“Kat said that you were the self-appointed Honeychurch historian, so I thought you might be interested in these.”
“Of course I am!” My mother stared in wonder at the six parchment letters with their broken wax seals that lay on the kitchen table. The script was spidery and very difficult to read, but Piers had copied them into a notebook in surprisingly neat handwriting.
“The Carews keep everything,” said Piers with more than a hint of pride. “Nicholas and Eleanor were friends from childhood. But Eleanor had been betrothed at birth to her cousin, James Honeychurch.”
“Ah, the pirate,” said Mum. “Bootstrap Jim.”
“But he was a cousin,” I said. “Wasn’t it illegal for first cousins to marry?”
“The monarchy were always marrying first cousins and cousins once removed,” said Mum. “In fact, the entire line of succession to the British throne stems from a first-cousin marriage between Frederick William the First of Prussia and Sophia Dorothea of Hanover. There are over five thousand descendants who are currently alive—”
“Including Emma Bunton?” I teased.
Piers looked confused.
“From the Spice Girls,” said Mum helpfully. “Emma is one hundred and third in line to the throne.”
“Sorry, private joke,” I said. “You were saying?”
“The war broke out and Nicholas and Eleanor eloped. He returned to fight but got caught up in the Battle of Naseby. By the time he got back, Eleanor had vanished,” said Piers. “No one knew what had really happened to her until now.”
I looked up from reading one of the transcriptions. “Listen to this.” I read, “How it doth pain me so but I do this willingly for you my love and would suffer a thousand more barbs just to see your face once more.”
“Do you think that refers to the scold’s bridle?” said Mum.
“You can’t help who you fall in love with,” Piers said.
He had echoed Alfred’s words from the night before. I looked at Piers with his tousled hair and boyish face and for a moment—just a moment—wondered if I was being too cynical and that I should give him a chance to redeem himself.
“Why would someone put a scold’s bridle on her?” I said with a shudder.
“No one really knows. Punishment? Jealousy? Spying?” he said. “Or just plain spite.”
“What about her sister, Lady Frances?” Mum said suddenly. “She must have known what was going on. Wouldn’t she have intervened?”
“The role of women was very different in those days,” I pointed out. “There would have been nothing she could do—particularly in wartime.”
“Didn’t Nicholas try to find her?” Mum asked.
“I’ve found traces of correspondence that seem to imply he did, but the country was falling apart. It was all people could do to survive.”
“But who killed her?” said Mum.
“The dagger in her grave was proof enough for me,” said Piers. “As well as confirming the crest on the blade, my father found James Honeychurch’s initials engraved in the hilt.”
“But that’s terrible!” I exclaimed.
“She was betrayed by her own kin,” Mum declared. “Just like me—oh, wait.… Betrayed! That’s it. Betrayed! Excuse me. I must write this down.” She turned away and grabbed a block of Post-its and began scribbling away.
Piers caught my eye. I gave a shrug. “Taking notes,” I said.
“We must tell his lordship,” Mum went on. “Lady Eleanor should be buried in the family mausoleum at St. Mary’s church.”
“Absolutely not,” said Piers forcefully. “She must be buried with her husband in our family chapel. That’s where she belongs.” He got to his feet, picked up the parchment letters and carefully slid them back inside the plastic protector sleeves.
“What about his lordship?” Mum said.
“You can tell Rupert whatever you like.”
“Thank you for showing us these letters,” I said. “And for the flowers.”
“And the ring is exquisite,” Mum chimed in.
I walked Piers out to his car.
“Have I redeemed myself?” he asked.
“A tiny bit. Yes. Although I fear that my reputation is in tatters.”
I watched him drive away. There had been no mention of another date and I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
“Come on,” said Mum, who suddenly materialized at my elbow. “Let’s go and get Alfred. We need to go back to St. Mary’s.”
“Why do we need Alfred?”
“Given the circumstances, I’d like to know the exact date Eleanor died,” said Mum. “We’ve got some lock picking to do.”
We climbed into Mum’s MINI and headed for Little Dipperton. Twenty minutes later the three of us were walking into St. Mary’s church.
Alfred wrinkled his nose. “Can you smell that?”
“Bacon sandwiches,” Mum and I chorused.
“That’s good, because perhaps Violet is here and we can ask for the key—I can’t think who else would be eating bacon sandwiches.”
