Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (14 page)

Eric leapt from his seat. “So sorry,” he said again.

“What on earth are you doing down here?” Edith demanded. “Have you finished clearing the ditches in Cromwell Meadows already?”

Eric's eyes met my own. He gave a tiny, imperceptible nod that I took to mean that he'd moved the placards from the field per Lavinia's order.

“Well?” Edith demanded. “Cat got your tongue?”

Eric seemed nervous. He licked his lips. “Er … well … Tom told me the water trough wasn't filling up so I came to check.”

“Why?” Edith barked. “That's Tom's job.”

“It needed two pairs of hands,” Eric mumbled. “And then I saw I couldn't use the top gate. That damn car has been parked up there since early morning. Tom saw it when he came to feed the cows at first light.”

“There's no sign of the driver at all?” I said sharply. Surely Valentine's car couldn't have been there all night.

“I'm going to get that thing towed if it's not gone by the end of the day,” Eric declared.

Edith didn't seem to hear. She studied the silent tractor that—to me—seemed as monstrous as Duchess believed it to be.

“You go first, Katherine,” Edith commanded. “And be firm with her. She won't like it.”

Edith was right. Duchess snorted and spooked at the big red monster and its trailer before finally tearing past, bucking wildly.

“Sit down in the saddle,” Edith screamed. “Keep those hands low! Show her you're in command!”

It was only later as we rode across the field that I realized that Eric's flatbed trailer had been empty. Where could he have hidden the placards? Judging by Eric's horrified expression when he saw our horses careening all over the place, he'd definitely not expected us to show up.

“What do you think about Parks, the new housekeeper?” said Edith, breaking my thoughts.

“I've never known anyone to get so excited about cleaning the silver,” I said. “But there is something I'd like to ask you.”

“Go on.”

“Did she mention anything about the book club she plans on starting in the village?”

“Good heavens. What an extraordinary question. Why would I be interested in a book club? Especially one arranged by the housekeeper.”

“Oh.” Edith's disdain threw me for a moment but I plunged on. “The reason I mention it is that their first selection is
Gypsy Temptress
.”

“I'm sorry?” Edith said. “Should that mean something to me?”

“That's my mother's book,” I reminded her. “She's the romance writer, Krystalle Storm?” I hoped I wouldn't have to explain Mum's complicated alter ego all over again to Edith.

“Of course, of course. I remember now,” said Edith. “We're all sworn to secrecy.”

“You don't think—” I hesitated. “I just wondered if Eric might have let Mum's real identity slip accidentally.”

“It would never have come from Eric,” said Edith firmly. “He wouldn't dare defy my orders to keep Iris's secret safe for as long as she wanted.”

“That's what I thought,” I said. “Angela has called the club the Ravishing Romantics.”

“Ravishing Romantics? Good heavens. What an extraordinary name!” Edith laughed. I'd never heard her laugh so hard and I started to laugh, too.

“Pity you're going back to London,” she said with a snigger. “I like you. You've got a good sense of humor. Not like poor Lavinia. I wonder—” Edith paused before regarding me shrewdly. “Have you ever thought of conducting your business affairs from here?”

“You mean, here? In Devon?” I said, surprised. “No. My life is in London.”

“I must have been mistaken,” said Edith dryly. “I thought you disliked all the trappings of stardom.”

“I do.”

“Then … perhaps it is the allure of the theater, museums, and art galleries that you find irresistible?”

“Not really,” I said.

“The noise? Bustle? I can see how that must appeal to one when one is younger.”

“And I'm definitely not in that category anymore,” I said ruefully.

“Or perhaps your gentleman friend, the art investigator, has divorced his wife at last?”

Despite the fact that Edith often admitted to enjoying the gossip columns, I was embarrassed.

“No. That's over,” I said quickly. “I just think that London is the best place for business.”

“Nonsense!” Edith declared. “Clearly you have not spent much time at some of our country auctions. London has such inflated prices. There are lots of bargains to be found in the West Country. Take Chillingford Court, for example.”

