A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall (7 page)

“My grandfather told me that only three people ever knew the locations of the priest holes,” said Shawn thoughtfully. “The person who built it, the master of the house and the estate steward. The secret was passed down from father to son.”

“That's what Rupert told us,” I said.

“Yeah, well … someone
else
knew where it was.” Roxy looked directly at my mother. “Someone who was, perhaps, jealous of Pandora Haslam-Grimley and everything she stood for. Someone who watched on the outside, wishing for a different life. Someone like
you,
Iris.”

“Roxy!” Shawn warned.

“Or maybe you're covering up for someone else?” said Roxy. “Someone in your troupe—or tribe or whatever you call it?”

Mum's jaw tightened. “Don't be ridiculous. I told you, the only part of Honeychurch we were allowed into was the servants' wing.”

And that was a definite lie. Mum had made a comment just mere hours earlier when we had first entered the Great Hall. She'd pointed up to the minstrel's gallery and told Rupert how she and her brothers used to watch the summer balls and spy on the guests.

“We're only asking if you remember anything about that particular ball, that's all,” said Shawn. “It was a costume ball.”

“They were all costume balls,” said Mum. “From what I can remember. I was only fifteen.”

“That would explain the unusual dress that Pandora was wearing,” Shawn said to Roxy. “You see, Iris—you are helping us with our inquiries, after all.”

Roxy continued to stare at my mother. “And let's not forget the heart-shaped necklace with the fake diamond.”

“I don't know why you keep staring at me,” said Mum.

Shawn and Roxy exchanged meaningful glances. He gave her a nod and she retrieved
Lady Chatterley's Lover
from the plastic shopping bag.

“Do you recognize this book, Iris?” said Roxy.

“I saw it earlier. Yes. I recognize this book.”

“So
today
was the first time that you'd seen this book?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Roxy put the book on the table and opened it. The end board was completely covered with the shelf-liner paper—right up to the inner hinge where it had been slit open. Roxy withdrew a small penknife from her pocket.

“Careful!” I exclaimed. “That book is a first edition and very valuable.”

With painstaking precision, Roxy gently removed the paper. There was no dust jacket underneath. She showed Mum and me her handiwork. “Recognize this?”

There, written in ink on the end board itself were the damning words,
This book belongs to Iris Bushman.

“Mum?” I gasped.

“That's not my handwriting,” Mum exclaimed. “I've been framed.”

“If I had a pound for every time I heard that,” Roxy said, “I'd be able to live at Honeychurch Hall myself!”

“Anyway, you can't prove anything,” said Mum.

“How do you explain the Bushman flyer being inside the book?”

“When you're being
framed,
it's hard to explain anything. That's what being
framed
means.”

“There's no way my mother could have bought this book. As you know it was printed in Italy.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe it belonged to Pandora? I can't think how else it would have gotten into the country and as you said, Shawn, she was quite the traveler.”

Chuffah-chuffah-chuffah-chuffah
erupted from Shawn's pocket. The chuffing sound grew louder drowning out all further speculation as Shawn fumbled in his pocket and took out his iPhone.

Shawn hit the answer button and barked, “Cropper,” and turned away to take the call.

“Saved by the Scarborough Spa Express from Wakefield Westgate to Ardsley Tunnel,” Mum declared, shooting Roxy a mutinous look.

There was an awkward silence as we waited for Shawn to hang up.

“Right, Dick and his photographer have finished,” Shawn said to Roxy. “They'll be removing the body tomorrow. But the Yard are sending their own forensic anthropologist over and we've already had phone calls from the local historical society.”

“Does that mean I can go and take the paintings?” I asked.

Roxy looked puzzled.

“I've been asked to do a valuation,” I said. “For the auction.”

“Kat is helping the dowager countess raise money to repair the ceiling,” said Mum.

“Tomorrow should be fine,” said Shawn. “But we'll be holding onto the tools just in case.”