We headed up the aisle and into the vestry and approached the enormous Parish chest.
“That’s weird,” I said. “It looks as if the chest has been moved. It was flush against the wall when we were here last time, but now it’s not.” In fact, it stood a good three inches away from the wall.
“It’s still padlocked,” said Mum. “See what you can do with that, Alfred.”
Alfred knelt down and withdrew a lockpick from his pocket.
“Shouldn’t someone stand watch?” I said nervously.
“Shush,” said Mum. “Look and learn.”
Alfred began to noodle away on the padlock.
I looked around the vestry. It was then that I noticed a bottle of bleach cleaning fluid. It was under the chair—a strange place to leave such a thing. I picked the bottle up.
“Keep still!” Mum hissed. “Alfred needs absolute silence; otherwise he can’t hear the clicks.”
I stopped.
“Shush!” Mum said again. “Listen! Someone’s coming!”
She was right. I could hear footsteps and they were heading our way.
“Quickly, Alfred! Leave it!”
Alfred jumped to his feet just as Violet walked into the vestry.
She regarded us with suspicion. “I thought I saw you heading for the church. What are you doing in here? Stealing candles?”
“Candles?” Mum exclaimed. “Why would we want to steal candles?”
“Well, someone is.” She marched over to the ambry and brought out the box. “I’ve been counting them. You see? This was a full box last Wednesday.”
“And you have no right to accuse poor Alfred here of lurking in the churchyard last night,” Mum went on.
“I know what I saw,” Violet said stubbornly. “And I saw you with him, too, and that’s what I told the police.”
“But I was nowhere near the church!” Mum shouted. “You need your eyes tested.” She pointed at poor Violet’s cracked glasses. “What you saw were two little boys playing ghosts. Isn’t that right, Kat?”
“Harry and Max were in the churchyard last night,” I said to Violet.
“I know. I found Master Harry’s scarf,” said Violet. “I posted it through Muriel’s letterbox. Master Harry is very fond of that scarf.”
Well, that explained how the scarf ended up in the post office.
“It was a man and a woman,” Violet insisted.
I thought for a moment. “Did you see Muriel in the churchyard as well, Violet?”
“Yes,” said Violet. “She always goes to Fred’s grave to say good night.”
“You see!” Mum exclaimed. “It must have been Muriel that you saw, not me.”
“Did you hear anything?” I asked. “A scream perhaps?”
“The boys make a racket,” said Violet. “I’m always hearing them. It’s wicked. They shouldn’t be allowed to climb over the graves in the Lord’s garden. It’s disrespectful. Poor Muriel.”
“You’ve certainly changed your tune. I thought you couldn’t stand Muriel.”
“When it comes to outsiders, blood is thicker than water.”
“How can that be?” said Mum. “Although it wouldn’t surprise me if you were related. Everyone seems to be related to everyone here.”
“We’re cousins twice removed,” said Violet with a sniff.
“What are you doing in here anyway?” Mum demanded.
“I’ve come to do the flowers,” said Violet. “I keep the church clean.” She snatched the bleach bottle from my hand but then paused, wrinkling her nostrils. “Can you smell bacon sandwiches?”
“Yes,” said Mum. “It’s hard not to. For someone who likes to keep this little church clean, your standards are slipping.”
“I told Lady Carew not to eat bacon sandwiches in here.”
“Jess?” said Mum. “We haven’t seen her this morning. Why would she be eating a bacon sandwich in the church?”
“I make them for the workmen at the barn,” said Violet. “That Pippa doesn’t fry anything. Says it’s unhealthy.”
“What’s going on in here?” Shawn entered the vestry.
“You called the police?” Mum gasped. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“Ms. Green did no such thing,” said Shawn. “Thanks to Kat, Harry told his mother, and she urged him to call me about what the boys witnessed in the churchyard last night. I’m afraid this is now off-limits.”
“Why?” Mum demanded.
“We’re quite certain that Muriel was not killed in her own home—”
“Muriel was murdered!” Violet cried. “But I thought … thought … no, who would do such a thing?”
“Eyewitness accounts and the expertise of our forensic maestro have proved otherwise,” said Shawn.
“You think she was killed in the churchyard?” I said.
“She visited Fred’s grave every night,” Violet whispered.
