The Honeyplot

By David Bramhall

When lonely Roland Bagwich travels to the remote Abbey at St.Erwald's to sing in the choir, he anticipates a life of cultured, friendly routine doing what he does best. Little does he know that within days he will make himself thoroughly unpopular, and be accused of murdering his friend. But he finds hidden resources of bravery and persistence which enable him to solve the murder, thwart a deadly robbery, and find love in an unexpected place.

There is a mysterious child who, it turns out, does not exist. There is something hidden under the floor of the church that no one will talk about. There is an illegal alien who doesn't want to be helped. There is a dreadful secret about bees and honey that even bee-keepers don't know. There is wickedness and betrayal in the last place one would expect to find them.

Author of the "Greatest Cape" series of novels as well as several successful books about music, David Bramhall now turns his attention to the church with his usual eye for the weird, the sinister and the downright peculiar. In the words of one reviewer, this is "A great read. The plot is unusual and gripping and it kept me guessing right to the end. The author's masterful powers of description made me feel I actually know the characters & places intimately". A book that will be enjoyed by older children and adults alike.

David Bramhall lives in a small town in East Anglia with his wife, also a musician, where he writes music as well as books, and plays with historic steam locomotives in his spare time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bramhall
• Release date: Dec 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370744220

David Bramhall

Composer and author, now a novelist of sorts, and always a grumpy old person with too many opinions. That's what my wife says, anyway.

Book preview

THE HONEYPLOT

by

David Bramhall

Walnut Tree Books

First edition 2017

Second edition 2022

The Honeyplot

Copyright © 2017 David Bramhall

First published 2017 by Walnut Tree Books

The moral right of David Bramhall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

To my old Dad, Godfrey Bramhall, who instilled in me a love of church music, but never confused the music with the message. The message is just what people think: the music is what they actually do.

My thanks to John and Antoinette Watts, beekeepers and champion mead-makers, who introduced me to their charming bees, and to Adrian Knott who made sure I didn’t write anything stupid.

I

St.Erwald's

I woke with a start as a colossal bang hit the window against which my head rested, followed by a rushing roar as another train passed on the other line. Jerking upright I was conscious of a rapid succession of lighted windows, and a pale face staring out, quickly lost to sight as the express disappeared. It was replaced by empty fields and telegraph wires that dipped and rose rhythmically. I wondered if the other face had been as startled as I was, and if it would remember my own astonished gaze. I gathered my wits around me and sat up. I was alone in the compartment and the corridor outside was deserted. I scolded myself: come on, Roland, silly to fall asleep and waste one single moment of this adventure.

Weak sunshine cast a shadow of the train and its trail of smoke on the fields as we rolled and clattered westward. It had been foggy as I carried my single suitcase out of the house early that morning. I had trailed my gloved hand along the privet hedges, feeling my way down Blenheim Road and up Solway Avenue towards the railway station, for the fog was so thick I could barely see across the pavement to the roadway. On either side the narrow houses had been dark and silent but above my head the air had been lighter, for the blanket of fog was hardly twenty feet thick. Up above, the sun was probably shining, but down here the choking mist swirled and wrapped itself round everything solid. When I held my hand in front of my face it was faint, at arm's length nearly invisible. My throat burned and my eyes itched. Once or twice other figures loomed out of the fog and passed, their footsteps muffled, too intent on finding their way to acknowledge me.

Reaching the top of Solway Avenue I had taken my life into my hands and plunged blindly into the murk, hoping there were no cars or lorries lurking within. I had reached the other side just in time, for a sudden lightening of the darkness revealed a bus conductor holding a flaming torch aloft and walking down the white line in the middle of the road. He had wrapped rags round a stick, soaked them in petrol and set light to them. His firebrand lit the fog so that he moved in a red, glowing haze of glory like an avenging angel with his cap on the back of his head, a fag between his teeth and his ticket machine clicking as it swung against his tunic buttons. Behind him his bus growled along, its engine shaking spasmodically in protest at this slow progress. Very close behind it was another, and then another, proceeding at walking pace. I wondered what would happen when the funereal convoy met another one coming the other way, also in the middle of the road.

At the station things were more normal, the gaslights keeping the gloom off just a little. Few travellers had waited on the platform at that early hour, wrapped in coats and caps and scarves, silent in resentment at having to quit their warm beds. I waited near the end of the platform and lit a black Sobranie cigarette. Smoking was a new accomplishment and I wasn't certain that I liked it at all, but it made me feel grown-up and independent, a man of the world stepping confidently into a new life.

