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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Cherringham: Mystery Shorts
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
When Cherringham choir stalwart Arthur Chisholm is robbed in the dead of night, ending up in hospital, it seems he’s just the victim of bad luck. Bad timing too, since he will now miss the choir's special holiday performance of Handel's Messiah - to be performed with scores of other local choirs, in London's Royal Albert Hall. But as more of their fellow choir members are burgled, Jack and Sarah realise these crimes are no coincidence. With just days before the concert, can they unravel the mystery of who is responsible - and why - before the Messiah reaches its grand finale?
Set in the sleepy English village of Cherringham, the detective series brings together an unlikely sleuthing duo: English web designer Sarah and American ex-cop Jack. Thrilling and deadly - but with a spot of tea - it's like Rosamunde Pilcher meets Inspector Barnaby. Each of the self-contained episodes is a quick read for the morning commute, while waiting for the doctor, or when curling up with a hot cuppa.
Co-authors Neil Richards (based in the UK) and Matthew Costello (based in the US), have been writing together since the mid-90s, creating innovative content and working on major projects for the BBC, Disney Channel, Sony, ABC, Eidos, and Nintendo to name but a few. Their transatlantic collaboration has underpinned scores of TV drama scripts, computer games, radio shows, and the best-selling mystery series Cherringham. Their latest series project is called Mydworth Mysteries.
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Contents
Cover
Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series
About the Book
Main Characters
The Authors
Title
Copyright
1. Break-in
2. Rehearsals
3. A Niggling Doubt
4. Crime Wave
5. The Crime Scenes
6. A Common Thread?
7. Rousting Ray
8. A Ghost From The Past
9. Unexpected Visitors
10. Final Rehearsal
11. A Secret and a Plan
12. Off to London!
13. The Royal Albert Hall
14. Lost
15. And Found
Next Episode
Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series
“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. The series is published in English as well as in German; and is only available in e-book form.
About the Book
When Cherringham choir stalwart Arthur Chisholm is robbed in the dead of night, ending up in hospital, it seems he’s just the victim of bad luck. Bad timing too, since he will now miss the choir's special holiday performance of Handel's Messiah — to be performed with scores of other local choirs, in London's Royal Albert Hall. But as more of their fellow choir members are burgled, Jack and Sarah realise these crimes are no coincidence. With just days before the concert, can they unravel the mystery of who is responsible — and why — before the Messiah reaches its grand finale?
Main Characters
Jack Brennan is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a few years ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.
Sarah Edwards is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Before the series starts, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small-town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …
The Authors
Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of a number of successful novels, including Vacation (2011), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage and Pirates of the Caribbean.
Neil Richards has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He's also written script and story for over 20 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Starship Titanic, co-written with Douglas Adams, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.
His writing partnership with NYC-based Matt Costello goes back to the late 90's and the two have written many hours of TV together. Cherringham is their first crime fiction as co-writers.
Matthew CostelloNeil Richards
CHERRINGHAM
A COSY CRIME SERIES
A Score to Settle
Digital original edition
Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2022 by Neil Richards & Matthew Costello
Copyright for this editon © 2022 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by Eleanor Abraham
Project management: Kathrin Kummer
Cover illustration: © Petra Schneider|iStock/Getty Images Plus; victorass88|iStock/Getty Images Plus; Tatiana Ikoeva|iStock/Getty Images Plus; Irina Gordeeva|iStock/Getty Images Plus; Claudio Divizia|Shutterstock Images; Kriengsuk Prasroetsung|Shutterstock Images
Cover design: Guter Punkt, München
eBook production: Jilzov Digital Publishing, Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-7517-1543-0
www.bastei-entertainment.com
1. Break-in
Arthur Chisholm leaned back against his pillows, placed the last of his pupils’ practice exam papers on the pile on the bed and sighed deeply.
“Identify a feature that is characteristic of a Mozart serenade,” he said, staring at the ceiling, not really expecting his wife, Harriet, to answer. “Simple enough question, one would think, no?”
But though Harriet was engrossed in one of her mysteries — her head deep in her pillow, sleep not far away — she did at least acknowledge he had spoken.
“Hmm?” she said, not taking her eyes off her Kindle.
