Dagger of Death at Honeychurch Hall

Book 10: Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Thrillers

Synopsis

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

Is it a question of turn the other cheek... or an eye for an eye?

At last St Mary's church is going to have its own vicar! Not only that, the gorgeous Reverend Pritchard is sixty, single... and in need of a wife.

But when he spearheads a campaign to restore a derelict chapel - rumoured to be haunted by a German Luftwaffe pilot- in a far-flung corner of the Honeychurch estate, the Dowager Countess puts her foot down. But nobody quite understands why...

Meanwhile, a fierce bidding war at an auction of military memorabilia ends in Kat's female adversary being murdered and Kat being held as the prime suspect. And then it turns out that several of the auctioned items are connected to Operation Tiger, a doomed rehearsal for the D-Day landings that took place in nearby Slapton Sands all those years ago. And Kat begins to realise that the vicar, the Luftwaffe ghost and all the World War II weaponry may all somehow be related...

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 2, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 80000

Sample

‘But I don’t understand.’ The young woman standing next to me at the collection counter was distraught. ‘I bought that lot. Those bears are mine.’ Her voice grew shrill. ‘I waved my paddle. You said going, going, gone, and you looked straight at me!’

‘Sorry, Ms Trotter,’ said Johnny, the veteran floor manager of Luxton’s. ‘Ms Stanford was sitting directly behind you.’

‘But that’s not fair. I know you were looking at me,’ she fumed. ‘You’ve got something wrong with your eyesight, you have.’

Johnny ignored the insult. Having started working at the auction house when he was sixteen – he was now in his sixties – Johnny was the consummate professional and nothing ever seemed to ruffle him.

The woman turned to me and glared.

‘Don’t worry, it’s easily done.’ I tried to hide my annoyance. Ms Trotter had pushed the price up for an assortment of stuffed bears of very little value that were worthless to anyone but me. A couple had damaged paws or were missing an eye – granted the stuffed French bulldog with the jaunty straw hat was cute – but that was about it.

I had rescued them all, not to sell on, but to repair those that needed repairing and give to the retired nurse in the village who then donated them to the children’s ward in the local hospital.

The saleroom was bustling with the usual chaos that follows an intense day of bidding and tempers were getting frayed. Everything was running late, thanks to someone who set off the smoke alarm. Everyone was ushered outside into the car park and promptly got drenched in a sudden downpour.

‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside,’ said Johnny. ‘Kat? Was there something else?’

I heard the ping of an incoming text. Ms Trotter turned away to read it.

‘Yes. I’m picking up a box of military memorabilia for Olive Banks,’ I said. ‘Lot 49. It was withdrawn at the last minute.’ I pulled out my mobile and showed Johnny the email from Olive’s grandson, Detective Sergeant Clive Banks, authorising me to collect the box on his grandmother’s behalf.

Clive had called me in a panic after lunch, saying that his ninety-something widowed grandmother had just found out that his Uncle Trevor had put the items in the sale without her knowledge.

I suspected it was the usual misunderstanding that followed a death in the family. Many a time Kat’s Collectibles and Mobile Valuation Services, i.e. me, had been asked to value items that were being divvied out to relatives. Many a time I had had to act as referee to the inevitable arguments that resulted in what was fair and what was not.

Johnny nodded. ‘Pity they decided to withdraw it. We’d already got a few online bids.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘Apparently, Olive’s husband had been a local legend in the Second World War.’

‘Wait here and I’ll be right back.’ Johnny hurried away.

I remembered taking a peek inside the wooden crate of Home Guard equipment when I was viewing the sale a couple of days ago, but there hadn’t been anything of interest for me. I didn’t have any military memorabilia collectors and if I was ever asked to value a piece, most of the time I would recommend a specialist.

Ms Trotter materialised by my elbow. ‘Okay, I’ll give you fifty quid.’

I looked at her properly for the first time. She was in her early thirties with a small pale face. Her hair was pulled up into a crisp, tight knot on top of her head and smelled of hair-spray. Other than mascara on obvious lash extensions, she wore no make-up. What I hadn’t noticed before was that under her open burgundy puffer coat were dark-blue hospital scrubs.

I hesitated. She was a nurse! Had she wanted the bears for the same reason as me?

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘They’ve already been promised.’

Ms Trotter gave a sheepish smile. ‘I didn’t realise it was the famous Kat Stanford I was bidding against. I feel a bit of an idiot now. I’m Staci Trotter, by the way. That’s Staci with an i.’

She’d certainly changed her tune. Staci had been positively hostile towards Johnny but now she seemed quite friendly.

I found myself soften a little. ‘I’m Kat with a K.’

