A Killer Christmas at Honeychurch Hall

Book 9: Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

Genres: Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

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

Following the butler's death and the cook's retirement, the ever-gullible Lady Lavinia replaces them with a power couple who are determined to thrust the crumbling estate into the 21st century. The Dowager Countess reluctantly agrees to hold a big-ticket Christmas gala and silent auction with a mystery celebrity flying in from Monaco as the guest of honour.

Needless to say the newcomers' make a few enemies in their quest to change the status quo and when one body is discovered in the Victorian stumpery and a second, in the ha-ha, it seems that their high-flying past is catching up with them.

Meanwhile, Kat is dealing with the theft of a valuable doll that had been earmarked for the auction. When it turns out that all the ticket money has vanished and there never was a celebrity guest, it's up to Kat to save the day and bring the cold-blooded killer to justice.

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

'Will delight fans and new readers alike' People's Friend

'A fun read' Carola Dunn

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

Release date: November 10, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 261

Sample

Where on earth was Shawn? I’d dashed outside into freezing weather without a coat or my mobile. The message a friendly female police officer had given to me was that Shawn would swing by in ten minutes with a surprise just for me.

That was twenty minutes ago and I was getting cold and cross. Not only that, with Christmas just under a week away, today was one of the busiest days at Dartmouth Antique Emporium where I rented a space for Kat’s Collectibles and Mobile Valuation Services.

When a biting rain mixed with snow began to fall, I gave up and headed back to the main entrance as a tide of carol singers in Victorian dress spilled out into the car park. Two were helping the elderly homeless woman we all knew as Annie to a bench. Dressed in a grubby pink Puffa and pink beanie hat, Annie looked bewildered.

I stopped the trio. ‘What’s happened?’

‘She fainted,’ said the woman. ‘I asked Annie if she wanted an ambulance but she says she’ll be fine. It gets very hot inside. Sorry,’ gesturing to the troupe who were piling into a minibus with ‘Dartmouth Carollers’ written on the side, ‘got to go. We’re off to Kingsbridge now.’

When I turned to check on Annie, she’d disappeared.

Glad that she must be okay, I went back inside, wondering what had happened to my boyfriend.

The Emporium during the festive season was a magical fairyland and I loved working there. Heavily decorated with garlands of holly, fake snow, fairy lights and a plethora of Christmas trees, piped music was only silenced for daily performances from the local harpist, an a cappella choir, and wassailing carollers in Victorian dress in that order. The smell of mulled wine, roasting chestnuts and mince pies, handed out by seasonal staff dressed as elves, added the finishing touch.

My friend and colleague Di Wilkins rushed towards me. Her face was ashen. ‘I’ve already called the police. They’re on their way.’

‘Annie doesn’t want an ambulance— What?’ I stopped. The look on Di’s face made my stomach drop. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Barbie’s been stolen,’ she blurted out. ‘It must have happened when the carol singers came through. There was so much chaos! Annie fainted and—’

I didn’t wait for Di to finish her sentence and pushed her aside in my haste to prove she was wrong. She had to be wrong.

When I’d run outside to meet Shawn, Di had promised to hold the fort.

My three-sided enclosure was close to the main entrance and kitty-corner to Di’s where she sold vintage jewellery. Both had counters that fronted onto one of the many arteries that zigzagged through the converted barn. Access to mine was through a space just wide enough for one person to pass through.

I stared at the empty glass display box and felt sick. Someone had stolen a doll worth thousands and thousands of pounds not just in broad daylight but under Di’s nose.

‘I’m sorry,’ Di whispered. ‘You’re insured, though, right?’

Of course I was, but that wasn’t the point.

Emerald Barbie was headlining the Christmas Gala and Silent Auction at Honeychurch Hall in exactly five days’ time. Worse, the doll wasn’t even mine having been generously donated by Cathy White, a former colleague and fellow TV celebrity from my Fakes & Treasures days.

Barbie was not just an ‘original’ Barbie doll from 1959, she was called Emerald Barbie because the elaborate choker she wore around her neck contained a real emerald.

I had been so worried about the doll being stolen that every night, instead of trusting the Emporium’s excellent security system, I’d taken Barbie home and locked her in my own safe. As well as CCTV cameras inside and outside the building, I had my own nanny-cam app on my mobile – I resolved to look at it as soon as I could – and was hopeful that at least one had captured the theft.

