Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (5 page)

“I thought we could ask the folks in Little Dipperton as well,” Angela ventured. “We could meet once a month in the tearoom in the village or something.”

“Angela!” shouted Mrs. Cropper. “Can you come here a moment?”

“I'd best be going,” said Angela hastily. She gave us another snaggletooth smile, bobbed another curtsey, and with her bucket and mop, hurried back to the kitchen humming a familiar melody.

Mum frowned. “Isn't that the theme tune from
Downton Abbey
?”

“Yes! Gosh. That's taking job loyalty to another level.” We both laughed. Maybe the show's phenomenal success had spawned a whole generation of wannabe parlor maids, t'ween maids, and scullery maids!

“Well, I'm not joining her silly book club,” said Mum. “What nerve! Implying I did nothing all day.”

“To anyone who doesn't know about your secret life,” I said, “it would look that way.”

The evening was drawing in. Checking my watch I saw it was almost five and time to feed and bed down the horses for the night. I'd always had a passion for these noble creatures and I'd grown to enjoy this time of day. I knew I'd miss them all. With William incarcerated at HM Prison Exeter, I'd been helping at the yard along with Dawn, the eighteen-year-old daughter of Tom Jones who farmed Home Farm. Maybe Mum's stepbrother Alfred would be a welcome addition, after all.

“I'm going to the yard,” I said. “Do you want to come?”

“No. I'm going back to lie on the sofa and do absolutely nothing. Just like Miss Snaggletooth implied.”

“Car coming,” I said, stepping back onto the grass verge as a panda car came into view.

“It's that nice Shawn,” said Mum. “I do wish you'd give him a chance. He's already broken in as a husband and you'd have a ready-made family.”

“No thanks,” I said. “And stop trying to play matchmaker. Your last effort backfired—no pun intended.”

“Very funny,” said Mum dryly.

The panda car drew up alongside us and stopped.

Shawn opened his window with a smile. “Evening, ladies.”

With his mop of brown curly hair and freckles I always thought he seemed far too young to hold the rank of detective inspector.

Tonight, the lapel on Shawn's trench coat sported a new stain—possibly tomato ketchup—one of the hazards of being a single parent of five-year-old twins.

Redheaded policewoman Roxy Cairns waved from the passenger seat.

“I do wish she'd do something about her mustache,” whispered Mum. “Hasn't she heard of waxing?”

“Quiet,” I said then leaned in to say, “I hope Harry wasn't in too much trouble again.”

“He's very naughty,” Mum chipped in. “I'd give him a good hiding if he were my son.”

“Mum, for heaven's sakes,” I hissed. “You can't say that these days.”

“Rupert is taking him back to school tonight,” said Shawn.

“Rupert and Lavinia have had a huge fight,” Roxy said with relish.

“Roxy!” Shawn said sharply.

I'd noticed that Roxy only addressed Lord and Lady Honeychurch correctly when she was in their presence. She didn't try to hide her dislike of the upper classes much, either.

“Where did you find Harry?” said Shawn.

“Last time the poor kid was hiding in Eric's caravan,” Roxy said. “Eric really got it in the neck.”

“Harry was up in a tree in Cavalier Copse,” I said.

“The treehouse? Oh yes,” said Shawn. “William built that. Have you seen it? There's even a little hut.”

William and his good deeds again!

“Harry caught a bus,” Mum said. “The school is fifty miles away. What if he runs away again and there isn't a bus and he decides to hitchhike?”

I elbowed Mum and said, “We're just happy to know he's safe.”

“It won't happen again,” said Roxy. “Rupert has threatened to sell Thunder.”

“Harry loves that pony,” I exclaimed.

“That's as good a deterrent as any,” said Mum. “Speaking of deterrents. Did Harry tell you about the little shooting incident this afternoon?”

“Yes he did,” said Shawn. “As a matter of fact, we're heading down to Bridge Cottage right now to talk to Joyce and Patty. They can't go frightening off government officials.”

“Don't they have to have a gun license?” Mum asked.

“They do. Both have shotgun certificates,” said Shawn mildly.

“Should I get one?” Mum mused.

“Why?” I said “Are you planning on using one?”