“Of what?” Mum demanded.

“We're still not clear on exactly how Ms. Pandora Haslam-Grimley died.”

“I thought her neck was broken,” I said.

“As I said, when we're sure, we'll let you know.” Shawn gave a nod to Roxy who put the book and the flyer back into her plastic shopping bag. “Thank you for your time. We'll see ourselves out.”

Roxy paused at the kitchen door. “Don't go anywhere, Iris,” she said darkly. “We'll be back.”

“Well?” I said to Mum, the moment we heard the front door slam. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Of course I remember Pandora Haslam-Grimley,” Mum exclaimed. “She was a horrible, horrible girl, nasty, vindictive and a complete tramp. I'm glad she's dead!”

“Oh, Mum!” I wailed. “Please don't tell me you had something to do with this.”

“I can't believe you would think such a thing!” Mum was indignant. “If my own daughter thinks I'm guilty, it's no wonder that the police have practically got me mounting the scaffold.”

“And the book,
Lady Chatterley
—is it yours?”

“Not exactly,” said Mum sheepishly.

“Oh my God, it
is
yours!”

“Let's have a gin and tonic and then I can explain everything.”

 

Chapter Six

“You
stole
it?” I gasped. “From who?”

“Whom, you mean. From
whom.
And I didn't steal it, I borrowed it. Completely different.”

“And you covered it in that funny paper.”

“It's shelf liner,” said Mum. “But no. It was already like that.”

“But your name is inside.”

“That's not my handwriting,” said Mum. “And anyway, I'd hardly go to the trouble of covering it with shelf liner and then promptly writing my name inside. Surely you're not that dense.”

“You would if you didn't want anyone to see what you were reading.”

“Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

“Sorry. You're right,” I said. “You talk and I'll listen.”

“I found the book in the hayloft—”

“Hayloft? What, here? At the Carriage House? What were you doing in the hayloft?”

“I thought you were going to let me speak?”

“Sorry.”

“When we left the park that summer—for the last time, I may add—I put it back. End of story.”

“So … are you saying that the book belonged to someone else? Someone below stairs?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe we should ask Alfred to do a bit of channeling?” I joked. “He's good at communicating with the dead.”

“You leave Alfred out of this,” said Mum quickly.

A peculiar feeling came over me. “Is this something to do with Alfred? Are you protecting him?”

“No,” Mum exclaimed. “What a notion!”

Much as I'd grown to like Mum's stepbrother, I still wasn't sure what to make of him. With a prison record as long as my arm that covered a wide variety of offenses ranging from armed robbery to fraud, it wouldn't surprise me if he was somehow involved.

“That must have been pretty racy stuff for you to read at age fifteen,” I said.

“
You
did.”

“I studied D. H. Lawrence for my A levels,” I said. “And to be honest, I didn't really understand it.”

“Well, nor did I. I just wanted it for some ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“Oh nothing like that,” she said quickly. “No prancing around naked in the rain or threading flowers through the hair on a man's chest—no, I had already started writing stories and wanted to put in a bit of hanky-panky but hadn't a clue where to begin.”

“I trust you found it informative.” I knew I was being sarcastic but Mum didn't seem to notice.

“Oh yes,” she said dreamily. “I think that's when I realized I wanted to be a romance writer. The way that D. H. Lawrence describes his love scenes…” She gave a shiver.
“Yet the passion licked round her, consuming and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels
—
”

“Stop right there!” I exclaimed. “I get the picture.”

“I had to read the book in secret in case Aunt June caught me,” Mum went on. “It was very cramped in our caravan. There were five of us, you know. I don't remember when the ban was lifted, do you?”

“In 1959,” I said.

“Isn't it funny how things change,” Mum mused. “Only last week I was in the hairdresser's in Dartmouth and I overheard two young women chatting quite openly about bondage in
Fifty Shades of Grey.
”

“Weren't you curious as to how a banned book happened to end up in Little Dipperton? It's hardly something you'd pick up at the post office and general store.”