“I can tell you what it’s not,” he said, knowing he was really just talking to himself. “It’s not ‘a cheesy tune’ which is what Ryan Lomax has written here. A cheesy tune, Ryan Lummox? Do you really think that’s what the examiner is looking for?”
“What?” said Harriet, still not really engaging. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“Oh, don’t mind me, just torturing myself,” he said. “You know, I really should leave the most promising candidates until the end. The high-flyers. Not the footballers who pick the music option thinking how hard can it be? Then at least I’d go to sleep with some faith that this year’s cohort might actually get some A grades. Instead of which …”
He put the pile of marked papers on the bedside cabinet, his green pen (not red, never red, far too critical a colour these days, he had been informed) on top of them.
“Groan. I always finish with the bottom feeders. The no-hopers. And therefore — QED — I go to sleep feeling positively dreadful.”
He checked the alarm clock by the bed and sighed again. Quarter to twelve already and he’d need to be up at six to catch up with the rest of his marking and finish the end-of-term reports.
Just two weeks to go until Christmas — the rest of the world easing off the pedal while teachers everywhere burned the midnight oil keeping up.
Slates needing to be cleared before one could so much as think about the upcoming Christmas festivities!
“Arthur, it’s not good for your health, leaving all your marking until this time of night,” said Harriet, finally closing the lid of her Kindle and turning to him.
“I know! I don’t do it deliberately, do I? But there’s only so many hours in the day!”
“Your choice to sing the Messiah this year,” said Harriet, rattling her pill box and lining up the night’s usual doses. “That’s what is taking up all your time.”
Arthur stared at each pill as she swallowed. Anxiety. Acid reflux. Hormones. The little pink ones for her blood — not that he really knew what they did.
The things we do … just to keep on going.
Ah, to be young again, Arthur thought.
Then, when she’d finished her medicinal ritual:
“Once every ten years the Cherringham choir sings the full Messiah. And I have never missed a single one, have I? To partake in a performance of Handel’s great masterpiece? Would not miss it for the world! Not a one since we started back in 1990! Thirty years, you realise? And now, this year … even more spectacular! Just to think, we’re joining choirs across the country at the Royal Albert Hall! There is no way I’m going to miss that! Three thousand of us! Imagine that! Three thousand voices filling the great hall!”
“Yes. I’m sure it’ll be very … loud,” said Harriet.
Arthur looked at her. Loud? Loud?
Was it even worth trying to explain?
“I’ve still got you that spare ticket, you know,” he said. “I can’t keep it forever. There’s plenty of people in the village desperate to come and watch. Free ride in the luxurious coach, too.”
“I know,” said Harriet. “But they still haven’t confirmed my shifts at the shop. I’d love to hear it. But it is our busy time too, you know!”
“Right. The wheels of commerce and all that. Just a week to go, though. Less than a week, in fact. You need to decide!”
“I said I know. All right?”
Arthur knew from twenty years of marriage that now was the time to back off. He also knew Harriet had no interest in coming to London to see the performance — the busy “shoppe” a convenient excuse for her — but he had to go through the motions.
Of course, he did.
This little ritual dance of pleading each time the choir had a concert.
Just enough so he sounded sincere.
“Of course,” he said. “I understand. Maybe tomorrow they’ll tell you?”
“I can’t promise anything. Anyway, talking about tomorrow … You got another of these extra rehearsals right after school?”
“Oh yes. Seven until nine. Don’t worry about dinner, I’ll sort something when I’m home.”
“You getting a lift from school?”
“Um, yes, probably.”
He watched her lean across to her light and turn it off, leaving the room in semi-darkness.
“Well, if we don’t cross paths in the morning, try not to wake me when you get back,” she said, pulling up the covers and turning away from him. “Could do with a good night’s sleep for a change.”
He stared at her back for a few seconds, then got up, put on his slippers, picked up the pile of exams, and headed downstairs to his study to put them safely in his work briefcase.
By the time he had returned to the bedroom, Harriet was already snoring.
Arthur climbed into bed, found his foam earplugs, inserted them, then turned out the light and went to sleep.
