Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (19 page)

I remembered alright. Our house always smelled of fresh paint and turpentine. The moment Dad finished decorating one room in his favorite shade of magnolia he'd start on the next. Our home was immaculate and I knew Mum liked it that way.

“What happened to the painters, Messrs. Baxter and Sons?” I said. “Didn't you pay them a deposit?”

“Alfred insists,” said Mum. “It's his way of saying thank you. Katherine are you—”

“Yes. I
am
going to look for your money.”

“Maybe Eric picked it up—or Patty?” said Mum. “Mr. Chips is always hanging around that end of the estate.”

“It's more likely to be down a rabbit hole.”

“Can't you ask Patty?”

I gave a heavy sigh. “Fine. Yes. Okay.”

“I'm supposed to give Benedict the retainer today—”

“Don't you think you should wait for him to give you an estimate of how much this is all going to cost first anyway?”

“I trust him.”

“He's talking about hiring a helicopter,” I said.

“I know. It's an excellent idea. I've never been in a helicopter before.”

“Have you consulted your business manager about this?”

Mum hesitated. “I wasn't planning on it.”

“Alfred is bound to find out about your …
donation
 … especially when he gets involved in the campaign.”

“Oh.” Mum's face fell.

“And you'll obviously need to get more money from Jersey,” I said slyly. Judging from what I'd seen in Mum's suitcase she wouldn't need to go there for a very long time.

“What do you think I should do?” Mum said.

“Why don't you stall until you've talked to Alfred?” I said. “Tell Benedict you can't get the money quite yet. Lavinia said she had a trust fund. Let her part with her money, first.”

Mum gave a heavy sigh. “Alright. I'll phone her ladyship and tell her I've hit a snag.”

“Good. I'll see you later.”

“Oh—wait.” Mum picked up a letter from the dresser. “This came for you this morning.”

I looked at the handwriting and postmark on the envelope. “It's from Harry,” I said. “He must have written it the moment he got back to school.”

Harry's letter was very short and to the point.

Stanford, send help quickly. The guards are cruel. My fellow prisoners are spies. My bed is hard and my pillow is lumpy. I hate it here. Biggles. P.S. Please look after Thunder and the mice.

“Poor kid,” I said, handing Mum the letter. “I wish—”

“Don't get involved, Katherine,” said Mum. “He's not your child. Just write a bright and breezy letter back.”

I knew Mum was right but it still bothered me.

We clambered over the furniture and boxes and made our way to the front door.

“Where are you off to now?” Mum demanded.

“I told you. I'm going to find your money.”

“Shh!” Mum exclaimed, gesturing to the sitting room. “Keep your voice down.”

“And I'm also going to Dartmouth,” I said. “I didn't get there yesterday as you know. The estate agent e-mailed me about that property in Shoreditch.”

“Did you hear that, Alfred? Shoreditch!” Mum shouted. “Can you imagine anyone wanting to live in Shoreditch?”

Alfred peered out of the sitting room. “Stone the crows! People would give their right arm to move
out
of the East End, not in.”

“I think you'll find things have changed in the past ten years,” I said. “The shop is close to Spitalfields Market.”

“Spitalfields Market!” Alfred shook his head in presumed disbelief. “Bloody hell. Jack the Ripper's old stomping ground! What is the world coming to?”

Telling Mum I'd pick her up at noon for the auction, I made my escape.

It was another blustery day with clouds scudding across a watery blue sky. On the horizon was a rainbow.

I remembered persuading Dad to chase a rainbow once. I was eight. We were on holiday in the Lake District. Mum had one of her “headaches” so it was just the two of us that afternoon. Even at eight I knew there couldn't be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow but Dad humored me and off we went. At every hill we crested, there it was before us, a spectrum of colors of visible light—an illusion, always tantalizingly out of reach. Yet even still, I hoped we could catch it and I would be the first person alive to prove the legend was true.

