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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Countryside Mysteries: A Cosy Shorts Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Life is looking up for amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister. He has found relatives he never knew he had, and at long last, he has replaced the avocado suite in his bathroom. But he is shocked to get a plea for help from his niece Ruby, a young law graduate in Oxford. There is no support from his fellow amateur sleuths: Liz and Marge are having problems of their own, and Constable Emma Hollis isn’t answering her phone. He offers Ruby sanctuary in Bunburry - but his invitation brings danger to the village...
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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Seitenzahl: 168
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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
Life is looking up for amateur sleuth Alfie McAlister. He has found relatives he never knew he had, and at long last, he has replaced the avocado suite in his bathroom. But he is shocked to get a plea for help from his niece Ruby, a young law graduate in Oxford. There is no support from his fellow amateur sleuths: Liz and Marge are having problems of their own, and Constable Emma Hollis isn’t answering her phone. He offers Ruby sanctuary in Bunburry - but his invitation brings danger to the village …
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
Lost and Found
“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older, they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”
Oscar Wilde
Prologue
The man stood concealed in the doorway of a shop that had closed for the night.
Where was she? He had watched all her colleagues leave. She usually took work home with her rather than staying in the office.
Ah, here she was now, carrying a laden briefcase. But she was going in the opposite direction to the bus stop. The man frowned. He had expected her to go straight home, and that was why he had deliberately parked near the bus stop.
He didn’t like this. She could be meeting someone. A man she had met on the dating app. She shouldn’t be using that app. He didn’t like it.
When she was a safe distance away, he emerged from the doorway and followed her, staying on the opposite side of the road. He was getting good at this. She had no idea he was there. At some point, he would make his presence felt. But not yet, not today.
She was going down a side street now. Stopping at a wine bar. Going in.
Quickly, he followed. He was in luck. The frontage was a series of large plate-glass windows, and it was easy to see inside. Who was she meeting? He watched intently as she made her way between the tables.
It was all right. Not a man. A couple of girlfriends. They were hugging, already chattering away to one another as she took her seat. He watched her order a glass of wine: a small one, he noted with satisfaction. Or was it going to be the first of many?
He was in luck again. When she finished her drink, she got up, and after giving her friends a farewell, emerged from the wine bar with her briefcase.
He followed at a discreet distance as she retraced her steps. She was getting the bus home – she must have a lot of work to do. He got into the small grey car parked nearby, and when the bus came, he followed it, careful not to overtake.
When she got off the bus, he drove past her. He knew the way. By the time she reached the entrance to the flats, he had been able to turn round and stop a short way. She never even noticed him.
He gave her time to get in, then sent a text. Looking good, beautiful. I like you in that green blouse. You should wear a shorter skirt, let me see more of your lovely legs.
One day soon, he would tell her these things in person. He took the newly cut keys out of his pocket. One day soon.
1. An Encounter
Alfie McAlister turned up his coat collar against the chill of the air. Despite being November, it was a bright, sunny day, but Aberdeen, five hundred miles north of Bunburry, was considerably colder than the Cotswolds village.
He hadn’t known what to expect of this distant Scottish city, an east-coast seaport that was a hub of the offshore oil industry. But he was already completely charmed by the silver granite buildings sparkling in the sunshine, the elegant main street only a stone’s throw from the quays, the squawking seagulls.
It would be a perfect place for a holiday. Except he wasn’t here for a holiday. He had only made the decision to come north because he was exiled from Windermere Cottage, while an army of tradespeople renovated the home he had inherited from Aunt Augusta. At first, he took one of the rooms in The Drunken Horse Inn. Its luxurious en-suite bathroom was the model for what he would have in the cottage, at last replacing the avocado suite with comfort and style.
But the problem with The Horse was the cooking, or rather, the cooks. There was ferocious rivalry between Edith, mother of the inn’s owner, and Carlotta, the owner’s wife. Edith specialised in traditional English fare, while Carlotta not only preferred recipes from her native Italy, but had recently turned vegan. While he was staying there, Alfie spent as many evenings as possible with his friends, Liz and Marge, and sometimes escaped to the local Indian restaurant, From Bombay to Bunburry.
There was no escape at breakfast time, however. He loved Edith’s full English breakfast: bacon, eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes, home cooked baked beans and sauté potatoes, accompanied by wholemeal toast with farm butter and thick-cut marmalade. But in order to keep the peace, every second morning he had Carlotta’s vegan breakfast, which could be chive waffles with mushrooms, or tofu pancakes with blackcurrant compote, or porridge made with hemp milk, blueberries and kiwi fruit, washed down with an exotic smoothie. It might not be his first choice, but it was always delicious, and Alfie would have been happy to ring the changes. But every morning, the two women hovered near him as he ate, jealously watching for signs that he was enjoying one breakfast more than another.
