Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (27 page)

Alfred swiftly stepped up and whispered in my ear, “Tell her you'll bring Mr. Chips back in a couple of hours.”

I repeated what Alfred had said and hung up. “Why did you say that?” I said, wondering if my day could get any worse. “How did you know what she was asking me anyway?”

He tapped his forehead. “I've got gifts, luv. He's off hunting. We'll find him—but he's in trouble.”

As if on cue, there was a powerful crack of lightning that illuminated the kitchen in phosphorescent light. A deep rumble began to sound from the bowels of the earth, culminating in a deafening boom of thunder. Rain hammered down on the roof, pelting the windowpanes.

“We'd best get to it quickly,” said Alfred. “Where did you see Mr. Chips last?”

“Cavalier Copse,” I said.

“We'll all go,” said Mum. “Three pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“And bring a couple of towels,” Uncle Alfred added. “We may need them.”

 

Chapter Twenty-two

Dressed in heavy raincoats and bearing flashlights, a shovel, some rope, and an old towel in a plastic carrier bag, we set off across the fields in a ferocious downpour.

Angela's brush with death continued to play on my mind. “I had no idea that cows could move so fast,” I told Alfred for what had to be the umpteenth time. “The moment Mr. Chips broke for cover, she just made a run for it.”

“Cows don't like dogs nipping at their heels,” said Alfred. “But it was clever of the girl to play dead.”

“She fainted. I thought she
was
dead.”

It was heavy going but when we reached Hopton's Crest, the rain abruptly stopped and a pale three-quarter moon emerged from behind the clouds. A peculiar mist drifted along the track, creating odd shapes among the scrub.

“Did you see that?” Mum clutched my arm. “That shape? Moving?”

“It's just a hedge,” I said but the truth was, I thought I'd seen something move, too. “It's a trick of the light—a mix of moonbeams dancing with the mist that creates an illusion.”

But Mum wasn't convinced. “Alfred? Did you see that?”

Alfred waved us to keep quiet. “Stop all your chattering for just one minute.”

He climbed over the stile and stood at the top of the field with his arms by his side, gazing up at the sky.

“Mum—”

“Shh! He's channeling,” she whispered.

After a couple of minutes, Alfred turned and beckoned for us to join him. He headed for the boundary that hugged the hedge and ran downhill all the way to the bottom of the field.

An owl hooted; foxes cried but there was no sound of an answering bark to our repeated calls to Mr. Chips.

Alfred pointed his flashlight at a series of round holes peppered in the banks underneath the hedge.

“Rabbit holes and badger setts,” he said. “But he's not here.”

Minutes later we drew close to Coffin Mire.

“You don't want to go anywhere near there, Alfred,” said Mum. “It's a swamp.”

Alfred gingerly took a few steps forward and stopped. Again, he put his hand up and we fell quiet.

“Please don't tell me Mr. Chips fell in,” I whispered.

“No, he's not in there but—” Alfred gasped. “Jesus, have mercy.”

“What? What is it?” Mum said sharply. “What have you seen?”

Alfred turned away. “Later. Not now. Turn off the flashlights and be quiet. I need to concentrate.”

The wind rushed through the trees with the clatter and chill that I experienced every time I came this way. Mum grabbed my arm again. “Can you feel it?”

“Don't be silly,” I said but the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. There was a presence, I was sure of it, too.

“What's that light over there?” Mum whispered urgently. “Do you see it?”

She pointed in the opposite direction away from Cavalier Copse toward a bank of trees where a yellow light shone through in the distance.

“That's Bridge Cottage,” I whispered back.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mum muttered. “I got all discombobulated.”

“Be quiet, Iris,” Alfred hissed.

We did as we were told and stood waiting.

Another rush of icy cold air swirled around us.

“Aye, the soldiers are here, they're all here, wandering around, lost and confused,” said Alfred. “Can you hear the chink of armor? The sound of horse hooves?”

“No,” I said. And I didn't want to.

Suddenly, Alfred turned his flashlight back on. “We're coming, little fella. Mr. Chips is in the bank, yonder.”

