Murder at Honeychurch Hall: A Mystery

by Hannah Dennison

Overview

Kat Stanford is just days away from starting her dream antique business with her newly widowed mother Iris when she gets a huge shock. Iris has recklessly purchased a dilapidated carriage house at Honeychurch Hall, an isolated country estate complete with eccentric lords and ladies and butlers and cooks.

When a secret from the past comes back to haunt Iris, Kat realizes she hardly knows her mother at all. And when the bodies start piling up, it is up to Kat to unravel the tangled truth behind the murders at Honeychurch Hall.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781250070432
Publisher:	St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date:	05/05/2015
Series:	Honeychurch Hall , #1
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	304
Sales rank:	404,603
Product dimensions:	8.20(w) x 5.50(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

HANNAH DENNISON was born and raised in Hampshire but spent more than two decades living in California. She has been an obituary reporter, antique dealer, private jet flight attendant and Hollywood story analyst. Hannah continues to teach online mystery writing workshops for the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program in Los Angeles. In addition to the Island Sisters series, Hannah writes the Honeychurch Hall Mysteries and the Vicky Hill Mysteries both set in the wilds of the Devonshire countryside where she now lives with her two high-spirited Hungarian Vizslas.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One
 
 
“Mum!” I exclaimed. “Thank God you’ve called. I’ve been so worried.”
“I hope you’re not driving, Kat,” chided my mother on the other end of the line.
“I am driving,” I said as my VW Golf crawled through the heavy stream of London traffic along the Old Brompton Road. “And don’t change the subject.”
“If you’re not wearing a headset, you’ll get a ticket—”
“Which is why I am pulling over,” I said. “Do not hang up. Let me stop somewhere.”
Mum gave a heavy sigh. “Quickly then. This call is expensive.”
I turned into Bolton Place, a quiet residential street divided by two graceful crescents that encircled communal gardens. Spotting a space outside the church of St. Mary’s, I parked and switched off the engine.
“Where did you get to last night?” I demanded. “I was about to call out the cavalry.”
“You sound tense,” said my mother, deliberately avoiding the question. “Is everything alright with Dylan?”
“You know very well my boyfriend is called David,” I said, annoyed that she always knew how to hit a nerve. “God, it’s boiling.” I wound down the window, taking in the heat of a hot August day and the smell of freshly mown grass.
“You’re too old to have a boyfriend—”
“Man friend then. And I’m not tense,” I said. “I was concerned when you didn’t come to my leaving party last night. Did you have another migraine?”
“No. I was in denial,” said Mum flatly. “I was hoping you weren’t going to go through with giving up Fakes & Treasures.”
“I want my life back, Mum. Have you any idea what it’s like to be constantly in the public eye?”
“Such a pity,” she went on. “I loved seeing you on the telly. You always looked so nice. Are you sure you’re not making a mistake?”
“You sound just like David—”
“Oh dear,” said Mum. “In that case, I’m delighted and I’m sorry I didn’t come.”
Ignoring the barb, I said, “Good, because I’m delighted that we’re going into business together. Speaking of which, I thought we could look at some properties this weekend.”
“That may not be possible—”
“And I must show you what I bought at Bonhams saleroom this morning,” I said. “Two boxes of Victorian toys and vintage teddy bears that I got at a bargain price—our first stock items. I can’t wait to show them to you.”
There was a long pause.
“Did you hear what I said, Mother?”
Another even longer pause and then, “I’ve broken my right hand,” she said bluntly.
“Oh Mum,” I cried. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“How bad is it?” I said. “Can you cook? Dress yourself?”
“With one hand?”
“Well, you do have the other one.”
“Very funny.”
“I’ll drive over straight away,” I said.
“What about Dylan? Won’t he mind?”
“David is away this weekend.”
“Your father wouldn’t like me gadding off without him,” said Mum. “Did you know that we never once spent a night apart in all our fifty years of marriage?”
“Yes I did know and it was forty-nine years, not fifty,” I pointed out. “And if you are going to be unkind about David, I won’t come.”
“When did you say his divorce from that Trudy woman is final? I keep forgetting.”
“It’s complicated,” I muttered.
“Have you watched Trudy’s new television show?” Mum said, hitting another nerve. “Very amusing—Walk of Shame! Celebrity Family Secrets Revealed.”
“Mum … I’m warning you. I do not want to talk about Trudy Wynne,” I said. “Do you want me to come or not?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mum wearily. “I do have a little project that needs finishing. Some typing.”
“I didn’t know you could type.”
“Of course I can type,” said Mum with scorn. “I use Daddy’s Olivetti.”
“That’s a collector’s item. I’m surprised you can still buy the ribbon,” I said. “I’ll stop by my place to pick up a few things and should be with you in under an hour.”
“I doubt it,” said Mum. “I’ve moved—now, don’t get all cross and silly.”
“Moved? Where? When?” I cried. “What about our business plans?”
“I’ve changed my mind. What do you need me for anyway?”
“The whole idea was that you’d help me run Kat’s Collectibles,” I said, exasperated. “We’d find you a lovely flat above a shop—”
“Whilst you moved in with David,” said Mum. “You know your father would never have approved of you living in sin.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Mother,” I said. “And anyway, Dad wanted me to look after you. He didn’t want you to be lonely.”
“I’m not lonely.”
“When did you make this momentous decision?”
“Let me see, about a month ago.”
“A month? But…” I was beginning to feel light-headed. “We speak every day. Sometimes two or three times a day.” Then I remembered that recently Mum was always the one ringing me. “I thought I didn’t recognize the phone number. Where are you calling from?”
“My mobile.”
“You have a mobile? Seriously?” I said. “And when did you put the house up for sale?”
