Murder in Miniature at Honeychurch Hall

Book 8: Honeychurch Hall

by Hannah Dennison

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

A fortune in the attic...

When one of the villagers asks Kat to clear out her dead sister's bedroom, Kat is thrilled to find a miniature replica of her mother's Carriage House among jumble of car boot sale junk. When Kat shares her discovery with the dowager countess, Lady Edith is eager to show her the matching replica of Honeychurch Hall that has been languishing in the vast attic for decades. Unfortunately, when they look in there, it seems to have been stolen....

Suspicion falls on a mysterious woman who is holidaying in the newly installed shepherd's hut in the walled garden-one of Lady Lavinia's latest hare-brained moneymaking scheme. Although there is something off about the tourist, Kat believes the culprit is fellow antique dealer, the odious widower Sir Monty Stubbs-Thomas who has been showing an interest in the missing dolls house.

As the body count begins to rise, Kat realises that the missing miniature harbours a vital secret that one particular person is willing to kill for.

Release date: November 4, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 304

Sample

‘Well, I can honestly say that Violet Green won’t have anything worth buying unless you are into teapots.’ Mum pushed her empty plate away and delicately dabbed her mouth with a floral linen napkin.

It was a Sunday on a boiling hot September day and, as was our usual habit, we were sitting eating lunch in her kitchen in the Carriage House. In a mad rush of domestic fervour, I’d even made banana bread.

‘That smoked cheese was excellent,’ she said. ‘How many calories do you think?’

‘It’s Godminster cheese from Somerset,’ I said and cut myself another slice. ‘And since when have you been counting calories?’

‘I’ll have to walk them off.’ My mother lifted her wrist and pointed to a black plastic watch. ‘I bought a Fitbit. Delia has one. She tells me she walks fifteen thousand steps a day and she’s lost ten pounds.’

‘But you sit down all day and Delia is on her feet rushing all over the Hall cleaning and she walks or cycles everywhere because she doesn’t have a car.’

Mum whipped out her iPhone and with painstaking slowness tapped on the keyboard. She scowled. ‘I knew it! To walk off that cheese will take me a whole hour! Who has a whole hour to walk off some cheese?’

‘Certainly not me,’ I said. Perhaps I needed to get a Fitbit. The waistband of my cotton skirt was definitely feeling tight. ‘And to answer your original question, no. I am not going to look at Violet’s teapot collection. Her sister used to do a lot of car boot sales. Violet is finally clearing out Lavender’s bedroom and has given me first refusal.’

‘Car boot sales?’ Mum said with scorn. ‘Well, don’t get guilted into buying anything. You know what she can be like.’

Violet lived at Rose Cottage in Little Dipperton where she also ran the tearoom. It was one of the many cottages that still belonged to the Honeychurch Hall estate. It was common knowledge that the sisters were financially strapped, but I often felt Violet milked it with her ever-so-humble attitude that would put Uriah Heep to shame.

‘You’ll end up buying her junk out of pity and donating it to charity shops …’ Mum grumbled on.

‘Give me some credit,’ I retorted.

Mum stood up and headed for the counter and flipped the switch on the kettle. ‘Tea? I recommend you have tea here. I was there last week and Violet’s version of tea is heating up the dishwater from the washing-up bowl.’

Although Violet’s tea was awful – she was notorious for reusing her tea bags at least four times – I regarded my mother with surprise. I knew she wasn’t a fan of the elderly lady but she wasn’t usually this unkind. Mum was in a bad mood and often this meant that her writing wasn’t going well.

‘How’s the new book coming along?’ I asked.

‘Slowly,’ Mum said. ‘I’m stuck on the black sheep. My editor wants a bad boy with a heart.’

‘What’s the title of this Star-Crossed Lovers novel?’

‘Exposed,’ Mum said.

‘Well, I hope that’s not a sign of things to come,’ I remarked drily.