“Possibly,” said Mum. “Did you know that the Department for Transport have started marking out the boundaries for the railway line?”

Shawn nodded. “So I heard.”

Roxy leaned over to shout, “This whole business is disgusting. My aunt lives in the path of HS2, the other line that's supposed to take thirty minutes off the travel time from London to Birmingham. Thirty minutes!”

“Actually, Roxy,” said Shawn, “it's thirty-two—”

“Disgusting,” Mum echoed.

“I must remind you, Roxy,” said Shawn sternly. “As members of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary we are supposed to keep our opinions to ourselves.”

“My aunt's place falls under a compulsory purchase order,” Roxy fumed. “They've lived there for forty years! What are they supposed to do now? They can't get another mortgage at their age. I've heard that most of the properties around here aren't even eligible for compensation.”

“There's a protest meeting on Thursday,” said Mum. “You should come.”

“Count me in!” Roxy exclaimed.

“If you are planning on doing anything at all, it's got to go by the book,” said Shawn.

“We're hardly going to throw paint or set fire to cars,” said Mum.

“I don't know. I might,” said Roxy. It was hard to tell if she was joking or not.

“I'll tell you exactly what I told Eric,” said Shawn. “You need to petition the government. Build a strong case and take it through the Court of Appeal just like the Action Alliance is doing for HS2. Frankly, I think it's too early—”

“But it's not, is it?” said Mum. “Those placards are up right now. It's already begun!”

“Shawn doesn't care,” said Roxy. “He loves trains, don't you Shawn—”

“That's enough…” Shawn must have hit a button because the window shot up. Their words were muffled but judging by Roxy's contorted face and Shawn's angry expression, their arguing continued.

The car sped away in a flurry of gravel.

“Well,” said Mum finally. “Roxy will certainly be an asset to our cause.”

“Or a liability.”

We stopped where the drive forked in front of a huge horse chestnut tree. On our left was the lane that led to the stable block.

“I'll see you in an hour or so,” I said.

“And remember, not a word about the protest group or those placards to Lady Edith.”

“I think you'll have a hard job of keeping that a secret,” I said. “But it won't come from me. I promise.”

The moment Mum was out of earshot, I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and retrieved Valentine Prince-Avery's business card. He answered on the first ring and seemed pleased to get my call.

“I'm alive,” he joked. “But that was the first time I've been shot at by a mad woman with a twelve-bore.”

“You have a difficult job. But—” I hesitated. “I'd like to hear about what my mother's options might be. Any chance we can talk tonight?”

We agreed to meet at the Hare & Hounds at seven.

“And can we just keep this between the two of us,” I said. “At least—just for now.”

 

Chapter Four

“Young boys need to toughen up, Lavinia,” I heard Edith say. They were in the midst of a heated conversation in the tack room and the door was ajar. “You were all for it a few weeks ago.”

I knew I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I couldn't help it.

“Harry has run away three times now,” Lavinia protested. “He's being bullied and he's frightfully unhappy. I can't bear it. I just can't.”

“I've never heard such nonsense!” Edith exclaimed. “As his mother, you must be strong.”

“He's seven! And he's frightfully sensitive,” said Lavinia. “Didn't you miss Rupert when he first went away to school? I thought I wouldn't mind so much. But I do.”

“You can't allow yourself to give in to sentiment, Lavinia,” said Edith. “Half the reason we don't have a British Empire anymore is because of the way children are educated these days.”

“For heaven's sake,” Lavinia exclaimed. “The British Empire died at least half a century ago. If you tell me to keep a stiff upper lip, I'll scream.”

“All this touchy-feely American nonsense,” Edith went on. “Look at Rupert. Boarding school did him a world of good. You don't see him sniffling like a girl.”

“Exactly my point,” said Lavinia dryly. “I don't want Harry to be incapable of showing his feelings.”

I had to agree with Lavinia. I often wondered if that was my ex-boyfriend David's problem. He'd been sent off to boarding school at age seven, too. David loathed any form of emotion—especially public displays of affection that made him squirm with embarrassment. To begin with, I'd found his old-fashioned gallantry attractive. But I soon discovered he was unable to talk honestly about his feelings, preferring to retreat behind a wall of silence or simply walk out of the room.

