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- Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Countryside Mysteries: A Cosy Shorts Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry.
Harold Wilson, police sergeant in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry, loathes Alfie McAlister. Alfie is handsome, popular, a self-made multimillionaire - and worst of all, he and his friends Liz and Marge are much better than the police at catching villains. But Sergeant Wilson loathes one person even more - Bunburry’s vicar, Philip Brown - and is thrilled by the chance of locking him up for a local crime. When Reverend Brown refuses to defend himself or produce an alibi, it’s up to the Bunburry Triangle to uncover what’s going on.
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: 166
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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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
Harold Wilson, police sergeant in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry, loathes Alfie McAlister. Alfie is handsome, popular, a self-made multimillionaire - and worst of all, he and his friends Liz and Marge are much better than the police at catching villains. But Sergeant Wilson loathes one person even more - Bunburry’s vicar, Philip Brown - and is thrilled by the chance of locking him up for a local crime. When Reverend Brown refuses to defend himself or produce an alibi, it’s up to the Bunburry Triangle to uncover what’s going on.
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 …
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.
HELENA MARCHMONT
Sinners and Saints
The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
Oscar Wilde
Prologue
The tall, silver-haired man knelt down by the side of the track and carefully reorganised his backpack to make sure nothing would get broken.
He glanced round at the farm shop. The woman who had served him had disappeared and there was no sign of her coming back. The stocky, ruddy-faced man who ran to fetch her was probably her husband. It must have been some sort of emergency. She had rushed out of the shop after him, her apron flapping, and they both dashed off in the direction of the farm. She hadn’t even paused to close the shop door, let alone lock it.
The silver-haired man smiled. Perhaps she had been careless in her haste. But it was more likely that the need to lock the door hadn’t crossed her mind. He could tell she wasn’t the sort of woman to harbour suspicions about a stranger, however unusual their appearance. He at least had made sure to close the door.
He refastened the backpack and hoisted it on to his shoulders. There was nobody else around, and from here, he couldn’t see the neighbouring farms, just fields and hills. It was a beautiful day, sunny, with a light breeze preventing it from getting too hot.
As he set out for Bunburry, he began to sing.
1. The Policeman and the Vicar
Sergeant Harold Wilson was enjoying a convivial evening with his cronies in The Drunken Horse Inn. By the time his third pint arrived, he was telling them about his brilliance in solving a case involving a miscarriage of justice.
Edith, the elderly mother of The Horse’s landlord, overheard him as she cleared a nearby table.
“Is that you taking credit where none is due, Harry?” she called. “That case was solved by the Bunburry Triangle, and well you know it.”
“Woman’s senile,” muttered Wilson, sufficiently quietly for Edith not to hear. “Scarcely knows what day it is. The Bunburry Triangle – they couldn’t solve TheBugle’s easy crossword. Idiotic name for a bunch of idiots, two interfering old busybodies and a posh git from London.”
“Interfering old busybodies? I’d like to hear you say that in front of Liz and Marge,” said Steve Turner.
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Dan Bryan, laughing. “They might hit him with their handbags.”
Sergeant Wilson, who had already been on the wrong side of Marge Redwood’s handbag, gave a disparaging snort and returned to his pint.
“You’ve got to hand it to the Bunburry Triangle, though,” said Gerry Metcalfe. “They’ve got a pretty good track record in solving crimes round here.”
Spluttering, Wilson turned on Gerry. “You’re joking! You actually believe all that fake news? Crimes get solved by good old-fashioned police work, not three amateurs completely out of their depth.”
Stung by this disloyalty from his so-called friends, he gulped down the rest of his pint, and announced he was going home, even though it was his round.
He was still in a foul mood the next morning, and it didn’t improve when he turned up at the police station to find Constable Emma Hollis wasn’t there. He belatedly remembered she was off on some training course at headquarters. He would have to make his own coffee.
“Training courses, load of rubbish,” he muttered as he switched on the kettle. “You learn by doing.”
His mood deteriorated further when he found the milk in the fridge had gone off, and he would have to drink his coffee black.
There was still half a packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard. Wilson dunked one in his mug in a bid to make the coffee more palatable. It helped a bit, so he dunked another, and settled down to read the sports pages.
The computer suddenly bleeped.
He didn’t like the computer. You could press a key and next thing you know, something crucial has gone missing. It was better to let Hollis deal with it; that way, if something went wrong, there was only her to blame. But right now, he didn’t have an option. He heaved himself out of his chair and lumbered over to Hollis’s desk.
The message was from headquarters. It began with the image of a sketch, not one of those e-fit composites that scarcely looked like a person at all, but a drawing that was utterly recognisable.
“Thank you, God,” breathed Wilson, and then chortled aloud at his own words.
There was one man in Bunburry he loathed more than Alfie McAlister. And that was the Reverend Philip Brown. He would never forgive that man for what he had done.
“Gotcha,” Wilson said to the computer screen.