From the fug and racket of the Underground I had emerged at Paddington into a tumult of hurrying figures and panting engines. Most of the men and girls flooding down the escalators were on their way to work, and I felt privileged to be travelling the other way, out of London, away from the drudgery of school and office, heading towards a new life, new friends, a new and cultured existence. My few comrades in the sixth form had begun to fade even before the term ended, talking comfortably of apprenticeships and junior positions in the city at five pounds a week, or of university. My father had quickly ruled out my wish to become an undergraduate at some redbrick college, Reading or Nottingham perhaps, for I knew instinctively that the heights of Oxford or Cambridge were beyond my attainment. I had as quickly ruled out the idea of entering an office. What did I know or care about commerce, or money, or figures and columns and totals and interest rates? My only skill was in music, and even that skill was narrow, for I had no great ability on the piano or the organ, and my voice was weak and undistinguished when I sang, a kind of genteel hoot that no one would choose to hear. My only real accomplishment was sight-singing - I could read any piece of music and sing it right first time, something I took for granted. I had been in the church choir a long time before I had realised that this was not something everybody could do, though I had noticed even as a young treble that the choirmaster made a point of putting newcomers next to me, for I was incapable of singing a wrong note. It was the only thing that made me the least bit special, and I cherished it.

I rose and stepped out into the rocking corridor to smoke another black Sobranie, not wishing to leave a fug of cigarette smoke in the compartment. I held the glowing cigarette near the open window and looked at my watch; still half an hour to St.Portius where I would change onto the branch line. The noise of the train increased and it began to slow, brakes squealing, and before long we had come to a standstill beside some sidings where a solitary locomotive steamed quietly at the head of some trucks. Its driver leaned in the cab doorway, smoking. I stared at him, imagining a grave nod, an unspoken acknowledgement that would say 'here we are, you and I, two men of the world, looking out at that world from our allotted places, smoking together in a brief companionship, but the man turned back to address someone unseen and did not notice me.

After two hours of constant roar and racket the stationary train was suddenly very quiet. A bird sang in a hedge, far-off an engine whistled, and hushed voices could be heard along the corridor. Someone laughed, a coarse Haw, haw, haw! like a donkey braying, and a second person replied It's all very well you laughing, but how do we get the damn thing out? I wondered what it was that needed to be got out, and what it was stuck in, but the voices went quiet again. I threw the rest of my cigarette out of the window and wandered casually along the corridor towards the conversation, intrigued. The loud voice laughed again, and one of the others said something that sounded like Benbecula? You're joking! Someone shushed him, and their voices fell so all I could hear were fragments, ... what's the point of that? ... you know, sometimes it's there, sometimes it's not ... oh, I get it. Like, camouflage? ... but before I could make any sense of it there was a jolt and the train started again. I went back to my compartment to gather my things together in readiness. I knew there was an island called Benbecula. I thought it was in Scotland, I had read about it, but the men could not be going there; this train was travelling in entirely the wrong direction.

In my compartment I found that a late bee had got in, and was droning ineffectually at the window, butting its head. I opened the little scuttle at the top which you pulled sideways and which usually got stuck, and used my newspaper to gently encourage the creature up the window until the speed of our passage whipped it away. 'Bye bye, little bee,' I thought, 'will you be able to find your way home? Bees aren't suited to train travel. Your hive's probably twenty or thirty miles away by now, can bees remember that far? Or will you have to find another hive and beg them for shelter, and will they be your friends or will they drive you away as an impostor? That's what I am, really, isn't it, an impostor? Here I am, coming to sing for my supper, and I'm really not that good at it. I can sight-read, that's all. As a singer I'm not up to much. Perhaps they'll drive me away.'

I thought of Richard Muffet, the young music teacher at school who owned a sports car and was more interested in giving lifts to pretty little boys in the Second Year than in teaching a gangling sixth-former who thought he'd like to sing. The only person who had paid much attention was the choirmaster at church who had been encouraging, but even he had not been much help when I asked. It had been the Vicar, the Reverend Herring-Smith who, when asked by my stepmother, had remembered an old acquaintance at St.Erwald's Abbey and had arranged a place as a lay-clerk to sing in the Abbey choir and 'perform other such duties as the Master of the Choristers shall direct'. I had no idea what those other such duties would be, but thought they probably wouldn't involve riding round the town in a sports car - I wasn't young or pretty enough.