*
He was dreaming he was conducting the New York Philharmonic, easing them through those tricky bars in the finale of Mahler’s 8th, the lead first violinist giving him her special smile, the entire audience holding its collective breath, when he heard …
Smash.
Glass breaking. In the real world.
He jolted awake; his eyes wide open in the pitch black and glanced at the glowing digits of the alarm clock.
Three o’clock in the morning.
Quickly he pulled the foam plugs from his ears, straining to hear the sounds of the house.
The click, tick, of the central heating, the radiators cooling. Outside, somewhere in the village, the faint sound of a car.
Next to him, the steady rise and fall of Harriet’s breathing. A slight snort.
Nothing unusual there.
But then — a thunk — a noise he recognised, the way you know all the sounds of your own house, a kind of audio map of the familiar.
And this — yes — the sound of the refrigerator closing.
There was no doubt. There was someone in the house.
Middle of the night … and there could only be one reason.
He gulped, aware now that his heart was racing. His breathing fast.
And damn, his mobile was downstairs somewhere, or he could have used it to call the police.
He thought quickly through other options.
Wake Harriet? No, she might say something loud, frighten the intruder, who knew what they might do if panicked?
Stay here, quietly, do nothing? No — what if they came upstairs looking for money, jewellery? Lying here — we’re way too vulnerable!
But what was the intruder doing? What was he after?
His guitar? But who steals a classical guitar?
His laptop? Maybe …
Damn. All the reports he’d been writing for the last two weeks, not backed up! That would be a disaster!
He sat up, then as quietly as he could, he swung himself out of bed. Tried to think if there was any kind of weapon in the bedroom. He ran his hand over the bedside cabinet. Nothing, except …
The hardback biography of Berlioz? Nearly two inches thick!
It’s heavy enough, he thought, picking it up. A regular brick of a book.
He almost laughed — a Berlioz biography employed as a weapon against an intruder! But then the fear quickly took over again. He pulled the cord on his pyjamas tight, then he crept out of the room — cautious about any creaks — and started slowly down the carpeted stairs, into the darkness.
As he did, he heard Harriet stir in the bedroom behind him and start to snore.
Much louder now!
*
At the bottom of the stairs, Arthur stopped, frozen, and listened hard as he looked around.
The hall was dark, but through the open doors of the sitting room and dining room he could see in the dim light from appliances on standby that those rooms were empty.
Nobody moving.
At least down here there were some more appropriate weapons. The umbrella stand held two umbrellas — and yes — Harriet’s Nordic Walking sticks, with pointy ends!
Those would be good for a solid thwack and a sharp poke.
He gently put down the Berlioz on the hall table, picked up the sticks — and then stepped slowly down the hall towards the back of the house.
The hard tiled floor so cold on his feet.
The door to the kitchen breakfast room was open. He stopped, breathed in deeply, and peered in.
Nobody there.
Phew. He had quick thought, a hopeful thought: could the intruder already be gone? Moving on to pastures greener than this obviously modest home?
On the kitchen counter by the fridge — he saw a half-full bottle of milk.
A bottle that hadn’t been there when he went to bed.
And worse. Just by the kitchen sink, a glass still with the milky film inside.
What? Somebody had broken in to steal the milk? That didn’t make any sense.
But then he finally heard another noise — from the back of the house.
From his study. He took a breath to steady himself.
He carried on walking, barely able to see in the pitch black, the Nordic walkers held in front of him as if he was an extra in a pirate movie.
Ahead, the study door was almost shut. But not quite.
And through the gap at the bottom of the door, he could see a flickering light: a phone light? Or a torch, maybe?
Now he could hear another familiar sound: a drawer being slowly shut, the old wood of his desk creaking as it slid home.
Whoever had broken in was clearly after more than just a pint of milk.
It was now or never. He was going to have to disturb them.
Startle the person! Send them scurrying!
After all, this was his house, wasn’t it? What kind of man just lets an intruder roam free in his own hallowed space?His castle!
He knew surprise was on his side. Whoever was in his study was not to know he was just a meek and mild music teacher. He could be a cop. Or a boxer. Or even a career criminal!
Although Arthur knew that on this sought-after, quiet, tree-lined Cherringham crescent of detached houses with well-tended gardens — there were no cops, boxers or criminals.
