Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (10 page)

“Are you okay?” I whispered to Angela.

She gave a weak smile but I could tell the “chair incident” had shaken her up.

“First of all, please give Benedict Scroope a warm welcome,” said Eric. There was more applause and catcalls. “As you know, Benedict is here to help us Stop-the-Bullet!” Another deafening round of clapping followed.

“And on my right, meet Valentine Prince-Avery who I am sure, by now, needs no formal introduction.”

There was an icy silence until someone gave an unsporting “boo!” Valentine straightened his shoulders. He caught my eye and I shot him a sympathetic smile.

Benedict stepped forward and offered his hand for Valentine to shake. He did. The two men gave curt nods of greeting as if they were about to enter a duel.

“Mr. Prince-Avery, why don't you begin by telling us exactly what will happen to our community,” said Eric. “Then Mr. Scroope will discuss the impact it will have on our environment. Following that, we'll open the floor to questions.”

“You'll have to forgive me for not being as prepared as I would like,” Valentine began. “My presentation materials did not arrive.”

“That's okay,” said Eric. “We got hold of some stock footage showing other high-speed rail networks from around the world. I'm sure they will give everyone here a clear idea of what's in store.”

Valentine smiled again but I detected a flash of alarm. A part of me wondered if he had been set up to fail. Maybe the materials
had
been stolen.

“Thank you, Eric,” said Valentine graciously. “I had hoped to have talked to everyone prior to this meeting but I do want to stress that I still intend to visit each of your properties and speak to each of you individually and in private about your options.”

His statement was met with silence and hostile stares.

Eric gave a nod and looked over toward the bar. The lights dimmed and a PowerPoint presentation appeared on the white screen.

The images were harsh and had the desired effect of creating a desperate situation. “Before” and “after” photographs showed the beautiful countryside, ancient churches, idyllic villages, period homes, and lush woodland intercut with ugly concrete-and-gravel strips hundreds of feet wide. The tracks were sealed off with high security fences and tall metal gantries. Even worse, the boundaries were floodlit at night emitting an almost alien-like glare.

The presentation ended with an ear-splitting sound bite—bursts of noise that afterward, Eric claimed registered ninety decibels. Each lasted several seconds. We were told that these trains would run every two or three minutes from early morning until midnight. The noise would be enough to rattle windowpanes a quarter of a mile away.

The final image was a collage of woodland animals corralled into a pen. Of course, this was heavily Photoshopped but the message was plain. Doreen's comment about the wildlife hit me afresh.

When the lights came up, the audience erupted into cries of outrage and calls for action. Eric gave an ear-piercing wolf whistle to try and restore order. Slowly people calmed down.

Someone shouted out, “Where's Prince-Avery?” Another called out, “He's buggered off!”

It was true. Valentine had vanished—and frankly, I didn't blame him.

“Couldn't take it,” said Eric with a nasty laugh. “Coward.”

Benedict was grinning, too, as more insults about Valentine's manhood flew around and soon everyone was jeering.

Eric gave another wolf whistle and once again, order was restored. “Now it's time to listen to our expert environmentalist. Over to you, Benedict.”

The meeting moved swiftly on as Benedict reeled off facts, statistics, and unheard-of laws dating back to feudal times. He was charismatic and everyone seemed transfixed—even me. It was only when Benedict pinned a large map of the neighborhood onto the easel that the atmosphere changed.

Using a laser pen, Benedict pointed out the affected areas that were shaded in red, pale blue, and orange. It was blatantly obvious that a quarter of the village—including the Norman church of St. Mary's—was marked in red for
DEMOLITION
. The remainder— Honeychurch Hall, the grounds, a wide swathe of farmland including Cavalier Copse and Bridge Cottage—fell into the pale blue
SAFETY ZONE
and would overlook the cutting. Two large blocks of orange blotted out the Carriage House, Eric's scrapyard, and the equine cemetery. This was labeled
ROLLING STOCK DEPOT
.

In short, the entire community would be destroyed if the plan went through.

No one spoke. Everyone seemed to be in shock—including me. I was glad that Mum hadn't known about this meeting.

