A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall (28 page)

“Joan told me she saw it on Facebook.”

“Facebook!” Mum and I chorused.

“She said something about liking some treasure hunting club page,” said Mrs. Cropper. “I wouldn't know. I don't like Facebook. Everyone knowing everyone's business.”

“How would you know?” said Mum. “There's no Internet here and you don't have a computer.”

“So?” Mrs. Cropper sneered. “Nor do you!”

The two women were acting like children.

“Did you know that Bryan was married?” I asked Mrs. Cropper.

Her jaw dropped. “No!”

“It's his fifth wife,” Mum declared.

“Fifth!”
Mrs. Cropper exclaimed. “Does Joan know?”

“How would we know if Joan knows,” said Mum. “So you
are
in touch with her? Was it
you
who started the rumor about her Alzheimer's?”

“Alright. I'll tell you everything.” Mrs. Cropper seemed defeated. “To be honest, it's a relief.”

We sat down at the table.

“When Bryan joined the Navy—that would have been the same summer as the Pandora business—Joan was gutted.” Mrs. Cropper gave a heavy sigh. “You see, after the ball, they'd run off together but a week later, she was back home. She said that Bryan was going off to sea to make a lot of money and that he'd come back for her. Of course, we all knew what a cad he was but Joan refused to believe us. He'd come home on leave; they'd have a bit of a fling and then he'd go off again for another nine months or so—always keeping her dangling. I told her to forget him but she said she'd had her fortune told and that he was the one for her.”

“How silly,” Mum said with scorn.

“
You
told Joan her fortune, Iris,” said Mrs. Cropper. “Madame Z's Psychic Touch! It was you who said he only had eyes for her.”

“But no one believes all that nonsense,” Mum protested. “Good grief. How old was she, twentysomething?”

Mrs. Cropper regarded my mother with utter dislike.

“But didn't she get married?” I said. “She had Vera, after all.”

“Married my brother,” said Mrs. Cropper. “Always running off to meet Bryan when his ship came to port. She as good as killed him. Broke his heart, she did. Abandoned her own daughter. Poor Vera. We brought her up as best we could.”

“But didn't Vera want to know what happened to her mother?” I said. “I know I would.”

“That's gratifying,” Mum muttered.

“But, Alzheimer's!” I was truly astonished “What about the care parcels? Was that your idea to keep up this disgusting pretense?”

“It was Muriel's at the post office,” said Mrs. Cropper, who had the grace to look embarrassed. “I just gave them to William.”

“And he never said anything?”

“It's none of your business!” Mrs. Cropper was defiant. “I just tried to protect Vera and now she's gone. It doesn't matter anymore, does it? No one need know. No harm done.”

“But there is harm done,” I exclaimed. “Especially if Joan killed Bryan—”

“I bet she found out he was married and snapped,” said Mum.

“What about Pandora, though?” I said.

“Joan wouldn't have known about the double-hide,” Mrs. Cropper insisted.

“She would if you are right in saying she had a fling with Edith's brother,” I said. “Maybe he told her where the double-hide was?”

“If anyone wanted to hurt Pandora it was you, Iris,” Mrs. Cropper said. “Everyone knew how angry you were about Pandora wearing your Egyptian costume.”

“I was. And I don't deny it.”

The two women glowered at each other until Mum said, “Joan did it. I'm sure of it—and she tried to frame me by forging my signature in that book.”

“What's all this talk about forgery?” Lavinia strolled into the kitchen with Harry, who was sporting a black eye.

“Oh Harry!” I exclaimed. “What happened?”

Harry grinned. “You should see the other chap, Stanford!”

“Harry has been fighting!” Lavinia fumed. “We've been summoned to the headmaster's office first thing tomorrow morning. When Rupert finds out he is going to be
livid.
”

Harry put up his fists and did a quick left-right hook. “Alfred was right. He said they'd be cowards. You should have seen how they scarpered when Max went down.”

“You hit Max!” I gasped.

“That lad had it coming,” said Mrs. Cropper. “Good for you.”

“Alfred is an excellent teacher,” Mum chimed in.