Just “the four Ms” as he liked to call them: middle class, middle management, middle of the road … and mums.
Arthur’s hands shook as they tightly grasped the Nordic sticks.
He had never felt fear like this.
He stepped close to the door, transferred the sticks to one hand, the other hand ready to turn on the study light, hopefully blind the burglar.
But then the door swung open on its own!
And Arthur could see nothing as a blinding light shone right in his face, and a hand thrust itself forward into his chest!
“Aagh!” he said, stumbling backwards down the hall.
In the reflected light from the long hall mirror he caught a glimpse of his assailant — a full, black woollen face mask, a bulky puffa coat, maybe dark jeans. And then a hand shoved him again, and the Nordic walkers — all akimbo — got caught in the spindles of the stairs and spun him round so he now fell backwards …
His head crashed against the hard, cold floor, and the darkness overwhelmed him.
2. Rehearsals
Sarah crossed the road from her office to the village hall, her score of the Messiah under her arm, knowing that she’d left it late to get to rehearsal.
Any minute now the church clock would strike seven — and if she was the last latecomer, she knew she would have to endure the walk of shame to the sopranos’ seats, with Mrs Procter, the choir leader, standing, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
How does the woman do it? thought Sarah. Makes me feel like I’m ten years old again!
And yet, Sarah knew that for this special year — with all her old-fashioned discipline — Mrs Procter had corralled this raggle-taggle bunch of amateurs, regulars and newcomers into what was beginning to sound like a cohesive singing force.
Sopranos, altos, tenors, basses — all singing above their weight, if that was the right term.
The challenges of the great Handel score being surmounted, one by one.
Yes, old Mrs Procter was fierce but she knew what she was doing.
“Cutting it fine, aren’t we, Sarah Edwards?” came a voice in the shadows. Sarah saw the burly figure of Pete Bull step into the light of the street lamp, a cloud of vape smoke billowing around him.
Pete — the best plumber in Cherringham, and a good friend — was a choir stalwart with a fine bass voice.
“Thought you’d given that nonsense up, Pete,” she said.
“Only way I can get through these rehearsals,” he said, then he nodded towards the upper windows. “Keep her busy, will you? Distract the enemy and I’ll try and slip in without her spotting me.”
“You’ll be lucky,” said Sarah, grinning, then she hurried past him towards the entrance, skirting round the village Christmas tree, its lights so festive, then into the hall, and up the grand wooden stairs to the rehearsal room.
Through the swing doors into the big upper hall, she saw with relief that most people hadn’t even taken their seats yet — everyone in groups, chattering away, the whole room unusually noisy.
Bullet dodged, she thought.
But this wasn’t the usual. She wondered what had happened. Mrs Procter was nothing if not absolutely punctual.
She walked over to the chairs lined up for the sopranos, where Beth, her old friend from pre-school days, was chatting to Becky Butterworth, one of the new singers.
“Must say, Sarah, you picked a good night to be late,” said Beth.
“What’s up?” said Sarah.
“You didn’t hear?” said Becky. “Poor Arthur’s in hospital. Got attacked last night, he did. At death’s door apparently!”
“What?” said Sarah, shocked. “You mean Arthur Chisholm?”
Sarah knew Arthur from school, where he’d taught both of her children, Chloe and Daniel.
“Took on a burglar. Very nasty,” said Beth.
“Lucky if he lasts the night, that’s what I heard at Huffington’s this morning,” said Rosie, one of the sopranos, who stepped close to join their little group.
“Word is he won’t make it,” said another of the sopranos dramatically, stepping close.
“Oh pish-posh! I’m sure it’s not that serious,” said Jen Buckland, an alto, quickly offering her thoughts on the situation.
“Well, what does Jessica say?” asked Rosie, and Sarah saw the whole group pivot to look at the altos’ seats.
“She’s sure to know,” said Becky with a knowing smile.
Sarah felt there was some undercurrent here she was missing, but she knew that Jessica Moore taught alongside Arthur in the school music department. She could see the woman sitting to one side, head buried in her score.
“I haven’t asked her,” said Jen. “I’m sure the poor woman is upset enough about her colleague as it is, without being pestered for news at every turn.”
