around here. I’ll write a note on the door. You don’t have to come with me, but I’m going.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Mum duly scribbled three notes that said, Alfred is sleeping and not to be disturbed, one for the front door, one for the door in the carriageway and one that led directly from Cromwell Meadows to the kitchen. “I think we’ve covered all our bases.”

  Twenty minutes later we turned into the entrance to Sunny Hill Lodge and sped up a very grand drive lined with deciduous shrubs.

  I don’t know what I had been expecting but it definitely wasn’t this.

  Sunny Hill Lodge was a gracious Georgian house with large bay windows, a portico and exquisitely manicured grounds. A pergola, which would be blooming with wisteria in the spring, stretched the length of one wing.

  Mum pulled up outside the portico entrance with its perfectly clipped boxwood topiaries that flanked the front entrance. A line of luxury cars—Lexus, BMW, Range Rover—were parked on the far side of the gravel where there was a spectacular view of Dartmoor.

  “Good grief,” said Mum. “How on earth can Joan afford all this?”

  “Good question,” I said.

  “You don’t think her ladyship is contributing to Joan’s living accommodations, do you?”

  “Another good question.”

  We mounted the stone steps and walked into a small vestibule. A glass door showed the hall beyond. It was lavishly decorated. I mentally calculated the value of the antique furniture, paintings and rugs. They must have cost thousands and thousands of pounds.

  Mum tried the handle but the door was locked. I pointed to the bell and a panel of buttons. “It’s a secure facility.”

  Mum hit the buzzer.

  A young woman who couldn’t be more than twenty-five emerged from a side door. She was dressed in a tailored suit and waved a greeting.

  “I have to put in the code,” she said through the glass door and tapped a sequence with perfectly manicured nails. There was a loud click and the door swung open.

  “Welcome to Sunny Hill.” She beamed.

  Mum and I stepped inside. Classical music played quietly in the background and there was a pleasant smell of lavender.

  “What a lovely place,” said Mum.

  “Yes. It is, isn’t it?” She smiled. “I’m Carla. Have you come to visit a resident?”

  “Joan Stark,” said Mum.

  Carla frowned. “Stark? Let me find the manager for you,” she said. “Who shall I say is visiting?”

  “I’m Iris Stanford—although Joan would remember me as Bushman—”

  “If she does remember…” I said. “Which she might not.”

  “And of course,” said Mum grandly. “I’m sure you recognize Kat Stanford.”

  Carla smiled politely. Clearly she did not and that was hardly surprising. I must have looked a terrible sight. I’d not thought to change my clothes after my morning at the stables. I hadn’t even put on a slash of lipstick. All I’d done was remove my slumber net and tied my hair back into a thick ponytail.

  “She doesn’t always look so awful,” said Mum.

  Carla gave another polite smile. “Please wait here,” she said and disappeared through a door marked OFFICE.

  “I wonder where the residents are?” said Mum in a whisper. “They probably keep them out of the way.”

  We stood in the hall for what seemed like ages. Mum checked her watch at least three times. “What are they doing?” she grumbled.

  Finally, another elegantly dressed woman emerged from the office. She was in her late fifties with short gray hair and reminded me of my old math teacher at school.

  “I’m Margery Rook. Oh! Goodness!” The manager clutched her throat in surprise and turned pink. “Aren’t you Kat Stanford from Fakes and Treasures?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Goodness, a celebrity.” She turned on Carla who had followed her out. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?” she scolded. “This is Kat Stanford, Carla.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Rook.” But Carla still hadn’t a clue who I was nor did she seem to care.

  “I am so sorry,” gushed Mrs. Rook. “And to have kept you waiting out here for all this time! Please, follow me and do call me Margery. Carla—ask cook to make us some tea and bring a selection of cakes—whatever the residents are having today. Naturally.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Rook.”

  As we walked along the thick carpet, Mrs. Rook regarded Mum keenly. “Are you considering Sunny Hill Lodge?”

  “Me?” Mum seemed horrified. “My mind is as sharp as a tack, thank you very much.”

  Mrs. Rook shot me a sympathetic look. “Of course it is, dear. Of course it is.”

  I stifled a smile.

  “It’s always a good idea to put your name down ahead of time,” Mrs. Rook went on. “We have a two-year waiting list.”

  “I expect it moves quite quickly,” Mum said dryly.

  “Actually, no,” said Mrs. Rook. “Some of our residents are in their nineties. They adore it here.” The manager threw open the office door. “Please. After you.”

