Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (32 page)

“And did you call?” said Shawn.

“Yes. Several times but the voice mailbox was full.”

“What about the text messages you got the night Alfred arrived?” said Mum.

“Here, three text messages.” I showed Shawn. “The first text was just the letter ‘
k.
' The second was the letter ‘
j
,' and the third said, ‘
Hello all ok.
'”

“These messages were sent at ten-thirty Tuesday night,” said Roxy. “Valentine was dead by then.”

“How can you be so sure?” I said.

“I studied anthropology at uni,” said Roxy. “These valley mires are really deep deposits of peat that originate from sphagnum moss. A body can be perfectly preserved in peat—we're talking skin, hair, and internal organs. It means we can pinpoint the exact time of death. Look at Lindow Man.”

“Valentine only died on Monday,” said Mum. “Not in the middle of the first century.”

Shawn snapped his fingers. “When we recovered the body, there wasn't a mobile phone on him—was there?”

“The only things in Prince-Avery's pockets were house keys, car rental keys, and his wallet with a driver's license,” said Roxy.

“So who made the phone call to Ogwell telling them to pick up the car?” Mum asked. “My brother Alfred saw it being towed around four o' clock.”

“Probably Benedict trying to buy some time and keep up the pretense that Valentine was still alive,” I suggested.

Shawn gave a heavy sigh. “I think we can safely assume that Benedict Scroope is our prime suspect.”

“And I think we can safely assume that he's probably halfway back to the Zanzibar Archipelago by now.” Mum scowled. “With our identities, money, and God knows what else.”

“I'm afraid you are probably right.” Shawn rose from the table. “We'll obviously do all we can but unfortunately, it looks like Scroope has had a head start. Come on, Roxy, we'd better get back to the station.”

Mum saw them out and returned to the kitchen grim-faced.

“At least your money in Jersey is safe,” I said lightly but Mum didn't laugh.

“He'll get away with it,” said Mum. “It's too late and we'll never be able to prove anything. Even if they catch him, no one can confirm those shoes were his or that he was even anywhere near Coffin Mire.”

“Unless Patty saw something, after all?” I suggested.

“Let's have a gin and tonic,” said Mum. “Gin always gives me a clear head.”

Armed with a glass each, Mum took a large gulp. “If Benedict was there that night and those were his shoes, he must have driven back to the hotel in his socks!”

“Clever you! Gin
does
make you clearheaded!” I exclaimed. “You call the hotel this time in case it's Lester and he recognizes my voice.”

Mum called the Dart Marina Hotel and fortunately got Mary. She handed me the receiver. Mary was only too happy to tell me about the night porter's tale of a strange guest who had returned in the early hours of Tuesday morning wearing muddy socks. She also confirmed that Benedict checked out early. He had been booked to stay until the coming weekend.

“And speaking of socks,” said Mum after I'd rejoined her at the kitchen table. “Since Valentine
also
checked out early at the Hare & Hounds, what happened to his clothes?”

“You're right,” I said. “He had an overnight bag. I saw it when I went into his room. Let's call Doreen and ask if he left it behind.”

Doreen was predictably outraged the moment she recognized my voice. News of the scam and the body in the mire had traveled as quickly as only news in a small village would. Instantaneously.

“We're all gutted,” Doreen went on. “And of course, it's hard not to blame Eric. He was the one who brought this crook into our lives.”

“You can't blame Eric completely,” I protested. “He was just as taken in as the rest of us.”

“No. Apparently, his lordship has insisted that Eric repay every single penny any of us invested. Personally.”

It would appear that Eric had taken one for the Honeychurch team to protect Lavinia's reputation. That took a lot of guts.

“Looking on the bright side,” I said. “At least Fred the duck will be safe now along with all the wildlife—one more thing, who cleaned Valentine's bedroom?”

I put the phone down. “Yes. Patty definitely cleaned Valentine's bedroom.”

