Mydworth Mysteries - Episode 1-3 E-Book

Matthew Costello

• Herausgeber: Bastei Entertainment
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Mydworth: Crime Series Compilations
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 468

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

This compilation contains episodes 1-3:

A SHOT IN THE DARK

Sussex, England, 1929. Mydworth is a sleepy English market town just 50 miles from London. But things are about to liven up there considerably, when young Sir Harry Mortimer returns home from his government posting in Cairo, with his unconventional American wife - Kat Reilly.

A LITTLE NIGHT MURDER

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...

LONDON CALLING!

When a prominent family's daughter flees sleepy Sussex to seek a career on the stages of a glittering West End, Harry and Kat are asked to check in on the young woman. But the two of them soon discover that there is a much bigger danger to the woman and her family than mere acting dreams being crushed...

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Mydworth Mysteries

The Authors

Main Characters

Title

A Shot in the Dark

Sussex, England, 1929 Prologue

1. An English Homecoming

2. The Sussex Downs

3. Welcome to Mydworth

4. A Death at the Manor

5. The Constable Calls

6. The Man Who Fired the Gun

7. Questions Over

8. A Hunt for the Second Man

9. Above and Below Stairs

10. Secrets Revealed

11. The Under-Gardener

12. More Revelations

13. Market Day

14. The Truth About Alfred Coates

15. The Cocktail Hour

16. A Dinner to Remember

17. Getaway

18. Drinks on the Terrace

A Little Night Murder

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

London Calling!

Prologue

1. The Women’s Voluntary Service

2. Concerned Parents

3. A Chance Meeting

4. Pied-à-Terre

5. Walking the West End

6. A Pint with Alfie

7. A Night on the Town

8. The Red Rabbit Club

9. Lost

10. Showtime

11. Secrets of the Red Rabbit

12. A Very Private Party

13. The Sordid Truth

14. Breakfast Meeting

15. It’s All in the Timing

16. Game Over

17. Royal Box

Copyright

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.

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.

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.

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.

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

A Cosy Historical Mystery Compilation

Episode 1 – 3

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

A Shot in the Dark

Sussex, England, 1929Prologue

Lady Lavinia Fitzhenry turned the page of the novel she was reading – the latest from the American, Hemingway.

Always fun to read a book written by someone you’ve met – and even shared more than a few drinks with.

Sitting up in bed – Mydworth Manor so peaceful, the staff below all quiet – to read like this was such a pleasure.

She had brought a glass of port with her to bed – now sadly gone – and certainly it was late enough to think about turning the light off. Plenty to do in the busy days ahead, the house soon to be filled with weekend guests down from London.

Gossip. Music. Cocktails every evening before dinner. What fun!

She placed the book on her bedside table and put the light out. The bedroom now in darkness. She started to drift off, plans running through her mind.

But then…

A noise.

She opened her eyes. Another sound: a rattle. Not close, clearly somewhere down the wide upstairs hallway.

A sound that, well, perhaps a door or a window might make in response to a stiff breeze. Except this was a perfectly still night. Barely a breeze.

There it was again. The rattle louder.

Lavinia had never been one to sit and wait. Her response to fear throughout her entire life had remained exactly the same.

If you are afraid of something, you face it.

She put the light on, and, in one quick move, slid out from under the covers, slipped on her dressing gown, and headed out onto the landing.

*

Lavinia stood motionless outside her bedroom, listening.

The sounds seemed to have stopped.

Slowly she moved along the dark hallway, ears straining.

Past the grand staircase that led down to the entrance, where she saw the glow of the entryway light that was kept on all evening.

Warm, yellow, reassuring.

Down the hallway, until she came to the row of bedrooms that would house all her guests in just a few days.

She stopped. There was nothing but quiet.

Clearly time to go back to bed, she thought. She turned.

There was a crack.

The sharp, brittle sound of something snapping in the room directly to her right.

Door shut. Secure – as it should be. These rooms were cleaned and prepared days ago.

Lavinia grabbed the doorknob – cold to the touch.