  We stepped into a luxuriously furnished office overlooking a formal rose garden. I could imagine that in the summer, the air would be filled with their scent.

  “Do sit down.” Mrs. Rook perched on the edge of a pretty armchair covered in a pink-and-white-striped Regency fabric. Mum and I took the pink sofa and sank into a sea of feather cushions and pillows.

  “How much does it cost to live here?” Mum asked bluntly.

  “We cater to the upper levels of society,” said Mrs. Rook carefully. “We do offer payment plans, naturally, but very few of our guests feel the need to.”

  How on earth had Joan or Edith—if she was supporting her—managed to afford to live here for so many years?

  “I hope you don’t think this forward of me, Kat—I hope I can call you Kat?” Mrs. Rook said in a fawning voice. “But every summer we have a charity fund-raiser. It’s a black tie dinner—that kind of thing. I wondered if you might consider being our toastmaster?”

  “Kat would love to,” Mum said. “Wouldn’t you?”

  I really did not want to. Ask me anything you like about an antique and I can tell you but being a witty toastmaster was not one of my fortes. “I’ll need to check my schedule.”

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Rook smoothed her skirt down over her knees. She cleared her throat. “What relation did you say you were to Joan Stark?”

  “Friends,” said Mum. “I’ve known Joan since we were teenagers.”

  “I see. Just friends.”

  “We understand that she has advanced Alzheimer’s,” I put in. “So I’m quite sure that she won’t recognize my mother.”

  Mrs. Rook bit her lip. “I really don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “Is she dead?” Mum demanded.

  “I knew this day would come,” Mrs. Rook said quietly. “The thing is, there is no Joan Stark living here. There never was.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “But … but … that’s not possible,” said Mum.

  “I can assure you we have not broken any laws,” said Mrs. Rook hastily.

  “Laws?” Mum and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  “She’s been a mystery to us, as well.”

  “But we were told she’s been living here for years,” Mum exclaimed.

  There was a knock on the door and a woman in her sixties, dressed in a smart black-and-white uniform, appeared bearing a silver tray of bone china teacups and saucers and a plate of delicious-looking homemade cakes.

  “Ah, here is Brown. Just put the tray down on the table. Carla will pour.”

  “Very good, m’lady,” said Brown and did so. She made the slightest of curtseys and exited the room as Carla returned.

  “The residents like the idea of staff,” Mrs. Rook said. “It makes them feel at home.”

  Mrs. Rook waited until Carla had set out the tea tray and poured three cups.

  “I think I
could do with something stronger,” Mum muttered. For once, I agreed.

  “On Saturday a man came looking for Joan, too,” said Mrs. Rook. “Carla—what was the name of the gentleman?”

  Carla frowned. “I think it was … Bill, Bob…?”

  “Bryan Laney?” I said.

  “That’s right,” Carla said. “He seemed very nervous. He had even brought flowers. It was rather sweet actually.”

  “What did he say when you told him there was no Joan Stark living here?” I asked.

  “He asked if she might have been registered under another name…”

  “This an exclusive facility,” Mrs. Rook chimed in. “We know all our residents. We would have known if Joan Stark had had another name. I told him that.”

  “He did say it was too posh for Joan,” Carla went on. “And then he asked if there were other residential homes. I gave him a list—there are three in the South Hams—and off he went.”

  “It doesn’t seem Joan’s kind of place.” Mum nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps we made a mistake, too, and she is somewhere else?”

  “I don’t know, Mum.” I recalled the care parcels that Muriel in the post office used to give Vera to take to her mother and I distinctly remembered how Alfred’s predecessor would visit Sunny Hill Lodge every Friday. Mum and I used to joke about it.

  “Do you remember a William Bushman?” said Mum.

  “William?” Mrs. Rook said sharply. “Of course!”

  “So he did come here?” I was confused. “Why would William come here if Joan wasn’t here? What aren’t you telling us?”

  “You can leave, Carla,” said Mrs. Rook quickly. “Thank you.”

  “Very good, Mrs. Rook.” And Carla … left.

  Mum and I sat patiently whilst Mrs. Rook’s face underwent a series of expressions ranging from confusion to fear.

  “Alright,” she said. “And you say you’re friends? Not family members?”

  “Yes. Friends. What is going on?” Mum demanded. “Is Joan alright?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Rook. “I’ve never met her. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  Mum and I exchanged looks of astonishment.

  “I can assure you that no one has broken any laws,” Mrs. Rook said again.

  “So you keep saying,” said Mum.