I’d known that publicising the doll had been asking for trouble. It had been the brainchild of the new power couple who had moved into Peggy Cropper’s old cottage, on the Honeychurch Hall estate, to have Emerald Barbie as the star of the silent auction. After the cook’s retirement, Ryan and Marion Cartwright had become the estate manager and head of house respectively. My mother called them Ken and Barbie – not nicknames I could handle in the present circumstances – because they were so perfect and polished. The Cartwrights had worked for Hollywood celebrities, managed super-yachts and vast estates for the über-rich, and organised high-profile galas, festivals, week-long retreats and conferences.

Although Ryan was from California, Marion had been born in Devon and, according to my mother, who had her finger on all the gossip, wanted to come home because her mother was terminally ill. None of us thought they would stay for long – Ryan hated the cold – but the Cartwrights were certainly making their presence felt. The dowager countess, Lady Edith Honeychurch, loathed everything they stood for, and the couple’s ostentatious marketing campaigns were putting many noses out of joint, including mine.

I’d had serious doubts about broadcasting the location of the doll before the gala, but Marion had insisted that the chance for people to see her close up would boost ticket sales. At a staggering £250 per ticket, I assumed they needed all the publicity they could get but I was wrong. With the promise of an appearance by a mystery celebrity, tickets quickly sold out, as did local accommodation in Airbnbs, pubs and hotels for those travelling from afar.

I whipped out my mobile and checked the nanny-cam. Unfortunately, I’d angled the lens towards the counter, which held small and easily pocketed items, like Steiff keyrings and miniature bears.

I looked at the narrow entryway that Di had promised to guard. ‘How could anyone get past you?’ I said.

‘I don’t know how it happened,’ Di said. ‘I was standing right where you are now.’ She reddened. ‘Apart from when Annie fainted. It must have happened then – I moved but just for a minute.’

I gazed at her pale, elfin face. She looked thinner than ever in black skinny jeans, her red-and-green tartan holiday jumper embroidered with sleigh bells.

A mobile chirp interrupted my thoughts. It was Di’s phone, but she let it ring. It stopped, rang again, then stopped and rang yet again.

‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ I said.

‘It’s just a sales call,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t you have sales calls?’

‘But it might be the police,’ I pointed out.

‘It’s not the police,’ Di retorted. ‘I told you. They’re on their way.’

But when the phone rang again and she switched off the ringer, I wondered what was going on. Di seemed jumpy, too.

‘Have you told Fiona Reynolds yet?’ Just the thought of telling the owner and manager of the Emporium filled me with dread.

‘Jesus, Kat,’ Di snapped. ‘It’s just happened. Give me a chance.’

‘All right. I’ll go and tell her,’ I said. ‘Please stay here.’

I caught Fiona as she was coming out of her office. I had liked her the moment I’d met her. Mum said she reminded her of a military wife – efficient and brusque. She was friendly with everyone but close friends with none. Like me, she had not been keen to have such a well-publicised and valuable doll in the Emporium at the busiest time of the year.

Fiona wasted no time in enlisting her husband Reggie and some of the temporary workers – dressed as elves – to conduct a bag search of all shoppers leaving the building. ‘I’m afraid it’s a case of the stable door being bolted after the horse has gone,’ she said. ‘We’ll have the footage to the CCTV cameras this evening. Any luck with your nanny-cam?’

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’

Fiona gave me a comforting smile. ‘I’m sure Barbie will turn up. It’s not the sort of thing you can sell on the street.’

I wasn’t so sure. Unlike Sindy, Barbie’s counterpart, original Barbie dolls had exploded in value. There would be plenty of takers on the black market.

Di left her post the moment she saw me coming back. ‘Excuse me. I don’t trust those girls,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them took it.’

Two girls in their late teens wearing jeans and long cardigans, their naked midriffs exposed, were sifting through a tray of earrings on Di’s counter. They carried cloth bags large enough to hide a doll, but would anyone be that obvious? I didn’t recognise them but when a third joined them, I relaxed. It was Willow Mutters, dressed in a sensible padded coat, her strawberry-blonde hair swept up in a high ponytail. Home from uni where she was studying criminology, Willow had been working for me. Her grandparents, Stan and Doreen Mutters, ran the Hare and Hounds in Little Dipperton. Willow’s parents had died in a car accident when she was ten and she had lived with Stan and Doreen ever since. The trio shared a private joke, did the hugging and kissing thing, then Willow came over with her big smile.

With a nod to the two girls, she said, ‘Kylie and Teresa want me to join them tonight but I’m working in the bar at the pub.’ Willow put down a hessian shopping bag emblazoned with the image of Emerald Barbie – another marketing idea of the Cartwrights – and tucked her coat out of sight behind the Japanese tri-fold screen.

‘How was the dentist?’ I said. If Willow hadn’t had the morning off, none of this would have happened.