“Yes, I'm going to the auction tomorrow,” I said.

“I knew Binky Chillingford, of course.” Edith shook her head as if recalling a memory. “Frightful man with peculiar tastes. But perhaps you have friends you'd miss?”

“Yes, I have friends.” But then wondered, did I? Edith's comments had struck a chord.

True, I did have a handful of friends but they were no longer close. I'd committed the awful faux pas of being so besotted with the man I was dating that I had slowly dropped most of them because David thought his friends and connections were more important—or rather they could advance my career in television.

As my fame grew, I became increasingly wary of people's interest in befriending me because of what they could get rather than who I was as a person. It had all happened so slowly I hadn't really noticed—until now.

“Friends come and go but in the end, it's family that counts,” said Edith. “Why else do you think I agreed to this Alfred chappy, Iris's stepbrother, working here? He's family. William is still family, no matter what he did. I regard everyone who lives on the estate as part of the Honeychurch family.” Edith turned and gave me another shrewd look. “Yes. Even you.”

I was touched and surprised at how conflicted Edith's comments had made me feel.

“In my grandfather's day we owned the entire village of Little Dipperton,” she went on. “All the cottages belonged to the estate. As a child, we used to keep the Boxing Day tradition of delivering gifts of food and clothing to our tenants in the village. In the summer, we'd hold an annual faire at the Hall—which is how I originally came to know your mother as I'm sure you know.” Edith seemed to drift into a distant memory. “But now, there are only a handful of cottages left.”

“Those with the blue-painted doors?” I ventured.

“I've told Rupert we need to spruce them up. Get them rethatched. But we can hardly afford to keep the Hall up as it is. But one does what one can.”

I sensed Edith's despair and began to understand why both Rupert and Lavinia had decided not to tell her about Operation Bullet.

We didn't speak again until the Honeychurch Hall gatehouses came into view.

“What about turning one of those into an office?” Edith suggested. “You could use the other as a showroom or shop?”

“Are you being serious?” I'd always liked the eighteenth-century gatehouses with the Honeychurch family crest and motto:
ad perseverate est ad triumphum
—To Endure Is to Triumph. I often thought they could be done up and put to good use.

“Naturally, you can't live with your mother permanently,” Edith continued. “Jane's Cottage is on the far side of the sunken garden. It's been empty for decades and there's no heating, awful plumbing, but if you're interested, we could come to an arrangement—oh! You stupid girl!” Edith screeched. “Put that bag away!”

Duchess stopped dead, snorting furiously. I saw flashes of fluorescent pink and heard the sound of flapping. Suddenly, she reared up. Instinctively, I leaned forward but caught my stomach on the upright pommel, pitching me sideways. The reins ripped through my fingers and the ground came toward me at lightning speed.

There was a crack as my helmet struck a large boulder and my face and shoulder hit the dirt. I was in pain. For what seemed like minutes but was probably seconds, I lay still, severely winded and disoriented, as the sound of hooves receded in the distance.

Dazed, I tried to focus.

Angela's face stared down at me. “Are you hurt?” She was practically in tears. “Oh mercy me! This is my fault. I'm so sorry.”

“What happened?” I tried to sit up but my head was spinning and I felt nauseous. Then panic set in. “Where's Duchess?”

“Her ladyship has gone after it. It ran off toward the stables.” Angela waved a fluorescent-pink department store bag. “I think I frightened it with my bag.”

She helped me up, studying my face anxiously. “Oh. You'll have a nasty shiner in the morning. Shall I ask Mrs. Cropper for one of her remedies? Can you walk? Lean on me, please.”

“No,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“At least let me help you back to the stable,” Angela said desperately. “Mrs. Cropper wanted more sloes and I thought there were some around here.” She showed me her iPhone. “I even took a photo of the ones you picked so I could tell what they looked like.”

I let Angela ramble on but wished she'd stop talking. My head was pounding and I felt shaken up. Most of all I was worried about Duchess and only hoped she'd galloped back to the yard.