My mother’s secret life as international bestselling romance writer Krystalle Storm was becoming harder for her to manage and it worried me. Her books were now sold in the village but no one knew it was Iris Stanford who penned them. But it wasn’t just that. Mum hadn’t paid any income tax on her royalties since time began and much as I wanted her to come clean, I felt it was too late. She would almost certainly face a jail sentence.

‘Monty has asked me to marry him,’ Mum blurted out. ‘He proposed last night at the Jockey Club Summer Ball after the firework display.’

I was speechless. I thought of the odious Sir Monty Stubbs-Thomas who I knew all too well on the auction circuit and who I’d unfortunately come to know a little better these past few months since he had been ardently pursuing my mother.

Mum drifted over to the oak dresser to pick out two porcelain mugs from her collection of Royal commemoration plates and china that lined the shelves. A framed photograph of HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh stood centre place. Mum touched the frame. ‘A wonderful man. I had such a crush on him, especially when he wore his uniform.’

Finally, I found my voice. ‘You can’t be serious. I bet Sir Monty is after your money.’

‘That’s not a very nice thing to say,’ Mum replied. ‘Although I think you’re right. He’s asked if he can help me with my investments.’

‘You don’t have any investments,’ I said.

‘Yes I do. They’re in the attic—’

‘That cash should be in a bank,’ I said firmly.

‘I have lots of cash in the bank,’ Mum said mildly. ‘It’s in Jersey.’

‘No, all your cash,’ I said. ‘I don’t like it being here. You don’t have a burglar alarm. Anyone could find it.’

‘No one is going into the attic except for me,’ Mum said. ‘But why can’t Monty be captivated by my sparkling wit and personality?’

‘I didn’t mean he wasn’t,’ I said. ‘I just … don’t like him.’

‘He’s harmless.’ Mum scanned the shelves for our mugs and selected the one emblazoned with an image of Queen Elizabeth I. ‘In case you wondered.’

‘Wondered what?’ I asked.

‘The Virgin Queen for me today,’ Mum said. ‘You’ll be relieved to know that I have been restraining myself. Monty and I have not taken our relationship to the next level. Yet.’

‘Yet? Ugh.’ I gave an involuntary shudder. At least my mother’s last flame was relatively acceptable.

She took down a second mug. It was the beautiful Duchess of Cambridge. ‘For you, darling. Because, like Kate Middleton, you are still waiting for your Prince to come to his senses.’

‘I don’t want to talk about Shawn,’ I muttered. ‘Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to get married again.’

‘I don’t,’ said Mum. ‘But Monty won’t have it. He keeps calling me Lady Iris. I suppose if I did marry him I would become Lady Iris.’

I studied my mother’s face and saw mischief in her eyes. ‘You had me worried for a minute! I thought you were seriously considering it.’

Mum gave a dismissive wave. ‘I don’t want a husband. I had one for almost fifty years. I like my freedom. And to be honest, I don’t find him that attractive. He has this annoying habit of cleaning his front teeth with his cotton handkerchief at the dinner table.’

‘Well, his front teeth are rather … large.’

‘Like a beaver’s,’ Mum sniggered. ‘Or perhaps a hippopotamus.’

I laughed, too. ‘Now you’re being catty.’

‘I know,’ Mum said but didn’t look remotely sorry. ‘I’ve never been so spoiled. He showers me with presents – take this new perfume.’ Mum thrust an arm under my nose.

‘Gosh. That’s pungently floral.’

‘It’s called Reine de Nuit—’

‘Queen of the Night—?’

‘And cost two hundred and thirty-five pounds. I looked on the Internet.’

‘So?’ I said.

‘And I’ve never been driven around in a Rolls-Royce before or taken to the members’ enclosure at Newton Abbot Racecourse. We even sat at the top table last night!’ But then Mum’s smile faded. ‘Indulge me, Kat. Allow me to have a bit of fun. I loved your dad but he wasn’t what you call a live wire. Monty is … well, different. And besides, it’s making Delia pea green with envy.’

A fly landed on the banana bread. Mum snatched the plastic green fly swat and delivered a killer blow.