She pulled a face. ‘A filling and it hurt.’ Spying the empty glass display case, she raised an eyebrow. ‘Where’s Barbie?’

I hesitated. Willow would know when the police came but there was no point in announcing it to the world quite yet. ‘Having a facial.’

Willow grinned. ‘Shall I make up a sign saying just that?’

‘That would be helpful,’ I said.

Willow pulled a notebook out of her shopping bag and set to creating a sign. I regarded her with admiration. She was smart and savvy. I didn’t remember being like that at nineteen.

I kept an eye on Di, but she studiously avoided me. When I saw her grab her mobile and dart out of the Emporium without her coat or her handbag, I decided to find out what was going on. Telling Willow I’d be back in ten minutes, I went after her.

I tracked Di to the car park where she was smoking a cigarette by the skip. It was the end game for broken furniture and stood at the far end of the building next to a fire exit opposite a bank of trees.

‘There you are!’ I exclaimed. ‘Jeez. Aren’t you cold? And I didn’t know you smoked.’

Di bristled. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

I was taken aback by her tone. ‘I just wanted to know if you were okay.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Di shot back. ‘I’m devastated by the theft and the fact that you blame me. It’s written all over your face.’

I gazed at my friend with dismay. ‘Di, please, what’s going on?’

‘Your gorgeous policeman is here.’ She flicked the half-smoked cigarette into a pile of snow.

I turned to see Detective Inspector Greg Mallory get out of an unmarked car. In plain clothes, he towered above everyone else.

‘Yes, he’s gorgeous and single,’ I said to Di, in an effort to lighten the atmosphere between us. ‘But, as you know, I already have my own gorgeous policeman.’

At this comment, Di would usually have made a joke about Shawn’s fascination for trains and bad ties but all she said was, ‘Let’s go and get this sorted out.’ She walked off, leaving me to trail after her.

My phone rang. It was Shawn. ‘What happened to you?’ I demanded, more sharply than I intended.

‘What do you mean, what happened?’ He sounded distracted. I could hear paper rustling and the buzz of voices in the background.

‘I got a message telling me to meet you in the car park at one.’

‘A message?’ Shawn said slowly. ‘Who gave it to you? It certainly didn’t come from me.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘It was someone in your office saying you had a surprise for me.’

‘Kat. You know how my life is.’ There was a hint of weariness in Shawn’s tone. ‘I’m thirty miles away and I don’t have time for lunch or surprises.’

Shawn had often used one of his staff to contact me when he was running late or wasn’t able to come to the phone and I told him so.

‘Who gave you the message?’ he asked me again.

I started to feel light-headed. Surely someone hadn’t deliberately lured me to the car park. And then there was that weird stuff with Annie, who, I remembered, was not allowed inside the Emporium.

When I didn’t answer, Shawn said, ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Emerald Barbie has been stolen,’ I said.

‘Emerald what? Hold on.’ The phone was muted and when Shawn came back on the line he said, ‘Sorry. Is that the doll?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Is Mallory there?’

‘Yes.’ He and Di were engaged in earnest conversation outside the entrance.

‘Good. Look, I can’t talk now,’ said Shawn. ‘If anyone can help it’ll be him. I’ll call you later.’

I had no chance to say goodbye before the line went dead.

‘Di’s filled me in,’ said Mallory, as I joined them and a crowd of shoppers, some trying to leave the building after their bags were searched, and others trying to get in. It was chaos.

My mother had written Mallory into her last Krystalle Storm romance novel as the hero and it was easy to see why. At six foot three, Mallory was handsome with a strong square jaw, cropped dark hair and grey-green eyes. He was also a very good policeman.

He gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘Try not to worry.’

I felt the usual twinge of something I didn’t want to acknowledge. True to his promise to his colleague and my boyfriend, Mallory had checked in on me from time to time while Shawn finished his London assignment.

Mallory and I had even enjoyed an evening drink together. He had made me laugh but I’d felt guilty too. We’d shared what my mother would term a ‘moment’ when he had seen me back to my car and I had tripped up the kerb. To quote my mother again, I’d felt a frisson of excitement as he caught me. I knew he’d felt it too because we’d jumped apart like scalded cats. We didn’t meet alone again.

Shawn and his twin boys were now back in their Edwardian semi-detached house on the outskirts of Little Dipperton, but Shawn hadn’t returned to his old policing job. To everyone’s surprise, Mallory had opted to stay in Devon, and when Shawn was offered more responsibility at Devon and Cornwall Police Headquarters in Exeter, he’d accepted.

