Ten minutes later I parked my Golf behind St. Mary’s and took the shortcut through the churchyard to the post office. From this perspective, I had a good view of the crescent of cottages beyond the low moss-covered stone wall that embraced the churchyard boundary—and they had a good view of me.
The churchyard was lined with lichen-covered headstones and raised tombs. Some were enclosed by wrought-iron railings and watched over by stone angels. Most of the graves were family plots. There were about a dozen surnames that I recognized from those who lived and worked on the Honeychurch estate or were still tenants living in the village.
I thought again of the dead woman who had lain forgotten in Cromwell Meadows for so many years. Someone had to have known who she was and how she met with such a violent end.
As I picked my way through the graves, I spotted the imposing Honeychurch mausoleum in the corner framed by two ancient yew trees. The Honeychurch motto was carved above heavy bronze doors that were framed by a pair of hawks in flight. The style was very much in keeping with the architecture of the Hall only in miniature.
Although the grass surrounding the mausoleum was neatly mown, most of the churchyard was ankle deep in thistles, clover, buttercups and daisies.
Only Fred Jarvis’s brand-new headstone stood out. Built of granite and etched in gold, it looked expensive. A fresh vase of roses sat beneath the inscription that brought a smile to my lips. My dad used to say the exact same thing to my mother.
YOU’LL MISS ME WHEN I’M GONE
FREDERICK JARVIS
AUGUST 8, 1942–MAY 3, 2017
ALWAYS TOGETHER
It was also hard to miss the wheelbarrow that was blocking the grassy path. It still contained Fred’s gardening implements—a hoe, fork and shovel—that he had been using on that fateful day.
According to Mrs. Cropper, the cook, Muriel forbade anyone to move the “barrow of death” for mysterious reasons of her own, but with St. Mary’s church holding a “living history” exhibition as part of the re-enactment next weekend someone was going to have to.
I paused at the lych-gate where directly opposite Violet’s dark-green Morris Minor Traveller had reclaimed its rightful space between Rose Cottage and Honeysuckle Cottage, Pippa’s new abode.
Violet might have had a point about Pippa trying to steal her customers.
An elaborate sign embellished with curlicues peeped between frothy lace curtains in Pippa’s front window.
DEVONSHIRE CREAM TEAS IN MY SECRET GARDEN
£7.50
REAL CLOTTED CREAM AND LOCAL JAM
HOMEMADE SCONES AND CAKES FRESHLY MADE TODAY
I had to admit Pippa’s cream teas seemed far more enticing than poor Violet’s efforts. Pippa’s cottage was covered in fragrant honeysuckle climbing either side of the front door and over the pitched porch. Violet’s cottage looked positively bald without her signature climbing roses that had covered the flaking whitewashed bricks that were now a dirty gray. No wonder she had been upset. Even worse, the victims of Fred’s zealous secateurs still pooled in pathetic dead piles under the front windows and around the side footpath between her cottage and the post office. Since there was no one who was likely to clear it up, I decided to come back over the weekend and volunteer.
Pippa had also undercut Violet’s price for a traditional Devonshire cream tea and a pot for two by three whole pounds. Although I had to admit you could fell an elephant with one of Violet’s fruit scones.
I wondered if Pippa realized that she was alienating the locals who always seemed to regard any outsider—and I was speaking from experience—with caution bordering on hostility. I suppose someone would have to tell her and that someone was probably me.
The door to the post office and general store stood open. I stepped down into the gloom. No matter how sunny it was outside, the place always seemed claustrophobic. The low-beamed ceiling didn’t help.
The store was jammed to the gunnels with items ranging from tiny sewing kits to fly-spray killer. Shelves were haphazardly stacked with pliers, tinned goods, jigsaw puzzles and hemorrhoid cream. A revolving wire display stand offered picturesque postcards of Devon for sale.
I always felt like I had stepped back in time here. On the counter sat an old-fashioned cash register and brass bell. In front stood a low bench spread with a selection of trashy magazines, national newspapers, the local Dipperton Deal and the dreaded Star Stalkers. Along the back wall were shelves filled with large glass jars containing old-fashioned sweets that I tended to buy just too often these days—Sherbet Pips, Fruit Chews and Black Jacks.