Mum gave a squeak of excitement. “I remember! I saw her on Tuesday after I'd met Lavinia for the money drop. Patty was carrying a leather holdall bag and walking home in the pouring rain. I offered to give her a lift but she refused.”

“She stole it—just like she took your money,” I said. “That's just the kind of thing Patty would do.”

“What if the police are wrong and Patty had something to do with killing Valentine after all?” said Mum.

“Patty hasn't the strength to drag a man across the grass and roll him into the mire,” I said. “And if he was drunk, it would be practically impossible to move him.”

“Let's go back to Monday night,” said Mum. “You left the pub with Patty and Angela. Was Valentine's car still in the car park?”

“No. It had gone.”

“So then you drove down the lane to Bridge Cottage and see Joyce's mobility scooter laying—where exactly?”

“It had toppled over and thrown Joyce out.” I shuddered at the memory. “That part of the lane is very steep and it's covered in mud and leaves.”

“So
then
Patty goes to the Hare & Hounds with Doreen but changes her mind and heads back home to bed.”

I nodded.

“She saw something,” said Mum firmly. “I'd bet my last pound she did.”

“And we know that at this time of year it is possible to see Cavalier Copse from Bridge Cottage through the trees.”

“Patty looks out of her rear window and sees Valentine removing the signs and taking them to his car. How many placards were there?”

“Ten placards—excluding the one left behind in the undergrowth,” I said. “Valentine would have had to have made several trips.”

“Patty watches him and starts to get angry. She's already in a state of shock—”

“So she goes to confront him.”

We both paused.

“And then what?” I said.

“Patty phones Benedict?” Mum ventured.

“Why would she and anyway, Patty doesn't have a phone,” I reminded her. “Maybe Benedict was the man who called Valentine
before
the meeting when he was in the car park,” I went on. “Maybe Benedict got worried when Valentine left in a huff. Maybe he knew where he was going. There was an argument. It turned violent…”

“And as far as Benedict was concerned, Valentine's body should never have been found. It was supposed to sink to the bottom of the mire.”

“Exactly!” I said. “When I went to the pub with the walking cane Benedict was there. Patty, too. She said that Valentine had already caught the train back to London. Valentine even offered to return the walking cane for me!”

“I bet Patty still has Valentine's overnight bag,” said Mum.

“There was an iPad as well in there—and maybe Valentine's mobile.”

We book looked at each other and came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“We've got to talk to Patty.”

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

It was dusk by the time we reached Bridge Cottage. The place was in darkness. As expected, no one answered the front door despite our repeated calls. We were able to get the front door open a crack but it looked as if a piece of furniture had been pushed against it.

“Let's try the back,” I said.

“This place gives me the creeps,” said Mum.

We headed around the side of the building, trying our best to navigate the rubbish.

“Why didn't you bring a flashlight?” I said.

“I thought you would have one.”

The kitchen door stood ajar.

“I don't like this, Kat,” whispered Mum.

My stomach began to churn. “Nor me.”

We stepped into the kitchen and were plunged into darkness.

“What's that funny plasticky smell?” said Mum. “Can you smell it?”

“Yes. It feels warm in here, too,” I said, recalling how cold the place had been just the day before.

I fumbled for the light switch and flipped it.

Mum gasped. “Patty's been robbed!”

“No, she lives like this,” I said. “But wait—” The kitchen cupboards stood wide open, drawers had been upended, and all the contents dumped on the floor.

We picked our way through the chaos into the sitting room and I flipped the light there, too.

“Oh. My. God. You weren't joking when you said she was a hoarder,” said Mum. “This is disgusting.”

The mess that I'd seen just days ago was the same—but different. Black dustbin liners of clothes had been upended, too, furniture had been moved, and the reason we couldn't get in through the front door was because a large armchair had been wedged against it.

“Someone has been here looking for something,” I said.

“Listen!” Mum hissed. We both fell quiet. “Can you hear that dragging noise?”

Up above, over our heads, was the same sound I'd heard not so long ago in the loft at the Carriage House.

