Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery by Hannah Dennison

Author:Hannah Dennison [Dennison, Hannah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781250036865
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2014-05-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Harry and I left the kitchen and entered a low-ceilinged, flagstoned passage. High on the wall was a long row of service bells with indicators. It was a gloomy place, lit only by a yellowing lightbulb.

“Hold tight, Stanford! I’m putting her down in the field,” said Harry, running through a series of mimed gestures indicating that our imaginary airplane had made a bumpy landing. “Rightey-oh. We’ve just broken into the dungeon. Let’s check the cells.”

Half a dozen doors or so lined the corridor. Each bearing a wooden plaque that indicated the purpose behind each. There were an assortment of larders including dry, fish, meat, and dairy, and a lamp room. Most were locked—the doorjambs thick with grime and cobwebs. Only the wine cellar, gun room, and a stillroom bore signs of use.

“It doesn’t look as if Jazzbo is down here, sir,” I said.

“Shh! There are Germans everywhere. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Bad news,” Harry whispered. “Our man could be up in the tower.”

At the end of the corridor were two glass-paneled doors. One led to the outside courtyard, the other to a narrow staircase.

The back stone stairs wound up to the attics with walls painted a dull green. Harry stopped on the small landing next to another wooden door. “We’ve just scaled up an outside wall under heavy enemy fire,” he whispered. “Now we’re about to scramble over the parapet. Ready?”

We stepped into the galleried landing that overlooked the great hall. Light spilled from the domed atriums above. A threadbare carpet bore several imprints of heavy furniture that had probably been sold off. A handful of picture lights illuminated empty squares. Two beautiful walnut display credenzas contained a collection of porcelain snuff boxes—Lady Edith’s cherished collections. There had to be at least twenty in each cabinet and worth a small fortune.

Harry grabbed my hand. “Come on, Stanford, there’s no time to lose.”

He opened the first door off the landing and pulled me inside. It was a man’s bedroom and I suspected it was Rupert’s.

“I don’t think we should be in here,” I said.

“We can’t leave any stone unturned,” said Harry earnestly. “You take one side, I’ll take the other. Von Stalhein could have our chap locked up in a secret chamber.”

The room was heavily beamed and with exquisite linenfold paneling—obviously part of the original house. It was decorated in dark autumnal colors with seventeenth century oak furniture and more oil paintings of stags, dogs, and pheasants. There was a vast wood-framed bed, armoire, and two sets of chests of drawers. The fireplace had an overmantel of carved wood bearing the Honeychurch coat of arms.

Harry began opening drawers and peering into corners. “Check the desk for clues, Stanford!” said Harry. “That’s an order!”

An oak bureau stood between two casement windows that overlooked the park and the white angel memorial. Maybe Rupert really was still in love with his first wife and when I spied a wood-framed photograph of a couple on his desk, it certainly seemed so. Rupert stood with his arm around a young dark-haired woman who was dressed in a low, plunging neckline.

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