A twist, an audible click, the door opened – and she slowly entered the dark room.

With her eyes already adjusted to the dark, she didn’t need light to see that all was in order here.

The door that led into the dressing room stood half open. She felt – the barest sense of it – a cold draught coming from the room. A chill that shouldn’t be there.

Taking a deep breath, she grasped the door handle, pulled the door wide – and entered the room, to see… the window wide open.

She hurried over, ready to slam it shut, and end this late-night adventure. As she started to pull the window closed, her eyes were drawn for a second to the lawn as the moon momentarily found a gap in the clouds.

And she stopped. Frozen.

A figure was walking slowly away from the house towards the woods.

As she watched, the figure stopped. Turned.

Looked up at her…

Lavinia’s heart, at peace only seconds ago, now pounded. She backed away from the window, thoughts racing, searching for explanations that did not come.

She took a deep breath – and then stepped back to the window again, eyes straining.

But the figure had gone. As if it had never been there.

And now, as she peered into the darkness, a feeling of foreboding came over her.

A feeling that this weekend wasn’t going to bring fun at all…

1. An English Homecoming

Kat Reilly watched her husband Harry shield his eyes from the morning sun as he studied the unloading process of the cross-channel ferry at Newhaven dock.

She knew him well enough to see that he was concerned.

The Pride of Sussex had berthed an hour late, and, in the frenzied hurry to turn the ship around, Kat had already seen one precious cargo slip from its net and smash on the quayside.

While the steamer belched smoke into the sky, hordes of trucks, horses and carts, and hand-barrows swarmed around the dock-side, as passengers called instructions, and customs men tried to intervene.

So much for all the English politeness and decorum she’d been expecting to see on this, her first trip to Britain!

Though, in truth, Sir Harry Mortimer seemed as ever to typify the calm, unruffled English gentleman.

Tall, slim, his black hair longer than she’d ever known it, jacket slung nonchalantly over one shoulder, white cotton shirt sporting a dashing red tie.

All he needed was a tennis racquet to complete the look.

Or should that be – a cricket bat?

He turned back to her. “Hmm… just going to have a quick word with those chaps over there. Make sure they, er…”

She grinned at that. “And how will that go?”

Harry – with one of his great smiles – nodded.

“You think they won’t welcome my advice?”

“With open arms, I’m sure. That or clenched fists.”

“That is my car they’re about to drop on the quay.”

“Your car?”

“Ah, right. Sorry – old habits. I mean our car. Thing is, she may not be a Bugatti, but that Alvis is damned precious to me.”

“Good luck. Back in New York nobody argues with the longshoremen.”

“Well, I fancy we’re a tad more civilised over here.”

“Civilised? Nine o’clock and I’m still waiting for that coffee you promised.”

“How about we stop in at a local hostelry en route and celebrate my return to the motherland, and your first visit, with a slap-up breakfast?”

“Slap-up?”

“Forgot you don’t quite speak the lingo yet. Means ‘large’. The works!”

“Sounds delicious.”

He grinned, and she watched him walk over to a man on the dock who was dressed in blue overalls, cap on his head. From his stance, hands on hips, the man looked as if he might be the foreman – or whatever they called the guy in charge over here.

She saw Harry gesture to where, only now, their car – that beautiful and so-sleek example of English hardware – was starting to rise out of the ship’s hold, swinging perilously on ropes and chains.

The man in the cap nodded. No smiles there. But she guessed Harry was doing something she had seen him do so often. A few words here and there, and suddenly people wanted to help him.

Doubtful he introduced himself as ‘Sir’, though Kat wondered whether, with the dock workers, any of that ‘Lord and Lady’ stuff would carry much weight.

Harry walked back.

“All tickety-boo. Er, I mean, sorted. Just explained to him what was hiding under those tarps. Asked if they had ever handled a car like that.”

“And?”

“Seems he rather prefers a Bentley. Rolls Royce at a push. Though he did say if I was offering him a drive, he’d happily take it for a spin.”

“Funny guy, hmm?”

“Salt of the earth.”

“Well, me – I’d just slip him some money.”

