A Fatal Feast at Honeychurch Hall

Book 11: Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Thrillers

Synopsis

'Just the thing to chase the blues away' - M. C. Beaton

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When Eric Pugsley, who runs the unsightly scrapyard on the Honeychurch Hall estate, brings home his Turkish fiancée, everyone is delighted - even if the marriage does seem to include her outrageously feisty mother.

A Safari Supper at the Hall is held in their honour, but trouble begins when, somewhere between the first course and dessert, one of the villagers goes missing and is later found drowned in the estate's ornamental lake.

Rumours of foul play abound, given that competition is fierce to clinch a trophy at the upcoming Flower and Produce Festival, where sabotage had already come into play when someone released a herd of goats into the village allotments and one of the planned entries was eaten.

But things take an even more sinister turn when Eric asks our heroine, Kat Stanford, to value the bride-to-be's 19th century Etruscan engagement ring, only to be told that historically it was used to carry poison - hardly an appropriate choice for love, but Eric is adamant it's what his fiancée wants.

And then a second body is found... unearthing a hotbed of sabotage, blackmail, and old grudges.

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Praise for Hannah Dennison:

'The perfect classic English village mystery but with the addition of charm, wit and a thoroughly modern touch' - Rhys Bowen

'Downton Abbey was yesterday. Murder at Honeychurch Hall lifts the lid on today's grand country estate in all its tarnished, scheming, inbred, deranged glory' - Catriona McPherson

'Sparkles like a glass of Devon cider on a summer afternoon' - Elizabeth Duncan

Release date: April 10, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 70000

Sample

‘What have I missed?’ I asked my mother as she picked me up from Totnes railway station in her bright red Mini. I’d cut short a three-week trip to the USA and was so happy to be home.

‘Nothing much,’ Mum said mildly. ‘Hop in.’

I tossed my small cabin bag on to the back seat of her car.

‘Where’s your suitcase?’

‘Still on the other side of the Atlantic,’ I grumbled. ‘It’s supposed to arrive tomorrow.’

‘At least you got on a flight at the last minute,’ said Mum. ‘I’m not sure why you’re rushing back. I thought you were supposed to be staying on with friends.’

The truth was, I had missed Mallory, my lovely police officer, more than I realised. Although we had tried to speak every day, the eight-hour time difference and both of our busy schedules had made communication very frustrating. Our romantic relationship was still in the early phases and I bounced between being happy and then scared that it would go the same way as my other doomed relationships, which was why we had agreed to keep it secret for the time being. Especially from my mother.

‘You look well,’ I said neatly avoiding her question. And besides, it was true. My mother was a vibrant seventy and was positively glowing. Her once-permed hair was now styled in a highlighted honey-coloured bob. Large Jackie O-framed sunglasses added a touch of glamour to a simple pale-yellow linen summer dress that showed off her tanned limbs. Open-toed sandals revealed bright blue nail polish.

‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ Mum teased.

‘And I love you too.’ I knew I looked a mess, having been travelling for the best part of twenty-four hours. Being naturally clumsy, I had spilt numerous beverages over my khaki trousers, although the coffee stain was due to turbulence.

‘How did it all go?’ she asked. ‘Was it as hot as here?’

‘Hotter,’ I said. ‘But worth it.’

The trip to the United Federation of Doll Clubs annual convention in Los Angeles had been fun but exhausting. The UFDC had been founded by Mary E. Lewis in 1937 and was a big deal. When I’d got the invitation to speak, I jumped at the chance. Much as I enjoyed running Kat’s Collectibles and Mobile Valuation Services, I missed the buzz of being around kindred spirits, especially those whose passion for antique dolls and bears matched my own. Living in rural Devon, I was kept busy enough with my private valuations and the space I rented at Dartmouth Antique Emporium, but my work was becoming increasingly generic and run-of-the-mill.

‘It was lovely being flown business class and lovely being the keynote speaker, which definitely boosted my ego.’ I stifled a yawn. ‘ I would have thought I would have been forgotten by now.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mum declared. ‘You’re still as famous as you’ve ever been. Who wouldn’t flock to hear the former TV host of Fakes and Treasures talk about her pet subject?’

I reached over and squeezed her arm. ‘You are my biggest fan, thank you.’

‘Actually,’ Mum said slowly. ‘There is something I want to tell you. But I don’t want you to be alarmed.’

‘Of course I’m alarmed!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Mum said, ‘but her ladyship has been quite poorly. She’s been in bed for a week, now.’