After a week, Alfie had feared he would have either indigestion or an ulcer if he stayed much longer. And so he decided to flee back to his London flat where he could eat whatever he wanted unobserved.
He had barely unpacked when his phone rang.
“My name’s Oscar de Linnet,” came an upper-class drawl. “I’m looking for a fellow called Alfie McAlister, newly arrived from the country. I thought I should introduce him to a spot of culture.”
“Oscar, I came up to London last month for the Beethoven at the Royal Festival Hall,” said Alfie drily.
“And tonight you’re going to hear Don Giovanni at the Royal Opera House. Remember to change out of your wellingtons and dungarees – the place has certain standards.”
Alfie glanced down at his Savile Row trousers and fine Italian leather shoes. “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”
His friendship with Oscar still surprised him sometimes, given their very different backgrounds. Oscar was an Eton-educated aristocrat who had no doubt been taken to the Royal Opera House when he was still in short trousers. Alfie had been brought up in Hackney by a single mother, and had become a self-made man who found himself a multi-millionaire through the sale of his start-up. He might be able to match Oscar for bespoke tailoring and hand-made shoes, but he never took them for granted. He acknowledged that he liked having expensive, stylish clothes, but that was because when he was growing up, everything he wore came from market stalls or charity shops.
As always, Oscar had got the best seats for the opera, and the performance was magnificent. But afterwards, as they walked towards Soho for a late supper, Alfie found himself recoiling from the throngs of people, his eardrums blasted by the noise of the traffic, the blaring of horns, the sirens of emergency vehicles. As a boy in the East End, he’d thought it was an adventure to go “up west” and see the lights and the crowds. But now, after three years in the country, he had lost his tolerance for the ceaseless bustle, and it was a relief to reach the restaurant.
“And you claim you’re only here for a fortnight?” said Oscar once they were seated in the Cantonese restaurant, a pot of Oolong tea in front of them. “You do know that builders never finish when they say they will? You’ll still be here by Christmas, if not Easter.”
“I have an excellent local architect supervising a local workforce, and it’s all completely under control,” said Alfie.
“I don’t like the sound of this garden you’re getting,” said Oscar. “You’ll start growing kale and keeping goats.”
“Of course I won’t,” said Alfie. “I’m modelling it on the gardens at Versailles.”
Oscar leaned forward eagerly. “Really?”
“No,” said Alfie, refraining from adding “you dolt,” even though this was what Oscar frequently said to him. “It’ll be like Versailles insofar as it will have flowers and grass, but there the resemblance will end.”
Aunt Augusta had left the garden to grow wild, but not prettily. This was mainly because although it was at the back of Windermere Cottage, there was no direct access to it, and any gardening involved walking to the end of Love Lane and clambering over a fence. It was simply an overgrown piece of land belonging to the cottage.
But now Alfie was getting a back door which would lead directly into a newly landscaped garden. As well as flowers and grass, there would be a patio where he could sit with his morning coffee. The thought made him even more wistful for Bunburry, but first he had to endure two weeks in London.
He was cheered by the arrival of the food. Oscar had chosen well: king prawns with black bean sauce, Taiwanese stewed chicken, stir-fried beef with ginger and spring onions, and egg-fried rice.
“The major work is the back door and the bathroom,” he said, pouring more tea as Oscar set about the serving dishes. “For the rest of the cottage, it’s just a matter of painting and decorating.”
Oscar stopped spooning rice into his bowl.
“Alfie, you wouldn’t,” he managed to say.
“Wouldn’t what?” asked Alfie innocently.
“The parlour – the wallpaper-”
“The wallpaper with those ghastly migraine-inducing psychedelic swirls? First thing to go,” said Alfie, pulling the dish of prawns towards him.
“No!” said Oscar urgently. “You mustn’t! It’s magnificent. A masterpiece of Seventies style. I forbid you to touch it.”
Alfie’s brow furrowed. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “When I said first thing to go, I didn’t mean it would be the first thing to go, I meant it had already gone. Every last square inch ripped from the walls.”
Oscar stared at him in horror. “Barbarian!” he whispered. “Vandal! How could you do such a thing?”
“Easily,” said Alfie. “Once I had sourced the identical vintage wallpaper to replace it with. The parlour will be an even more mind-bending agglomeration of purple, pink, black and white, since the stuff on the walls was getting a bit tired after fifty years.”
“Alfie,” breathed Oscar reverently, “how much did that cost?”
“More than you might imagine,” Alfie admitted. “But I economised with the guest bedroom. It’s going to be painted in restful neutral colours. No more melting brown and orange rhombuses. I can only cope with one lot of Seventies wallpaper.”
“Oh,” said Oscar slightly regretfully. “But you’re keeping the lava lamp?”
“I’m moving it to the parlour. I think it’ll be happier there.” As he reached for a king prawn, he could see Oscar’s brow furrow. In case there was going to be an instruction to leave the lava lamp where it was, he said quickly: “What did you think of tonight’s conductor?”
