Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (4 page)

The three of us set off for the Hall.

“How did you get back here from school, Harry?” said Mum. I had been thinking the same thing. It had to be at least fifty miles away.

“I took the bus,” he said. “I'm not stupid.”

Mum leaned in and whispered, “Just think! He could have been abducted, for heaven's sakes. The country is full of perverts these days.”

“Be quiet, Mother!” I whispered.

“But it was a jolly good thing I
did
escape,” Harry went on. “Because someone had to keep an eye on the enemy.”

“That's true,” I said.

“That man with the limp was waiting for you for ages,” said Harry.

“What do you mean,
waiting
?” I said sharply.

“He waited until you were picking the sloes.” Harry laughed. “I saw you fall into the bog. You were really lucky you weren't eaten by alien worms with piranha-sharp teeth!”

“I wonder why he was waiting for us,” Mum mused.

“To see
you,
Mum,” I said. “Remember? He wanted to tell you about the rolling stock depot and discuss your options?”

“What's rolling stock?” Harry asked.

“Let's talk about this later, Mum,” I whispered.

Harry's eyes widened. “Like somewhere to store ammunition and bombs? Like a factory?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “Harry, why don't you tell me about the dormice? Where do they live?”

“Oh! They live in Cavalier Copse. They're arb … harb … arb … they live in trees and hedges.”

“Arboreal?” I suggested.

“Yes!” Harry beamed. “William says they travel from tree to tree and never touch the ground. They're going to hibernate now until April.” His face fell. “William says they build their nests in hollow trees and roots but … what if all the trees are cut down?”

“They won't be,” said Mum grimly. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

“Tell me what the dormice like to eat,” I said, hoping to distract him.

“Insects,” said Harry. “But hazelnuts are their favorite.”

As we walked up to the stile at the top of the field, Harry chattered happily about the Honeychurch dormice, and for a while “the enemy” and boarding school were forgotten.

Suddenly, the five-bar gate in the corner was thrown open and a herd of Devonshire Red Ruby cows and their calves drifted in.

“Cows.” I looked over at Mum and said pointedly, “I told you there were cows in this field.”

“Oh! Quick. Hurry!” Harry clambered over the stile. “William told me that the cows who have babies don't like us in their field. He said that a holidaymaker was trampled to death last summer whilst walking his dog.”

“That's horrible,” I exclaimed.

“I heard about that,” said Mum. “Apparently, he panicked and started to run. You should never run away from cows, especially if they have calves.”

“So says the country girl,” I joked as I helped Mum over the stile and we both jumped down on the other side.

“You forget that when I was a girl I spent
every
summer in the country,” Mum declared.

“There was a stampede,” Harry went on with obvious relish. “He was surrounded by a million cows who stamped on him until all his limbs fell off and his insides exploded.” Harry gave a heavy sigh. “I'd rather be trampled on than go back to school.”

“Tell me all the good things about your new school,” I asked.

“There aren't any.”

“Of course there must be,” Mum chimed in.

“You'll make friends eventually,” I said. “No one likes being the new boy.”

“I won't. I hate it. The boys make fun of me.” Harry's top lip quivered. “They called me a sissy for taking a toy mouse to school.”

“I bet some of them secretly have toys but aren't brave enough to admit it,” I said, trying to jolly him along.

Harry slipped his hand into mine. “You promised I would never go back,” he said again.

“Told you that was a mistake,” Mum whispered into my ear.

“What about changing schools?” I suggested, knowing the moment I said it that it was the wrong thing.

Harry brightened. “I could go to my friend Max's school. I could come home every day!”

“Well … that's up to your parents,” I said hastily.

“Will you ask Mummy? Please, Kat,
please
!”

We entered the cobbled courtyard at the rear of the Hall and headed for the entrance to the servants' quarters.

“Goodness, someone's been busy with a broom around here,” said Mum.