Angela and I parted at the fork in the drive. “Please let me ask Mrs. Cropper for a remedy,” she said for the umpteenth time. “I'm sorry. Really, I am.”

“It's okay, Angela,” I said wearily as I left her there and walked away with her plaintive apologies continuing to ring in my ears.

I found Edith inside Duchess's stable removing her tack.

“How embarrassing,” I said. “Is she alright?”

“What a silly fool!” Edith exclaimed. “What on earth was Parks thinking, flapping that bag at poor Duchess.”

“I didn't see what happened,” I said. “It was so fast.”

“Now run along home,” said Edith. “You'd better put something on that eye. I'll take care of the horses. Off you go.”

Back at the Carriage House I made a beeline for my bedroom. The last thing I wanted was for Mum to see me and start fussing.

The house seemed unusually quiet but when I stepped onto the landing, I was surprised to find a wooden ladder propped against an open trapdoor that presumably led to a loft overhead. A loft hatch pole was laying on the floor.

“Mum?” I called out. “Are you up there?”

“Go away,” came the muffled response.

There was a sound of an object being dragged overhead, a thud followed by a yelp of pain.

“Do you want any help?” I started to climb the ladder.

“I said go away!” Mum shouted again.

I peered over the lip of the trapdoor. It was hard to see much in the gloom under the low eaves, mainly because Mum was kneeling down with her back to me and was blocking out the light.

As she began to shuffle backward, I got a mouthful of dust.

“Watch out for rats,” I teased.

Mum reared up and hit her head with a smack. “Damn and blast!”

“Sorry. I was joking.” I felt guilty. “That sounded like it hurt.”

She eased around to look at me. Mum's hair was covered in cobwebs and her face was smudged with dirt. As she crawled toward the exit I caught a flash of blue plastic wedged inside the top of her Marks & Spencer V-neck jumper.

“What are you up to?”

“Never you mind,” said Mum. “Get out of my way. I need the ladder.”

But I didn't budge. “What's that tucked into your jumper? Are you taking drugs?”

“Good heavens,” Mum cried. “What's wrong with your face? Did someone punch you in the eye?”

“You don't exactly look fit to receive royalty yourself.”

As Mum leaned in for a closer look, the blue object fell out and tumbled onto the landing.

“Don't touch it!” Mum shrieked.

I scrambled down the ladder and inspected the book-size packet wrapped in blue transparent plastic. I couldn't believe my eyes. It looked like bundles of hundred-pound notes.

I looked up as Mum cautiously descended the ladder.

“Don't tell me. Let me guess,” I said. “You and Alfred robbed a bank.”

 

Chapter Twelve

“It's my money and I earned it,” said Mum.

“How much money is in there?” I demanded. “No, what I really should be asking is how much money is up
there
?” I pointed to the loft above.

“You really are impossible, Katherine,” said Mum. “You're worse than your father with all these questions and all your prying.”

Mum looked defiant, an expression I'd occasionally witnessed at home following an argument with Dad over how she spent her housekeeping allowance.

“Haven't you heard of a bank?” I said.

“I can hardly pop to the Channel Islands when I want to withdraw some cash,” Mum retorted.

I gasped. “You have an offshore account?”

“My publisher pays my royalty checks into an account in Jersey—”

“The Channel Islands!”

“Yes. That's where Jersey is,” said Mum. “I don't see why the government should tax my hard-earned money. It's perfectly legal.”

I took in this new information with dismay. “I thought you had to be a multimillionaire to open an offshore account.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You just have to know the right people.”

“And clearly, you do.” I didn't want to ask, but I had to. “Who are these right people?”

“I have no idea.” Mum shrugged. “Alfred organized it.”

“What!” I said. “I thought he'd only just made parole.”

“He set it up ages ago,” said Mum airily. “I couldn't risk your father finding out. I had no choice. It was Alfred's idea.”

“But—how did he do it?”

“Well, he is very well connected, dear, both on the inside, and out.”

“But—how do you access the money?”