Most Devon hedges are built on top of earthen banks and like most, too, were home to many woodland creatures.

Alfred made a beeline for the third hole to the far side of the stile.

It looked too small for even a rabbit to go down, let alone a Jack Russell terrier. “Surely, he can't be in there!”

Alfred put his shovel aside and knelt down at the entrance. “Mr. Chips?” he said gently. “You in there, boy?”

Far, far belowground came a faint whimper.

“Thank God!” I exclaimed.

“He's there!” Mum said happily. “But how can we get him out?”

“All right, my boy, we're here now.”

Mr. Chips's whimpers turned into anguished whining.

Alfred set to with the shovel, digging out the hole as Mum and I held our flashlights so he could see what he was doing.

“Keep the light at an angle,” he said. “Don't want to frighten the little bugger any more than he already is.”

“Told you he could talk to the animals,” said Mum proudly.

“We're lucky there has been so much rain,” said Alfred. “The earth is soft. We'll soon get him out.”

Alfred suddenly tossed the shovel down, lay on his stomach, and thrust his hand far into the hole right up to his armpit.

There was a yelp of surprise.

“He's got something in his mouth,” muttered Alfred.

“He's got my money!” Mum exclaimed.

“I can't pull him. Drop it, boy. Come on! Drop it.”

There was a series of growls. “He wants to play,” I said, relieved. “He's okay.”

“Got it.” Alfred withdrew his arm and tossed an object aside, reaching back in. “Bingo!” he cried as he dragged Mr. Chips out by the scruff of his neck.

“He stinks!” Mum exclaimed.

And he did. Mr. Chips was coated in slick mud and what suspiciously looked like animal poop.

“Wrap him in a towel, Kat,” Alfred ordered. “Don't want him to catch his death.”

But Mr. Chips slithered out of my grasp, barked a few times, and trotted back to the edge of Coffin Mire.

“What's he doing?” I exclaimed.

“He wants to show us something,” said Alfred grimly.

Mum found the object that Alfred had tossed aside. “What on earth is this?” She picked it up gingerly and held up her flashlight. “Good heavens! It's a man's shoe. Look, Kat.”

She handed it to Alfred who dropped it with a cry of alarm. “Jesus have mercy,” he said again.

“What's wrong?” I turned to Mum. “What can he see?”

Mr. Chips tore across the grass barking, then tore back again to the edge of the mire.

“He wants us to follow him,” said Alfred. “I'm coming, boy.”

Mum picked up the shoe again and shone her flashlight over it. “It's looks expensive. Not your average farmer's boot.”

“Oh God.” I felt sick. A peculiar foreboding swept over me. I'd found Valentine's walking cane in this field. Could that shoe possibly belong to him, too?

But no, that couldn't be right. We'd been sharing text messages.

“The other shoe is over here!” Alfred called out and waved us over with his shovel.

Alfred pointed his flashlight to a matching shoe partially submerged in a black inky pool of water, yards away from firm ground.

“Do you think someone drowned in there?” said Mum.

I'd initially thought the same but it wasn't logical. “No, Mum. Of course they haven't. Look, that shoe is on top of the mire and since Mr. Chips was able to get the other one, it couldn't have been far in. If someone has drowned, those shoes would be on that person's feet. Right?”

“Yes. You're right. Of course you're right. We all know this place is haunted. I just got a bit spooked. Perhaps it's Sir Maurice playing a trick,” she said more cheerfully.

Suddenly the wind blew up again and the moaning seemed even louder this time. Alfred put down his shovel, removed his cap, and raised both arms to the sky again. The three-quarter moon settled directly overhead casting down a pyramid of light. I felt a rush of gooseflesh.

“Oh aye, we hear you, my lads,” said Alfred. “We hear you.”

“Oh. My. God. Alfred is going to raise the dead,” Mum exclaimed.

“Youngsters, that's all they were,” Alfred went on. “Fooled by a Honeychurch Cavalier. But wait—Oh, Jesus.”

He stepped back abruptly and snapped on his flashlight. “He's here.”

“Who!”

Mum grabbed my arm and gave a cry of shock. “It's over there! Shine it over there, Alfred! Quickly, shine it over there!”