“Sometimes,” said Mum. “At one point I thought it belonged to Mrs. Cropper.”

“The cook?” I laughed. It was hard to imagine the somewhat dour Mrs. Cropper as someone who devoured racy books in secret.

“Don't look like that. We were all young once,” said Mum. “The summer nights were long and hot. Hormones were raging. It was marvelous!” Mum thought for a moment. “Why don't we see who else might have been around in the summer of 1958?”

“Well—yes, on the estate,” I said. “But what if one of the guests decided to get rid of Pandora?”

“Just humor me,” said Mum. “Come on. I'll top up our drinks. You find some nibbles.”

Moments later we were in Mum's office upstairs and she was wheeling her office chair over to where two family trees labeled A
BOVE-
S
TAIRS
and B
ELOW-
S
TAIRS
were spread across the far wall.

My mother's office seemed more chaotic than usual with her new rolltop desk—a Christmas present I'd bought her to take the place of the old dining room table—covered in scrunched-up balls of paper that also littered the floor.

“Slaughtering a few trees today, are we?” I said dryly. “I wish you'd at least try to use a computer.”

“I'm perfectly happy with Daddy's Olivetti, thank you. Besides, it's brought me a lot of luck. Oh—” Mum gave a sigh. “I wonder what
he
would have made of all this. Do you think he would have been proud of me?”

Given that Dad never knew about my mother's secret writing life and all her undisclosed earnings that were being squirreled away in an offshore account, somehow I doubted it.

Mum unearthed two coasters for our drinks in one of the pigeonholes.

“How
is
the new book coming along?” I asked.

“I'm still fiddling about with the story,” said Mum. “But thanks to Pandora—oh, don't look like that—her discovery has given me a brilliant idea. In fact, it's reminded me of something I'd forgotten about. Something I'd buried.”

“
Buried?
Not a body, I hope.”

“Don't be silly. I'm quite excited actually.”

“What is it?”

“Oh—I can't tell you.” Mum beamed. “Now, pull up that stool, bring over the round table, put the peanuts down
there
and let's take a look at my trees.”

I did as I was told.

“Wow!” I was impressed. “You've filled in a lot of blanks. You should get Rupert to pay you for your services!”

Over the last few months, the branches of both family trees had been steadily spreading. As various details came to light, Mum added her Post-it Notes.

“I can start the English Civil War now.” Mum passed me a notepad and a pen. “Seeing that Dobson oil painting was very helpful.”

“The problem is, how do we know that whoever did Pandora in, lived or worked at the Hall?”

“Because whoever put her into the double-hide had to have known where it was,” said Mum. “Maybe it was Edith's brother? As the thirteenth Earl of Grenville, he
must
have known about the location.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But that's no use to us now, is it, considering—”

“He's dead.”

“I wonder how the purse and book came to be left in the first hide,” I said. “When did Rupert say the Tudor wing was sealed off?”

“Before he was born. That would be…” Mum traced her pencil down the line to Rupert's square. “In 1963. Plenty of time for evidence to be planted.”

Mum took a huge gulp of her gin and tonic. I snatched up a handful of peanuts.

We fell into a comfortable silence as we both studied the family trees of both above and below stairs. Mum had given each family below stairs their own color. A series of interconnecting lines showed that there had been a lot of intermarrying going on.

“Isn't it illegal to marry first cousins?” I said.

“Oh, it's just to avoid birth defects,” said Mum airily. “Anyway, our queen and the Duke of Edinburgh are both great-great-great-grandchildren of Queen Victoria so they're related. And Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were first cousins.”

“Well, don't go marrying Alfred,” I said.

“Very funny. You should be a comedienne.”

“You've done a really great job with these family trees—especially below stairs.” I pointed to a list in the margin labeled “Servant Hierarchy.”