Oscar always had firm views on every performance he saw, and it was an easy way to distract him from the topic of Windermere Cottage.
But it continued to preoccupy Alfie. Windermere Cottage had been a godsend. He had been half-mad with grief in London after his Vivian died, at times unable to believe that she had gone, at times not wanting to live without her.
It had been impossible for him to imagine he could ever look forward to anything again. But now, three years on, at last putting his own stamp on Windermere Cottage, he had a sense of anticipation, that his life might be taking a new turn.
He hadn’t yet told Oscar about the unexpected link with Aberdeen. Nor had he decided what to do about it.
Then, after his first week in London, a frenetic round of meeting friends, and going to concerts, plays and exhibitions, he got a phone call.
It was the architect. “I’m afraid you’ll have to delay your return,” she said. “Builders never finish when they say they will. But I’m fairly confident an extra week should do it.”
Alfie was trying to reconcile himself to a third week in London when it struck him that he didn’t have to. He could go up to Aberdeen instead. It was a long way, but he could make it a leisurely drive, stopping off at other interesting places en route.
When he sold his start-up, he had begun travelling the world, but he knew virtually nothing of Britain. This would be the perfect opportunity.
Now, surrounded by Aberdeen’s sparkling granite, the brightness of the day making up for the chill in the air, he knew he had made the right choice. There was one more decision he still had to make, but that could wait until after he had visited the cemetery.
The hotel receptionist had been full of sympathy when he asked for directions. “Are you up for a funeral?” she asked.
“No, just checking out a family connection,” he said with a reassuring smile. Probably best not to tell her he was in search of his father, a man he had never met.
It was a long walk, but a pleasant one, along streets of bungalows with well-kept gardens. At last, he reached the entrance to the cemetery, which was much grander than he had expected, with ornate iron gates between imposing granite pillars. The main gates were locked, but a small side one was open. He took a deep breath and went through it.
His first thought was how pretty the cemetery was. It was full of stately trees, with well-maintained gravel paths leading between the grass of the graves. All the memorial stones were in granite, some in the silver of the city’s architecture, some in rose pink, and some in black.
He took out his phone to check where he was going. Lorna Fielding, the private investigator, who had broken the news to him that his father was dead, had given him clear instructions. He headed for the north-west corner where he would find the memorial stone that Lorna had photographed for him. The gold inscription on the black granite read: Calum McAlister, beloved husband of Linda, dear dad of Anne.
Not Calum McAlister, beloved husband of Verity, dear dad of Alfie, even though he had been married to Alfie’s mother in Bunburry’s parish church, with practically the whole village in attendance. He had walked out before Alfie was even born, and now he could never ask him why. Perhaps that was just as well. He might not have wanted to hear his father’s explanation.
As the path curved round between the trees, he could see the cemetery’s boundary wall. He must be close now. There was a figure ahead of him, standing at one of the graves. A woman, tall, slim, brown-haired. He wasn’t sure whether he should acknowledge her – it might be best just to walk past her.
As he got closer, he saw she was gazing at a black memorial stone. A black memorial stone with gold lettering, commemorating Calum McAlister.
Hearing the crunch of gravel behind her, she turned round. And the instant she saw Alfie, she gave a gasp of horror, her knees buckled, and she fell down in a faint.
Alfie rushed over to her, desperately trying to remember what you should do when someone fainted. But even as he reached her, her eyelids flickered open and as she registered that he was still there, she shrank away from him.
“Please don’t be scared,” he said urgently. “My name’s Alfie, Alfie McAlister. I think I’m your brother.”
2. Anne McAlister
After a cup of tea, Anne was beginning to get her colour back.
Sitting opposite her in the café, Alfie was still amazed by how similar they looked to one another. Quite apart from the fact that she had been standing at his father’s grave, he had recognised who she must be as soon as he saw her. And she had seen the family resemblance as well, though not quite in the same way.
“I really am so sorry,” he said again.
She was able to smile now. “Stop apologising. It wasn’t your fault, it was me being stupid,” she said. Her accent was English, not Scottish. “Just seeing you like that – you looked exactly like Dad when he was younger. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
Lorna Fielding had told him he had a half-sister. Through her discreet enquiries, she had traced Calum McAlister’s second wife, Linda, who was now in an Aberdeen care home.
“She has Alzheimer’s and I’m afraid it won’t be possible to speak to her. But she has a daughter, Anne, who’s out of town at the moment. Do you want me to make contact with her?” Lorna had asked.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “Just give me her details and I’ll get in touch.”
But he hadn’t. How could he introduce himself to somebody who didn’t even know he existed? Even when he got to Aberdeen, armed with Anne’s address and phone number, he wasn’t sure whether he would use them. He had decided to leave the decision until after the cemetery visit.