Bunburry’s elderly vicar had made a pathetic attempt to disguise himself, but there was no doubt it was him — the angular face, the deep-set eyes, the mouth curved in a sanctimonious smile. Wilson scanned the information below the sketch. A mean, nasty crime. The vicar would be kicked out of Bunburry with immediate effect, a thought which delighted the sergeant.
Grinning, he shrugged on his jacket and fastened it over his paunch before heading out to the car and driving to the vicarage.
The door to the two-storey Victorian house was shut. Sergeant Wilson pressed hard on the bell, following this up by hammering on the door knocker.
He could hear a voice in the distance: “Yes, yes, I’m coming, just a moment.”
The door opened, and there was the vicar in his usual dark suit and dog collar, not what he had worn to commit the crime.
His expression of mild concern changed when he saw Sergeant Wilson. Guilt? Fear?
“Good gracious,” he said faintly.
“You weren’t expecting me, sir?” the sergeant asked. “I thought you might have been.”
“No – no, I wasn’t. What’s happened, sergeant?”
“I was rather hoping you would tell me, sir.” Sergeant Wilson was enjoying himself. “I wonder if you would accompany me to the station where we could have a little chat.”
“Now?” The vicar hesitated. “I’m sorry, sergeant. I’m quite busy this morning. I could pop in this afternoon if that’s any good.”
Sergeant Wilson puffed out his chest and gave a tight smile. “I don’t think you quite understand, sir. It’s not exactly an invitation. I’d like you to answer some questions in connection with an incident that took place yesterday.”
“An incident?” The vicar frowned. “I haven’t heard about any incident. So I really don’t think I can-”
His gazed shifted from Sergeant Wilson as something else caught his attention. Wilson half-turned to see what it was. Dorothy from the post office was coming up the path. The day was getting better and better.
“Goodness! Sergeant Wilson,” she said as she got closer. “What on earth is going on?”
“I don’t quite-” the vicar began, but the sergeant spoke over him, using his most official tone.
“Mr Brown is helping us with our enquiries concerning an incident at the Mills farm shop.” He grasped the vicar by the arm and began propelling him down the path. “Come along now, sir. The car’s at the gate.”
The vicar stumbled as he was pulled along, but didn’t resist.
“I’ll just pop your post through the letterbox, reverend,” called Dorothy excitedly.
Wilson couldn’t believe his luck. Dorothy was an unstoppable source of news in the village, and before long everyone would know that holier-than-thou Philip Brown was in the frame for theft and vandalism.
“Did you say the Mills farm shop?” the vicar asked from the back of the car as they drove off. “I-”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather you didn’t talk right now. You should wait until we get to the station, when everything can be recorded. That way, there’s no danger of any misunderstanding.”
No more was said until they were in the interview room. After switching on the recording equipment, Sergeant Wilson noted the date, and the time by his watch, gave his rank and name, and added: “Police Constable Emma Hollis is currently unavailable,” just for good measure.
The vicar, invited to state his full name and date of birth, did so, his voice shaking slightly. “I don’t understand. What’s happening? Am I some sort of suspect?” he added.
“If you wouldn’t mind confining yourself to answering questions rather than asking them, sir. Where were you yesterday, around eleven a.m. to midday?”
The vicar shifted abruptly on the plastic chair. “Yesterday?” he faltered. “Let me think.”
“Come now, sir, yesterday’s quite recent. It’s not that difficult a question.”
“I was– I would have been in the vicarage.”
The change of tense didn’t escape Sergeant Wilson’s attention.
“Would you, sir? And would anyone else have been there?”
The vicar hesitated. “That’s the day for the ladies’ knitting circle.”
“Is it indeed? That’s very helpful,” said Sergeant Wilson, pulling the telephone towards him. “If you can give me the name of one of the lady knitters, she’ll be able to confirm your presence in the vicarage.”
The vicar shifted in his seat again. “They meet in one of the communal rooms downstairs. My study’s upstairs.”
Wilson picked up the receiver. “Give me a name anyway, sir. It’s still worth checking. They might have heard you walking around while you composed your sermon.”
“I– I may have been out while they were there.”
“You may have been out,” Wilson repeated slowly. “Your memory seems worryingly poor, if you don’t mind my saying. Perhaps you should make an appointment with Dr Anderson for a check-up.”
The vicar sat upright, not meeting the sergeant’s gaze. “I was out,” he said.
“Where?”
“Just– nowhere in particular.”
“You can do better than that, vicar,” said Sergeant Wilson, his voice taking on a harsher tone. “Where did you go?”
“For a drive. Around and about.” The vicar swallowed. “I wonder if I might have a glass of water?”
“Later. I don’t want to disturb your train of thought. So, where did you go?”
The vicar bit his lip and said nothing.
Wilson slammed his hand down on the table between them. “Why did you go to the Mills farm shop?”
The vicar shrank back in his chair. “I wasn’t anywhere near the Mills farm shop. I can assure you of that absolutely.”
