Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (2 page)

“That's true,” Mum admitted. “Perhaps his lordship doesn't see the point in distressing her, knowing that the railway line won't be built in her lifetime.”

“Possibly,” I said. “How old is Edith now? Eighty?”

“Eighty-five but you'd never think it,” said Mum. “She could live on for years.”

I had to agree with her on that point. Lady Edith Honeychurch still rode sidesaddle every day, ran the local pony club, and was altogether a formidable character.

“Do you know how old the Queen Mother was when she died?” said Mum.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But since the royal family is your area of expertise, I suspect you're about to tell me.”

“One hundred and two!” Mum exclaimed. “Yes! One hundred and two!
And
she still had all her teeth.”

I waved the wicker basket I'd been carrying. “Come on. Let's go and find those sloes for Mrs. Patmore.”

“Mrs. Patmore?” Mum frowned, then grinned. “You're right! Our Mrs. Cropper
does
look like the cook from
Downton Abbey
. It must be the uniform and mobcap.”

Mum pointed to a small wood at the bottom of the field below. “She told me that the sloes are along the blackthorn hedge down there.”

“Near Coffin Mire.” I pulled a face. “The place gives me the creeps. And besides, with all the rain we've been having, it'll be boggy.”

“Suit yourself.” Mum strode a few yards farther on and paused at the foot of a stile embedded in a dry stone wall. “I'm going.”

“Wait.” I gave a heavy sigh. “Someone's got to keep an eye on you.”

A sign saying
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED & POACHERS WILL BE SHOT
was accompanied by the added warning
BEWARE OF THE BULL
roughly painted on a piece of wood and nailed to the top rail.

“That's that then,” I said with relief. “There's a bull in the field.”

“There's no bull in there,” said Mum, making a meal of climbing over in her ungainly Wellington boots. She was wearing a green wool skirt that more than hampered her progress. “It's just to frighten off trespassers.” There was the sound of material ripping.

“Blast!” she cried.

“I told you not to wear a skirt,” I said. “I may be a Londoner but I know how to dress for the occasion.” I had donned jeans, and bought myself a three-quarter-length Barbour jacket and pair of Barbour boots from nearby Dartmouth, a little fishing port with real shops.

After helping Mum disentangle the fabric from the barbed wire, we set off again.

She was right. There were no cows to be seen.

“Told you so,” Mum muttered.

“I hope Mrs. Cropper appreciates your efforts,” I said.

“When it comes to making sloe gin, I'll go above and beyond,” said Mum. “Besides, she's shorthanded in the kitchen. They can't find a new housekeeper. Vera was a hard act to follow.”

We both fell silent. Although it had been weeks since I'd discovered Eric's wife Vera's body in the grotto, I would never forget it.

Mum squeezed my arm. “Sorry, dear,” she said gently. “I know you still think about her. But as Lady Edith would say, life goes on—wait!” She gasped. “What on earth—?”

We came face-to-face with a large rectangular placard that had been staked into the ground. Garish red lettering on a black background announced
HS
3
CROSSING FROM HERE.

“Operation Bullet.” Mum's expression hardened. “They've already started marking the boundaries!”

A further nine placards, spaced at regular intervals, split the field in half and continued all the way to the bottom of the hill.

It was a clear indication of what destruction lay ahead and I was surprised to find I was as upset as my mother. “What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I'll talk to Eric and we'll call an emergency meeting,” said Mum grimly. “If I get my hands on whoever put those boards up their life won't be worth living.”

“Shall we pick the sloes tomorrow?”

Mum shook her head. “We're here now and those signs aren't going anywhere.”

We followed the footpath that hugged the boundary where mounds of upturned earth bordered a recently cleared ditch. Birds took flight as we walked on by, a reminder that it wasn't just people who would be affected by the proposed new railway line, but wildlife, too.

To the right of the blackthorn hedge another five-bar gate stood open revealing a muddy bridleway that eventually came out at the rear of Eric's scrapyard. From where we stood there were more wretched placards standing in the field that rose up the other side of the valley.

