A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall by Hannah Dennison Page B

eyes. “Look, dear, I don’t want to state the obvious, but we camped here in the park every summer. There were dozens of us. We were never invited to the Hall and we certainly didn’t socialize with any of the toffs—and besides, I only found out about the priest-hole thingy this morning. I was just as shocked as everyone.”
    Although my mother was a notorious fibber, I honestly didn’t think she’d known about the double-hide. Even so, I knew she was holding something back. I could tell by the way she sat back in her chair with her arms folded.
    â€œMy grandfather told me that only three people ever knew the locations of the priest holes,” said Shawn thoughtfully. “The person who built it, the master of the house and the estate steward. The secret was passed down from father to son.”
    â€œThat’s what Rupert told us,” I said.
    â€œYeah, well … someone else knew where it was.” Roxy looked directly at my mother. “Someone who was, perhaps, jealous of Pandora Haslam-Grimley and everything she stood for. Someone who watched on the outside, wishing for a different life. Someone like you, Iris.”
    â€œRoxy!” Shawn warned.
    â€œOr maybe you’re covering up for someone else?” said Roxy. “Someone in your troupe—or tribe or whatever you call it?”
    Mum’s jaw tightened. “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, the only part of Honeychurch we were allowed into was the servants’ wing.”
    And that was a definite lie. Mum had made a comment just mere hours earlier when we had first entered the Great Hall. She’d pointed up to the minstrel’s gallery and told Rupert how she and her brothers used to watch the summer balls and spy on the guests.
    â€œWe’re only asking if you remember anything about that particular ball, that’s all,” said Shawn. “It was a costume ball.”
    â€œThey were all costume balls,” said Mum. “From what I can remember. I was only fifteen.”
    â€œThat would explain the unusual dress that Pandora was wearing,” Shawn said to Roxy. “You see, Iris—you are helping us with our inquiries, after all.”
    Roxy continued to stare at my mother. “And let’s not forget the heart-shaped necklace with the fake diamond.”
    â€œI don’t know why you keep staring at me,” said Mum.
    Shawn and Roxy exchanged meaningful glances. He gave her a nod and she retrieved Lady Chatterley’s Lover from the plastic shopping bag.
    â€œDo you recognize this book, Iris?” said Roxy.
    â€œI saw it earlier. Yes. I recognize this book.”
    â€œSo today was the first time that you’d seen this book?”
    â€œCross my heart and hope to die.”
    Roxy put the book on the table and opened it. The end board was completely covered with the shelf-liner paper—right up to the inner hinge where it had been slit open. Roxy withdrew a small penknife from her pocket.
    â€œCareful!” I exclaimed. “That book is a first edition and very valuable.”
    With painstaking precision, Roxy gently removed the paper. There was no dust jacket underneath. She showed Mum and me her handiwork. “Recognize this?”
    There, written in ink on the end board itself were the damning words, This book belongs to Iris Bushman.
    â€œMum?” I gasped.
    â€œThat’s not my handwriting,” Mum exclaimed. “I’ve been framed.”
    â€œIf I had a pound for every time I heard that,” Roxy said, “I’d be able to live at Honeychurch Hall myself!”
    â€œAnyway, you can’t prove anything,” said Mum.
    â€œHow do you explain the Bushman flyer being inside the book?”
    â€œWhen you’re being framed, it’s hard to explain anything. That’s what being framed means.”
    â€œThere’s no way my mother could have bought this book. As you know it was printed in