A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall (32 page)

Of course Bryan had been snooping around Jane's Cottage. He probably had his suspicions all along but he could hardly start digging up the floor.

I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up—let alone my own but in the end I thought it best to share my theory with Rupert and I was glad I did.

Enlisting Eric's help and armed with spades, pickaxes and a wheelbarrow, the three of us spent hours at Jane's Cottage pulling up the old floors but we found absolutely nothing. It was so disheartening.

Around four-thirty, just when it was beginning to get dark, I stepped outside to take a break. I was so disappointed and felt more than a little foolish. I'd been so sure about finding the warren well under the floor of Jane's Cottage—and so had Rupert.

Joan was right. The well had vanished.

I heard a rustle in the undergrowth—probably a rabbit—and turned to see the old brick privy in the trees.

On a whim, I just had an idea. Retrieving a flashlight from the cottage I headed back to the privy and looked for a way inside. Ivy and vines had crept into the crevices and in the summer months, it would have been almost impossible to see the building at all.

The wooden door was half off its hinges, most of the roof tiles had gone and it really was little more than a shell. The frame was rotten and the door just flopped forward. I heaved it aside and stepped into the darkness.

Along the back wall was the privy itself.

It was made of wooden slats but instead of one hole to sit over, there were two. After all these years, I couldn't imagine there would be anything gross down there but even so, I braced myself to take a peek below.

Both holes were filled to the brim with leaves and detritus and dried up—yuck. I hunted around for a long stick and started poking and prodding at the surface. The hole on the left was disgusting and once I'd picked off the surface, it released the most terrible stench. With tiles missing from the roof and all this rain the contents didn't bear thinking about.

But the other hole was different. It contained nothing but rubble and stones.

Call it a hunch, but I just kept picking away with my stick until I saw red brick. I scraped along and found more. And then more—until I knew I'd uncovered the cylindrical rim of the warren well.

I charged back to Jane's Cottage just as Rupert and Eric were loading the tools back into Eric's Land Rover.

“I'm sorry,” said Rupert. “We've made a mess of your floors. I'll personally replace them for you—what?” He took one look at my face and broke into a wide grin. “You've found it, haven't you?”

The space in the privy was small for the three of us but Eric and Rupert managed to dismantle the wooden loo to give us more room. I held the flashlight and the two of them dug with spades in a fever of excitement.

After just twenty minutes, Rupert gave a cry of surprise. “Look! It's here. By God, I don't believe it!”

Eric and I crowded in to look. There, about six feet down, tucked into a recess that had been cut out of the well wall was a large, but very dirty, earthenware pot.

“Kat—will you do the honors?” beamed Rupert.

With the two men holding onto each leg, I leaned down and prized the pot loose.

It was filled to the brim with silver coins.

 

Chapter Thirty-five

News of the discovery of the famous Honeychurch mint filled the front pages of both the
Dipperton Deal
and the
Daily Post
that Saturday morning.

Bryan's widow generously allowed the newspapers access to the receipt book that was in Bryan's possession showing that it wasn't just the wealthy who had supported the Royalist cause—but “people of all persuasions” who had contributed what little they had and expected repayment.

The tools discovered in the double-hide were given lavish descriptions as to their purpose and confirmed that the Honeychurch clan had played an important and dangerous role in supporting the king all those centuries ago.

But, as an antique dealer, what was utterly thrilling was that among the silver pennies, shillings, half-crowns and crowns minted at the Hall, were six extremely rare solid silver Declaration Pounds dated 1643.

Set up initially as the new mint for the doomed King Charles I's victory over Cromwell, each coin bore the words, L
ET
G
OD ARISE AND LET
H
IS ENEMIES BE SCATTERED,
symbolizing the king's belief in the absolute monarch to rule by divine right. Charles was beheaded for high treason against the people just six years after the coin was created.

Last year just one Declaration Pound had fetched a staggering fifty-six thousand pounds at Duke's of Dorchester auction house. Edith parted with three and put the rest in the Museum Room.

The plasterwork in the King's Parlor could now be restored, after all.

As to the discovery of Pandora Haslam-Grimley's body, it was deemed an unfortunate accident—the result of a game of Smee that went wrong. Bryan's death, however, was told in lurid detail in the
Daily Post
but since he had not literally grown up on the Honeychurch Hall estate and Joan had left the area as a young woman, his death warranted just a short paragraph in the
Dipperton Deal.

Joan may not have suffered from Alzheimer's but she was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and was currently awaiting arraignment.

Surprisingly, there was nothing written by Ginny Riley.

As for David, he turned up with his team of experts just before the Hollar drawings came up for sale and dramatically called a halt to the proceedings only to discover that the drawings on offer were crude fakes.

To say that David was left with the proverbial egg all over his face was putting it mildly.

“I told you to trust Alfred,” whispered Mum. “Although he's not very happy. He could have done flawless copies but he thought David needed taking down a peg or two.”

That evening, we all celebrated a victory in the library with champagne, including Shawn and the twins. Roxy was noticeably absent.

“She'll be disciplined, of course,” said Shawn. “A police officer must be impartial at all times. I think she's learned her lesson.”

Harry bounded in, bursting with excitement. “Guess what?” he exclaimed. “Max, Jed, Emerson, Ronan and Callum have asked me to go with them to Paignton Zoo tomorrow. Can I, Father?”

It would seem that Harry's show-and-tell with the Honeychurch mint and stories of buried treasure had made him the most popular boy in the class.

“Of course,” said Rupert. “And perhaps they'd like to come back here for some of Mrs. Cropper's homemade cake afterward.”

“Wicked!” Harry beamed.

I saw Lavinia blanch, but she didn't say a word.

The next morning I got a call from Ginny. “I just wanted to let you know that the
Daily Post
won't be running the Honeychurch series, after all.”

It had been the one thing I still dreaded. “I know everyone will be happy, but what changed?”

“Trudy Wynne asked me not to report David's snafu and the cost of all the manpower that went into the operation,” said Ginny. “In exchange, she agreed to the series being dropped.” Ginny took a deep breath. “Actually, she offered me a job at the
Daily Post
and I accepted.”

“Congratulations,” I said but deep down I knew it would really change her.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I did a lot of thinking out on Dartmoor when I honestly thought I wasn't going to make it. I did Roxy a great wrong by abusing her confidentiality and you've always been a good friend to me. I'm sorry.”

Later, as Mum, Alfred and I sat at the kitchen table reliving the last few days, I said, “So where
are
the original Hollar drawings?”

“Where do you think?” Alfred chuckled. “Back in the King's Parlor where they belong.”

“Her ladyship is so happy,” said Mum.

“And we are, too. Mum, will you join me in a toast?”

We raised our glasses and cried, “To Alfred for saving the day.”

He grinned and said, “I told you to trust me.”

 

ALSO BY
HANNAH DENNISON

Murder at Honeychurch Hall

Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall

The Vicky Hill Series

Accused!

Thieves!

Exposé!

Scoop!

A Vicky Hill Exclusive!

 

About the Author

HANNAH DENNISON
began her writing career in 1977 as a trainee reporter for a small West Country newspaper in Devon, England. She is also the author of the Vicky Hill mysteries. Hannah lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and two crazy Vizslas. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

    

 

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