“Oh, see, there you go! That would never work here. An upstanding professional like that? He’d take it as a proper insult.”

Kat doubted that. Ten years posted to American embassies from Istanbul to Tokyo had taught her one thing – a handful of dollars never failed to make the world run more smoothly.

She turned to see the Alvis roadster steadily being lowered. Slowly, she was glad to note. And – now – nothing to be alarmed about.

She turned back to Harry, watching their steamer trunks being off-loaded, to be transported to Mydworth by truck.

Lorry – not truck, she thought.

And then they would drive to their new home. “New”, at least for Kat, but not to Harry. Mydworth: the small town where he grew up; a world he knew – but had been away from for so long.

Suddenly Harry wasn’t checking the unloading.

“Hmm,” he grunted.

“What?” she said, as he turned to look over to where the cars and taxis pulled up to pick up passengers.

Sitting there, a sleek sedan. Not a cab, but a very serious looking vehicle. And stepping out of it, now looking this way, a man crisply dressed in what looked like a chauffeur’s uniform.

“Something wrong?” she said to Harry.

“Don’t know. But I think we’re about to find out.”

The driver held a white envelope in his hands. He walked over directly – even urgently – to where she and Harry stood.

*

Harry always prided himself on having extremely good instincts. They’d served him well back in ’18 in the skies over Belgium. Also, in his various postings abroad for the Foreign Office. A few times they’d helped him avoid getting hurt.

Once even killed.

His every instinct told him that the envelope the man carried was unlikely to be good news.

“Sir Harry Mortimer?”

Less a question than a confirmation.

Harry gave a quick nod back. He felt Kat looking at this scene as well.

He guessed she had to be thinking: Well, what is this about?

The chauffeur presented the envelope to Harry. “Urgent from Whitehall, sir. I’m to wait.”

Harry took the envelope, giving Kat a half grin.

“Wait? For what?”

He opened the tucked but unsealed envelope and removed a single piece of paper.

He recognised the crest on the paper, the address.

The message pithily brief, but also direct.

“Harry… what is it?”

A bit of alarm in her voice there, he noted. As they had grown closer to docking at Newhaven, Harry had reassured her about their new life in his homeland.

“No more running around for me,” he’d said. “Nice quiet office job in town, driving a desk a couple of days a week, lunch at the club, home by five, no harum-scarum, hmm?”

To which she had said: “Doubt that.”

He took a deep breath, even as he started to wonder if there was any getting around what this letter wanted him to do.

No solution appeared as he turned to face Kat directly.

*

Kat could see from Harry’s eyes that he wasn’t happy. Took only seconds to read the words in the letter, but – whatever the message – her husband… not pleased.

“Urgent meeting. Bit of a flap on, and it seems they want me to attend.”

“Really? When?” she asked. Though – with the chauffeur and limo standing by – she could figure out the answer to that one.

“Right now, apparently,” he waved the offending letter. “Uses the word ‘crisis’ here. Chaps in the office usually show some restraint when referring to such things, so…”

“Now?”

She glanced back just as their Alvis touched down on the dock. Two men began removing the heavy tarps that had been used to protect it during its journey. A hint of the car’s racing green colour caught the sunlight.

“We’re supposed to drive to our new house together, yes? Trucks bringing everything else right behind us.”

“I am still technically, um – you know – a servant of His Majesty’s Government.”

“Yes, and due to report in a few weeks, and even then, not a full-time position.”

Harry’s eyes shifted right. His beleaguered look made Kat almost withdraw her protest.

Almost.

“Tell this charming man here that you and I have things to do. You can see them tomorrow.”

And then Harry did something that always cut through the slightest disagreement they had.

He took a step towards her. Bit of a smile back, not full on, but so warm – just like the night they met at that New Year’s Eve reception in the British Embassy in Cairo.

He put a hand on her shoulder.

And for that moment, there was just the two of them on that dock alone.

“I know. But if it was you? Back in New York? Some chap from the State Department?” He paused, hand still on her shoulder – and Kat knew how this had to play out. “What would you do? What could you do?”