“I have to say I find it odd that you’re very clear where you weren’t, but seem to have no idea where you were. If you were an ordinary member of the public, I might think you were lying to me. But obviously, you being a man of the cloth, that can’t be the case. I’m going to ask you one more time, where were you?”
He recognised the expression on the vicar’s face from years of dealing with villains: pure obstinacy.
He noted the time on the tape and stopped the recording.
“So I can go now?” the vicar asked.
Sergeant Wilson shook his head. “A period of quiet contemplation in the cells might help jog your memory. And don’t worry, I’ll get that glass of water you asked for.”
2. The Policewoman and the Vicar
Constable Emma Hollis took a deep breath and prepared to deal with Sergeant Wilson. He was always in a bad mood when she had been out of the station, claiming he had been overloaded with work, although she had never seen any sign of the work in question.
She pushed open the door to the office. The sergeant was lounging in his chair with his feet on the desk, a mug of coffee beside him and a newspaper in front of him.
He turned as she came in, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen this particular expression on his face. He was positively beaming.
Instead of the anticipated complaint, he said: “We’ve got a visitor, Hollis. Go and make him a hot drink, and get me another coffee while you’re at it. You’ll have to pop back out and get some milk first. And a packet of biscuits.”
Emma was so taken aback that all she could think of saying was: “There’s still half a packet of chocolate digestives in the cupboard.”
“Not now there isn’t,” said Wilson. “Get a move on. He’ll be gasping for a cuppa.”
There had been no word of a visitor when she was last in the office.
“Where is he?” she asked. “In the interview room?”
Sergeant Wilson’s grin broadened. “In the cells.”
“Who?” Emma asked, her mouth dry, afraid that it was Alfie.
The sarge pointed at the computer.
“There,” he said triumphantly. “Have a look.”
Emma stared at the screen. “The vicar?” she said in astonishment. “Why is he wearing a wig?”
“God knows,” said the sarge and laughed uproariously. “Maybe it’s to go with his frock. That’s what they call it, don’t they, when they boot them out of the church, defrocked?”
Emma rolled her eyes and didn’t care if the sarge noticed. He was stuck in the Stone Age.
“I don’t think we can arrest someone for wearing a wig,” she said acerbically.
“He did a lot more than that. Trashed the Mills farm shop and made off with a load of booze and cash.”
“The vicar?” This was beyond belief. She scrolled down as she read the message. Philip was a suspect, but only because he had been in the shop.
“What was the evidence for arresting him?” she asked.
“I haven’t exactly arrested him,” Wilson muttered.
“The vicar’s not under arrest? Then what’s he doing in the cells?”
“I was just giving him some thinking time.” Wilson gave an aggressive shrug. “All right, then, you go and smooth things over.”
Emma was accustomed to spending a lot of time covering up for the sarge, mainly out of acceptance of police hierarchy, but partly because she almost felt sorry for him. He drank too much, a broken marriage behind him, and that was why his superiors had left him languishing in Bunburry. Every day must be a reminder that he would never have the brilliant career he had wanted. Emma doing his work when he was in bed with a hangover was one thing. But this was something else.
“Sarge, he could have us,” she said. The colour draining from the sarge’s face showed he understood that she really meant “he could have you”.
“Go on, Hollis, go and get him out, and put things right.” His voice sounded almost pleading. “I can’t talk to him, not after – you remember. But you sorted it all out that time. You managed to sweet-talk him once, so you can do it again.”
Emma stared at him. Of course she remembered. But what did the sarge think had happened? Did he really think she had sweet-talked the vicar? He had completely misunderstood. Was that her fault, because of what she had done? But if she tried to explain now, it would only make everything worse.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, picking up the keys for the cells.
She looked through the spy-hole before opening the door. The vicar was sitting on the bench beside the blue plastic mattress, his hands clasped and his head bowed. Emma couldn’t tell whether he was praying or despairing. Although maybe there wasn’t much of a difference.
She unlocked the door and he looked up, without his usual smile.
“Emma?” he said uncertainly.
She was in uniform and should remind him that she was currently “Constable Hollis,” but decided against it.
“Reverend Brown,” she said, “I’m afraid there’s been an administrative error. You shouldn’t be here. I’ll run you home. And of course, you’re entitled to make a complaint. I can give you details of how to go about that.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said wearily. “But I’d be very grateful for a lift.”
“Give me a second and I’ll get the car keys.”
Emma returned to the office where Wilson was pacing the floor liked a caged animal.
“Well?” he snapped.
She knew what he was asking, but she said: “I’m taking Reverend Brown back to the vicarage. Can I have the car keys?”
He turned to the key hook on the wall, saw it was empty, and began to search through his pockets. Eventually he found them and as he handed them over, she saw his hand was shaking.
She had planned to let him sweat for a bit longer, in the hope that he would be more careful in future. But bad-tempered and overbearing though the sarge was, she didn’t like to see him in distress.
“It’s okay,” she said. “He’s not taking it any further.”
Wilson exhaled. “That’s part of the job description with these guys, isn’t it?” he said sneeringly. “They’ve got to forgive everyone.”