Shawn suddenly spotted the bleach that Violet was holding. “Where did you find that?”
“I found it,” I said. “It was under the chair.”
“Under the chair?” Violet said with a frown. “I always put my supplies away in the bucket behind the door. I would never leave it under a chair.”
“I’ll take that if you don’t mind,” said Shawn.
“Can’t you just tell us what is going on?” I said.
“I’m sorry. No.” Shawn paused. “Can you smell bacon sandwiches?”
“I make them for Lady Carew,” said Violet again. “She gives them to the workmen at the barn.”
Shawn regarded Mum, Alfred and me. I noted that Alfred hadn’t uttered a word since the police officer had arrived. “And what are you all doing in here?”
“I was doing some research for his lordship about the Honeychurch family and wanted to look through the Parish registers.” Mum pointed to the Parish chest. “But it’s locked.”
“You wouldn’t have had much luck anyway,” said Shawn. “All the Parish registers were moved to the county record office twenty years ago.”
“We thought Violet would have a key to the padlock.”
Violet frowned. “But why would I have a key?”
“You didn’t put the padlock on?” said Mum.
“I would never do that,” said Violet.
“Perhaps the dowager countess knows,” Shawn suggested.
“She’s in London. I’m picking her up from the railway station tomorrow,” I said.
“Oh, I’m so relieved her ladyship caught the train to London,” said Violet. “I’ve been so worried.”
“If only my worries were as small as yours, Violet,” said Mum rather unkindly, I thought.
We were a subdued party on the drive back home. The thought that the boys may have heard Muriel’s dying screams just made my blood run cold.
“You don’t think it’s remotely possible that Muriel saw something and died of fright?” said Mum.
“You mean, she teleported her way from the churchyard to her kitchen, tried to write a suicide note and—”
“It was just a theory,” said Mum crossly.
“Alfred?” I said. “You’re very quiet.”
“I’m thinking,” he said. “That wheelbarrow had been moved.”
“Wheelbarrow? What are you talking about?” said Mum.
“Yesterday, when Mr. Chips dug up the biscuit tin, the wheelbarrow was in the middle of the path. This afternoon, the wheelbarrow was behind one of the headstones.”
“You think someone wheeled Muriel’s body back to her kitchen?” Mum gave a snigger. “You’re daft, you are. Are you going to tell the policeman?”
“Never,” Alfred snarled. “Matter of principle. I’d never snitch.”
“Didn’t you say Muriel was only wearing one shoe when you saw her in the kitchen?” I said suddenly.
“That’s right.”
“And you expect Alfred to tell the police?” Mum scoffed.
“But that’s really important,” I said. “But no, of course he can’t.”
Back at Jane’s Cottage I felt inexplicably depressed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the letters that Piers had shown us. It was all so tragic. And there was poor Muriel. The more I thought about her death the more I was certain she had to have seen something in the churchyard. Perhaps the boys knew more than they realized. Could Alfred have done something after all? It could have been an accident and he’d tried to cover it up by making it look like a suicide—but then why not finish the job? As Alfred liked to say, he was a professional.
I climbed into my pajamas even though it was only eight o’clock, poured myself a glass of wine and ate scrambled eggs on toast.
I must have dozed off, because I was jolted awake by the shrill ring of my mobile phone. To my astonishment, Pippa’s name flashed up on the caller I.D.
I looked at the clock. It was just past midnight.
“Come quickly,” she said. “Something terrible has happened.”
My stomach gave a sickening lurch. “Is Harry alright?”
“Yes, yes, of course he is.” Pippa gave an anguished sob. “Everything is ruined. I don’t know who else I can trust.”
“Slow down,” I said. “What’s happened?”
“I think she’s dead.”
“Who!” I exclaimed.
“Violet.”
I tried to take this in. “What on earth is Violet doing at your house so late?”
“Oh, Kat, I’m not home.” She paused to control herself. “A car accident. I don’t know why she was out so late. We saw it happen.”
I was horrified. “The boys saw it?”
“No, no, of course not. They’re not here,” said Pippa. “You have to come. Please, Kat.”
“Where are you?”
“Bridge Cottage,” she whispered.
“Bridge Cottage!” I exclaimed. “Whatever for? But … but what about Harry and Max?”
“Don’t judge me! Not now,” Pippa sobbed. “Just come. Quickly!”