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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Countryside Mysteries: A Cosy Shorts Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
In the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry, Alfie McAlister’s personal life is in turmoil. He’s finally admitted to himself that he’s fallen for Constable Emma Hollis. But while one moment, Emma was kissing him, now she’s ignoring him. And to make matters worse, with grumpy Sergeant Wilson still on sick leave, Emma is now working alongside the young, handsome, personable Sergeant Angel. Alfie’s relieved to have the distraction of exploring the private library of a Victorian mansion, along with his friend Marge and Gwendolyn, Bunburry’s Goth librarian. But the library contains a century-old secret linked to the writer Oscar Wilde. And the discovery of this secret results in murder. The only thing to do is call the police - and Alfie finds himself confronted by Emma and Sergeant Angel ...
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015 and recently published her second book in the Miss Blaine mystery series.
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Contents
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. In "Murderous Ride", the second Bunburry book, Alfie discovers that he has not only inherited a cottage from his late Aunt Augusta but also a 1950s Jaguar. He is dismayed: for reasons of his own, he no longer drives. Aunt Augusta’s best friends, Liz and Marge, persuade him to get behind the wheel again – but that’s just the start of his troubles.
About the Book
In the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry, Alfie McAlister’s personal life is in turmoil. He’s finally admitted to himself that he’s fallen for Constable Emma Hollis. But while one moment, Emma was kissing him, now she’s ignoring him. And to make matters worse, with grumpy Sergeant Wilson still on sick leave, Emma is now working alongside the young, handsome, personable Sergeant Angel. Alfie’s relieved to have the distraction of exploring the private library of a Victorian mansion, along with his friend Marge and Gwendolyn, Bunburry’s Goth librarian. But the library contains a century-old secret linked to the writer Oscar Wilde. And the discovery of this secret results in murder. The only thing to do is call the police - and Alfie finds himself confronted by Emma and Sergeant Angel ...
The Author
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015, has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies and recently published her first mystery Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar.
Cast
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing …
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises …
Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade …
HELENA MARCHMONT
Foul Play
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
Oscar Wilde
Prologue
Gloucestershire, April,1905
Sir Anthony Gray still missed Oscar. The wittiest, most outrageous, and the kindest of friends. It was five years since Oscar had died, but as Sir Anthony rode towards Hallwood, his Gloucestershire estate, what he remembered was their final meeting, a year before that.
“Poor boy,” he murmured.
Oscar had been poor in every sense, but Sir Anthony whisked him away from the shabby Parisian hotel to take the sea air in Trouville. And his friend had positively blossomed. He ignored the casino, he ignored the beach, he ignored the fashionable crowds on the promenade. Instead, he wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
“My dear fellow,” he said to Sir Anthony, “this is all thanks to your sparkling conversation.”
“But Oscar,” Sir Anthony protested, “you’ve been locked away all day. I haven’t said a word to you until now.”
“Exactly. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for you keeping your sparkling conversation to yourself.”
And one morning, as Sir Anthony was enjoying a coffee and a cheroot on the verandah, Oscar appeared, already dressed.
“Good gracious, I’ve never known you to rise this early,” said Sir Anthony.
“Dear boy, I haven’t yet gone to bed. I came to tell you that I’ve finished. It’s a masterpiece.”
Oscar dropped a heavy bundle of paper on to the table beside Sir Anthony. The coffee spilled and the ashtray fell to the ground. But Sir Anthony ignored this. He hadn’t seen Oscar so animated since his friend’s self-imposed exile to France.
He read the title page and blinked.
“Oscar … I thought you’d already written this.”
“If something is a masterpiece, surely its value doubles if it’s written twice,” said Oscar, and then laughed at Sir Anthony’s uneasy expression.
“Fear not, my dear chap, I’m quite compos mentis. I didn’t complete it last time. The charming Mrs Leverson brought the manuscript to Paris for me to finish, but I left it in a cab since the prospect bored me. But our excursion to the seaside rekindled my enthusiasm. I’ve created three new characters and transformed the plot.”
He signalled for a flunkey in the drawing room to bring him a cup and poured himself a coffee, sinking back into the cushioned wicker chair. He raised the cup to Sir Anthony.
“And you, my dear fellow, will take this manuscript home with you, and on my instruction, you will deliver it to my publisher.”
Sir Anthony leaned forward. “Oscar. Come back with me. You know you can stay at Hallwood. Take the manuscript to your publisher yourself.”
For a long moment, Oscar did not speak. Then, very quietly, he said: “My dear old friend. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and you are generous to a fault. But no, I shall never return.”
