Kavanagh Calamity at Kryme Cottage

A Belinda Lawrence Mystery
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-922409-68-3
Verlag: Vivid Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 164 Seiten

A mysterious woman in black, appears at night. Arriving in horse and carriage. Stays at Kyrme Cottage, then at night - disappears. She always wears black lace. Abbey Combe's new Vicar vanishes overnight. A corpse found buried in the garden. Murder in Richmond Park. And the link with Jane Austen! These mysteries confront amateur sleuths, Belinda Lawrence and Hazel Whitby in the Somerset village of Milford. Among the eccentrics is the shadowy Madam Malefic. 'She's nuttier than any fruit cake Escoffier ever baked.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Kavanagh, Brian

Leseproben

Chapter Two It was apparent to Belinda the building’s age was much like her own cottage, which had its origins in the 13th century; indeed, Kryme was probably much older. The walls and floor were solid stone, and as she progressed inwards through the gloom, she saw the building was essentially one large chamber. The light from the open door revealed a small room on either side, which appeared to be wooden divisions constructed later. Dead leaves collected on the uneven stone floor while here and there, dull cobwebs hung like morbid ornamentations. Turning left, she entered what would appear to have been a living room. A large smoke-stained fireplace dominated the space. A broken chair and worn sofa were the only remnants of the previous habitation. The other room was empty, and Belinda made her way further into the cottage. The main structure was a large space and much more extensive than she’d imagined, longer and stretching back into the surrounding trees. Little light seeping into the area came from a few narrow upright windows set well back in the thick stone walls. Here and there, small hollows in the walls were presumably designed to contain candles. A slight scuffling sound and Belinda was face to face with a tiny mouse scampering onto a windowsill. It paused to view this intruder, shiny black eyes assessing the situation, before pleasingly dropping from sight. Moving on, the remainder of the expanse was bare; the warped undulating stone floor showed signs of disturbance, and once or twice, Belinda caught her foot on a raised fragment and stumbled. Cautiously she continued until she reached the rear wall, which was shaped in a half-circle. Nearby was a small compact staircase, and again, this appeared to be a later addition. The wooden steps showed signs of repair over time and creaked ominously as she ascended, to reach two small empty rooms sitting on the roof of the building, each with a pocket-sized window and a sloping skylight also from a later period. In one, a wooden miniature cupboard had been built into the corner. Belinda tried to open the door, but it was firmly locked. The latch was a strange design of a devil’s face, hooked nose, squinting eyes, and a gaping mouth waiting to devour the key. The reverberation of the front door slamming made Belinda jump in fright, and she held her breath as heavy footsteps made their way through the cottage. Thinking it best to reveal her presence, she began to descend the stairs. “Hello, I’m sorry to intrude,” she called, “I was passing and liked the cottage so much, I just had to…” She stopped at the foot of the stairs. There was no reply. Silence. The cottage was empty. A shadow of panic overcame her, and she hurried along the rough stone floor to the entrance. Grasping the door handle, it would not turn. She fought to free it from the lock. The rattle of the door mocked her. Far back behind, she heard the footsteps returning. Desperate now, she increased pressure on the handle. It seemed to be physically challenging her. The footsteps were louder. Belinda glanced over her shoulder. The dark space appeared to be empty. With one final effort, she wrenched the handle, and it miraculously freed itself from the lock, allowing the door to swing easily on its hinges, revealing sanctuary and freedom. Belinda rushed to the path, stumbling over the mosaic of vines and creepers. She paused, took a deep breath, and turned to look at the cottage. The open door, mocking her, began to close slowly, and a soft click once again sealed the cottage from the outside world. *** The Reverend Charles Mead was a tall solid man with handsome, rugged features; a sportsman’s frame filled his black clerical shirt, quite unlike any of the previous Vicars at St Mathew’s. His hair was cut short and close to his head, while brown eyes looked judgmentally from behind fashionable tortoiseshell frames. The hair was dark, but here and there, little slivers of silver flashed. Belinda estimated he was about forty. “I thought we should meet as we have something that connects us,” he