Mydworth Mysteries - A Little Night Murder E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

A young poacher is found shot dead in the woods of a grand estate near Mydworth. A sad accident it would seem. But the boy’s mother is convinced it is murder and when Harry and Kat investigate, they find the poacher’s life was not as innocent as he made out ...

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.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Mydworth Mysteries

About the Book

Main Characters

The Authors

Title

Copyright

Prologue

1. Domestic Bliss

2. The Case Begins

3. A Poacher’s Life

4. A Call on the Sergeant

5. Two Half Pints at the King’s Arms

6. Syd’s Secret

7. Mates No More

8. Family Man

9. Into the Woods

10. A Motive for Murder?

11. A Strange Dismissal

12. Secrets in the House

13. White Lies

14. Truth Revealed

15. Justice

Mydworth Mysteries Episode 3

Mydworth Mysteries

Mydworth Mysteries is a series of self-contained novella-length mysteries, published in English and German. The stories are currently available as e-books and will soon be available as audiobooks in both languages.

About the Book

A young poacher is found shot dead in the woods of a grand estate near Mydworth. A sad accident it would seem. But the boy’s mother is convinced it is murder and when Harry and Kat investigate, they find the poacher’s life was not as innocent as he made out…

Main Characters

Sir Harry Mortimer, 30 – Born into a wealthy English aristocratic family, Harry is smart, funny and adventurous. Ten years in secret government service around the world has given him the perfect training to solve crimes; and though his title allows him access to the highest levels of English society, he’s just as much at home sipping a warm beer in the garden of a Sussex pub with his girl from the wrong side of the tracks – Kat Reilly.

Kat Reilly – Lady Mortimer, 29 – Kat grew up in the Bronx, right on Broadway. Her mother passed away when she was only eleven and she then helped her father run his small local bar The Lucky Shamrock. But Kat felt the call to adventure and excitement, first as a nurse on the battlefields of France, then working a series of jobs back in New York. After finishing college, she was recruited by the State Department, where she learned skills that would more than make her a match for the dashing Harry. To some, theirs is an unlikely pairing, but to those who know them both well, it’s nothing short of perfect.

The Authors

Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of many successful novels published around the globe, including Vacation (2011, in development for film), 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, Pirates of the Caribbean, and, with Neil Richards, Planet of the Apes: Last Frontier.

Neil Richards (based in the UK) 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 30 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Planet of the Apes, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

A Little Night Murder

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2019 by Neil Richards & Matthew Costello

Copyright for this edition © 2019 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: © Richard Jenkins Photography

Cover design: Kirstin Osenau

E-book production: 3w+p, Rimpar (www.3wplusp.de)

ISBN 978-3-7325-6954-0

For information about the authors and their projects please visit: www.facebook.com/Cherringham

Prologue   

Syd Buckman stepped carefully over the rickety fence onto the old Arundel road, put down his canvas bag, and stood to listen.

Slowly, his ears tuned to the sounds of the night.

Up on the far hill, in the dark woods, he heard an owl hooting. He waited for an answering call. Sure enough, there it was, maybe half a mile away.

From down in the valley, he could just hear distant voices. He couldn’t see Mydworth from here, but he knew that sound well: chucking out time at the King’s Arms. He fancied he even recognised the laughter, and smiled to himself.

The usual lot, reluctant to wobble home to the not-so-patient wife!

A faint rustling sound from the field ahead made him quickly turn. In the dim light from the thin sliver of moon above, he could see the lines of tall wheat disappearing into the darkness.

Fox maybe? No. Something smaller.

Satisfied he was on his own up here, he picked up the bag, hoisted it over his shoulder, and set off up the road towards the far hill and woods.

Past eleven now, and he didn’t expect to meet anyone. Pubs all closed. And the good – and not so good – people of Sussex would soon be in their beds, sleeping the sleep of the righteous or the addled.

The good people of Sussex, he thought. Doesn’t include me, that’s for sure.

He smiled to himself, and switched the bag to his other shoulder.

Wasn’t heavy. But awkward.

Not easy to hide a Lee Enfield rifle.

His dad’s old canvas army bag wasn’t long enough to conceal the barrel, and the grey steel of the muzzle peeped out through the rope ties at one end.

But on a dark night like this, Syd knew that if he held the bag tight to his side, the casual observer wouldn’t notice the business end of the lethal firearm poking out.

Don’t want to frighten some old fella walking home after a few pints.

Or worse – some nosy copper looking for trouble.

Not tonight.

He had work to do.

*

Ten minutes later, Syd reached the familiar curve in the road where the Shreeve Estate began. Here the fence met a sturdy brick wall that he knew ran for miles: tracking the line of the road for a mile, before turning north to encircle the main house, then returning to where he stood.

Enclosing a thousand acres of woodland, meadows, hills and valleys. Herds of cattle. Flocks of sheep.

And deer.

Hundreds of deer, roaming free.

Each one worth a pretty penny if you knew the right butcher.

And Syd Buckman knew the right butcher.

All he had to do was deliver the goods.

No question – he knew how to do that. Like his dad – and his dad’s dad before him.

Reckon us Buckmans been working these woods all the way back to that bastard William the Conqueror. Wasn’t he the one took ’em off the people, made them royal hunting grounds?

Syd spat onto the dusty road. Then he walked along the wall until he spied the loose bricks he’d chiselled away a month or so back – perfect footholds if you knew where they were.

He pulled himself up easily and, in an instant, he was over the wall and crouching on the other side in the musty darkness of the woods.

He pulled the bag from his shoulder and took out the rifle, pointing it carefully at the ground.

