Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery (6 page)

“The curtains look great. What are those?” I stepped closer to inspect half a dozen strips of paper that dangled from the ceiling and were covered in black dots. “Flies!” I exclaimed. “How disgusting!”

“But effective,” said Mum. “I found a box of coils in the old tack room. They’re coated with arsenic. We seem to be having an invasion of flies this summer.”

A huge oak dresser stretched the length of one wall. “Nice dresser. Was that here, too?”

“I’m glad you approve of something.”

“It’s nineteenth century. Quite valuable actually,” I said. “And perfect for your china.”

“I know.” Mum had displayed her collection of royal commemoration plates, reproduction Buckingham Palace china, and Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee china on the shelves above the dresser. A framed wedding photograph of Prince William and Kate Middleton stood in the center. Mum had an obsession about the royal family—something Dad and I used to joke about.

“William told me that Princess Anne is a regular visitor up at the house,” said Mum. “All these aristocratic families are connected, you know, especially when there are horses involved. His Royal Highness Prince Philip—that’s the Duke of Edinburgh—is a personal friend of the dowager countess.”

“Would this dowager countess ride sidesaddle by any chance?”

“Yes. I’ve seen her out riding, but of course her sort wouldn’t mix with the likes of us,” said Mum.

“What do you mean
her
sort?” I scoffed.

“The gentry.”

“That’s silly, Mum,” I said. “They’re just like you and me.”

“No, Katherine, believe me, they are not,” said Mum. “There are them … and there are us.”

“I saw the little boy out riding,” I said. “He looked pretty normal.”

“Normal?” said Mum. “Who wears flying goggles on horseback? William told me they have a lot of problems with that child. He’s a little light-fingered.”

“Light-
fingered
?” I laughed again at Mum’s old-fashioned terms and then remembered that Harry had wasted no time in borrowing Jazzbo Jenkins, which was rather worrying.

“I wonder how old Lady Lavinia was when she had him?” said Mum. “How old are you now? I lose track.”

“I’m absolutely starving. Shall I rustle up some scrambled eggs for supper?” I said, steering the subject away from my childbearing years. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

“Why do women these days leave it so late to have children?” asked Mum. “Don’t they realize their own mothers don’t live forever? I am so looking forward to being a—”

“Grandmother, so you keep telling me,” I said. “Where do you keep the bread?”

“In the pantry.” Mum gestured to two doors, side by side, next to the oak dresser. I tried the door on the left and was startled to find it opened directly into a field. Equally startled was the small herd of Devonshire cows that took off at great speed, splashing through a large pool of muddy water and snorting with indignation.

I hastily closed the door. “There are cows outside!”

“Yes. I know,” said Mum mildly. “This is the country. Lovely, aren’t they?”

The pantry was the walk-in kind with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a square butcher table set against a tall, narrow window that looked directly into a hedge laden with ripe blackberries. The small room was in desperate need of a coat of paint but it was clean and Mum had painstakingly lined every surface with adhesive paper in a cheerful red gingham pattern. Presumably this fiddly job was done before her accident.

The shelves were stacked with cans of soup and long-life cartons of food. Dad had always had a thing about being prepared for an invasion—even after the Berlin Wall came down. On the floor were at least a dozen one-gallon containers of water.

I retrieved the bread from a china bread crock, grabbed the Bombay Sapphire and set it down on the kitchen table. “I’m glad to see you’re still prepared for a nuclear attack,” I said. “Why all that water? Can’t you drink from the tap?”

“Oh yes,” said Mum. “But the water is for emergencies.”

“In case there is a drought?”

“No. Because of that wretched, disgusting Eric Pugsley.”

Mum’s tone suggested that now was not the time to mention I’d already met him and that he’d damaged her brand new MINI. “I gather you don’t like him?” I said tentatively.

“
Pugsley,
” she spat. “He wanted this place, you know. He rents the two fields behind—Cromwell Meadows.”

“Cromwell, as in Oliver Cromwell?” I said, steering the subject away from Eric. “Was there a battlefield here by any chance?”