And so slowly – only now rewarding him with a smile of her own – she patted his hand on her shoulder.

“Harry. It’s okay. I understand. Duty calls.”

“Exactly. King and country. Ours not to reason why. And don’t worry, we’ll take this fellow’s car into town, and I’ll get Alfie to drive us back here as soon as the meeting is done with.”

Alfie – someone else from Harry’s life she hadn’t met yet. His – what did they call them? – “batman” during the war.

Someone who, Harry said, was fiercely loyal, and would do absolutely anything for him, even arranging things for what was going to be their London pied-à-terre.

“Few hours at the most, then straight back here. Pick up our car, and off we go, crisis over with a bit of luck.”

That was the plan offered by Harry. But Kat knew it never was her style to sit around waiting, killing time.

Not when there were things to be done.

“No,” she said, warm smile still on her face. “I have another idea.”

Harry’s turn to look surprised.

“You do?”

And Kat nodded.

2. The Sussex Downs

Harry knew Kat well enough to know that she definitely could have ideas.

Nothing shy about her there.

“You get in that car there, go to London, have the meeting,” she said. “Solve the crisis.”

He laughed at that. “We tend to take our time solving crises around here.”

He looked across – driver waiting. The lorry, loaded with their trunks, started to pull away.

“And,” she said slowly, “I’ll drive to our new home.”

I should have seen that coming, thought Harry. The Alvis…

“Ah, right. Yes, but you see, Kat—”

He felt her bluer-than-blue eyes locked on him.

“The roads here, deuced tricky,” he said. “Narrow as hell. And every now and then we have these fiendish tunnels – railway bridges, you see? Only one lane, cars coming right at each other. Take your life in your hands—”

Kat put a hand on his arm. With that touch he felt as if he had already lost the argument.

“Harry. I’ve driven the back streets of Cairo, Istanbul, Rome. I think I can deal with whatever you have here. Road atlas in the glove compartment, right?”

He nodded. Still, he thought, worth one last attempt.

“We also drive on the left. Have you ever driven on the left?”

“Left, right – same thing. I’ll get to the house. Make sure our things are properly unloaded and put away, maybe meet this housekeeper you keep telling me about.”

“Dear Maggie. You will like her.”

“I’m sure. So… it’s decided.”

For a moment, he stood there. Harry had on occasion seen the odd stray American dealing with roads here. Terrifying sight.

“B-but then out in the country, there’s the hedges, and, well, a protocol for letting cars pass, and—”

“Protocol? I know all about protocols.”

Then she took a step closer to him, her voice low. A voice that again reminded him of when he first met her.

Fell for her.

“I’ll be fine.”

Harry nodded, the issue settled. “All right then, well, I’d better get going. Be safe. I’ll get the first train to Mydworth that I can. Pick up a cab at the station. Hopefully home not too long after the cocktail hour.”

“You’d better be. First night, new home. Been looking forward to this.”

“Me too. Well—”

He fired a look at the Alvis. Then back to Kat.

A kiss – not caring who on the dock looked.

“All right. Gotta dash.”

And at that, he turned and hurried to the official car – door open, ready to go.

As he took a seat in the back, he could see Kat standing there, a smile on her face.

Then, with a last wave to her, the car pulled away from the dock, off to London.

*

Somewhere between Newhaven and Mydworth, Kat pulled off to the side of the road for a breather – acutely aware that she’d taken Harry’s warnings much too lightly.

At first, as usual, it had been thrilling to be at the controls of the big car, the roads wide enough, the sun high, the sky blue, the sea sparkling as she drove west along the coast road towards Brighton.

Hardly any traffic, apart from sensible sedans chugging along, local delivery trucks, buses, horses and carts.

All of which she passed with graceful ease and a quick toot on the horn.

Then Brighton – the promenade road passing lines of elegant hotels and villas – and heads turning at the throaty roar of the Alvis’s sporty engine.

She loved that. This car makes an impression.