“Patty's upstairs,” I said. “Come on.”

We carefully climbed over more rubbish and went up the narrow staircase.

“Will you look at all this stuff?” said Mum, pointing at the rows and rows of empty jam jars that lined either side of the staircase.

A loud bang followed by a rush of cold air sent scraps of paper and plastic bottles clattering down the stairs.

“What the hell was that?” Mum exclaimed.

The small window on the landing swung open and shut as the wind picked up outside. I stared out into the darkness but couldn't see a thing and pulled it closed.

“Just the wind,” I said.

Mum grabbed my arm tightly as we climbed over a mound of dolls with broken limbs and headless bodies. We stepped into a room that could only be described as a junkyard with boxes filled with old candlesticks, knickknacks, broken mirrors, tea trays, cups, and toys. There were brown carrier bags filled with wool and scraps of knitting.

“Joyce and Patty used to do car boot sales,” I said. “This must be their stock.”

We retraced our steps into what was probably Joyce's bedroom. The curtains were drawn. The room smelled musty and damp. Paper was peeling off the walls. A large chest of drawers blocked another door in the corner.

All around were mounds of linens, towels, and clothing. A framed photograph was just barely visible on the nightstand. It showed a severe-looking woman in 1960s dress with a young girl in pigtails holding a pet rabbit.

“That's Joyce with Patty.”

“I used to braid your hair, too,” said Mum.

“But I wasn't allowed to have a pet.”

Next to an unmade single bed was a steel-framed camp bed with a pillow and duvet on top. “You think Patty slept on that?” I said, horrified. “She didn't even have her own room.”

“At least you have yours,” said Mum, attempting a joke but I didn't laugh.

Something was bothering me. “Where is the bathroom?”

Mum snapped her fingers and pointed to the chest of drawers. “Behind there.”

“Patty!” We shouted again but there was no answer.

“You take one end of the chest of drawers and I'll take the other,” I said.

“Someone deliberately moved this against the door,” said Mum anxiously. “Why?”

We found Patty laying under a pile of clothes in the bath. Her mouth had been taped and her arms and legs bound with rope.

“Quickly, let's get out of here,” I said. “I don't like it. Something is wrong.”

We lifted her out and gently removed the tape bindings. Patty was in deep shock. She'd had a lot to deal with these past few days. We carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on the bed.

“We'd better call an ambulance,” I said.

“I don't have my phone.”

“Well, neither do I. You stay here, I'll drive home.”

Mum pulled a face. “Can't I drive home and you stay here?”

“I'll be quicker.”

Two seconds later, I was back, struggling to stay calm. “Mum, the house is filling up with smoke. I can't get downstairs.”

“
What?
” Mum bolted out onto the landing. “The smoke is coming up the stairs!” she shrieked. “We're going to burn alive!”

The roof was made of thatch and, along with all the rubbish, the entire place would become an inferno in minutes. There was a crash and boom as the fire took hold below.

“The window,” I said. “Hurry.”

We grabbed Patty and frog-marched her onto the landing that was already heavy with thick black toxic smoke. Thanks to her mother's preference for nylon furnishings, if the flames didn't get us, the smoke would.

“You can slide down the roof,” I told Patty. “There's an old mattress underneath. Quickly!”

But she just hung on tightly to the sides of the window frames.

Mum pushed Patty hard and she tumbled out into the darkness. “Oh. Sorry.”

Mum skittered down the sliding roof with me right behind her. There was a roar and earth-shattering
whomph
as the thatch caught fire. A series of cracks and explosions suggested that the flames had found the empty glass jars.

The three of us sprawled on the old mattress in a heap, winded and breathless.

“Mum? Your bad hand?” I said. “Is it okay?”

“I'm fine,” said Mum. “I landed on top of Patty. I think I crushed her.”

We dragged Patty to relative safety at the edge of the garden and watched her home burn. In the flickering light, I looked over at her and saw a slow smile begin to creep across her face.