‘Edith?’ I said. The robust octogenarian was never unwell.

‘There’s a horrible bug sweeping through the village,’ Mum went on. ‘No one knows what it is. It comes as quickly as it goes but, when it comes, it’s really nasty.’

‘I’ll go and see her tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Good luck with that,’ said Mum. ‘You know how Lady Edith hates fuss.’

The dowager countess was stoic to the last. She came from the generation that lived through the Second World War and who kept ‘calm and carried on’. The fact that she was in bed was extremely worrying.

Mum’s mobile rang. It was in the central console. I glanced down at the caller ID which flashed up, call-me-Danny, our vicar.

‘I’ll answer it since you’re driving—’

‘No don’t!’ Mum exclaimed but it was too late. I already had.

‘Iris’s phone,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to put you on speaker, Danny. She’s driving.’

‘Iris? Hello. Hot day. How are you? Good. I’m worried,’ he boomed without giving Mum a chance to answer any of his questions. ‘It’s mother. She’s not answering her phone and I’m stuck at this church conference in Bath.’

My own mother uttered an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do about it, Danny. I’m out and about. Can’t you ask someone else? A neighbour perhaps?’

‘I’ve called everyone in the village, but it seems they are too busy.’

‘Where is Caroline?’ Mum demanded. ‘She only lives next door.’

‘My wife is not answering her phone either.’ Danny’s voice sounded tense. ‘In fact, I haven’t been able to reach Caroline all day.’

‘Perhaps she’s at a spa.’ Mum’s voice was laced with scorn. ‘From what I’ve heard, she seems to spend a lot of time and money being pampered.’

There was a brief silence. ‘No. That was yesterday.’ Danny paused. ‘Mother left me a message this morning. She had received a letter and sounded very upset. I won’t be home until late this evening. Please, Iris. Would you just pop by and check she is all right? And of course, with this bug going around, I don’t want to take any chances.’

Mum gave a heavy sigh. ‘Fine.’

‘Thank you. Thank you. You are a good woman.’ Danny’s relief was palpable. ‘You know if I wasn’t married—’

‘But you are. And Kat is with me in the car and you are on speakerphone,’ Mum declared. ‘Yes, we will check on Ruby. Bye!’

I disconnected the call for her. ‘Is he still flirting with you?’

‘If he is, I don’t care,’ said Mum.

‘Oh?’ I raised a quizzical brow. ‘Could there be someone else?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Mum retorted. ‘You’d think someone could pop in and check on Ruby. But then who would care? When it comes to the popularity stakes, Ruby is more unpopular than her daughter-in-law.’

‘I like Ruby,’ I protested. ‘And anyway, it’s on our way home.’ Like the dowager countess, Ruby was also in her eighties and although her mind was sharp, her body, not so much.

‘I bought Ruby a complete collection of Wills cigarette cards for her birthday,’ I said.

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Mum. ‘You’re so good at remembering that sort of thing.’

‘It’s called “A Series of Roses” and they were created in 1912,’ I said.

‘Ruby doesn’t smoke,’ Mum said flatly.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘The cigarette cards are not the point. It’s the history behind each rose that I think she’d like.’

My mother didn’t show the slightest interest when I told her that many of the cultivars no longer existed. ‘And each card features a specific rose with a detailed description as to its history, scent, and other anecdotes,’ I went on. ‘Did you know that many roses date back to the mid 1800s and are still flourishing today?’

‘Fascinating.’

‘I can give them to her now, oh blast, I can’t.’ I had packed them in my suitcase. I whipped out my mobile to check for an update alert from British Airways but there was nothing.

We turned off the main road and flew down the first of many narrow Devon country lanes flanked by high hedge-banks, a trademark sight of the South Hams, designated an ‘area of outstanding natural beauty’ or AONB – although it wasn’t particularly beautiful at the moment.

What was usually lush and green was now dry and brown. We were coming to the end of an exceptionally hot summer that had enforced a hosepipe ban across the country. The dead scrubland along the roadside and in the bordering woodland was a fire just waiting to happen.

Dotted at regular intervals were garish posters for Banger Racing. Eric Pugsley, Mum’s neighbour and nemesis, ran this noisy event throughout the summer months.

Mum shifted gears and we descended a steep hill much faster than I would have liked. At the bottom was a famously sharp corner that had garnered the nickname Cropper’s Corner because cars and cyclists alike seemed to ‘come a cropper’ by not making the turn and tearing through the hedge and into the field beyond.