Alighting from the train at St.Portius, I found myself alone on the platform except for three men who walked briskly past. I thought they might have been the men who were going to

Benbecula, but as they passed one of them was muttering something about Bloody old Stanford in C again? Are you joking? I perked up, and picked up my suitcase to follow them. Stanford in C was something I knew about, for I had sung it at church many times. Were these some of the other lay-clerks, going to St.Erwald's?

The men went down some stairs, and I followed. I found an underpass that led under the platforms with other staircases at intervals. The brick walls were distempered, patched with black mould, and smelled like a lavatory. An elderly porter came the other way and told me which stairs to use for the branch line to St.Erwald's. By the time I reached the platform the men had disappeared, but there stood a wheezing old engine attached to three shabby carriages. I climbed in and wondered whether to smoke another cigarette, but decided that the last one hadn't been very enjoyable so sucked a peppermint instead.

I waited a long time, during which more travellers arrived, country people with shapeless clothes and shopping baskets and red faces who all seemed to know each other but didn't appear to take much joy in the fact. From the train window I could see the town - or was it a city, I wasn't sure? - rising above the station, with the old cathedral at the top of the hill. I wondered if there were a choir there, and if I might be able to find a place in it once I had made a success at the Abbey. I wasn't clear whether one could make a living just by singing in a choir. It didn't seem very likely - perhaps one had to find other jobs as well, to eke the money out. I would be paid four pounds and fifteen shillings a week at the Abbey, I had been told, but out of this I would have to find my rent and some of my own food. Accommodation was provided - I had an address on a piece of paper in my pocket - and lunches in the Abbey Refectory, whatever that was, but plainly I was not going to be exactly wealthy. My father had impressed on me the need to be frugal, and undertook to send a regular postal order. But mark you, young man, he had insisted, you have chosen this path against my advice, and you had better make up your mind to manage your own affairs. Had you done what I wished and gone into an office like I did, you could have lived at home and all found, but no, you would go off and suit yourself, so you can damn well fend for yourself in future and that's all there is to it! My stepmother had said nothing, just sniffed. I thought she was probably glad to see the back of me, and that was probably why she had bullied the Vicar into making arrangements for me. She was an austere woman who put herself about in the church and liked to have her own way. Most people were scared of her.

Presently someone blew a whistle, the engine gave a toot and began to heave itself asthmatically out of the platform. In the goods yard stood one of the new diesel engines that people made such a fuss about. This was 1956 after all, the dawn of a new age, and the railways were modernising. It was painted dark green, and throbbed as we passed, giving the impression of great power barely restrained. One day all engines would be like this, I thought, and the housewives would be pleased not to have black cinders all over their washing lines. The main lines curved gleaming away into the distance, and the trees grew close over the branch line as it began to climb. Bleak moorland could be seen in the distance, but near the line were farms and little villages with stone houses, and sheep. The train stopped at every station, and at each one a handful of passengers got off but no one got on. Plainly St.Portius was a place you visited and came back from, but St.Erwald's, my destination, was not somewhere you'd choose to go in the first place.

By the time we reached St.Erwald's it was dark and beginning to rain, a cold kind of rain that was practically sleet and shone in the light of the station gas lamps and drove in under the station canopy. The three men hurried away. Encumbered by my suitcase, I was too far behind to see where they went. The station was deserted, the little booking-office window shuttered for this was the end of the day, and outside on the street nothing moved except the rain. Guessing that the centre of the town lay in the direction where the buildings were taller and there seemed to be a few shop windows, I lugged my case and wondered if I couldn't feel water seeping into one of my shoes.

Presently I reached a sort of town square. It was more triangular really, with a road coming in at each corner, and I didn't know which way to turn. I fished my paper out of an inner pocket, and squinted at it by the light of a street lamp. 'Mr.W.Scribe, 23 Prebend Street,' I read. Where was Prebend Street, then? I looked around but saw no street names on the walls. The sleet had decided that it really did mean it after all, and was turning to snow, a thin flurry that skidded across the cobbles and melted immediately. I thought it would not be long before it began to settle in earnest. The shop windows were all dark, but one cosy red light shone across the square. It was a public house; its curtains were drawn but it was evidently open. I had been in a public house before, though not often. I gathered up my courage and entered. Inside, it was warm, almost too warm, for the insides of the windows were running with condensation. The hum of conversation stopped abruptly as all eyes turned towards me. From an adjoining room I thought I heard a familiar Haw, haw, haw! I carried my case to the bar and asked the barman for Prebend Street.

You're standing in it, the man grunted, this is Prebend Street, an' always has been.