‘Oh, Mum!’ I wailed. ‘I was going to eat that.’

Mum gawked. ‘Did you make it?’

‘You saw me bring it into the kitchen,’ I protested. ‘I’m determined to learn to cook.’

‘I know what you’re up to,’ Mum declared. ‘Trying to become a domestic goddess for Shawn.’

My stomach gave a little lurch. At the beginning of the school holidays, Detective Inspector Shawn Cropper had transferred to London of all places, along with his twins and his mother-in-law, to start a new job. We had agreed to see ‘how things went’. His words, not mine.

Shawn’s departure had left me feeling very confused. Our relationship had always been off and on – and, if I was to be honest, more off than on. Shawn had not been back since but he was taking some time off and coming down to Devon in just a few days’ time.

Since the twins would be staying in London with their grandmother, I’d invited Shawn to stay with me and had been hurt when he said that since his own home hadn’t been rented out yet, he would rather stay there. It did not bode well for our relationship.

Mum returned to the table with our tea and a loaf knife for the banana bread. ‘I do think it odd that Shawn’s not coming down with the twins,’ she mused. ‘It’s the beating of the bounds and the village treasure hunt this coming Saturday. I would have thought his boys would have loved that. Eric has been working on the clues for weeks.’

I had thought the same thing.

‘Well, Delia is determined to do it,’ Mum went on, oblivious to my misery.

‘Do what?’

‘Beat the bounds! Walk the boundary,’ Mum said. ‘That’s why she’s been getting fit.’

‘How far is it?’ I said.

‘Twenty miles,’ Mum declared. ‘I just might join her. You should too.’

‘No, thanks,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s too hot for that sort of thing.’

‘You really need to support the community,’ Mum scolded.

My mother made a good point. Although we had both been living on the Honeychurch Hall estate for almost two years now it was only recently that we had finally been accepted into the fold.

As DFL’s – or those ‘Down From London’ – Mum and I were outsiders. But after some false starts, the warm acceptance by the Dowager Countess, Lady Edith Honeychurch, had gone a long way towards garnering favour with the villagers. Mum had inadvertently become the Honeychurch family historian and I – thanks to Edith’s generosity – had leased not just Jane’s Cottage where I lived, but also the gatehouses where I ran Kat’s Collectibles & Mobile Valuation Services.

Initially, I had had terrible reservations about moving from London to the wilds of the Devonshire countryside, but I was very happy here now. I had made friends. My antique business was booming. The only blot on the horizon was my relationship with Shawn. I only hoped he would soon tire of the city and want to come back. There was no question of me moving there. Besides, I had made a promise to my dad before he died that I would always keep an eye on my mother. Unfortunately, his fears had not proved groundless since my mother always seemed to be getting into trouble.

‘Get the Dipperton Deal,’ Mum said suddenly. ‘You’ll find the flyer and a map are inside.’

I spied the local newspaper on the kitchen counter and did as I was told. The front page carried a colour photograph of a hard-looking woman in her sixties with a honey-coloured bob. She was dressed in a cream tailored suit and was standing next to the shoulder of a liver chestnut horse adorned with award ribbons. The jockey leaned down into the frame, beaming from ear to ear. The tagline said, ‘Pearl Clayton with Oyster Girl’.

‘What a beautiful horse,’ I said.

‘I met Pearl Clayton last night,’ Mum bragged. ‘She’s just bought The Priory near Modbury. Apparently she wants to run for Mayor, so she’s got fingers in all sorts of pies.’

I picked up a green flyer and read:

The Beating of the Bounds and Treasure Hunt

By kind invitation of

Dowager Countess Lady Edith Honeychurch

Assemble: St Mary’s churchyard at 8.30 sharp

Picnic Lunch: Gibbet Cross

Maps & Refreshments sponsored by Pearl Clayton

Donations in aid of the church roof

‘I see what you mean by fingers in pies.’ I was impressed. ‘She’s done a good job with the map.’