‘I’ve never bid in an auction before,’ Staci went on. ‘I wasn’t sure what to expect but my partner told me to get over myself and get in there with my paddle.’ She flashed a smile. It was hard not to smile back.

‘It can be intimidating. But no one bites.’ I remembered the mortification of my first auction when I’d got caught up in the adrenaline rush of bidding on a doll that in the end turned out to be a cheap copy. It had been an expensive and hard lesson.

Johnny returned with a rectangular wooden crate marked LOT 49 where a card noted RTO – return to owner – in black Sharpie was taped to the side. An old leather luggage strap with a tarnished buckle kept the lid in place. Even though there were rope handles on either end, it would be a two-man job trying to get this into my car.

‘I’ll find a porter. Ah, there’s Arlo.’ Johnny said as he scanned the packed saleroom and called over a young man in the Luxton uniform of hunter-green overalls. ‘Where’s your car, Kat?’

‘I snagged a space in the loading-only bay,’ I said. ‘I bought a green wicker garden table as well. Lot 304.’ My mother had wanted it for her Moroccan-themed patio.

‘Arlo will bring it to you, too.’ Johnny relayed the instructions and turned to the next customer.

‘I’ll take the box of bears,’ Staci said and swooped in before I could protest.

I grasped one end of the wooden crate and Arlo took the other. We led the way out to my car with Staci following.

Arlo helped me put the crate onto the back seat and went off in search of the garden table. I took the box from Staci. The bears and French bulldog were jammed in tightly along with random doll dresses and knitted garments that had been tucked into any available crack and crevice. The wooden crate took up most of the back seat but I managed to set the box of bears on the top although it wasn’t very stable.

Arlo returned with the garden table. I opened the hatch-back. Staci helped me remove the parcel shelf so we could fit the table in.

‘Thank you,’ I said to both but Staci was back on her phone feverishly texting. I slipped Arlo five pounds and he headed back to the saleroom.

‘Excuse me.’ I gestured to Staci, who was leaning against my car door.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you eighty pounds. Cash.’

I regarded her with amusement. ‘You really want those bears, don’t you?’

‘You won’t be selling them anyway.’ She sounded more confident now. ‘You only deal in rare bears and dolls.’

‘Yes. That’s true,’ I admitted. ‘But as I mentioned, these have already been promised – to another nurse, as a matter of fact.’ Gesturing to her scrubs I added, ‘Which hospital do you work in? Maybe you might have met her. Gladys Knight.’

A shadow of annoyance crossed her pale features. ‘I’m not a nurse. I’m a masseuse. I’ve got my own business.’

‘Sorry,’ I apologised. ‘It was your uniform.’

‘The bears are for my sister,’ said Staci suddenly. ‘She’s . . . she’s got cancer. She collects injured bears. It helps her not feel so alone.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ I was uncomfortable and suspicious at the same time. Of course, the bears weren’t worth eighty pounds unless I was losing my grip. I faltered. Would Gladys be that disappointed if I reneged on my promise? At the same time, I didn’t like being guilted into something, sick sister or not.

‘Why don’t you give me your contact number,’ I said. ‘I’ll find the perfect bear for your sister and once I’ve repaired it you can come and get it.’

I heard the ping of an incoming text. Staci glanced down at her phone but didn’t reply. ‘A hundred and that’s my final offer.’

A hundred! ‘Was that your sister?’

She nodded.

I gave a heavy sigh. ‘Okay. I give in.’ I opened the passenger door. ‘Just pick a bear and take it. I don’t want your money.’

I stood there waiting, holding the door open. Staci looked at something over my shoulder but when I followed her gaze, I only saw a man in motorcycle leathers standing by a Fiat 500 in a startling shade of hot pink. He was swinging a helmet with a distinctive purple zig-zag decal. The moment he saw me looking, he turned away.

‘All right, I’ll pick a bear for your sister,’ I said and was about to reach in when Staci gave a cry of pain and doubled over, clutching her stomach.

‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you okay?’

Staci waved me away, shaking her head. ‘Just a twinge. Perhaps I shouldn’t have carried the box.’ She gave another sheepish smile. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you say in the first place!’ I exclaimed. ‘I would never have allowed you to lift anything!’ Even though it was hard to judge just how pregnant Staci was in her puffer coat, I knew that it was in the early days of pregnancy that mothers-to-be could miscarry. ‘Do you want to sit down? Where is your car?’

Staci pointed to the hot pink Fiat 500 that was parked on double yellow lines on the main road. ‘You should be careful,’ I said. ‘Traffic wardens are very quick to give out parking tickets around here.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Staci. ‘I’ve got a disabled badge.’

I locked my car and walked her back to hers. Sure enough, there was a Blue Badge on her dashboard. Since when did pregnancy qualify for a Blue Badge?