‘Mum,’ I said quickly. ‘Slow down.’

‘I am,’ she said and frantically pumped the brakes.

Instinctively, I grabbed the handbrake and pulled it up sharply, which did the trick, and we zipped around the corner in one piece, managing to stop just a few yards further on.

My mother was furious. ‘There was no need to be so dramatic, Katherine!’

‘We nearly went through the hedge!’ I said. ‘How long have your brakes been like this?’

‘Only since yesterday.’ Mum set off cautiously. ‘The Mini passed her MOT ten days ago. I don’t understand it. I’ve booked the car in on Saturday morning if you must know. I’m not completely useless.’

I knew better than to comment on that remark. When Dad died he had made me promise to keep an eye on my mother. She had always been dependent upon him. After nearly fifty years of marriage, he’d been worried about whether she would be able to look after herself. I had been worried too, which was why I had moved from London to this remote corner of England, retired from Fakes and Treasures, and started my own antique business.

An Audi TT Quattro approached, pulled into an open gateway, flashed his lights, and beckoned for us to come forward so we could get by, which made a nice change.

The lanes were notoriously treacherous for motorists. Even though there were passing places and the occasional gateway to pull into, trying to get from A to B in one go was a bit like running the gauntlet. I was getting proficient at reversing and usually did it with good humour. Not so my mother. Many a time she’d stared down the opposition if she felt their passing place was closer than hers. Once, she flatly refused to budge, switched off her car engine and took out a newspaper to read until the exasperated motorist gave in and obliged.

As we drew alongside, the driver indicated for us to stop. Mum opened her window. A face that I could only describe as ferrety, with a pointed chin and bright eyes, smiled back.

He beamed. ‘Hello, you.’

‘Hello you, back.’ I glanced at my mother, who had flushed pink and wore a silly grin on her face.

And now I knew why she was no longer romantically interested in the vicar.

The man was in his late fifties and wore wire-rimmed spectacles and a very neat goatee – in fact everything about him was neat. I noticed a pair of binoculars around his neck.

He caught my eye and said, ‘How was your flight?’

Puzzled as to how he knew, I just said, ‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Your mother has told me all about you,’ he went on. ‘I thought I wouldn’t get to meet you before I left but, here we are.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ I asked my mother.

‘Yes, of course,’ Mum said. ‘Crispin, Kat. Kat, Crispin.’

‘Crispin Fellowes.’ He smiled again. ‘How is the eye, Iris? Did you try the raw steak idea?’

A car horn beeped behind us. ‘We’re holding up the traffic, Mum.’

‘Later.’ He winked before adding, ‘Oh … and I would avoid Little Dipperton if you can. The village is teeming with goats.’

Mum laughed. ‘You’re having us on.’

Crispin laughed too. ‘Would I lie to you?’

The car behind beeped his horn again. Mum muttered something derogatory and set off slowly.

‘Gosh. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes!’ I said lightly. ‘Is he Danny’s successor?’

It was a touchy subject and if this were true, I was glad. A few months earlier, my mother’s initial infatuation with our new vicar with his long grey hair and red Harley-Davidson motorbike had been intense but short-lived when his prodigal wife returned and dashed the hopes of all the eligible females in the village. Shortly afterwards, the old vicarage was renovated at huge expense, and Caroline had wasted no time in making her larger-than-life presence clear, elbowing into village affairs and ruling the roost in more ways than one.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘If you must know, Crispin has been staying in the shepherd’s hut in the walled garden. He’s a birdwatcher.’

‘Ah. Hence the binoculars,’ I nodded. ‘Is he married? Perhaps a little young for you but—’

‘He’s leaving on Saturday,’ Mum said firmly. ‘We’re just friends.’

And that was the end of that.

We continued the rest of our journey in silence and Crispin Fellowes was soon forgotten as the familiar church spire of St Mary’s appeared in the distance. Thankfully, Mum navigated the usual series of dangerous hairpin bends more carefully and soon the sign of Little Dipperton loomed into view.

Little Dipperton was a typical chocolate-box Devonshire village consisting of whitewashed, thatched and slate-roofed cottages with a handful of shops and a seventeenth-century pub. There was just one narrow road that snaked around the village green past the Norman church of St Mary’s. The cottages, painted in a distinctive blue trim, belonged to the Honeychurch estate and were tenant-occupied. They had no front gardens and there was no pavement. The low front doors opened directly on to the road, with traditional cottage gardens stretching in feudal rows at the rear overlooking woodland and rolling countryside.