“All these questions,” said Mum. “That nice man who runs the dry cleaners made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Mr. Winkleigh?” I gasped. “Dad would never have sold to Mr. Winkleigh. He couldn’t stand him.”
“Well, your father’s not here so he won’t find out, will he?”
I tried to absorb yet another piece of disturbing information. Even the thought of shopping for groceries would guarantee to bring on one of my mother’s “turns” and yet somehow, she’d managed to move house. “You can’t have done it all by yourself.”
“I’m not an invalid, you know,” said Mum.
This was rich coming from someone who spent all my school holidays with a migraine lying down in a dark room.
“And besides,” she added. “Alfred helped.”
“And Alfred is whom? Your Spanish boyfriend?” Nothing would surprise me at this point.
“Alfred is hardly a Spanish name, dear. A Spanish name would be Juan or perhaps Pablo,” said Mum mildly. “Alfred is my brother.”
I swear I stopped breathing. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Well, I do,” said Mum. “As a matter of fact I had two—though Billy’s dead and gone. Aneurism on Blackpool Pier. He died young. So very sad.”
“So I must have cousins. I’d love to have cousins.”
“You wouldn’t like them.”
“I would like them.” I could feel my temper rising as I remembered envying my friends’ big families, especially at Christmas. I hated being an only child. “Did Dad know you had brothers?”
“Of course he knew. He just didn’t like them so we didn’t see them,” said Mum. “Does it matter?”
“Actually, it does matter,” I said. “I always thought you and Dad were orphans.”
“Really? I wonder why?”
“Because that’s what you told me,” I shouted.
“Well, never mind all that,” said Mum briskly. “You’d better get cracking if you want to be here in time for tea.”
“Wait a moment,” I said. “What did you do with all my things?”
“Oxfam,” Mum declared. “And before you throw another wobbly don’t worry—I put all your furry friends in a suitcase. I have it right here—”
“And my dressing-up box?” I said, recalling the iron trunk full of dozens of beautifully handmade costumes. Mum had always been very nifty with the needle. “I want my children to have those.”
“You’d better get a move on in that department or it will be too late.”
“Thanks for reminding me, Mum,” I said.
“I was just joking.”
But I knew she wasn’t.
“Do you have a pencil?” Mum went on. “I’d better give you the address.”
“Wait,” I said. “I need something to write on.” I pulled the sale catalogue out of my tote bag and found a pen. “Ready.”
“The Carriage House, Honeychurch Hall Estate—”
“Honeychurch?” I snorted. “How very Winnie-the-Pooh.”
“Don’t snort. It’s so unattractive,” said Mum. “Honeychurch is all one word.” There was a long pause. “Little Dipperton.”
“Little what?” I said.
“Dipperton, like the Big Dipper only little. With t-o-n on the end.”
“Where the hell is Little Dipperton?”
“Devon.”
“Devon?” I sputtered.
“Near Dartmouth. Very pretty little fishing port. You’ll love it. I’ll take you there for a cream tea.”
“Devon!” I said again. “That’s over two hundred miles away.”
“Yes, I am aware of that. I just moved here.”
“But you don’t even like the countryside.”
“Your father didn’t but I do,” said my mother cheerfully. “I love the countryside. I’ve always hated city life. Now I wake up to the sound of the birds, the smell of fresh air—”
“But … Devon.” I felt dizzy at yet another revelation. “What about Dad’s ashes? I thought we agreed we’d put him in Tooting Crematorium? You’ll never be able to visit him.”
“I changed my mind about Tooting Crematorium. He suffered from claustrophobia, you know.”
“Mum, he’s in an orange Tupperware container right now,” I exclaimed. “What’s the difference?”
“It’s too final.”
I tried a different tack. “What about all your friends?”
“Your father worked for HM Revenue & Customs,” said Mum. “We didn’t have friends.”
“You don’t even drive.”
“I’ve always been able to drive. I just liked your father driving me.” Mum chuckled. “In fact, I’ve just bought myself a nice MINI Cooper in Chili Red.”
“How can you afford a new car? A house—and a grand house by the sound of things—in the country?” Alarm bells began to ring in my head. “How did you hear about this carriage house in the first place?”
“I have contacts.”
“But you must have viewed it? How? When?”
“I don’t have to answer any more questions from you,” Mum said. “I can do what I like.”
Another ghastly thought occurred to me. “You’ve spent all of Dad’s money, haven’t you?” There was an ominous silence on the other end of the phone. “He said you would.”
“Katherine, there’s something I need to tell you—”
“You have spent it!” I exclaimed. “You only call me Katherine when you’re about to give me bad news.”
“Does the name Krystalle Storm mean anything to you?”
Thrown for a moment, I said, “No. Why? Who’s she when she’s at home?”
“Critics say she’ll be even bigger than Barbara Cartland.”
“Who?”
“The romance writer. Barbara Cartland.”
“What’s that got to do with Dad’s money?”
“Her books are everywhere. Over half a million sold worldwide,” Mum enthused. “I’m surprised—”
“You know I don’t read that kind of rubbish, Mum. What did Dad call it? ‘Penny Dreadfuls for pathetic old ladies,’” I said. “And don’t try to change the subject again.”
“Fine,” Mum snapped. “You know what, I don’t think I need your help after all. I can manage on my own.”
“Now you’re throwing a wobbly. I’m happy to come. In fact, I quite fancy a cream tea.”
“No,” said Mum coldly. “I don’t want you here. I already have someone who is longing to lend me his hand. He’s very kind. Very kind indeed.” And before I could utter another word, my mother hung up.
I was deeply perplexed. It was clear that Mum’s grief had made her rash and impulsive. What had possessed her to move so far away from London? The fact that she’d managed to get into my father’s carefully protected pension fund was extremely worrying. My mother was notoriously hopeless with money. It was a family joke. Dad and I had gone to great lengths to make sure that she’d just receive a monthly income so she couldn’t spend it all at once. I felt I’d let him down and he’d only been gone four months.
There was nothing else for it. I’d have to drive to Little Dipperton, wherever that might be, and make her see sense.