The boundary was highlighted in green. It was beautifully illustrated and showed great attention to detail that included the numerous footpaths, bridleways and green lanes that covered the Honeychurch Hall estate and outlying parish. Even all the cottages in Little Dipperton were labelled and the churchyard of St Mary’s had a smattering of headstones.

On the northern boundary stood Gibbet Cross and beyond that was Dartmoor where the artist had added granite tors – Moreleigh Mount being just one – and several abandoned tin mines.

‘Beating the bounds takes place every seven years and is a custom that goes back centuries,’ said Mum. ‘In the days before maps, it was a way for villagers to know where their parish ended by literally walking the boundary line and swatting landmarks or distinctive stones – often called boundstones – with sticks.’

Three small symbols of what looked like the letter A with a horizontal line on top were spaced around the boundary line. ‘What are those supposed to be?’ I asked.

‘Picnic tables,’ Mum declared. ‘And that one’ – she jabbed a finger at a miniscule green triangle – ‘is where lunch will be provided at Gibbet Cross.’

I was surprised. ‘But … isn’t a gibbet another name for gallows?’

‘Oh yes. The upright beam is still standing there,’ said Mum. ‘I’m told the view is spectacular.’

‘Spectacular?’ I exclaimed. ‘I wouldn’t think that would have been any consolation to a condemned man.’

‘And a man condemned by one of the Honeychurch ancestors no less,’ Mum said with relish. ‘The sixth Earl of Grenville was Justice of the Peace and regularly sent poachers up to Gibbet Cross to be hanged.’

I thought of the numerous signs – ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’, ‘Poachers will be Shot’ – dotted around the estate. ‘Fortunately, poachers only get shot these days,’ I said.

‘I think Pugsley has a twelve-bore.’ Mum pulled a face. ‘If anyone is poaching, it’ll be him. No! Wait. Eric doesn’t need the twelve-bore. One look at those eyebrows would give any rabbit a heart attack.’

‘Mum!’ I protested.

‘And I bet he doesn’t have a licence either,’ Mum ran on. ‘I’ve a good mind to report him to the authorities.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I thought you were getting on better with your friendly neighbour.’

Mum shrugged. ‘Define the word “better”? If you mean, am I happy that he decides to burn old tyres at his’ – she made air quotes – ‘“end-of-life” scrapyard when I have my washing out on the line, then yes, we’re the best of friends.’

‘Well, on that happy note, I’m off to see Violet.’

But no sooner had I stood up, there was a cacophony of barking and the sound of heavy footsteps. The kitchen door burst open and Mr Chips, Edith’s Jack Russell, tore inside leaving the man in question frozen in the doorway, shovel in hand.

Eric Pugsley looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

My heart skipped a beat. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

His heavy beetle brows went into overdrive as he tried to speak.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Mum muttered. ‘Spit it out!’

‘There’s been a murder,’ he croaked.

And with that, Eric dropped his shovel, pitched forward and passed out.

Somehow we managed to get Eric and his ‘bulk’, as Mum rudely put it, into a sitting position despite Mr Chips continuously barking and getting in the way. Finally, I had to usher the little Jack Russell out of the back door and into Cromwell Meadows. I knew he’d find his way back to the Hall.

‘Another roundhead then.’ Mum stood over Eric, arms akimbo. ‘I would have thought you’d be used to digging them up by now.’

I had to admit that Mum had a point. During the Civil War one of many battles had taken place on Honeychurch land, specifically in Cromwell Meadows behind the Carriage House. There had been heavy casualties on both sides for King and for Parliament. It wasn’t the first time that Mr Chips had dug up a skeleton and I doubted if it would be the last.

‘Not a roundhead. It was …’ Eric made a peculiar strangled noise. ‘It was my mate Charlie Green and it’s all my fault.’

Mum’s eyes widened. ‘You knew him? And you say he’s dead and it was all your fault?’

‘Charlie had moved to Dublin,’ Eric whispered. ‘Everyone knew he’d done a runner.’

‘Well, obviously he must have come back,’ said Mum.