I'm looking for number twenty-three, Mr.Scribe?

Down that way. Got fiddles in the window, or some such rubbish. Now, you goin' to buy a drink or not?

Oh! Er, no ... er .. thank you, I'll just ... er ... I stammered, picked up my case and fled.

Number 23 was the last shop in the road. Beyond it were only houses, small and leaning against each other for warmth, and the road got narrower and narrower, looking as though it would eventually peter out into an alley of hovels where the poorest people would live. No one of any quality would pass down Prebend Street, I thought, and wondered how many customers this narrow shop would ever see. Curving across its window were the words 'Walter Scribe, luthier' in faded gold leaf, and beneath them in smaller letters 'String instruments repaired, bought and sold'. Behind the letters were three or four violins, lying in open cases tilted up. They looked dusty and faded as though they had been there a long time. I tried the door, which was locked. There was no bell that I could see, so I rapped with my knuckles on the glass and waited, shivering in my thin coat. I did not dare to put my suitcase down on the wet pavement, for although it looked like leather I felt pretty sure it was only made of cardboard really. The snow was getting a bit more serious now, the road white nearly all the way across.

Presently there was movement, but no light, behind the door, and with a rattle and the chiming of a bell it swung open. A girl stood there, blank-faced and pale in a shapeless black dress. Her skin was lightly freckled and a mop of unruly auburn hair curled over her forehead, almost hiding her eyes which were rather too close together for prettiness.

Yes? she said.

Er ... I'm ... er ... Mr.Bagwich, I said. It's pronounced 'baggage' though, I added helpfully.

Yes. And?

I've been told to come here. I think there's a room for me?

The girl paused. I had the impression that she had rolled her eyes, though in fact her gaze never faltered. Oh, right, you're that one. You'd best come in, then. I'll show you up.

Inside was a short shop counter, with shelves behind it. At one end lay wood-working tools, and a half-carved block of wood that might have hoped to become a violin one day. Everything

seemed very dusty, and there were wood-shavings on the floor. The girl closed the door, slipped past me and led the way up the stairs. As she brushed by, I smelled soap and cooking. She was almost as tall as I was, but younger, I thought.

Your room's on the second floor, she said, padding along a landing to another flight of stairs.

The family are all on this floor, though. The dining room's at the front, and the kitchen's at the back. I could guess why I would need to know about the dining-room, but not the kitchen. At the top of the second flight of stairs a low corridor led off to the left. She almost had to duck as she went down it, though not quite. She reached a door and pushed it open.

This is yours, she announced, going in. If you want anything, mine's opposite. Bathroom's down the end. There's a towel on the bed. You're to eat with the family tonight, in half an hour.

Thank you. Er ... what does Mr.Scribe do?

I should have thought that was obvious, since it says 'luthier' on the window.

Oh. Yes, of course. He makes violins.

Occasionally.

That sounds very skilful. Are they good ones?

She shrugged. How would I know?

And the family? Who are they?

Mrs.Scribe, and the boy Friedrich and the girl Adelheide.

They sound like German names.

They are. Mr.Scribe is really Waldo Schreiber, but he changed it when they came here before the war. Now, she became businesslike, I don't have time to stand here chatting to you. Dinner's in half an hour. You'll have to make your own way down, I'll be busy.

I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a sixpence. I wasn't sure whether this was an appropriate amount, and did not know the etiquette of tipping, but I gave it to her anyway. She looked at it, then at me for a moment, then slapped it down on top of the chest of drawers, turned on her heels with a sniff and went out, slamming the door behind her. I stared after her for a moment, then picked up the coin and returned it to my pocket. Plainly I had done the wrong thing. Plainly one didn't tip servants in this house.

If I had thought about life in St.Erwald's at all, I had imagined friendly gatherings round the fire in student digs, laughter and camaraderie, toast and tea by the fireside, cheerful arguments about music and narrow theological distinctions. This room was bare and functional, though it seemed clean. A narrow bed looked hard, and not over-supplied with bedding. A tiny dormer window looked onto ... well, I couldn't tell what it looked onto, as it was dark. I thought it faced away from the street, but the stairs had twisted and turned so I couldn't be sure. Perhaps in the morning I would be able to see the Abbey from it. The floor was bare planks, and apart from the chest of drawers there was no other furniture. I wondered if I was expected to do any studying here. If so, I would have to ask the girl for a table and chair. I hissed between my teeth, thinking I was a fool not to have asked her name.