“Where is Alfred?” Lavinia went on. “Surely he can't
still
have a headache?”

“It's a migraine, m'lady,” said Mum, reverting to her old way of greeting Lavinia. For a brief time they'd been on first-name terms but not anymore. “Still clinging onto life by a thread.”

“Well call a doctor for heaven's sake. Cropper will do it—Cropper!” Lavinia yelled.

“There's no need for that,” said Mum.

Cropper glided silently into the kitchen. “Here, m'lady.”

“Cropper, call Dr. Smeaton,” said Lavinia. “Tell him it's urgent and we need him to make a house call right away.”

“Oh, surely, not,” Mum protested. “Alfred will be as right as rain tomorrow. He just had a chill.”

“I thought he had a migraine?”

“It turned into a chill,” said Mum quickly. “And besides, Katherine's very happy to help with the horses. She loves it, don't you, Katherine?”

“Yes, I'm helping with the horses and I love it.”

“When I tell Alfred about what happened with Max, I bet he'll feel better!” Harry chimed in. “A chap has to teach another chap a lesson—Ouch!”

Lavinia had cuffed Harry around the ear.

“You'll do no such thing. In fact, you can go straight to your room without your milk and cake today, young man.”

Harry kept grinning. He seemed to be wearing his black eye as a badge of honor. Lavinia grabbed him by the elbow and roughly steered him out of the kitchen. Harry shot a parting grin over his shoulder. I gave him a military salute.

“The doctor can come tomorrow morning, m'lady,” we heard Cropper say. “His wife said he is attending a home birth this evening.”

I couldn't make out Lavinia's reply other than “maddening.”

The four of us stood in the kitchen.

Cropper looked to Mrs. Cropper with a frown.

“They know about Joan,” she said flatly.

He nodded. “Ah.”

“And don't say I-told-you-so,” Mrs. Cropper said.

Cropper gave her a nod but didn't say a word.

“We should tell Shawn,” I said.

“But not her ladyship?” said Mrs. Cropper. “Please don't tell her ladyship.”

“I think Shawn should make that decision,” I said. “Come on, Mum.”

We left the kitchen and headed back to the car. “Where to now?”

“Eric,” said Mum. “Maybe he knows where Joan lives.”

“Let's stay out of it,” I said.

“Suit yourself, but I'm going.”

 

Chapter Thirty

We found Eric watching the hydraulic press slowly squeeze what life was left in his end-of-life vehicles until they were as flat as pancakes. He cut a lonely figure and I thought that out of all the people I'd met at the Hall, Eric seemed to be the one who had surprised me the most. Mum had disliked him from the start but the more I got to know him, the more I realized he had a good heart.

“I wonder if that car crusher could do something for Eric's eyebrows,” said Mum. “You know—flatten them out.”

The moment Eric saw us coming he stopped the machine and waited for us to pick our way through the mounds of tires and various pieces of discarded machinery. I thought of the tire iron that was used to kill Bryan. Eric's scrapyard wasn't far from where Bryan's camper van had been parked.

“We've come to talk about your mother-in-law, Joan,” said Mum bluntly.

“What about her?”

“We know she doesn't have Alzheimer's,” Mum declared.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” said Eric. “She's up at the care home, Sunny Hill Lodge.”

“Have you ever been there?” Mum said.

Eric bristled. “Why?”

“Have you?” Mum insisted.

“It's no business of yours.” He scowled. “Let things be.”

“So you were in on the lie,” Mum said.

“You don't know the half of it,” Eric said. “Joan would write to Vera, always asking for money. I never showed Vera the letters. Always the hard-luck story and then she'd disappear again—meet some man or other.”

I could see Eric's point but even so, surely that would have been something that Vera should have decided for herself.

“Did you keep her letters?” Mum said suddenly.

“I hid them.” Eric gestured to a stack of flattened cars at the far end of the row. “They're probably still in there. I had to hide stuff. Vera was always suspicious. Always thinking I was having an affair.”

“Why did you keep them?”

Eric looked uncomfortable. “I kept meaning to tell Vera. You know, one day, like. But—then she died.” He regarded us with suspicion. “Why do you want to see them?”