He pushed the manuscript closer to Sir Anthony. “There. Now, the timing is of the utmost importance. I’m in correspondence with the publisher on other work, and I shall wait until this can have their full attention. I rely on you to keep it away from prying eyes, and do nothing until you hear from me.”
But on returning to England, Lord Anthony never heard from his friend again. Now, as he rode round his estate, he wondered what he should do, given no sign of any instructions from beyond the grave. He had made sure that the manuscript was hidden away safely, but was it now time to take it to the publisher? Oscar had called it a masterpiece. Then it deserved to be made public, even posthumously.
“You entrusted your manuscript to me, old friend,” he muttered. “If you can no longer tell me when the time is right, it’s down to me to make the decision, and I see no point in waiting. If your publisher doesn’t want it, by God, I’ll pay to have it published myself.”
With sudden determination, he spurred his horse into a gallop. He would retrieve the manuscript from its hiding place and go up to London with it tomorrow.
There was a sudden movement in the undergrowth. A fox, perhaps, or game bird. The startled horse reared and stumbled, and Lord Anthony was thrown to the ground.
His final thought was that no-one would now be able to find Oscar’s manuscript.
Gloucestershire, October 2022
Hallwood Hall. All his research pointed to it being the place. But it was over a century since Sir Anthony Gray had died in a riding accident. If it existed, why had nobody found the manuscript? Had Sir Anthony lost it, or destroyed it? Or might it be hidden in plain sight, among the papers that grand families accumulated but took no interest in, leaving them to biographers and social historians?
If he found it, he would no longer be regarded as a ‘media tart’. It would restore his reputation for generations.. An unpublished play of Oscar Wilde’s, brought to light after a century by Professor Giles Webb. There would be radio and television interviews, he would write articles for The Times Literary Supplement, The New Yorker, The Paris Review.
More than anything else in the world, he wanted to find the manuscript. Some people said they were prepared to die for the thing most important to them. Not him. He wanted to live, and to spend the rest of his life basking in glory.
But was he prepared to kill for it? That was another matter…
1. A Scottish Holiday
Alfie followed his sister up the steep track, trying not to wheeze, or at least not audibly.
“Want to stop and take in the view?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine,” Alfie managed to say, refusing to admit that he was having trouble in matching her stamina.
“Really, I think you should,” she persisted.
“Honestly, I’m okay to keep going,” said Alfie, uncomfortably aware that she was not only climbing much more easily than he was but was also carrying a large rucksack. She had rejected his offer to carry it, telling him that she was used to it, always taking it when she went for a ramble in the hills.
From time to time, he went for walks in the gentle Cotswolds hills near his home in Bunburry. These Scottish hills were different altogether: high, jagged and precipitous. But he was determined not to appear feeble in front of Anne – or so far behind her, as he struggled to keep pace.
But she stopped and waited for him to catch up.
“This is quite a good view” she said.
Secretly grateful, he stopped as well and looked back the way they had come. He caught his breath, which had nothing to do with the effort of climbing.
“Is that…?”
“It is,” she said, grinning.
He gazed down at the spectacular edifice, its granite walls sparkling silver in the sunlight. A gold flag emblazoned with a red lion rampant was fluttering from the high square clocktower. Banks of chimneys were dwarfed by the tiled turrets which decorated every corner. The castle was surrounded by woodland and beyond it, he could glimpse the glistening blue of a river.
“Prince Albert bought the land for Queen Victoria,” said Anne. “They knocked down the building that was there and built Balmoral Castle.”
“It’s stunning,” said Alfie. “Now I understand why the royal family come here every summer.”
Anne shrugged off the rucksack and unfastened it, pulling out a rug which she spread on the ground. Then she produced a vacuum flask and various containers, and a few moments later, Alfie was sitting admiring the view, munching a sausage roll, a mug of coffee at his side. The climb had definitely been worth it. From this vantage point, he now saw the surrounding hills as majestic rather than intimidating, and he felt a warm glow of satisfaction at having climbed this high.
“I had no idea how beautiful it was here,” he said. “I’ve travelled all over the world, but I don’t know my own country.” He hesitated. “I should say your country, since this is Scotland, not England.”
“It’s just as much your country as mine,” said Anne. “Our father was Scottish, so we’re both half-Scottish.”
Alfie felt slightly uncomfortable at the words “our father”. Partly because it was the beginning of the Lord’s Prayer, but mainly because he had never known Calum McAlister. His father had walked out before Alfie was born, and Anne was his half-sister, the child brought up by Calum and his new wife.
By the time Alfie decided to track down his father, it was too late: Calum McAlister had died. Alfie still felt frustrated and unhappy that he hadn’t been able to hear his father explain why he walked out on them. But some good – a great deal of good - had come out of Alfie’s search: he discovered a sister, Anne, and a niece, Anne’s daughter Ruby. He still couldn’t believe how quickly and easily they had accepted him with genuine affection. Whatever had happened between their parents was irrelevant – they were family.