Mum was right. The last time I'd been this way the cobbled courtyard had been cluttered with an assortment of old farmyard appliances, pieces of wood, and sheets of corrugated iron and mounds of rubbish. Instead, everything had been piled into a large builder's skip that stood in the corner.

Harry started to drag his feet. “Can't I come and stay with you?” he said. “Father is going to be so angry.”

“Not angry, just worried,” I said. “Come on, shall we go and see Mrs. Cropper first? Maybe she'll make you some hot chocolate. You must be starving.”

“Alright,” whispered Harry and clung to my hand even tighter.

We stepped through the back door and Mum and I stopped in surprise.

“It looks like the broom has been in here, too!” I said.

The long flagstone corridor that led to the kitchen quarters had always been thick with grime and cobwebs. Not anymore. Even the yellowing painted walls looked as if they had been wiped down.

“What's that pong?” Harry asked.

It was true. There was an eye-watering smell of disinfectant.

“If I had to choose between eau de mire and eau de carbolic I'm afraid I'd rather have the latter,” said Mum.

“Look!” Harry exclaimed. “All the doors to the dungeons are open! The prisoners must have escaped!”

The corridor was lined with doorways, each serving a purpose-specific larder for meat, dairy, fish, et al. There was also a flower room, stillroom, and a lamp room. What had been a dull passageway now shone with cheery brightness.

We peeped in the first doorway—the dry larder. The rectangular room had one window at the far end that was framed by ill-kempt shrubs outside. Although it was still gloomy, everywhere—floor, walls, even the ceiling—looked as if it had been thoroughly scrubbed down. The stoneware storage jars and vats were lined neatly on a central trestle table. The massive dresser that hugged one wall stood equally spotless.

“Mrs. Cropper must have found a new housekeeper after all,” Mum remarked. “I wonder if she's from the village?”

Generations of the same families had always worked at Honeychurch Hall “below stairs”—if that term could still be applied in this modern age. Following Vera's so-called unfortunate “accident,” Mrs. Cropper had grumbled that finding someone with the right “training” had been impossible.

There had been a series of daily help from Little Dipperton—Patty Gully having been just one—but none had lasted more than two or three weeks.

Harry ran in and out of the open doorways and shouted, “This is
wicked
!”

“I recognize that voice!” Mrs. Cropper stood at the end of the corridor. “Is that Master Harry?”

She was dressed in her usual uniform of a pink-striped pinafore over a plain white linen short-sleeved dress and wore her gray hair tucked under a white mobcap.

“The school called this morning and told us you ran away again,” said Mrs. Cropper sternly. “His lordship and Lady Lavinia are waiting for you in the drawing room with Shawn.”

I still couldn't get used to calling the local police inspector by his first name despite his being Mr. and Mrs. Cropper's grandson.

Harry scowled. “I'm not going back to the front. Ever.”

“That's not for you to decide,” said Mrs. Cropper briskly.

“Kat says I can go to the same school as Max,” Harry said.

Mrs. Cropper glared at me. “Did she now.”

“Did you know that the bag ladies nearly shot someone to death with their gun today?” said Harry gleefully.

Mrs. Cropper's eyes widened in shock. “What is Master Harry talking about?”

“It wasn't quite like that,” I said quickly.

“Oh yes it was,” said Mum. “This despicable man was trespassing and Joyce encouraged him to leave with her twelve-bore.”

Harry nodded eagerly. “The sign says
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED & POACHERS WILL BE SHOT.
”

“But he wasn't poaching, Harry,” I said. “My mother's exaggerating. The gun went off by accident.”

“What was this trespasser doing?” Mrs. Cropper demanded.

“Laying a runway for the airplanes,” said Harry. “There were big black boards with
HS
3
CROSSING FROM HERE
.”

“Operation Bullet, I presume,” said Mrs. Cropper grimly. “Well, enough of all that. Come along, Master Harry—”

“We almost forgot to give you these.” Mum passed her the wicker basket of sloes.

Mrs. Cropper took the basket in one hand and Harry in the other. “Come along, Harry,” she said again. “Your father will be wanting to talk to you.”

