Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall by Hannah Dennison

me! We can fight this! We can fight this if we all work together!”
    Slowly people sat down but the mood had turned ugly.
    â€œWe could suggest an alternative route,” Benedict went on. “As you know, I’m an environmentalist. Much of the woodland and hedgerows in the area are hundreds of years old. Has anyone heard of the South Cubbington Wood proposal?”
    No one had.
    â€œYou can find it on the Internet,” he said. “The South Cubbington Wood community formed an action group and drew up a plan to bore a tunnel under the wood.”
    â€œHow do we go about that?” said Roxy. “None of us are experts here—and nor are you!”
    â€œWe hire land surveyors and civil engineers—just like they did,” said Benedict. “And then we submit the proposal.”
    â€œWhat about the Civil War angle?” Eric said. “There was a decisive battle fought on Honeychurch land.”
    â€œLots of areas in the West Country can claim that honor. No.” Benedict shook his head. “We need to be clever. I feel we can definitely submit a solid plan—if not for a tunnel, for rerouting the line.”
    â€œWhy can’t the track just go around Little Dipperton?” Roxy demanded. There was a chorus of agreement.
    â€œI’m afraid modern technology demands a straight track,” Benedict said. “It was true, in Victorian times, tracks could circumvent archaeological sites, ancient monuments, and homes, but not now.”
    â€œI presume you aren’t offering your services out of the kindness of your heart,” said Roxy. “You don’t even live around here.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I was born on the Devon-Cornwall border,” said Benedict. “So yes, I feel I qualify as a local.”
    â€œAnd how do we go about paying for all this?” Roxy said.
    â€œMy fees are very low,” said Benedict.
    â€œWe’ll have fund-raisers,” Eric declared. “And for those of you who know how to use a computer—” There was a burst of laughter that clearly indicated that not many people could. “We’ve already set up an online donation fund with Stop-the-Bullet as a domain name.”
    â€œAnd of course, Kat here has very kindly agreed to be the face of our campaign,” said Benedict, gesturing for me to step up to join him.
    This comment was met with more applause and whoops of delight.
    â€œKat—over to you,” beamed Benedict. “Thoughts?”
    I scrambled for something to say. “How about holding an auction?” I said. “Take a look in your home and see what you can part with. I’ll offer a free valuation. It’ll be a glorified car boot sale—”
    â€œJoyce and Patty know all about car boot sales,” someone yelled out. “They live in one.”
    There was a ripple of unkind laughter.
    â€œWe can host an auction here at the village hall,” I went on. “And support it with homemade cakes—”
    â€œWe’ll contribute the cakes,” chorused the sisters from the tearoom.
    â€œCan you get television coverage?” said Ginny the reporter. “You’ve got all the right connections.”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do.” This was the last thing I wanted but it seemed I was now involved whether I liked it or not.
    â€œLet’s get the Dartington Morris Men in,” called out Tom Jones.
    â€œHow about a Heritage Hike?” Roxy suggested. “You know, a sponsored walk around all the places that are going to be destroyed. We could get that televised, too.”
    It looked like my plan to go back to London was about to be postponed again.
    â€œWe could sell T-shirts with STOP-THE-BULLET: SAVE MINUTES, LOSE CENTURIES on them,” Ginny enthused.
    â€œHow do we pay for this?” Roxy said again.
    â€œI’ve already told you, Roxy,” said Eric. “We’ve established a fighting