Benedict cleared his throat and turned to face us. “What Mr. Prince-Avery would have told you was that those properties standing in the pale blue area—the so-called safety zone—although not earmarked for demolition, are also not eligible for compensation, either.”

Patty stood up. “So it's true. Bridge Cottage is in the pale blue zone—”

“Most of Little Dipperton is in the pale blue zone!” came a shout from the back. There were more cries of dismay as those whose homes also fell in the safety zone realized that they couldn't sell their properties now and would be condemned to living close to the cutting. They would also be subject to the horrendous noise and rattle of passing trains.

“This is wicked! It's wrong!” Patty shouted. “Prince-Avery shouldn't be allowed to get away with it!” Many got to their feet, shaking their fists—one woman was in tears. It was awful.

I wanted to say it was hardly Valentine's fault, he was just doing his job but I didn't have the courage.

“You should have shot him when you had the chance, Patty,” Doreen called out. There were cheers of agreement that were slowly drowned out by another of Eric's wolf whistles.

Benedict stood up on the nearest table and clapped his hands. “Listen!” he called out. “Listen to me! We can fight this! We can fight this if we all work together!”

Slowly people sat down but the mood had turned ugly.

“We could suggest an alternative route,” Benedict went on. “As you know, I'm an environmentalist. Much of the woodland and hedgerows in the area are hundreds of years old. Has anyone heard of the South Cubbington Wood proposal?”

No one had.

“You can find it on the Internet,” he said. “The South Cubbington Wood community formed an action group and drew up a plan to bore a tunnel
under
the wood.”

“How do we go about that?” said Roxy. “None of us are experts here—and nor are you!”

“We hire land surveyors and civil engineers—just like they did,” said Benedict. “And then we submit the proposal.”

“What about the Civil War angle?” Eric said. “There was a decisive battle fought on Honeychurch land.”

“Lots of areas in the West Country can claim that honor. No.” Benedict shook his head. “We need to be clever. I feel we can definitely submit a solid plan—if not for a tunnel, for rerouting the line.”

“Why can't the track just go around Little Dipperton?” Roxy demanded. There was a chorus of agreement.

“I'm afraid modern technology demands a straight track,” Benedict said. “It was true, in Victorian times, tracks could circumvent archaeological sites, ancient monuments, and homes, but not now.”

“I presume you aren't offering your services out of the kindness of your heart,” said Roxy. “You don't even live around here.”

“As a matter of fact, I was born on the Devon-Cornwall border,” said Benedict. “So yes, I feel I qualify as a local.”

“And how do we go about paying for all this?” Roxy said.

“My fees are very low,” said Benedict.

“We'll have fund-raisers,” Eric declared. “And for those of you who know how to use a computer—” There was a burst of laughter that clearly indicated that not many people could. “We've already set up an online donation fund with Stop-the-Bullet as a domain name.”

“And of course, Kat here has very kindly agreed to be the face of our campaign,” said Benedict, gesturing for me to step up to join him.

This comment was met with more applause and whoops of delight.

“Kat—over to you,” beamed Benedict. “Thoughts?”

I scrambled for something to say. “How about holding an auction?” I said. “Take a look in your home and see what you can part with. I'll offer a free valuation. It'll be a glorified car boot sale—”

“Joyce and Patty know all about car boot sales,” someone yelled out. “They live in one.”

There was a ripple of unkind laughter.

“We can host an auction here at the village hall,” I went on. “And support it with homemade cakes—”

“We'll contribute the cakes,” chorused the sisters from the tearoom.

“Can you get television coverage?” said Ginny the reporter. “You've got all the right connections.”

“I'll see what I can do.” This was the last thing I wanted but it seemed I was now involved whether I liked it or not.

“Let's get the Dartington Morris Men in,” called out Tom Jones.

“How about a Heritage Hike?” Roxy suggested. “You know, a sponsored walk around all the places that are going to be destroyed. We could get that televised, too.”

It looked like my plan to go back to London was about to be postponed again.