“They're going to destroy this entire valley,” said Mum.

“Look at all those sloes!” I said, hoping to distract her. Even at this distance, the blue-black berries were visible in the hedge that stood diagonally opposite us.

“Let's cut across here,” said Mum.

A vast expanse of marshland stood before us. “Are you kidding?” I said. “That's a swamp. We should follow the hedge line where the ground will be firm.”

“Rubbish. Follow me and do what I do.”

Tufts of marsh grass sat in black, inky puddles. The air smelled stagnant and we were soon ankle deep in scummy water. As the sun disappeared behind the clouds again, the wind picked up.

“You know it's haunted down here, don't you?” shouted Mum over her shoulder.

“According to you, everywhere is haunted,” I shouted back.

“Remember I told you about Sir Maurice?” said Mum. “This is where he lured a platoon of Roundheads to their doom by pretending to be their commanding officer. They drowned in Coffin Mire.”

“Harry's version is much more interesting,” I said and recounted the earl's seven-year-old son's graphic embellishment of the tragedy where the men were eaten alive by alien worms with piranha-sharp teeth.

“There is something wrong with that child,” said Mum. “Now watch how I pick my way through this bit.” She suddenly picked up speed, shouting, “Only tread on the tussocks and don't stop moving.”

I gingerly put one foot on top of a clump of grass but the ground literally quivered under my weight. “It's like walking on jelly!” I cried as my boot sank up to the shin with a horrible hissing, suction sound. It emitted the most awful smell.

“Mum! Wait!” I wrenched my foot out and hopped from tussock to tussock after her.

“Keep going!” Mum yelled. “This is very, very boggy. Follow me—Oh!”

She pitched forward but her feet were stuck fast. Instinctively, I grabbed the edge of Mum's raincoat and managed to haul her sideways. Her feet shot out, causing enough momentum for us both to do a wild tango before landing on muddy but firm ground.

“Great. That's just great,” I said, extricating myself from under her. Mum was beside herself with mirth. “You should see yourself,” she gasped. “Covered in mud and oh, you stink!”

“Thanks,” I said. “If I wasn't here you could have drowned just like an escaped convict on Dartmoor.”

“We'd better go your way.” Mum clutched her nose, sniggering. “But I'll go ahead. I don't want to be downwind.”

Five minutes later we had set the wicker basket on the ground between us and were picking sloes.

“Speaking of escaped convicts,” said Mum casually. “Did I tell you that my brother is on parole?”

“Your stepbrother, you mean?” Up until two months ago I hadn't even known Mum had a brother. In fact, I'd discovered she had had two stepbrothers. Both had been boxers with Bushman's Traveling Boxing Emporium back in the 1950s and '60s. It was yet another of the many skeletons that seemed to continuously tumble out of my mother's closet.

“I had wrongly assumed that Alfred must be out of prison given that he helped you move to Devon,” I said. “Why? Are you planning on seeing him again?”

“Oh, yes. I thought he could have your room.”

“What?” I squeaked. “He's coming to
Honeychurch
?”

“That's right,” said Mum. “On Thursday, in fact.”

“You can't be serious!” I said. “You hardly know him! He's a criminal!”

“Rubbish. It was just a few forged passports and whatnot. Such a fuss over nothing,” said Mum. “Alfred is going to join our protest group. He's very good at organizing that sort of thing. Do you remember hearing about a riot at Wormwood Scrubs prison a few years ago?”

“Don't tell me—”

“That's right. Alfred was the ringleader.”

“Then how did he get out on parole?”

“He has his ways,” said Mum. “Alfred tells me he can get hold of T-shirts. We can put the Stop-the-Bullet logos on them—
SAVE MINUTES, LOSE CENTURIES
.”

“And I suppose Alfred will stay with you rent-free?”

“Aha! That's where you're wrong,” said Mum triumphantly. “As a matter of fact, her ladyship is thrilled. It's all arranged. He's going to help with the horses and do a few odd jobs around the place.”