“Oh yes,” said Mum. “Honeychurch Hall used to be a Royalist stronghold during the English Civil War. Fascinating stuff. It’s where Cromwell supposedly set up camp for the final attack which is exactly what
Pugsley
is doing to me—attacking.”

“But you did
buy
the Carriage House, didn’t you?” I asked.

“In a sealed bid,” said Mum. “Why?”

“It
does
belong to you. You’ve got the deeds?”

“Of course!” Mum was getting irritable. “But
Pugsley
won’t have it. Every night that odious man turns off the water supply to this house.”

“How?”

“The water valve is in his field,” said Mum. “You must have seen the giant puddle when you looked out the back door.”

“No, I was too fascinated by the cows.”

“I can’t switch the water on again because you need both hands to use the crowbar thingy to turn the valve.”

“Why would Eric bother to turn if off?”

“Because he’s furious and is determined to make my life difficult and get me out.” Mum gestured at the oak dresser. “Fetch the glasses, dear, otherwise I’ll die of thirst.”

I did as she asked and unscrewed the lid from the gin bottle. Mum poured us both a huge measure that could have knocked out a horse. “Tonic is in the fridge.”

On seeing my expression she said, “You’re not driving anywhere.”

I fetched the tonic water and grabbed a box of eggs, noting the color of the deep-brown shells. Spying a bowl of ripe tomatoes I inhaled the sweet scent. “These are wonderful. I can even smell them.”

“All from the walled garden,” said Mum proudly. “And you can definitely taste the difference from the supermarket—or to be more precise, the Patels’ corner shop.”

“Did you confront Eric about the water situation?”

“Of course I did and of course he denied it. He even offered me money to move—but I told him to stuff it.”

A few minutes later I set two plates of scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and buttered toast on the table. “I’ll make something a bit more adventurous tomorrow.”

“As long as it’s not that revolting chicken thing. The one with the grapes.” Mum picked up a fork and held it awkwardly in her left hand. “You see! I can’t do anything. Anything at
all
.” She threw her fork down on the table with a clatter.

“Let me,” I said, cutting up the toast into soldiers and halving the tomatoes. “I’ll get you a spoon and then you can tell me all about your accident.”

“Two weeks ago I was driving through Eric’s field—before he put up that ridiculous gate banning me from using the tradesman’s entrance—” Mum took a large sip of gin and gave a satisfying shiver. “There is a sharp bend and a deep grassy ditch on one side and suddenly, he zooms out of nowhere on that huge tractor of his, hand hard on the horn and it startled me so much that I swung the wheel and plunged into the ditch. The steering wheel caught my hand and I heard a loud
snap
.”

“Oh Mum, that’s terrible.”

“And he didn’t even stop! He just breezed on by. No, I actually think he was laughing.”

“I can’t believe—”

“He was
laughing,
I tell you.” Mum was getting heated and took another large swig of gin.

“How did you get to the hospital?”

“Fortunately, William came along in his Land Rover. He took me to the hospital and yes, my thumb was broken.
Broken!
Six weeks in a cast, then months of physical therapy.”

“Did your airbag go off?”

“I was only going five miles an hour—”

“And how did you get the MINI out of the ditch?”

“William. Without so much as a scratch—thank
heavens,
” said Mum. “You should see his biceps. He may be the wrong end of fifty but he’s very strong—then,
Pugsley
had the nerve to say it was my fault because I was trespassing on his land!”

“What about your black eye?” I said. “How did you do that?”

“Pugsley.”

“He
hit
you?” I gasped.

“I fell down the drain in the dark on my way to the dustbins.”

“How can that be Eric’s fault?”

“I’d put some planks of wood over the hole and he must have removed them,” Mum said. “Deliberately.”

“Maybe you need a surveillance camera,” I said lightly.

“Exactly,” said Mum. “The equipment should arrive tomorrow.”

“Actually, I was joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Is it worth living here with all the hassle, Mum?” I said. “Put your emotions aside and be practical for a moment.”

“You sound just like your father.” Mum picked up a tomato with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.

I had a sudden thought. “But if you’d already broken your hand, how did the MINI get stuck down that old farm track?”

“How do you know it’s stuck?”