I made a wish.
Please let me find Mum's money
.

As I drew closer to Bridge Cottage, I recognized Benedict's Prius parked a little farther up the hill next to the gate Edith and I had ridden through yesterday.

I parked my own car outside Patty's cottage. Heaving the wicket gate aside, I noticed a black dustbin liner had been dumped in the corner and there, carelessly balled up on the top was a flash of blue plastic.

My stomach turned right over. I snatched it up, dismayed to discover the bag was empty. It was definitely my mother's.

I knew that Patty had been hiding something although it occurred to me that she wouldn't have known that the money belonged to my mother. And given that she'd just lost her own, it was horribly awkward.

I rapped smartly on the door half-hoping she wouldn't be at home. In less than a minute, the door flew open.

For the very first time ever, Patty smiled.

 

Chapter Fifteen

“Come in,” she said and stood back to let me pass.

“I just stopped by to see how you are.”

Attired in another hand-knitted outfit—this time a garish turquoise, I stepped into what I could only describe as a hoarder's paradise. My senses were immediately assaulted by the smell of cabbage, cooked bacon, and damp.

“Is that the wonderful Katherine?” came a familiar voice from behind the door.

“Oh! Hello.” I was startled. Although I'd seen Benedict's Prius, I hadn't expected to find him visiting Patty.

“Your face looks so much better this morning,” said Benedict. “It looks like we'll be able to forge ahead with our little photo shoot on Friday, after all. Shall we go through to the kitchen, Patty?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Patty. “This way.”

Patty had lived with her mother in a dingy two-up, two-down cottage not helped by the fact that the curtains were partially drawn at the front window, preventing what little light managed to find its way through to this depressing location.

Now I realized why Harry had called them “bag ladies.” Furniture, clothing in black plastic dustbin liners, boxes, suitcases, and just an array of useless objects were piled high around the room and covered every available surface. Set against the wall was a rather nice Victorian credenza that was virtually swallowed by stacks of newspapers including the
Daily Post
and the
Dipperton Deal.
I caught a glimpse of a dusky pink velveteen sofa underneath bolts of curtain material and yarns of wool. A narrow pathway had been created that passed by an open latch door—leading to upstairs—and ended in the kitchen.

“Lead the way, Patty,” said Benedict, shooting me a look that clearly implied he, too, was as horrified as I was at Patty's living conditions.

The kitchen was marginally better. Along the back wall was an ancient coal-fueled Rayburn that couldn't have been working because the cottage was freezing cold.

Next to the Rayburn were two tattered armchairs—one held a bag of knitting—and a small table holding the TV remote and a pile of catalogs. On the kitchen counter sat an ancient television set broadcasting QVC, the home shopping channel. Judging by the numerous boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner, someone had been a keen shopper. Under the counter stood a fridge and a washing machine that was speckled with mildew. On top was an electric kettle next to a tray with two chipped mugs, a box of PG Tips, and an open bottle of milk.

“I'm sure Patty would make you a cup of tea if you'd like one?” said Benedict.

“No, thank you. I'm fine.” At any moment, I expected to see an army of cockroaches scuttle across the floor.

Benedict caught my eye and in his, I saw a degree of compassion.

“I've been telling Patty that she's not to worry about anything,” he said. “Of course, Bridge Cottage is not entitled to any compensation but I shall personally negotiate—should we ever reach that stage—with the board to make her an exception.”

Benedict went up several notches in my estimation.

“That's wonderful, isn't it, Patty?” I said.

“Again, I'm truly sorry for your loss,” said Benedict.

Patty didn't comment.

“I was telling Patty that she wasn't to contribute a penny to the campaign,” Benedict went on. “There are others in a much better financial position to support the cause—like Lavinia and of course, Iris.” He laughed. “Even you!”

I smiled but inwardly felt very uncomfortable. I searched Patty's face, looking for any sign that she might have found Mum's five thousand pounds, but she just looked steadily at the television.