The dining-room, when I found it, was on an altogether more opulent scale. So were the three people already seated at the table. Two were young, though both older than I was. What the servant-girl had described as a boy was in fact a young man, plump and blond with a self-satisfied air. The girl was equally plump and blonde but looked sulky. Both evidently favoured their mother, for the older woman was, not to put too fine a point on it, fat. Though her cheeks were rosy and she was richly dressed in flounces and layers and pelmets, she looked very much like a pig who has come up in the world.

She seemed human enough when I entered, however. Zo, you must be Mr.Bagwich, is that right?

Er, yes. Roland Bagwich. It's pronounced 'baggage' though.

Zo. Here is my son Friedrich ...

Freddy, the youth muttered.

.... and my beautiful daughter Adelheide ...

Mother, it's Audrey, why can't you remember? the girl said morosely, we're English now!

What car do you drive? asked Freddy abruptly.

Er, I'm afraid I don't ... I began, but was saved by the appearance of the master of the house. He was rather in contrast to his wife and children however, a scrawny man of no great stature. He entered briskly, and took his seat at the head of the table, gesturing to me to sit in the one vacant chair.

Mrs.Scribe called softly, Ariela? We're ready! and the girl appeared carrying a tureen of soup. Mrs.Scribe served, the girl reappeared with a plate of bread, and the meal began in silence. The soup was potato, and perfectly well made, but Freddy turned his nose up at it and the girl Audrey snorted, pushing her plate away. There was no conversation.

When Mr.Scribe had finished his soup he clapped his hands for the girl to clear away and bring the next course. When it was served, liver and dumplings, he fixed me with a glare and said So, Roland Bagwich, you are to be our guest for the time being. I had better explain one or two things. First, we have invited you to share our table ...

I'm most grateful, I said quickly. It's a great honour ...

... but in future you will feel more comfortable eating in the kitchen with the girl. We are to provide breakfast and an evening meal, but no lunch. I believe that is provided at the Abbey, though ... he sniffed ... when I was your age, two meals a day was regarded as quite sufficient.

Not in my family, Waldo, said his wife. Lunch was always the main meal of the day at home, and coffee and cream cakes in between ...

You should call me Walter, my dear, said Mr.Scribe with a withering look. I have asked you repeatedly ...

Yes dear, of course. I always forget. Mr.Bagwich ... she leaned towards me, we should explain that we came from Germany before the recent war broke out. But we are English now. Our family name is Schreiber, and we have changed it to Scribe which means the same thing in English. Dear Friedrich and Adelheide have managed it all quite beautifully ...

Freddy, the boy muttered, and the girl flounced in her chair, It's Audrey, how many times?

... but I sometimes find if hard to remember, still.

I had been only four when the war had ended. My mother - my real mother, that is - had died the year before, and in my childish mind the war and her death had been inextricably linked. But as I grew through childhood, I had been aware of the deep bitterness people felt towards the enemy, the Germans. The fact that they had been defeated had not made them any better liked, and it was strange to find myself in the bosom - the very ample bosom, in some respects - of an actual German family. I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable.

As my wife has mentioned it ... said Mr.Scribe, scowling, I should explain ...

But I interrupted. Oh, I get it! You're Jewish! I blurted. And that's why you had to leave! No one could possibly ...

Scribe looked at me indignantly, his eyebrows raised as though this was the most ridiculous thing anyone could ever have suggested. Jewish? Of course we're not Jewish, why ever would you think that? I had to leave because of my political views, that's all.

And where Waldo goes, so must we all, sighed Mrs.Scribe. Walter, I mean.

Mind you, interrupted Audrey, we aren't Jewish, but she is! She nodded at the girl Ariela who was circling the table quietly, gathering plates. Little Jew-girl, she is!

Adelheide, scolded her mother, "manners! We must have regard for those less ... er, glüklich ... fortunate, that's it, those less fortunate than ourselves!"

My name's Audrey! the girl snapped, and returned to her sulk.

Ariela gave no sign that she had heard, though she must have done for Audrey's coarse voice had filled the room. The girl simply carried on clearing the table and took the pile of plates out to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a suet pudding in a white bowl. It turned out to be made with stewed apples, and was surprisingly good.

The meal ended, the family dispersed in short order. I found my way to the back of the house, where the girl Ariela was washing up. I looked round for a tea-towel. I could dry up if you like? I said tentatively, wishing to atone for my earlier gaffe with the sixpence.

No! she snapped, not looking up, they'll dry themselves overnight. You go to your room, Mister Bag Witch, she mispronounced it on purpose, "which is what I shall be doing as soon