I’d be lying if I said that Shawn’s promotion hadn’t put a strain on our relationship. I was doing my best to be understanding and supportive. I wished I could have spoken to Helen, his late wife, and asked her what it was like to be married to a policeman, but if she had still been alive, I wouldn’t have had this problem.

‘Let’s go and talk somewhere private,’ Mallory suggested.

‘The café,’ Di said. ‘We should be able to get an outside table in the courtyard where it will be quiet.’

We made our way to the café entrance along a corridor opposite the Gents and Ladies toilets and the fire exit.

A woman in her late forties with sharp, angular features and long dyed-black hair was setting up a cleaning sign. She wore a dark brown caretaker’s uniform and yellow Marigold gloves. A trolley holding supplies of loo rolls, paper towels, boxes of tissues and cleaning fluids was parked in front of the fire exit. Looped on the rear was a black plastic rubbish bag. Her movements were slow, as if she was just too weary to be alive. I had never seen her before.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to move that trolley,’ said Mallory. ‘The fire exit needs to be clear at all times, especially when the Emporium is at full capacity like today.’

The woman glared. ‘I doubt there’s going to be a fire in the next five minutes.’

‘But if there is …’ He smiled. ‘I’m a police officer.’

The caretaker gave a grunt and manoeuvred the trolley away from the door. ‘Satisfied?’

‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘Elaine’s gone to New Zealand to see her son for Christmas,’ Di put in. ‘She left on Friday. This is Pam Price, who’s filling in.’

‘And you’re Kat Stanford,’ said Pam. ‘I recognise your hair. Rapunzel. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about my son.’

‘Perhaps a little later today.’ I looked at Mallory, who seemed to guess what I was thinking.

‘Where were you when the carol singers came through, Miss Price?’ Mallory asked.

‘Where I am right now,’ Pam replied. ‘And it’s Mrs if you don’t mind.’

‘What time would that have been?’ Mallory asked.

‘I get here at eight in the morning and I leave at four,’ said Pam. ‘I do a toilet check every hour.’

‘On the hour?’ Mallory said.

Pam’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s all this about? I heard someone fainted. Probably from the singing. I’ve heard better caterwauling from the cats in the alley behind my house.’

‘I’m afraid something’s gone missing,’ said Mallory. ‘I’m going to have to search your trolley.’

‘Everyone is being searched,’ Di said quickly.

‘What’s missing?’ Pam looked at Mallory, then back at me.

‘We’re not releasing that information at present,’ said Mallory.

‘It’s the doll, isn’t it?’ Pam said suddenly. ‘Emerald Barbie.’

I felt a rush of hope. ‘If you saw anything suspicious—’

‘Why?’ A peculiar expression crossed Pam’s features. ‘Is there going to be a reward?’

Mallory caught my eye and shook his head. It didn’t go unnoticed.

‘You think I nicked it?’ Pam gestured to her trolley. ‘And what? Hid a doll among the toilet rolls?’

‘No one is suspecting you, Pam,’ said Di.

Pam scowled. ‘I want him to look. Go ahead. Be my guest.’

Mallory hesitated and then, decision made, politely asked her to move aside. He swiftly checked the contents of the trolley and inspected the black plastic rubbish bag. It was empty.

‘And let’s not forget our pockets, shall we?’ Pam turned them out and set down her mobile phone in a leopard-spotted case, a business card saying Glitz Cleaning Services, and a small key on top of the trolley. ‘Locker number five. Knock yourself out.’

‘It’s just routine.’ Di seemed unusually concerned for Pam’s welfare. ‘We’re looking at everyone.’

Mallory picked up the key. ‘Thank you. Who else has a locker?’

‘Shoppers can leave their bags,’ I said. ‘Fiona Reynolds has the master key.’

‘I’ll go and talk to her,’ said Mallory. ‘Order me a black coffee. I’ll be there shortly.’ He left.

‘Thanks, Pam,’ said Di, warmly.

Pam ignored her. She put a hand on my arm. ‘My son is very talented. Lance wants to be a film director. You must know the right people who can give him a job.’

I stifled a groan. This happened to me all the time. The industry just didn’t work like that but it was hard to explain unless you were a part of it. ‘I’m very happy to chat to him after the holidays.’

‘Lance is the photographer of those amazing wildlife Christmas cards,’ Di chimed in.

I was impressed. ‘They’re your son’s photos?’ I’d seen them for sale in the community shop in the village and in the Emporium. ‘They’re incredible. It sounds like he doesn’t need any help.’

Pam thrust out her jaw. ‘Yes, he does. He’s got big dreams. Here.’ She picked up a business card. ‘My mobile nu. . .