I noticed that the Fiat was new. It still had the thin plastic covering from the factory on the pristine cream passenger and rear seats, not exactly practical for carrying baby paraphernalia, let alone a folding massage table.

I helped her into the front seat.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t drive for a moment,’ I suggested. ‘Would you like me to find you some water?’

I heard the ping of yet another incoming text. She glanced down. ‘No. I’m fine now, thanks. My partner is coming.’

‘Do you want me to wait with you until he comes?’

‘It’s okay,’ she said quickly. ‘You can go now. Bye.’

‘Wait a minute.’ I pulled a business card out of my coat pocket. ‘Here’s my phone number. Talk to your sister and let me know. My offer still stands.’

Staci didn’t answer. She was reading my business card. ‘You live in Little Dipperton.’

‘Honeychurch Hall,’ I said. ‘My showroom is in one of the gatehouses. You know it?’

‘Okay. Bye then.’ And, to my astonishment, Staci pulled the driver’s door shut with such speed that it nearly caught my fingers. She was back on her phone again.

Exasperated, I left her to it and returned to my car.

As I exited the car park, stopping to ease into the passing traffic, Staci’s Fiat was still parked on the double yellow lines. She was talking to the man I’d noticed earlier in motorcycle leathers through the passenger side window. He had his back to me so I couldn’t see his face. It looked like they were having a heated conversation, judging by the way he was waving his helmet around.

Not your problem, Kat, I reminded myself. Relationships could be so tricky and, as the old saying goes, no one knows what really goes on behind closed doors.

I thought of my own relationship.

What was I going to do about Shawn?

Things had not been the same between us since Christmas when he’d insisted on a temporary break. I was certain that the problem between us was my mother’s determination to keep her Krystalle Storm pseudonym a secret.

Mum had been writing her steamy romance novels for years but only two people – me and, unfortunately, Shawn – knew that the Honeychurch historian in the village was an international superstar.

My mother had not paid any income taxes on her royalties since time began and Shawn didn’t seem to grasp the severity of what would happen if she was found out. Mum’s weak defence had always been that she ‘didn’t think her books would ever sell’ and if that had been true in the early days, it certainly wasn’t now. There was no doubt that she would go to prison and it wouldn’t just be her. Mum’s stepbrother Alfred – who had been the guest of Her Majesty many times over and was the dowager countess Edith Honeychurch’s stable manager – would be in trouble too. It was Alfred who took the risk of sneaking into the Channel Islands to withdraw large sums of cash from Mum’s bank account and smuggling it back into the UK.

As I had told Shawn on many occasions, hers was not my secret to tell.

To be honest, I was growing weary of Shawn’s attitude in our relationship. He repeatedly told me he loved me and yet his actions certainly didn’t feel like he did. We didn’t see each other as much any more because his promotion meant that he worked longer hours, not helped by the fact that he was based in Exeter, thirty miles away.

And then there were the twins. I adored them and loved being part of the boys’ lives but over the last couple of months, I’d hardly seen them. They would be either staying with their grandmother or having a sleepover with their friends. I knew that the boys must be a constant reminder of Helen. I didn’t want to replace her but, at the same time, I always felt in her shadow. How can anyone compete with a dead woman?

Also, when Shawn and I had been intimate, it was as if something had shifted between us. The spark had gone but then, didn’t the spark go in most relationships and in its place, something deeper developed? Only in our case, it hadn’t.

I thought back to my decade with David Wynne. The spark hadn’t gone there, had it? I had forgotten. Now I only looked back through rose-tinted spectacles on that heady glamorous life when I was a well-known TV host of the antique roadshow Fakes and Treasures, and David was a legend in the international art investigation world. Our only problem had been the constant grief we got from his estranged wife, tabloid journalist, Trudi. Ironically, the pair divorced after David and I split up.

I couldn’t even confide in Di, who had to be my closest friend, because then I would have to betray my mother’s secret. I had hinted that things were different between Shawn and me, but Di put it down to the presence of Shawn’s replacement, Detective Inspector Greg Mallory.

I’d been irritated by that implication, but she had just laughed and said the fact I was defensive was enough to prove that she’d hit a nerve. It had nothing to do with Mallory! I’d be blind if I said he wasn’t attractive in a Desperate Dan/Don Draper kind of way with his ‘lantern jaw’ as Mum liked to call it.

I knew that there had been someone important in Mallory’s life at one time, which was why he had asked for a transfer from the bright lights of Plymouth to the rural South Hams. He never spoke about that to me but then, why would he? We didn’t have that sort of relationship. Ours wasn’t even a friendship. But even as that thought popped into my head, what happened on New Year’s Eve hit me afresh.

