A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall (27 page)

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 O
FFICE.

“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.

“I don't know when William started bringing the care parcels,” she said. “It was during Mrs. Nash's—that was my predecessor—time. She passed away four years ago.”

“I'm stunned,” I said to Mum. “Do you think William was in on it?”

“But why? What could he possibly gain?” said Mum. “It makes no sense.”

“William was very popular with the residents,” Mrs. Rook went on. “He always came on Friday for bingo. He was the caller, of course. Then one day, he didn't show up and we never heard from him again.”

“But why would he do that?” I said again.

“We didn't think to question why,” said Mrs. Rook. “We were just happy that he wanted to spend time with the residents. As I say—we've done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

“But didn't you think to tell William there was no Joan Stark here?”

“I don't know what Mrs. Nash told him,” said Mrs. Rook. “All I know is that Mrs. Nash said that the care parcels were to be distributed among the residents.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Mum coldly. “Didn't it ever cross your mind to trace the packages? To find out where the real Joan Stark could be?”

“We assumed she must have died.” Mrs. Rook reddened. “It was just magazines and chocolates. Sometimes some lovely French soap. I honestly don't know what all the fuss is about.”

Mum got up. “We're going.”

Mrs. Rook leapt to her feet, clearly flustered. “You're not going to tell Mr. Pelham-Burns, are you?”

“It depends,” Mum said.

“Who is Mr. Pelham-Burns?” I asked.

“He's the chairman of the board,” said Mrs. Rook, looking decidedly nervous.

“Of course not,” I said.

“And we can count on you for our fund-raiser?”

“I need to check my calendar,” I said. “But I'll be in touch.”

Mum was already out the door.

“You need a code!” Mrs. Rook shouted.

I caught Mum up at the front door banging numbers at random on the security panel.

Carla materialized behind us and calmly said, “Allow me.” There was a loud buzz and Mum took off across the car park like some wild animal freed from a cage.

She didn't speak until we were halfway down the drive.

“That wretched Mrs. Cropper,” Mum snarled as she put her foot to the pedal. “She knows. She knows all about Joan. She has to.”

“But why? I just don't understand why anyone would create such a lie. I mean—did poor Vera not know the truth about her mother?”

“That's what we're going to find out.”

“Eric must know something, too,” I said. “They all grew up together.”

“So Eric was in on it as well,” said Mum with disgust. “After all, Joan is his mother-in-law.”

“No, I don't think so,” I said. “He told me that Bryan asked where she lived and Eric told him Sunny Hill Lodge. He would hardly have told him that if she didn't.”

“Unless he was throwing you off the scent.”

Mum had a point.

“We're outsiders, Katherine,” said Mum grimly. “Why should we be told anything that doesn't concern us?”

“So who do you think broke the news to Joan about her daughter's death?” I said.

“Remember Vera's funeral?” Mum said. “We never gave it a second thought that Joan wasn't there.”

“But where is Joan now?” I wondered. “I mean—where does she live? She can't be local otherwise people would know, wouldn't they?”

“I bet she was the one who attacked Bryan,” said Mum.

“But how would she know that Bryan was back in the neighborhood?”

“That wretched Mrs. Cropper,” Mum said. “I bet she told her.”

“What shall we do?” I said.

“I'm going to have a talk with my friend
Peggy,
that's what I'm going to do.”

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

Mrs. Cropper was rolling out pastry on the kitchen table as Mum burst into the room.

“We've just been to Sunny Hill Lodge,
Peggy,
” she declared.

All the color drained out of Mrs. Cropper's face. “Oh,” she whispered.

“Just what on earth is going on?” Mum cried. “Does her ladyship know about Joan Stark?”

“No, no!” Mrs. Cropper clutched at her throat in genuine terror. “Please don't tell her.”

“That depends on your explanation,” said Mum coldly.

Mrs. Cropper's expression was one of abject misery. “Seth and I tried to keep it quiet. We really did.” She looked over at the kitchen door. “Harry will be back from school any minute.”

“I'll close it,” I said and did so. “Why don't we all sit down and have a cup of tea?”

“I think I might need something stronger,” Mrs. Cropper whispered. “There's some sloe gin in the pantry.”

“I'll get it,” I said and did that, too.

Mum gestured for Mrs. Cropper to sit down. I poured three glasses of sloe gin.

Mrs. Cropper knocked back her glass in one go. She took a deep breath. “Joan never had Alzheimer's.”

“Clearly. That much we know,” said Mum.

“Vera was my niece,” said Mrs. Cropper. “I just wanted to protect her, that's all.”

“That's quite a spectacular story,” I pointed out. “I would be devastated if I had been Vera.”

“It started out as such a small white lie,” Mrs. Cropper went on.

I looked at Mum pointedly. “As lies often do.”

“Joan was evil. She was a horrible person and a horrible mother,” Mrs. Cropper said passionately. “She caused endless grief to her ladyship.”

“Like what?” Mum demanded.

“You wouldn't know what she was really like just visiting the Hall in the summer months,” said Mrs. Cropper. “But she flung herself at every man to make Bryan jealous—even her ladyship's brother, Lord Rupert. That was the last straw.”

“So why would you tell Joan that Bryan Laney had come back to Little Dipperton?” I asked.

Mrs. Cropper gasped. “I did no such thing.”

“You must have done!” Mum declared. “The phone call that morning in your kitchen. It was a hang-up. Someone asking for Bryan Laney and demanding to know my name.”

Mrs. Cropper bristled with indignation. “Yes. It's true. She did call me but I did not tell her about Bryan being here. I would never do that.”

“Well, how did she find out?” Mum demanded.