Alfred slowly panned the area and Mum and I gasped in utter horror.

“You'd best call out the police,” said Alfred grimly.

There, sticking out of the bog, was a hand.

 

Chapter Twenty-three

I spent a terrible night dreaming of Roundheads wearing Italian shoes and David flailing around in the mire, drowning a horrible death. Alfred's reaction to the walking cane now seemed heavy with meaning.

Alfred couldn't have slept much that night, either, because when I came downstairs, the hallway was completely clear of furniture. A quick peep into the sitting room confirmed my suspicion. He had just shoved everything back in there.

Mum and Alfred were in the kitchen eating breakfast. To say you could cut the atmosphere with the proverbial knife was putting it mildly. Alfred looked nervous and kept knocking his spoon off his saucer and the way my mother was biting into her toast made it clear that the two must have had “words.”

“Any news from the police?” I said.

“I left a message,” said Mum. “You know the station doesn't open until nine.”

“It's an emergency, Mother!”

“I told Iris to call nine-nine-nine,” said Alfred. “But she wouldn't hear of it.”

“And I told you, this isn't London. Let's let our local plod handle it,” she went on. “The dowager countess hates any kind of scandal and we don't want the paparazzi hearing about it and the place crawling with reporters. You seem to forget that Kat is a celebrity.”

“Thanks, Mum,” I said. “But in this case I agree with Alfred.”

Mum rolled her eyes. “What's the rush? Whoever is in there can't get any more dead, can they?”

“Then let that be on your conscience, not mine.” Alfred got up from the table and strode out of the kitchen. We heard the front door slam.

“What's happened?” I demanded. “Have you two had a sibling tiff?”

“Have you seen the sitting room?” said Mum. “Alfred just threw everything back. The paint isn't even dry in places.”

“He promised to put the furniture back. And he did.”

“Since when did you change sides?”

“When Alfred rescued Mr. Chips.” I regarded Mum with curiosity. “What's really going on?”

“Don't say I told you so but—” She took a deep breath, “I think you're right. I can't live in that mess.”

“I thought you didn't mind,” I said, exasperated.

“Frank's mess was neater.”

The wall phone chirruped and Mum snatched it up. “Good morning. Good. Yes.” She listened, nodding. “A shoe. Yes. A hand. That's right, I told you all this on the answering machine. No. Isn't that your job?”

Mum put the phone down. “That was Shawn. As if I would make it up! He's on his way over right now.”

My stomach was churning. “Oh, Mum. Who do you think it can be? What if it's Valentine? Maybe he fell in when he went to pick up the placards?”

“What are you talking about?” said Mum.

I summarized the conversation I'd had at Ogwell Car Hire and told Mum the placards had been found in the back of Valentine's SUV.

“Why would Valentine pick them up when he put them there in the first place?” she pointed out.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But he really seemed upset on Monday evening. He was drinking heavily, too. The next morning, when I went out riding with Edith, the placards had gone. I
knew
something was wrong when I found his walking cane in that field.”

“Let me see…”

Mum grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil. She drew a line to divide the sheet in half. “This is the bridleway and the bank of oak trees where Harry has his tree house.” She drew a square. “This is the five-bar gate that opens into the bridleway.” Then she drew a circle below the line and to the far left. “That's Coffin Mire.” She drew an oval to represent Cavalier Copse in the center of the page just under the bridleway. “And this,” Mum drew elaborate curlicues all around the edge of the paper, “is the boundary hedge and ditch.”

A further ten crosses marked the locations of the signs that ran below and above the horizontal bridleway. On the far right, Mum drew a square—Bridge Cottage—and scribbled a cloud of undergrowth around it.

“Where did you find Valentine's walking cane?” she asked.

I picked up the pencil and made an X. “Between the five-bar gate and Coffin Mire.”

“So it wasn't next to the mire at all.”

“But … there is something else.” Nausea hit me again as I remembered Joyce lying facedown in the water.

“What have you done, now?” said Mum.

“Not me, Valentine.” I explained that Shawn and Roxy believed that Valentine could have been involved in Joyce's death.