Harry's face fell. He looked as if the weight of the world was on his little shoulders. “Don't forget to write to me, Kat.”

“And don't forget to write to
me,
” I said. “I love getting your letters.”

Mrs. Cropper whisked Harry away.

“I hope he'll be okay,” I said.

“I wouldn't mind poking around in these old larders,” Mum mused. “I've got a scene in
Forbidden
that takes place in the meat larder.”

“I hope it's not a love scene,” I said. “Anyway … I thought we'd turned in your manuscript?”

“We?” said Mum. “
We
turned in the manuscript?”

“You couldn't have finished it without my typing expertise,” I pointed out.

“
Finished?
It's not finished,” she snapped. “Turning in the manuscript is only the beginning of the process. I'll get notes back from my editor any day now. In fact, I should have gotten them yesterday.”

“I thought you just sent it off and that was that.”

“Of course not! It's a very lengthy process. It's not a sausage factory.”

I knew I'd hit a nerve but I was spared further explanation by the appearance of a woman in her early thirties stepping through the doorway of the meat larder carrying a bucket of dirty water. She was dressed in a drab, gray dress under a waterproof butcher's apron. A lock of dark hair flopped over one eye, having escaped from under a neat cap. She was very pretty with a heart-shaped face and large brown eyes.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, bobbing a curtsey. “Beg pardon. You startled me.” I noted a broad Devonshire accent.

“Hello. You must be the new housekeeper,” I said. “You've done a fantastic job of cleaning up the courtyard.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“You've certainly got your work cut out for you here,” Mum chimed in. “What's your name?”

“I'm Parks.”

“We can't call you Parks,” I said. “What's your first name?”

“Angela.”

“I'm Iris and this is Kat,” said Mum. “I live at the Carriage House. Kat is visiting. She lives in London.” I caught the dig but ignored it.

Angela regarded me keenly. “Forgive me for saying so, ma'am, but aren't you the lady on
Fakes & Treasures
?”

“Yes, I used to be,” I said and swiftly changed the subject. “Do you live locally?”

“No. I'm from North Devon,” said Angela.

“That's quite far away,” Mum said. “What made you want to move? A broken heart?”

“Don't listen to her.” Honestly, my mother could be so tactless.

“No. Nothing like that.” Angela's warm smile was marred by a nasty snaggletooth. “I was in service at Lindridge but the house burned down. You've got to go where the work is. His lordship very kindly gave me one of the cottages by the walled garden—although I'd much prefer to live in.”

We exchanged pleasantries and learned that Angela only started working at the Hall a week ago.

“Of course, there's no scullery maid,” Angela went on. “And it's just me having to do all the work apart from Mrs. Cropper, but things are different these days, aren't they? A servant's life is not what it used to be.”

It was such an odd thing to say. She couldn't have been that much younger than I. Maybe life in rural Devon was even further behind the times than I realized.

“There used to be twelve live-in servants here,” said Mum. “And five gardeners.”

“That's what Mr. Cropper told me. This house must have been quite something back in the day.”

“It was nice to meet you, Angela,” I said. “I hope Mrs. Cropper doesn't work you too hard.”

Angela seemed to hesitate. “Can I ask your advice?”

Here we go,
I thought.
She's going to ask me to value her grandmother's teapot.

“At Lindridge we used to have a book club. It was fun,” Angela went on. “I was thinking of asking Lady Lavinia if we could start one here. What do you think? Would you both come?”

“Kat can't. She's doesn't live here,” said Mum with another dig.

“What about you, Iris?” said Angela. “I mean, you're retired. What do you do all day? You must have lots of time on your hands.”

Mum looked taken aback. “I'm quite busy, thank you very much.”

“Oh, no, no, sorry.” Angela reddened. “I didn't mean it like that. I just thought you might be bored.”

Angela seemed so upset about her faux pas that I felt sorry for her.

“That's a great idea,” I said. “Although, as you noticed, there aren't that many people on the estate anymore.”