In one corner a Plexiglas window encased a small cubbyhole that bore the sign POST OFFICE. On the notice board the usual flyers and handwritten cards that offered a variety of services and local events had been overshadowed by the upcoming Skirmish. Piers Carew’s bloodthirsty appeal for dead bodies was tacked alongside a heavily embossed invitation from the Master of Weapons inviting anyone in need of practice with “pike, musket or rapier” to “muster” in the grounds of Carew Court on Saturday at nine a.m.
I half-expected to see Muriel’s niece manning the fort, but she wasn’t there—nor was Muriel. I rang the brass bell.
Moments later Muriel emerged from the door behind the counter. I noticed that her black cotton dress had a splotch of red just below the neckline.
When Muriel saw it was me she smiled. “Oh, Katherine. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness,” she said. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? I’m so embarrassed.”
“No, I haven’t said a word.”
“Not even to Iris?” said Muriel. “I know you are close.”
“Not even to my mother.” Although I had been tempted to. I just hoped that Muriel wasn’t going to ask for money again.
“Did you want to buy some stamps?” Muriel said brightly.
“Not today.” I pointed to her dress. “You’ve got something on your—” I leaned in closer. “Is that—I think it’s jam?”
“It’s Fred’s,” she said, and wiped it off on her sleeve. Her eyes filled with tears. “Eating his jam makes me feel closer to him, somehow.” She gave a heavy sigh. “I’ve still got twelve jars of gooseberry, but it’s the strawberry that was his best.”
“And I’m looking forward to eating his jam, too.” I thought for a moment. “Any news on your car?”
Muriel looked blank. “Car?”
“The car that was stolen from the car park in Tesco?”
“Oh, that,” said Muriel, settling onto a stool behind the counter. “No. Not yet.” She retrieved a copy of last Saturday’s Dipperton Deal from under the counter. It was folded to page 4. Muriel had circled a tiny paragraph in the sidebar. The piece was so small I hadn’t even noticed it earlier in the day at the Sea Trout Inn. “But thefts are on the rise. Take a look at that.”
I read: A china Dalmatian dog and a tin tea caddy were stolen from an Oxfam charity shop in Dartmouth last Friday.
It was hardly in the same league as her car, but I said, “Well, just make sure you keep your door locked.”
“And you, too. Did you say you wanted stamps?” Muriel asked.
“Actually—” I plunged in. “I need to talk to you about a parcel that my mother registered a few weeks ago.”
A tide of red raced up Muriel’s neck and flooded her face. She couldn’t have looked guiltier if she tried. “A parcel, you say?”
“I have the tracking slip,” I said, and gave it to her.
Muriel got to her feet and unlatched the half door that separated the post office from the general store. She sank onto another stool behind the Plexiglas divider.
Muriel glanced at the receipt. “It left here on April seventeenth. That’s what it says. You see?” She drew a circle around the postmark and slid it back under the glass looking defiant.
“I know,” I said gently. “But I went online and I was able to track it. It says the parcel never left the post office.”
“Well, that’s wrong,” she declared. “It did.”
“I know you’ve had a lot going on what with losing Fred—”
“Not to mention Violet,” Muriel put in. “She refuses to pay me despite what the judge said. She had another accident, you know. She really shouldn’t be driving with her eyesight—”
“Would you mind looking in your sorting room or wherever you keep things before they’re picked up?” I said. “Maybe it’s still there?”
“Of course it won’t still be there,” said Muriel with scorn.
“Do you mind if I take a quick peep?”
“You’re wasting your time, but alright then.” She gave a heavy sigh and lifted the countertop. I followed her into a small windowless room painted lime green that jarred with a pair of shocking pink Crocs that she was wearing. On top Muriel might well be in mourning, but her footwear certainly held a spark of life.
The sorting room was highly organized, with three large canvas bins for incoming and outgoing mail and one for parcels. There was an entire wall of pigeonholes with the names and addresses of every resident in the village, all neatly labeled in black ink. I felt an odd thrill at seeing mine—MS. KATHERINE STANFORD/JANE’S COTTAGE.
I peered into the outgoing mail bin. It was empty. The incoming bin only had a handful of letters, too. I imagined what the village post office would have been like before e-mail.
“People don’t write letters so much anymore,” said Muriel as if reading my thoughts. “I remember when sorting the post was my Fred’s full-time job and he didn’t have to beg for work.”
“You’re very organized,” I said. “I’m impressed.”
“Nothing gets past me,” said Muriel with a hint of pride.