“I think Joan was the one who forged Pandora's thank you letter to her ladyship,” I said. “We want to compare the writing.”

“Then, that's a matter for Shawn to decide, not you.”

“Why?” Mum demanded.

“It's none of your business, that's why.” Eric thrust out his jaw. “It's private.”

“It is my business!”

“Okay, we understand,” I said soothingly. “But will you at least show Shawn Joan's letters?”

“No, I will not,” said Eric. “It's best to let things be. What good would it do now?”

“Because we think Joan killed Bryan in a crime of passion,” said Mum. “Bludgeoned him to death with one of
your
tire irons—in case you've forgotten.”

Eric just blinked.

“And she may have kidnapped Ginny…”

“Don't be so bloody daft,” Eric exclaimed. “Joan's in her seventies! You really think she bundled Ginny into the back of her own car?”

Mum stood her ground. “Joan must have given you her address.”

“Iris…” Eric sounded exasperated. “Let it go.”

“At least tell us where she lives?” I said.

“She's got a place in Paignton. Affordable housing. That kind of thing. That's all I know.”

Eric switched on the car crusher engine. The noise ended all further conversation.

Mum and I tramped back to the Carriage House. “Eric could be right—at least about Ginny's abduction. We must tell Shawn,” I said for the umpteenth time. “Oh—speak of the Devil.”

Shawn's panda was parked in the courtyard. He and Roxy emerged from the carriageway.

“Ah, there you are,” said Shawn. “We'd like a quick word with you, Mrs. Stanford.”

“Good, because we'd like a quick word with you, wouldn't we, Kat?”

I nodded. “We've discovered that Joan Stark has never had Alzheimer's nor does she live at Sunny Hill Lodge.”

“How do you know that?” Roxy exclaimed.

“I wish you would let the police do their job,” said Shawn crossly.

“Why don't we go inside and put the kettle on,” I suggested.

“Did
you
know that your grandmother has been covering for Joan?” Mum demanded.

Shawn's expression was hard to read. “No, to tea, Kat. But thank you.”

“We'd like to talk to
you,
Mrs. Stanford, down at the station,” said Roxy.

Mum's jaw dropped. “Whatever for?”

“Newton Abbot has come through with their surveillance tape,” said Roxy with obvious relish. “You were seen getting out of your car at Heathfield Business Park.”

“That wasn't me!” Mum said hotly. “I told you, my car was stolen by joyriders!”

“A bit odd for one person to be joyriding on his own,” said Roxy. “Usually they run in packs.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Mum wearily. “And besides, how can you possibly think it was me in that balaclava?”

Roxy shot Shawn a look of triumph. “We didn't mention anything about a balaclava.”

“The same person was seen exiting Luxton's warehouse carrying four large objects that looked very much like boxed-up works of art.”

My heart started to thump as I wondered if my car had been spotted, too.

Shawn stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Mrs. Stanford may be right, Roxy. Although the person of interest that we spotted seemed a female, perhaps it was a male of similar build.”

Roxy nodded. “Is Alfred Bushman here?”

“He's ill,” said Mum quickly.

“We were told he was recuperating at the Carriage House,” Roxy said suspiciously. “What's wrong with him?”

“A headache—a migraine—a chill! I don't know,” said Mum with rising hysteria. “Does it matter what's wrong with him? He's just not well!”

“And where is
your
car, Ms. Stanford?” Shawn looked around the interior of the carriageway in mock disbelief. “I see it's not here! I do hope it hasn't been stolen.”

I felt I was part of a Victorian farce. I caught Mum's frantic appeal for help.

“I left it at Jane's Cottage.” I couldn't believe I had actually lied to a police officer.

“We'll need to take your fingerprints, Mrs. Stanford,” said Roxy.

“Of course my fingerprints are going to be in the MINI.” Mum rolled her eyes. “It's my car! And Alfred's will be on there, too—oh!” I could almost hear what was going through my mother's mind. The last thing she wanted was for the police to run Alfred's fingerprints. They would discover that his rap sheet was practically a mile long.