“Don’t matter how sure you are it’s not loaded – always treat a gun like it is,” his dad had taught him when he was a nipper.

And though the old bugger was a drunken, nasty piece of work, he knew what he was talking about when it came to guns.

Syd felt the weight of the weapon. He loved the familiar oiled metal and wood smell – the smooth, worn feel of the stock.

He reached into his pocket and took out the cartridges – brass cases, long, pointed.

With a crack shot – lethal.

He flicked the safety off, pulled back the bolt and – one by one – slotted five rounds into the magazine.

Gently, he slid the bolt home – the action so smooth and quiet – and put the safety catch back on.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder again, he stood, and with the gun held securely in both hands, he walked slowly into the deep, dark wood, his boots making no sound on the soft, mossy ground.

His whole body, all his senses, alive to the smells, the sounds, the very feel of the living forest.

His eyes alert for any tell-tale signs of deer – tracks, droppings. Tree bark marked by the bucks rubbing their antlers.

This moment – always so exciting. Feeling so alive.

Even with the danger of being caught.

No turning back now: loaded gun in hand, there could be no denying what he was doing out here in the middle of the night on a private estate. And only one word for it—

Poaching.

*

Syd sat, with his back against an ancient oak tree, the rifle resting on his lap, his breathing light, his whole body alert to the movements of the forest.

He’d come across the herd of deer an hour ago and had walked, crouching, a half mile round them to end up here concealed in the darkness of the woods, downwind of his prey on the edge of a grassy clearing.

Ready for them.

He knew they would come this way, following the line of clearings, stopping, feeding a while, browsing in shrubs and then moving on.

Unaware they were getting closer and closer to their hunter.

And now they were here.

He could just see the stag through the trees – head still, antlers tall – the great beast pausing at the front of the herd before leading them slowly in this direction.

Behind him, Syd saw the other deer, heads down again, grazing. Now and then looking up nervously as they heard a sound; stopping as one, and staring intently into the woods, before returning to their steady munching of grass.

They hadn’t seen him, and, as long as he didn’t move a muscle, they wouldn’t.

He scanned the herd, now just fifty yards away, selecting his target.

There. That one at the back: a young buck, fine-looking animal; fit and healthy; not too heavy to carry.

He’d seen the same buck the last two or three times he’d been up here in the woods, and marked it down as a possible target.

Much as he’d love to take down the big stag, Syd knew he’d need a gang with him to carry that carcass out of the woods. But the buck? Oh yes, he could manage that on his own.

As if the creature had heard him, it looked up, staring in Syd’s direction, eyes soft, dark – almost trusting.

Always such a great moment.

Syd held his breath – and the buck finally looked away, then moved into the centre of the clearing, away from the other deer, and started feeding again.

Perfect.

Slowly he eased the safety catch to “off”, raised the rifle, nestling the heavy stock into his shoulder, and drew the gun to his face.

He pressed his cheek against the warm wood, again smelling the gun-oil, eyes focusing on the iron sights, the buck’s head perfectly lined up in the “v”.

He saw the deer look up again from the grass, as if sensing the deadly moment to come. Syd followed the movement of the head with his rifle, breathed out gently, squeezed the trigger… and slowly pulled.

Bang! The sound of the shot crashed through the woods, unbelievably loud. He saw the young buck drop stone dead in the clearing – and the other deer fleeing, leaping, madly flying through the trees to escape.

Syd lowered the rifle and clicked the safety back on.

Important not to rush that!

Then he picked up the ejected cartridge case, slid it into his pocket and got to his feet, his back and legs aching from the long wait.

He walked over to the deer, which lay motionless in the clearing. He could see where the round had taken the animal cleanly in the head. Stone-cold dead. Such a clean shot.

He put his bag down on the ground and took out ropes and a knife. This was the hard part – strapping the carcass up so he could carry it the long mile hike back to the road.

That shot would have been heard miles away – and though a single shot would be impossible to locate in an estate this size, he knew he had to move smartish.

Get caught like this – red-handed – it would be a prison sentence for sure.

Not a risk Syd wanted to take.

*

He’d gone half a mile when he heard a sound in the woods behind him. Only a twig breaking. But Syd knew it takes weight to break a twig on a forest floor, and he also knew there were only a few creatures heavy enough to do that.

A deer. A wild boar, maybe.

Or a human.

He stopped and turned slowly, staring into the dark trees, looking for movement.

The carcass of the deer felt heavy on his back. He had to get going. Whatever it was he’d heard, it had to be some distance away.

Or maybe I imagined it, he thought.

But, five minutes later, another sound behind him. A branch moving, snapping. Closer this time. Again, he stopped, peered into the darkness.

Pulse beginning to race.

Syd didn’t like this.

He stepped off the path, crouched low, moved as silently as he could into the thick brush and shrubs.

Then turned and peered back along the track.

But the night had clouded over, and now there wasn’t even that slither of moon to help him see.

He felt that first shiver of fear.

Something’s following me. Something – or somebody…

Following.

No, not following.

Tracking.

He licked his lips, his mouth dry. Had to get out of here, fast – no question. But the deer – so heavy – was slowing him down.

Should he just dump it here? Cover it with leaves, branches?

But he was so close to the road – couldn’t be more than five minutes now.

And he needed this money – needed it badly.

He waited, the woods silent again. Only the pounding of his heart, his own breathing, audible.

Come on Syd, he told himself, stop monkeying around. Nobody out here, damn it! Never is.

He hoisted the buck higher on his shoulders and turned, ready to make one last dash to the edge of the woods.

But as he turned, he saw a shape moving fast towards him.