“Rupert cried to start with, of course he did,” Edith went on. “But he soon pulled himself together like a true Honeychurch must.”

“What about trying the local school?”

“Absolutely not,” said Edith. “Harry should be mixing with his peers, not the hoi polloi and all the frightful nouveau riche.”

“It's different now,” said Lavinia. “The hoi polloi
do
go to public schools and yes, I know what you mean about the nouveau riche, but no one cares if one's not listed in
Burke's Peerage
anymore.”

“Where on earth did Harry get the village school idea from in the first place?” Edith demanded.

“Apparently, Katherine Stanford told him he could go,” said Lavinia. “Rupert was
ab-so-lute-ly
livid. We had the most frightful row.”

My stomach gave a lurch. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. I hurried on by but promptly tripped over a pitchfork that fell down with a clatter. The talking ceased abruptly.

Quickly, I spied an empty water bucket, grabbed it, and headed over to an outside tap. I turned the water on full blast.

Lavinia poked her head out of the tack room door. “Oh, it's you.”

I gave a feeble wave of greeting and pretended to find something fascinating in the water bucket. Edith must have made a comment because Lavinia stepped back and closed the tack room door.

Their conversation had unsettled me. I knew I shouldn't have interfered but it was hard not to. The Honeychurch family had really gotten under my skin—and it wasn't just the humans.

Well before I'd discovered the magic of the antiques world, I had desperately wanted to work with horses but my ever-practical father insisted that I would never earn a decent living as a groom. Of course, Dad envisioned me on the lower end of the equestrian world, not the upper. It never occurred to me to disagree with him and follow my dream. I admired Mum for following hers—and against all odds. Much as we both adored my father, I hated to admit he had been rather overbearing or as Mum would say, “protective” and “only wanting the best for both of us.”

As I filled up the water buckets and refilled hay nets I realized I'd miss my new equine friends most of all. I had become familiar with all their different personalities. Tinkerbell, the dowager countess's favorite chestnut mare, was notoriously impatient and known to wriggle out of her bridle if no one was watching; Jupiter, a bay mare who Edith claimed was depressed following William's departure; Harry's adorable little black pony, Thunder, who loved Heinz tomato soup and drank it from a thermos flask; and Duchess, a dapple-gray mare that I'd begun to think of as my own. In addition, there were two young horses, Falcon and Kestrel that Lavinia and William had been training for two-in-hand carriage driving competitions. Finally, there were the “old ladies”—Pixie Dust, Rose, and Willow, aged twenty-eight, thirty, and an impressive thirty-five. Every morning I dreaded hearing the news that one of them had died during the night. I wondered what would happen to Edith's beloved equine cemetery should Operation Bullet really happen and with a jolt, I knew I would do my best to stop it happening, too.

I was inside Duchess's stable when I saw Rupert's black Range Rover pull into the yard. Harry got out of the front passenger seat and hurried over to Thunder's loose box opposite. He darted inside.

Lavinia emerged from the tack room and walked over to the car. Rupert opened the window. I couldn't catch their conversation but judging from Lavinia's expression as she went to find Harry, guessed it had not gone well.

A few minutes later, mother and son emerged from Thunder's loose box. Lavinia had her arm around Harry's shoulders. She kissed the top of his head. Harry spotted me in the doorway and broke away to join me.

“Are you off?” I said with false cheerfulness.

“Flying Officer Stanford,” said Harry, adopting his Biggles persona, “I'm afraid I've been recalled for duty.”

“So I heard, sir.”

“I want your word that you won't let anything happen to the dormice.”

“I promise,” I said. “What about Flying Officer Fitzgerald, sir? Is she going with you?”

“No,” said Harry. “She's needed at home.”

“Harry!” Lavinia materialized at the stable door. “Come along. Father wants to leave now.”

“Good luck, sir,” I said and gave a snappy salute. Lavinia rewarded me with a tight smile, then steered Harry over to the Range Rover. As he clambered into the front passenger seat I heard him say, “But I haven't said good-bye to Mr. Chips!”