“Because,
Mother,
my Golf is parked right behind your MINI. I told you.”

“I thought I could get out that way.”

“You seriously thought you could drive in a cast?”

“I only needed one hand. The MINI is an automatic, you know,” said Mum. “I had a hair appointment. Look at my roots! I’m completely gray but we’d had rain and my car has no traction in the mud. William said he’d help me pull it out. That reminds me, he still has my car keys. He said he’d do it today.”

An image of Eric pulling off the broken fender flashed through my mind. Perhaps Mum was right about him trying to get her to leave. I changed the subject. “Is there a loo down here?”

“Yes, off the old tack room. Go through the latch door into the carriageway.” Mum reached for the bottle. “I’ll just pour myself another gin. I must say I’m feeling a lot better now you’re here.”

“I think that’s got something to do with the gin.”

I slipped into the old part of the building. A full moon shone through the central skylight that ran the length of an arch-braced roof, illuminating a world that belonged to another century.

Mum was right when she said that this part had not been touched for decades. At the far end stood a pair of twenty-foot-high arched double doors on iron runners. Tendrils of ivy had forced their way through bricks and rusting hinges. The floor was cobbled herringbone. At one time there would have been room for four horse-drawn carriages but now it stood empty.

All the original fixtures remained. A row of stalls stood on either side accessed through redbrick arches bearing the family crest of arms and motto. I stepped through one to find six stalls divided by wooden timber boards topped with iron railings and newel posts. Bite and hoof marks peppered the dividers.

Each stall had a triangular water trough in one corner and an iron hayrack in the other. Above that was a small hatch accessing the hayloft. The cobbled floors still bore faint signs of habitation—dried dung that had crumbled into dust, wisps of straw black with age, and endless droppings from birds nesting in the eaves. Metal name plaques were attached to each stall door:
FIDDLESTICKS, CHINA CUP, TIN MAN, LADY, BRIAR PATCH,
and
MISTY.
Horses from long ago that were now resting in equine heaven.

I closed my eyes and for a moment, could hear the chomp of hay, a whinny, the hustle and bustle of stable lads fetching feed and water. I could smell the leather harnesses and see the horses being groomed. A golden time when the rich were very rich and the servants—if they were lucky—had one afternoon off a month.

Another door opened into a small sitting room where a pair of moth-eaten wingback armchairs sat beside a Victorian fireplace filled with empty cigarette packets and rubbish. Beyond that was the loo—a rectangular wood-clad box with a hinged lid. Above, the wood-clad cistern clung unsteadily to the wall. Suspended from that was a silver pull chain with a painted porcelain handle.

I gingerly lifted the lid and peered inside. The bowl was painted with horse heads and decorated with wildflowers. It almost seemed a crime to use it. However, my opinion changed rapidly afterward when I pulled the chain and the cladding from the cistern came crashing down onto the floor, narrowly missing my big toe.

I stalked back to the kitchen. “You should have warned me about the loo.”

“Ah, there you are, dear,” said Mum. “This is William.”

An enormous man in his late fifties was sitting at the kitchen table gently massaging Mum’s bare arm just above her cast. His hands were the size of hams and Mum was certainly right about his biceps. They were so large that they almost seemed deformed.

“Hello. I’m Kat,” I said.

William looked up and smiled. “Yes, I know. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I detected a faint northern accent. William was still handsome with piercing blue eyes and thinning blond hair. He must have been stunning in his youth like Robert Redford in his Sundance Kid days. “Does that feel better, Iris?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mum said. “William says he massages the horses’ legs to get the circulation going.”

“That’s right,” said William. “It’s an important step on the road to recovery.”

Mum pointed to the draining board. “He brought some strawberries.
Chocolate
strawberries.”

An alarm bell went off in my head. Chocolate strawberries? He probably thought she was a merry widow. “Well, I can massage Mum’s arm now, William,” I said firmly. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” William got to his feet. “I’ve been worrying about you, haven’t I, Iris?”

“Fussing, more like,” scolded Mum.

“You should see a doctor about those headaches of yours.”

“She’s always had headaches,” I said. “Ever since I was a teenager but she won’t listen to me.”