He finished the sausage roll and reached out for some cherry tomatoes.
“Ruby must have enjoyed having all this countryside on her doorstep when she was growing up,” he said.
Anne laughed. “Ruby doesn’t do countryside. She’s a city girl.”
“I always thought I was a city boy, growing up in the east end of London,” said Alfie. “I could never have imagined living in a village. Now I can’t imagine going back to the Big Smoke.”
Anne passed him a cheese and pickle sandwich.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re in Bunburry, just an hour away from Ruby,” she said. “Oxford’s so far from here. I know she’s graduated, and she’s got a good job, but she’s still my little girl, and I worry about her.”
“You can relax for the moment,” said Alfie. “I told you, everything’s fine, she’s doing well at work, and she and her boyfriend are blissfully happy.”
“I hope she makes better decisions than me,” Anne muttered. “I got married at her age, and it was a disaster. Getting divorced is the most sensible thing I’ve ever done. And I’m in no hurry to start another relationship – I enjoy my freedom too much.”
She gave a small groan. “Sorry, Alfie, that was a stupid, insensitive thing to say. I’m single through choice. You lost your partner in a car accident.”
“It’s okay,” said Alfie reassuringly. “To begin with, I thought I would never be happy again, but I was wrong. It does get better with time. And of course, it helps that I’ve found a wonderful big sister.”
Anne laughed. “Well, if you ever want dating advice in the future, don’t come to me, given my track record.”
His expression must have changed without him being aware of it, since her eyes widened, and she said: “Really? There is someone?”
“No,” said Alfie hastily. “No, there isn’t.” And then it struck him that perhaps it could be useful to confide in Anne. The only person he had told was Oscar, his best friend, but the phone call had been interrupted by a delivery. Alfie’s sudden decision to escape on holiday meant he had never rung back.
“Something happened a few weeks ago,” he said. “It was – awkward. Embarrassing.”
Anne waited for him to continue.
“You remember Emma?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her voice was warm. “Probably the best police officer in the country.” Then she blinked. “This awkward, embarrassing thing – it was with Emma?”
“She kissed me,” said Alfie bluntly. “She kissed me, then she shoved me away and slammed her hotel room door in my face. And now she’s avoiding me, and I’ve no idea what’s going on.”
“You were in a hotel?”
“Not like that – not deliberately.”
“You were in a hotel accidentally?”
“We were in Cheltenham, we’d just put a villain behind bars, and we’d been celebrating, so I couldn’t drive home.”
Anne raised an eyebrow. “Ah. That sort of celebrating.”
Alfie wondered whether it was an accusation. Did she think he had made a drunken pass at Emma?
“I probably wasn’t even over the limit, but I don’t drink and drive.” Now he was coming over as insufferably straitlaced. “But Emma hadn’t had anything to eat, and she must have drunk three or four tumblers of mead.”
Anne’s face cleared. “Now I follow. She’s a lot younger than us.”
Rub it in, thought Alfie morosely. Thirty years old compared to his forty-three.
“I’m sure when we were her age, we did some stupid things when we’d had a bit too much,” Anne continued. “You honestly have no idea what’s going on?”
Alfie shook his head.
“The poor girl!” she said, laughing. “You’re really good friends, aren’t you? She had a little too much to drink, she came on to you because you were there, then she realised it was you, and that’s not the way good friends behave, so she ran away. And now she’s completely mortified about what she did, and she can’t face you.”
It was scarcely flattering to hear that Emma had only kissed him because he happened to be there, and he could have been anyone. But he hadn’t told Anne about the incident in order to be flattered. He wanted her advice.
“Now what?” he said. “If she’s avoiding me, should I avoid her as well?”
“Of course not,” said Anne. “But you’ll have to make the first move. Act completely normally around her, as though it never happened. As far as you’re concerned, it didn’t – it was so insignificant that you don’t even remember it. Then she’ll be able to relax, and you can go back to being really good friends.”
“Thanks,” said Alfie. “I’ll try that.”
Anne’s views were clear. So now was not the time to confess that as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t insignificant. It had been gradual, so gradual that it had taken him a long time to realise. Emma wasn’t conventionally pretty, not a tall, slim blonde like Vivian. Her dark hair was in a practical bob, and she had the muscular build of an athlete. She always seemed so cool, so self-possessed, so independent. It was sometimes disconcerting, but understandable, given that she was a young woman making her way in a challenging, male-dominated profession. She was also funny, spirited and thoughtful.