 
Copyright © 2014 by Hannah Dennison

Editorial Reviews

A New Reading Delight Featuring Antique Shows, Romance Novels, Quirky Characters and Murder!” —Fresh Fiction

“Dennison has created a fun world of tabloid gossip, romance tropes, eccentric neighbors, family drama, and antiques. I look forward to more adventures from Kat & Iris.” —Johnny Cake Reads

“Hannah Dennison's Murder at Honeychurch Hall is a light, funny mystery that would be perfect for the beach or a rainy weekend at home.” —How Mysterious!

“A cozy mystery novel at its finest… Hannah Dennison has created a story with a nice balance of English charm at a quirky country manor with a cast of characters that all have cause to be murder suspects.” —Night Owl Reviews

“Dennison's book is fast and funny and a little sexy to boot” —Chicago Tribune's Printers Row Journal

“Dennison launches a new series with a potpourri of sentimentality and suspense. It all works since the dryly self-deprecating heroine keeps herself centered in spite of the zaniness around her.” —Kirkus Review

“Dennison keeps the twists and turns coming fast and furious” —Bookpage

“This upstairs downstairs cozy should please Downton Abbey fans” —Publishers Weekly

“The first in a new series by Dennison is a humor-laden blend of antiques, celebrity adulation, and old-style British Cozy. Fans of Alan Bradley or G.M. Malliet would savor. A romance novel embedded in the cozy mystery makes it especially fun” —Library Journal

“With believable characters, a modern take on manor-house life, a juicy subplot involving Kat's mother, and a possible love interest, this is a good start to a new series.” —Booklist