“What?” I said again. “He's going to work at the Hall?”

“Yes. I just told you that. Don't you ever listen?”

“Since when did you decide all this?”

Mum paused for thought. “A couple of weeks ago, or perhaps it was longer.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I'm telling you now.”

“Why do you do this?” I exclaimed. “Is it to deliberately torment me?”

“It's hardly any of your business,” Mum said. “Besides, they need a new stable manager with William away—”

“Not
away,
” I reminded her hotly. “William is in prison for manslaughter, or have you forgotten?”
Prison again,
I thought.
There seems to be a recurring theme here.

“It was an accident.”

For a moment I was speechless. “William strangled the housekeeper, Mum.”

“I don't want to talk about Vera,” said Mum quickly.

“What's more, he impersonated your stepbrother. I suppose you've forgotten about that, to say nothing of how he attacked me!”

A glazed expression crossed my mother's features. She started to hum. I could see I was wasting my time.

“Does Alfred even
know
anything about horses?”

Mum inspected the contents of the basket. It was already a quarter full. “Lady Edith and Lady Lavinia needed help—”

“
I've
been helping with the horses—”

“
You're
going back to London. This weekend if I remember correctly.”

“Mum, please,” I begged. “You hardly know Alfred.”

“He's family,” said Mum. “Alfred needs a job and he was very good with the horses we had on the road.”

“That was over half a century ago,” I reminded her.

“We used to call him Dr. Doolittle because he could talk to the animals.”

“Whatever.” I groaned and tried to focus on pulling the berries off the hedge and not getting stabbed by the vicious thorns. Mum was right. It was none of my business.

“That's why it's better that you
are
going back to London, dear,” said Mum. “Although promise me one thing—”

“What now?”

“Don't get talked into taking Dylan back.”

“His name is David!” I said. “And that's none of
your
business.” With a mother's uncanny intuition, she had hit a nerve. It was true. I
had
been toying with the idea of at least meeting my ex-boyfriend for coffee.

“Well, Dylan's clearly trying,” said Mum. “I've never seen so many flowers. Your bedroom looks like a funeral parlor. I do wish you'd meet someone else, darling. Someone available. Someone who wants to have children.”

“Don't start that—”

“Hello?” came a male voice. “I thought I heard voices.”

There was a rustle of leaves and a tall, clean-shaven man in his late forties wearing a smart tweed jacket and flat cap emerged from the bridleway. He had a slight limp and was using a beautiful antique walking cane.

“Well, well, well,” said Mum in a low voice. “Here comes a romantic contender!”

 

Chapter Two

“Ladies, good afternoon,” the stranger said. “I hope I haven't disturbed your walk.”

“We're picking sloes,” said Mum, openly giving him the once-over. “I'm Iris Stanford and this is my lovely daughter, Katherine.”

I gave a nod of greeting. My mother couldn't be more obvious about her intentions for me. It was embarrassing. But even more embarrassing was the fact that we both stank of bog.

The man stared at me intensely. I took in his gray eyes with their long, dark lashes, sexy cleft chin, and full sensual lips and felt my face redden. Clearly my mother's descriptive accounts of her male heroes in her latest tome had infected my powers of observation.

“There are more sloes on the other side of this hedge. Valentine Prince-Avery.” He smiled and offered his hand—then promptly withdrew it, wrinkling his nose.

“Sorry, I know we smell,” I said.

“Valentine!” Mum's eyes widened. “Goodness. What a wonderful name. Very Regency.”

“
Kat
Stanford?” Valentine snapped his fingers. “Of course! I thought I recognized you!
Fakes & Treasures
! They call you Rapunzel! It
is
you, isn't it? Your hair gave you away.”

As a former TV celebrity-of-sorts, my waist-length chestnut hair was my trademark feature. “I'm thinking of cutting it all off.”

“Kat inherited her lion's mane from my side of the family,” said Mum proudly. “Her father went bald at an early age but as you see, that is unlikely to happen to her—or her children. When she has children, that is.”