Free A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall by Hannah Dennison

Jones—who served below stairs.
    â€œI’ve only gone as far back as the 1800s,” said Mum. “It’s very time consuming.”
    â€œYou could save yourself a lot of trouble by using the Internet,” I pointed out.
    Mum ignored me. “Do you see how each family kept within its own station within the servant hierarchy?”
    I studied the diagram again. “So from top to bottom in order of importance would be Laney, Cropper, Stark, Banks, Jones and then Pugsley?”
    Mum nodded.
    â€œPoor Eric Pugsley is at the bottom of the heap so when he married Vera, it was above his station,” I said. “Vera was Joan Stark’s daughter. Joan must have been around in the fifties, Mum.”
    â€œShe was, but we may as well forget about her,” said Mum. “She’s got Alzheimer’s, remember?”
    I did remember. Joan Stark was living in a residential care home called Sunny Hill Lodge. “What about this thread—Land Steward. You’ve just written in Laney.”
    â€œHe’s her ladyship’s land agent now,” said Mum. “That’s who I dealt with when I bought the Carriage House.”
    â€œWhat about his forebears? It’s just blank.”
    â€œI can’t trace everyone, Katherine,” Mum grumbled. “And really that job is obsolete. I mean, believe it or not there is no chamberlain or boot boy here at the Hall anymore, either.”
    â€œLaney—wait—you won’t believe this.” I told Mum about my visitor. “Bryan Laney told me he used to live around here. What’s more, he’s in his seventies. I bet he was in Little Dipperton in the fifties.”
    â€œPossibly,” said Mum slowly.
    â€œYou should put his name on the board.”
    â€œI suppose I could.” Mum hesitated.
    â€œHe has to be connected to the Hall. We should tell Shawn. Don’t you think it’s odd that he should suddenly turn up out of the blue?”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œBy the way Bryan is spelled with a y .”
    â€œYou’re so bossy.” Mum duly wrote Bryan Laney on a Post-it and stuck it on the board. “And you say he’s going to do a bit of D-I-Y for you?”
    â€œDo a spot of tiling, hang a few mirrors and redo the shelves in the pantry—that kind of thing.”
    Mum’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish Daddy were alive. He would have loved to have hung your mirrors.”
    I reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I know, Mum.”
    â€œOh, this is hopeless!” Mum threw her pencil across the room. “Let the police do their job is what I say. I’ve got a book to write and you’ve got a business to run!”
    I reached for another handful of peanuts and shoveled them in.
    Mum regarded me with what looked like pity and gave a heavy sigh.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    â€œDo be careful, darling,” she said.
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œYou don’t want to let yourself go.”
    â€œThey’re just peanuts.”
    â€œYou’ve put on a little bit of weight and you know what they say?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œA minute in your mouth and a month on your hips.”
    â€œI’m enjoying eating what I like if you don’t mind,” I said. “I’ve had to starve myself for years to compensate for those ten pounds everyone gains on camera.”
    â€œAnd you’ve stopped wearing makeup.”
    It was true. I had gotten lazy. “It’s because I’m with the horses a lot and I don’t think they care.”
    â€œAre you in mourning?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œDavid.”
    â€œI’m over him, Mum.” It had been months since David and I had officially broken up. I’d come to realize that I wasn’t so much missing the man as missing the dream of what our future together would have been.
    â€œGood,” said Mum. “Well, I suppose you’ll find out sooner or