It had been in the Hare and Hounds. Shawn had asked for the temporary break and wasn’t there. I was feeling depressed. I was talking to Mallory by the archway that led to the snug, and Di appeared holding a sprig of mistletoe. She dangled it between us and when I pointed out that the mistletoe rule only applied in December, Mallory reminded me that the clock wouldn’t ring in the new year for seven more minutes and, according to ancient tradition, it was bad luck to refuse a man a kiss.

I’d expected a chaste peck but as our lips touched, we both felt the chemistry and sprang apart. I dashed to the loo and missed the countdown, even missed singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and when I finally came out, Mallory had gone.

The incident had unsettled me but when I bumped into Mallory again a few days later, neither of us talked about it. It was as if that kiss had never happened. The problem was that it had, and the more distant Shawn became, the more Mallory frequented my dreams.

And then, one night after sharing a bottle of wine with Di, I did something really stupid. I wrote to the ‘Dear Amanda’ agony column in the weekly newspaper, the Dipperton Deal, and for the past few weeks I’d been terrified that the mysterious Amanda would select my cry for help and, if she did, my mother would guess the author was me.

Dissecting the ‘Dear Amanda’ problem page was our Saturday guilty pleasure. Identifying the anonymous letter writer was always such fun. And, of course, trying to guess Amanda’s identity was an ongoing challenge. Apparently, the agony column had been running since the 1980s, so as the older residents of Little Dipperton died out, the pool of possible suspects was becoming smaller.

I pushed ‘Dear Amanda’ to the back of my mind as the signpost to Little Dipperton drew closer and I needed to concentrate on the traffic, which seemed busier than usual. I slowed down to make the right-hand turn off the main road but had to hit the brakes when a motorbike suddenly cut in front to make the same turn. I fishtailed on the wet road, hearing a clunk as the box of bears tumbled from the back seat and into the footwell. My tote bag flew off the front passenger seat and all the contents fell out onto the floor. I hit the horn in frustration and the disappearing rider flipped the bird. Rude as well as dangerous!

A steady stream of traffic kept me stationary for a few minutes and when it started to rain again, I had the uncharitable thought that I hoped the rude rider would come to grief. The narrow lane to Little Dipperton was full of hazards and not one to be taken at speed. Due to the steepness of the terrain, the hairpin twists and the gloomy darkness of the overarching trees, that stretch of road was a well-known accident blackspot.

I made the turn. Rain hammered hard on my windshield forcing me to switch the windscreen wipers to double speed. Visibility was almost non-existent and then just as quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped and gave way to a watery grey sky.

I descended another steep hill where the burned-out shell of Bridge Cottage sat at the bottom in the dell next to a raging torrent of water – a trickling stream in the summer but in the winter, more like force-ten rapids. The derelict house and surrounding forecourt bounded by a low stone wall used to be a hot spot for fly-tippers but the installation of a CCTV camera had been remarkably successful. Hefty fines and a few arrests with shaming on social media seemed to have done the trick.

And that’s when I saw the motorbike. It was lying on its side in the middle of the road across from the entrance. I guessed at once it was the same rider – no one else had overtaken me. I had wished this on him and felt a pang of guilt.

I stopped my car and got out but couldn’t see him anywhere.

‘Hello?’ I shouted. ‘Hello? Is everything okay?’

There was no answering reply. In fact, it was eerily quiet.

Gingerly, I stepped closer to the motorbike. It was a Kawasaki and, by the looks of things, well-cared for so why hadn’t he left it on the kickstand? I saw the keys. They were still in the ignition. Something didn’t feel right.

Perplexed, I stood there staring at the charred skeleton of the old cottage. I scanned the empty forecourt and the bank of trees beyond. If he’d answered the proverbial call of nature, surely he wouldn’t have left his motorbike in the middle of the road?

I scanned the area again, looking for skid marks but there were none.

I heard a car shifting gears and a Skoda Scala in a jarring shade of race blue came into view. At the wheel was a man in his seventies. He pulled up alongside and opened his window. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I gestured to the abandoned motorbike. ‘I can’t find the rider. I don’t know if he fell off or . . .’ I shrugged.

The man got out. He was dressed in an olive-green tweed shooting jacket and tan Birkenstock boots. With a shock of silver white hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, he oozed sophistication. I saw the rental sticker on his car and guessed he was a tourist. The South Hams was deemed an AONB – an area of outstanding natural beauty – and attracted tourists from all over the world year-round.

‘We should at least move it off the road. Agreed?’ He raised an eyebrow. His voice was polished and crisp.

‘Agreed,’ I said.

The man righted the Kawasaki and wheeled it through the entrance and behind the low wall. He set it on the kickstand before removing the keys from the ignition. ‘Well, he can’t have gone far,’ he said, surveying . . .