‘Where did you find him?’ I said gently. Eric was clearly upset.

Eric pointed in the direction of the pine forest behind the Carriage House. ‘In a shallow grave in them woods. I was hiding the clues for the treasure hunt and Mr Chips went digging.’

Mum frowned. ‘Charlie Green? Charlie Green. No. The name doesn’t ring a bell.’ She thought for a moment. ‘When was the last time that you saw your friend?’

‘Seven years, almost to the day,’ Eric said. ‘It was the night before the beating of the bounds. I can’t believe it. I mean I can believe it. But I can’t believe it.’

‘You call the police, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’ll make Eric some tea.’

‘I’d rather have brandy,’ Eric said tentatively.

Mum brightened. ‘I think we should all have one.’

Eric tried to stand but swayed on his feet. I darted forwards to help him into a chair at the kitchen table as Mum opened and closed the kitchen cupboards before returning with a plastic picnic beaker and a bottle of cooking brandy. She poured out a couple of fingers before picking up her iPhone.

‘I’ll go and get our brandy and call the police out in the hall.’ She mouthed, ‘He did it! He killed him,’ then added a cheerful, ‘Be right back.’

Eric downed the cheap brandy in one go and reached for the bottle to pour another. ‘I thought she was starting up again.’

‘Who is she?’ I prompted.

‘Her and him,’ said Eric.

‘Her and him?’ I prompted again.

‘Charlie and my Vera.’ Eric pulled off his knitted beanie and raked his fingers through his thick dark hair. ‘Vera told me he was in trouble and I didn’t believe her.’

‘Vera?’ I frowned. ‘You mean your wife Vera?’

‘They’d been having a fling but she swore it was over.’ Eric nodded miserably. ‘You never met my Vera. She was a beauty. Kindest woman ever walked God’s earth. Gentle as a lamb. Died in her prime, she did.’

Eric had a very short memory. Not only had I met the extremely volatile Vera Pugsley, I had found her body in the grotto. Even though it had been a horrific experience, Vera had been a handful, and that was putting it mildly.

Eric took a swig of brandy.

I had a sudden thought. After seven years, surely there wouldn’t be much left of Charlie Green. ‘Are you positive it’s your friend?’

‘Recognised his leather biker jacket right away,’ said Eric. ‘Red and gold eagle on the back – he was lying face down. Oh – and his Doc Martens.’

Mum came back with two cut crystal balloons and a bottle of Courvoisier. She set them down and poured us a generous slug each. Eric topped his beaker up with the cheap stuff. He didn’t seem to notice the intentional slight or perhaps he didn’t care.

‘The police are on their way,’ she said.

Eric sat bolt upright. ‘The police? No police!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course we have to call the police,’ Mum declared. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Charlie Green also knew Eric’s wife Vera,’ I said. ‘They were friends.’

‘Friends. Oh, I see what you mean.’ Mum gave a knowing nod. ‘And was Charlie a local man? Should he be added to our below stairs family tree?’

Eric shook his head. ‘Charlie wasn’t from around here. Well, he was. But he wasn’t.’

‘I’m sure the police are going to find that very helpful,’ Mum muttered.

‘He lived in the village?’ I suggested.

Eric frowned. ‘No. Why?’

I knew that Eric was in shock, but trying to get information was like pulling teeth with a spoon.

‘But you knew he moved to Dublin,’ I said. ‘How?’

‘Because he sent the old biddies postcards,’ Eric went on. ‘And every time he sent one, Lavender Green would brag about it. But all along—’

‘Lavender Green?’ I said sharply. ‘Violet’s sister? Why would Charlie be sending her postcards from Dublin?’

Eric looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘Because she’s his aunt. Well, they both are.’

‘Well I never,’ said Mum.

‘It would have killed old Lavender if she’d not died before I dug Charlie up,’ Eric went on. ‘Charlie could do no wrong in her eyes, but Violet …’ Eric shook his head. ‘Now, she couldn’t stand him.’

Mum leaned in. ‘And why w. . .