“We could sell T-shirts with
STOP-THE-BULLET: SAVE MINUTES, LOSE CENTURIES
on them,” Ginny enthused.

“How do we pay for this?” Roxy said again.

“I've already told you, Roxy,” said Eric. “We've established a fighting fund.”

“A fighting fund for Fred!” Doreen echoed as she made her way to the front holding the duck—wings flapping—amidst the sound of ragged cheers. “And we'll start right now.”

Stan appeared with the collection bucket and it was passed around. Pockets were emptied and wallets pulled out. I put in ten pounds. Even Angela put in a fiver. Patty, however, got up and headed in the direction of the ladies' loo.

Patty's exit prompted everyone to head to the bar. The meeting was over. I said my good-byes to Ginny and we exchanged phone numbers.

“I know you must get this all the time,” said Ginny shyly. “But I'm one of your biggest fans.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And I'll see what I can do about a camera crew.”

“We'll meet in a month,” Eric shouted, trying to make his voice heard above scraping chairs and excited chatter.

Benedict joined me. “Thank you for your support,” he said. “I believe Lavinia and I will be meeting your mother tomorrow morning at the Carriage House?”

“Yes.”

“Pity about that Prince-Avery fellow,” said Benedict. “I must say I was a bit disappointed that he scuttled off like that. I had been looking forward to a bit of a fight.”

I noticed Muriel from the post office knock back a schooner of sherry and recalled Valentine's suspicions of theft. “Do you think Mr. Prince-Avery's presentation materials really were stolen?”

“Take a look around,” said Benedict. “What do you think?”

“The placards still made it though.” I hadn't thought to ask Valentine exactly how so many boards got shipped to Devon and where they had been delivered.

“Placards?” Benedict frowned. “What sort of placards?”

“I saw ten,” I told him. “There could be more. They said
HS
3
CROSSING FROM HERE
and are staked out in the two fields near Hopton's Crest leading down to Cavalier Copse.”

“That's the perfect photo opportunity,” said Benedict. “We could have you standing next to one of them looking angry.”

“Alright.” I felt so conflicted. On the one hand, of course, I wanted to lend my support, but to be practically spearheading the campaign was definitely not what I had wanted.

Angela bobbed up from nowhere. “Hello!” She beamed. It would seem that she'd gotten over her earlier mishap with Sir Maurice's chair. “Sorry for interrupting but I need to ask Kat something.”

“Not at all,” said Benedict. “Excuse me, I am being summoned by the hordes.”

“Do you mind if I cadge a lift back with you,” she said. “Eric's not ready to leave and I'm really tired. I've got to be up at five tomorrow to blacken the grates.”

“You do know it's the twenty-first century,” I teased.

Angela reddened. “I like doing them. Really.”

We fought our way through the throng to the front door but were stopped by Doreen who still had Fred tucked under her arm.

“Patty asked me if you wouldn't mind running her home,” she said. “It's not out of your way and Stan's tied up at the bar.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Patty!” yelled Doreen. “Kat will take you.”

Patty trudged over clutching her string bag that was now jammed full of canned produce, boxes of crackers, and a foil container.

“Now, just pop the oven on at four hundred degrees and give that pie about twenty-five minutes,” said Doreen to Patty. “Tell Joyce I'm sorry she wasn't feeling very well. I'll call you tomorrow if Stan isn't able to come and pick you up. You really need to get your phone fixed, luv.”

Patty simply scowled, grunted something inaudible, and barged her way out of the front door.

“Remember to hand out my Ravishing Romantics Book Club flyer,” said Angela. “Please Doreen,
please
.”

Ravishing Romantics! Seriously?
Mum would get a kick out of that.

Angela's eyes glittered and she swayed slightly on her feet. I wondered how many glasses of scrumpy she had imbibed. The stuff was lethal and always seemed deceptively harmless.

“For the fiftieth time,” said Doreen wearily. “I told you. I won't forget.”

Outside in the car park I wasn't surprised to see that Valentine's Suzuki had gone. Judging by the amount of wine he'd been drinking earlier, I hoped that he wouldn't get stopped by the police and given the Breathalyzer test.