The cottages formed a crescent around the graveyard that was encompassed by a low stone wall. Ancient yew trees and hedges flourished among the dozens of gravestones that commemorated the names of the families who had been born, died, and still lived in a village that was mentioned in the Domesday Book.

We joined a long line of stationary traffic just shy of Church Lane where we needed to turn in to check on Ruby.

Little Dipperton seemed more congested than usual. Holidaymakers came in droves to the South Hams to take advantage of the coastal towns of Dartmouth and the nearby beaches of Bigbury-on-Sea and Bantham. With spectacular Dartmoor to the north, and the River Dart, where Greenway, Agatha Christie’s former summer home, perched on a bluff, and plenty of stunning National Trust properties to visit, it was easy to see why Devon was such a draw.

A colourful banner on fifteen-foot poles straddled the road announcing next Saturday’s Little Dipperton Flower and Produce Festival.

Held in the grounds of Honeychurch Hall the festival was a highly anticipated annual event which seemed to have become more cutthroat of late. Unfortunately, with the county-wide hosepipe ban in force, the impact of the water shortage on their entries was all the villagers could talk about. Backbiting was rife and there was a rumour that neighbours had come to physical blows as to whether a cross between a marrow and a gourd was eligible for the Cucurbit Cup.

And then we saw them.

‘Goats!’ I exclaimed.

It was sheer pandemonium, not helped by well-meaning drivers getting out of their cars and windmilling their arms in an effort to drive the goats in a different direction. There were at least twenty. One goat, a billy with horns that must have been over a foot in length, was particularly aggressive and seemed to enjoy charging at anyone who dare approach. Goats dashed down the twittens, the small alleys between terraced and semi-detached cottages alike, only to pop out of others further down the lane.

We were hemmed in and unable to move as a red-faced man, Tom Jones – no relation to the singer – attempted to round the goats up. It was like herding cats. The moment one broke away, the others followed.

The Jones family had bought Home Farm from the Honeychurch Hall estate years ago. They made delicious goats milk, cheese and yogurts that were sold at the community shop.

‘I wouldn’t want to be in Tom’s shoes.’ Mum remarked. ‘Look at those window boxes. Those goats have eaten all the geraniums!’

A piercing whistle stopped everyone – including the goats – in their tracks. Lord Rupert Honeychurch, the fifteenth Earl of Grenville, materialised along with Mr Chips, the family’s feisty Jack Russell. In his early fifties, Rupert was tall and easy to spot with his upright stance and military moustache, and the unmistakable manner that says, ‘all this belongs to me!’ Despite the hot weather, Rupert wore beige twill trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, tie, and his trademark checked flat cap.

He blew his whistle in a series of short and long peeps which Mr Chips instantly obeyed. Miraculously, the goats were successfully funnelled through the lych-gate and into the enclosed sanctuary of the churchyard.

It can’t have taken more than five minutes.

‘That dog has missed his vocation,’ Mum declared.

Rupert gave a final peep on his whistle and turned away with Mr Chips trotting to heel. The pair melted into the onlookers and vanished.

Traffic finally moved on again, leaving a trail of destruction and a lot of goat droppings in its wake.

We turned into Church Lane, a cul-de-sac which ended in the vicarage and a patch of hard-packed mud that served as a car park, which was where Mum parked. Opposite was another gate that opened into the churchyard. Young Dawn Jones was standing guard just in case any goat clever enough knew how to open a gate.

We got out.

‘Dad’s gone to get the trailer,’ said Dawn. ‘We’re taking the goats back to the farm and, of course, with Mum poorly we’re short-handed.’

‘Your mother’s got the bug, too?’ Mum said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘The doctor says it’s not contagious and since she rarely leaves the farm, I just don’t know how she got it.’

‘How did the goats escape?’ I asked.

‘No one knows,’ she said. ‘The gate to their field must have been left open. The fencing is new and the gate latch is one of those mortice deadlock things. It even swings shut because the gate closes on a downward slope.’ Dawn looked upset. ‘They’ve feasted on all the gardens and the allotments on this side of the village.’

It suddenly occurred to me what this really meant. ‘Oh. The festival.’

‘Yes,’ Dawn nodded. ‘Dad thinks we’ll never live it down.’

‘Let’s hope that you don’t get sued,’ Mum said darkly.

Dawn’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

Mum shrugged. ‘People are funny about this sort of thing these days. Damage to p. . .