“Establishes Hannah Dennison as the mistress of hilarious British mysteries. Fabulous fun. As off-the-wall and clever as Sarah Caudwell.” —Carolyn Hart, author of Ghost Gone Wild

“A delight. Kept me up all night because I couldn't put it down.” —Dorothy Cannell

“This is the perfect classic English village mystery, but with the addition of charm, wit and a thoroughly modern touch. Pour yourself a cup of tea, curl up on the couch and enjoy!” —Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author

“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. With lords and ladies, cooks and butlers, romance writers and priceless teddy bears, Hannah Dennison's Devon caper is a riot and the mystery itself keeps those pages turning right to the end.” —Catriona McPherson, author of the Dandy Gilver series

“A classic country house mystery with a present day tabloid sensibility, cracking pace and acerbic humor—not to mention an entirely original cast of British eccentrics. And I did not guess whodunit. Please, please, let there be a sequel!” —Harley Jane Kozak, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Award-winning author of A Date You Can't Refuse

“Downton Abbey meets Midsomer Murders in this lively and entertaining series debut.” —Marcia Talley, award-winning author of the Hannah Ives mystery series

“A rousing romp through the English countryside. Filled with quirky characters and hilarious antics, this page-turner will leave you breathless!” —Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries and the Manor House Mystery series

“Kat Stanford and her mother exchange laugh out loud one-liners and make a delightful duo as they solve a multi-layered mystery that kept surprising me right up until the end. Fantastic!” —Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author of the Cupcake mysteries, London Hat Shop mysteries, and the Library Lover's mysteries

“When she goes to the aid of her much loved but often irritating mother, Kat copes with aplomb with secrets old and new. A fun read.” —Carola Dunn, bestselling and award winning author of the Daisy Dalrymple and Cornish Mysteries.

From the Publisher

03/10/2014
This engaging first in a new series from Dennison (Scoop! and three other Vicky Hill mysteries) introduces Kat Stanford, antiques guru and former TV personality. Out of the blue, Kat’s widowed mother, Iris, moves from London to Little Dipperton in Devon. Alarmed, Kat zooms to her mother’s new digs, a small cottage on a grand estate, Honeychurch Hall, only to learn that mom has been writing pseudonymous bestselling romance novels for years. In addition, Kat finds herself in the middle of local drama—at Honeychurch, the nanny has disappeared, and the housekeeper turns up dead; and a long-unsolved jewelry theft continues to weigh on everyone’s mind. On top of all this mayhem, Kat must decide whether to finally dump a married man who keeps pledging to leave his wife for her. While the gentry and servants of the estate don’t rise above stock characters, this upstairs-downstairs cozy should please Downton Abbey fans. Agent: Dominick Abel, Dominick Abel Literary Agency. (May)

Publishers Weekly

2014-03-20
Life with the landed gentry lands an antiques expert in even more of a muddle than the one she's trying to escape. Kat Stanford quit her job as star of the reality TV show Fakes & Treasures, hoping to find a quiet place to open an antiques store with her mother, Iris. She wasn't counting on Iris' impetuous decision to buy a carriage house from the dowager Countess of Grenville, mother of the owner of Honeychurch Hall. Arriving in Little Dipperton, Devon, to help her mother settle into what sounded like a picturesque cottage, Kat finds Iris living instead in a dilapidated building with holes in the floors; antiquated fixtures; Kat's father's ashes in a Tupperware container; and aggressively spiteful neighbors, Eric Pugsley and his wife, the leather-clad housekeeper. Iris insists they're trying to drive her out of the carriage house, and Kat isn't sure that would be so bad, especially after the Honeychurch nanny, who warned her about the place, disappears. Worse yet, a conversation Kat overhears between Eric and the Earl of Grenville makes Iris' suspicions sound uncomfortably plausible. The earl's first wife died from what were supposedly natural causes but possibly weren't, a 20-year-old robbery has never been solved, and mystery surrounds a pair of toy bears, not to mention the odd ghost. Kat's even more shocked to discover that Iris has a secret identity and a closer connection to Honeychurch Hall than her daughter imagined. When she stumbles on a body in a hidden grotto, the only element missing from the well-stuffed plot is romance—a deficiency the local detective inspector just might remedy. Dennison (Thieves!, 2011, etc.) launches a new series with a potpourri of sentimentality and suspense. It all works since the dryly self-deprecating heroine keeps herself centered in spite of the zaniness around her.

Kirkus Reviews