said, as he poured the Australian wine into two glasses. With a smile, he handed one to Belinda, who accepted it while giving him a questioning look. “Really? In what way are we connected?” Reverend Mead raised his glass as though in a toast. “Murder.” He took an appreciative sip of wine, considered it for a time, and nodded. “Hmmm…deep black fruit. Intense high grade oak. A joy… extraordinary.” Belinda choked back a laugh. “Reverend, you mean it doesn’t taste of chocolate, vanilla, the scent of roses grown on the shores of the Mediterranean, or your grandmother’s treacle tart?” The Reverend lowered his glass, having taken another draught of the excellent wine. “I think, seeing we are near neighbours and you are cynical about my judgement of wine, a cynicism I intend to overcome, calling me reverend will become tiresome. Call me, Charles.” Belinda smiled. “Of course…Charles. And you must call me Belinda.” “I’m led to believe it was you who found your murdered aunt in her cottage,” said Charles as he took a seat nearby, “and those stalwarts of scandalmongering, Misses Atkins and Meldrew, assure me it was you who also discovered the reverend Lawson when he was mutilated and murdered here in this very room?” Belinda placed her wine glass on a side table. “Put that way, you make it sound as though I make a habit of it.” “But don’t you? Apart from those two murders, I hear you’re also an amateur sleuth, which would, I assume, place you close to crime and the occasional homicide.” Belinda gave him an appraising glance. “You seem rather preoccupied with murder.” “Sin.” Charles gave a wide smile. “I’m preoccupied with sin, and since murder was the first sin committed –” “I thought disobedience was an earlier sin. The apple and all that,” said Belinda as she reached for her glass and took a sip. Charles looked thoughtful. “Hmmm…academic. But being slaughtered with the jawbone of an ass by your brother, I think, takes precedence. Venial versus mortal.” “Did he really use a jawbone?” Charles shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But murdered, Abel was, and that is a sin.” Belinda began to feel they were drifting into ecclesiastical waters. She ran her eye over his solid frame, and Mona’s words came back to her, ‘the dozy sort who sings off-key at Evensong, and wears odd socks.’ She shifted in her seat and glanced down at his ankles; his matching socks were scarlet. Charles caught her glance and self-consciously moved his feet to allow the hem of his trousers to fall like a veil, removing the scarlet surprise from sight. It was almost a demure action, as though the colourful leggings hinted at some frivolity best kept hidden from the world. He challenged Belinda’s look when she lifted her eyes. “Charles, forgive me for asking, but I’m a little confused. I’d been led to believe that you – or the new vicar – was, how should I put it, well a much older man.” Charles gave a mild snort of amusement. “Now who’s been telling you that?” “My housekeeper, Mona. It seems that some gossip had –” “Stop.” Charles raised his hand. “It can only have been Misses Atkins and Muriel Meldrew, my diligent and gossip mongering helpers. But they would have been talking about the reverend Lamb.” “Lamb?” “Hmmm…more or less set for retirement when this gig came up. Caught the London train from Durham and was never seen again.” “What? But Misses Whatevertheirnames suggested to Mona, the Vicar was dull and probably wore odd socks, which I imagine would indicate that they thought it typical. So, never arrived here? How would they know what the Vicar was like?” “That description would just about fit any Vicar.” Belinda was thoughtful. “Maybe jumped off the train? Was a body ever found?” Charles shook his head. “No. No one remembers.” “Maybe never got on the train?” “A suitcase was found when the train got to Kings Cross. There were one or two supposed sightings. One in Chelsea and one in Wells, but they came to nothing. Was listed as a missing person, and I was appointed vicar here.” Belinda linked her fingers together. “Wells is not far from Bath, might have been confused, and got lost somewhere in Somerset?” “Well, the reverend is still lost. The police have put it in the too hard basket. Plenty of old men and women go off and are never seen again.” Belinda felt Charles was being a little unChristian. She looked at him as he reclined in his comfortable chair. “Well, I suppose it was an ill wind that did blow some good. You got the gig, as you say. You’ve made little change to the vicarage from the reverend Lawson’s day. Have you got to know the parishioners at all?” Charles put his empty glass down, relaxed, stretched out his legs, and placed his hands behind his head. “I’m making inroads. There has been some resistance to a newcomer, but I think I’m winning them over. ‘Even had a visit from another newcomer...