“So what brings you here this morning, Kat?” Benedict asked.

“I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you, Patty,” I said. “Perhaps I could help with the shopping since you don't have a car.”

“Well … I can't afford to pay for the petrol.”

“I wouldn't expect you to,” I said. “I also wondered if you would be interested in helping me organize the auction.”

I caught a flicker of interest. “How much would you pay me?”

I was taken aback. “I hadn't—”

“I think it's more a case of donating your time to the cause,” said Benedict smoothly.

“Time is money,” said Patty. “That's what Mother always told me. And now, I don't know how I'm going to make ends meet without her pension.”

“I heard you used to do the car boot sale circuit,” I said. “Maybe there are some things you'd like me to take a look at and see if I can sell for you?”

“Alright,” said Patty. “Let's do it now.”

“
Now?
” I exchanged looks with Benedict and could have sworn I saw a flicker of annoyance cross his features.

“In that case, I'll leave you both to it,” he said. “Patty, will you see me out?”

“You know where the door is.”

“Just want a quick word—” Benedict put his arm around Patty's shoulders. “In private.”

I watched them pick their way through the obstacle course to the front door and was instantly reminded of Mum's own hallway. At the front door Benedict leaned down and whispered something in Patty's ear. I saw her stiffen and noticed his fingers tightening on her arm.

“I told you,” I heard Patty say. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not hiding anything.”

When Patty returned I asked, “Is everything okay?”

“What's it to you?” she snapped. “And what do you really want?”

It would appear that Patty was back to her usual sullen self.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I said suspiciously.

“Why should you want to help me? I don't know you.”

“Because…” I wracked my brains. “I'm very close to my mother so I can't begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost yours. You've lived together for most of your life, haven't you?”

“What's it to you?” Patty said again.

“We must be around the same age,” I went on, trying to find common ground. “I know what it's like to be an only child. After my dad died, he told me to take care of my mother. That's why I'm here in Devon.”

I studied Patty's features. She had dark brown eyes and flawless skin. Even with her odd choice of dress, she would be attractive if she could do something with her hair. Maybe now she was free from her mother's overbearing clutches, she could start to have a life. But of course, I would never tell her that.

“Much as we love them—mothers aren't easy,” I said. “I know how you feel.”

“Do you?” Patty said with a sneer. “Unlike you, I don't have a fancy job or a wealthy mother. My dad left us in debt when he died. Mother had a hard life trying to keep food on the table and now—what's going to happen to me?”

“Perhaps you can help me uncover a mystery,” I said. “There's a reward if you can solve it.”

“How much?”

“One hundred pounds,” I said.

Patty gave a curt nod that I assumed meant yes.

I pulled the blue plastic bag out of my pocket and showed it to her. “Do you recognize this?”

Patty stepped closer. “What is it?”

“It's a bag that banks use for money,” I said, watching her expression carefully.

“But there's no money in there.”

“I know,” I said. “But there was. Did you see Mr. Chips yesterday?”

“Who?”

“The dowager countess's Jack Russell.”

“Maybe. He's always running about down here.”

“So you
did
see him?”

“I didn't say I saw him yesterday. Why?”

“Mr. Chips ran off with something that belonged to my mother in this blue bag.”

“You mean there was
money
in that bag?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How much money?”

“It doesn't matter how much.” I could feel myself getting irritated. “I found this blue bag in the black plastic bin liner by your front gate.”

Patty's eyes flashed with fury. “Are you calling me a thief?”

“No. I'm not calling you anything,” I said. “I'm just asking if you saw Mr. Chips—or anyone else for that matter.”

“My mother's not even cold and you come round here pretending to be a Good Samaritan and then accuse me of being a thief?”

“I didn't say anything of the sort!” I exclaimed.

“Why accuse me?” Patty shouted. “We're always getting ramblers walking by. Anyone could have taken your money—”