And it also went a long way to explain why Muriel knew everything that was going on in the village.
I noticed a brand-new label—CAREW/THE OLD BARN. “Is that the barn conversion behind St. Mary’s?”
“That’s the one,” said Muriel. “Lady Lavinia’s father and his new wife.”
“Oh.” I continued to scan the room for any sign of my mother’s parcel, very conscious of Muriel’s eyes boring into the back of my skull.
“And she’s already getting packages,” Muriel went on. “Set herself up a nice little mailbox, as they say in America. Why she wants it sent there instead of Carew Court is beyond me. The barn won’t be ready for months. Have you seen it? It’s a shell.”
“How many times a day does the post get picked up?”
“Once,” said Muriel. “Used to be three posts a day when I was a little girl, but now—” She shrugged. “Bill-the-post picks up at ten in the morning. The letters and parcels are put on the train to Exeter and then go on up to London.”
“You’re right,” I said, defeated. “Mum’s parcel isn’t here.”
We returned to the post office and general store. Muriel settled back behind the counter again. I saw a half-eaten piece of toast on a plate and a jar of Fred’s famous strawberry jam.
“How important was the parcel?” Muriel said suddenly.
“Very important.”
“Oh dear,” said Muriel. “So what happens if it never turns up?”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” I lied, “but it means a lot to my mother.”
Muriel frowned. “Let me think a moment.” She nodded slowly. “I seem to remember a package being addressed to Goldfinch Publishing? Would that be right?”
“I don’t remember,” I lied again.
“I thought to myself, Goldfinch Publishing in London. Now, that rings a bell.” Muriel cocked her head. “I even thought for a minute that maybe Iris fancied herself as the next Krystalle Storm.” Muriel laughed, showing all her teeth. “Fancy that.”
“Krystalle who?” I said, feigning innocence.
“She publishes the Star-Crossed Lover series.” To make her point, Muriel retrieved a dog-eared copy of Forbidden, Mum’s last book, from under the counter and showed me the spine. “You see here?” She jabbed a finger. “That’s their logo. A goldfinch.” Muriel regarded me keenly. “As I said, not much gets past me. It’s part of my job to be vigilant.”
How infuriating. I hated being put in such an awkward position, but there was no question of me confirming her suspicions. I felt a rush of annoyance at my mother and her ridiculous obsession with secrecy.
“It would make sense, though,” Muriel persisted. “I mean, what does Iris do up at the Carriage House all day?”
“At the moment, she’s sewing costumes for Lord and Lady Honeychurch and you,” I said drily.
“Well, all I’m saying is that my niece Bethany has the Internet and she told me that on Krystalle Storm’s website it says she has a manor house in Devon and a villa on the Amalfi coast—”
“And a Pekinese called Truly Scrumptious,” I said. “My mother doesn’t have a dog.”
“I thought you hadn’t heard of Krystalle Storm,” Muriel said suspiciously. “Anyway, Bethany said the dog looked stuffed.”
I stifled the urge to laugh. “Perhaps Krystalle Storm lives in Italy most of the time.”
“Say what you like. I’ve got a feeling in my water.”
“Why would you think it was my mother anyway?” I couldn’t help but say. “There are other people who are new to the area.”
Muriel sat up straight. “You’re right. There are. Pippa whatever her name is has moved into Honeysuckle Cottage with that naughty little boy Max—he’s a bad influence on Master Harry. I’ve seen them stealing sweeties right under my nose. No, perhaps … Have you met her ladyship’s new stepmother?”
I was beginning to feel quite tired from hearing all of Muriel’s observations. “No.”
“Likes to be called Jess, so I’m told.” Muriel leaned in conspiratorially. “Had plastic surgery, if you know what I mean—and she’s young enough to be his daughter. The old earl has got to be decades her senior, but the Carews have money, you see.”
“There you are,” I said. “Maybe Jess has a villa on the Amalfi coast and it’s where she writes her racy novels.”
“Yes. She looks the type. A proper gold digger.”
“Am I the type?” We both looked over to see an elegantly dressed woman wearing a pale-blue leather jacket and white Capris. She was pretty, with an elfin face and a blond pixie cut. The minute she saw me she gave a gasp of pleasure. “Oh! I don’t believe it! You’re Kat Stanford from Fakes & Treasures. I’m your biggest fan … but who on earth is Krystalle Storm?”