This was England. The England she’d read about as a child and seen in so many movies. And she, Kat Reilly – daughter of a Bronx bar owner no less – was now driving through its famous towns in a shiny green sports car like a movie star, sunglasses on, hair flying in the warm air.

Kat Reilly, she thought.

Now there’s a question. Am I still Kat Reilly? Or will I answer to the name – Lady Mortimer?

In this day and age? Hmm.

That was a discussion for later. Maybe after cocktails.

But then – barrelling through one stone tunnel a little faster than was appropriate – she’d nearly sent the front end of the roadster crashing into the grille of an oncoming local bus, the driver firing an angry glance as tyres screeched and he barely slid past, the precious Alvis inches away from the stone wall.

Heart pounding from the near-miss, Kat had stuck tight to the left side of the road as the bus rumbled on, spewing smoke from the rear, passengers gawking out of the back windows at the unfamiliar sight of a speeding sports car.

And perhaps the even more unfamiliar sight of a woman driving it?

Well, she thought, staring out across fields of wheat in the late afternoon sun. That’s one lesson learned.

Railway bridges in England can be tricky.

Then she released the handbrake, hit the gas, spun the wheel and gunned the Alvis back onto the road, a glimpse of dust clouds from the back wheels in the mirror.

*

Harry stared at the Houses of Parliament, as the car glided across Westminster Bridge.

Big Ben was just striking five o’clock. As Kat would say, “helluva time to have a meeting.” Already the pavements thronged with office workers, clerks, businessmen, all heading home, the weekend ahead.

He’d not been back in London for a couple of years – the posting in Cairo, a constant series of six-month extensions.

And now, watching the open-top buses jostling for space with cabs, cars, lorries, motorbikes, horses and carts as they all negotiated Parliament Square, he felt that old familiar thrill at being part of the hustle and bustle again.

There were a lot of great cities in the world, but none (so far!) as exciting as London. Newspaper boys calling out the evening edition of The Post. An old soldier, with a cap on the pavement, playing gypsy violin. A messenger boy leaping onto the rear platform of a bus as it flew by. A gaggle of laughing girls buying ice-cream from a street barrow.

How he loved this city!

He couldn’t wait to share it with his new wife – the frantic fun of the place – the bars, clubs, restaurants, theatres, tea rooms, Royal Opera House, dances…

Kat – he knew – would love it as well.

And just as soon as he and Kat were settled in Mydworth, he’d bring her up here, spend a whole week in his little pied-à-terre in Bloomsbury, hit some parties, take advantage of his new life of semi-leisure.

Between London and Mydworth, he and Kat would have the best of both worlds. Perfect!

“Sir,” said the driver – and Harry realised they’d arrived in King William Street, at the main entrance of the Foreign Office, the pavement filled with a steady stream of office workers heading home.

Harry quickly climbed out. With a nod to the driver he watched the car draw away while he adjusted his jacket and tie.

Hardly the sober affair he’d usually wear to the office – but, dammit, they’d just have to put up with it.

He turned and stared up at the enormous building that stretched all the way from Parliament Street to Horse Guards Parade.

Forget Parliament… Downing Street… this was the real hub of the British Empire.

And now, in theory, his place of employment for the next few years.

He climbed the steps, against the flow of departing workers, grinned at the familiar policeman who stood, arms behind his back, guarding the entrance.

“Evening to you, Arthur!”

“Sir Harry! So good to see you back.”

“Wonderful to be back.” Harry looked up at the building. “I’ve certainly missed this place. And how’s Marjory and the offspring?”

“Mustn’t grumble, sir.” A grin. “Not too much, at least! Little ’uns keep me young.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” said Harry smiling back.

And through the revolving doors he went, into the grand main entrance.

With luck, he thought, I’ll be out of here by six-thirty, catch the seven o’clock from Victoria, Mydworth by eight, then gin and tonics with Kat in the Dower House garden.

*

Kat had to admit it. She was completely lost.

The road she’d been on had climbed in sweeping curves higher and higher through dark wooded hills, until finally the gaps in the trees had opened to reveal a dizzying plateau of high, rich, farmland, with the sea maybe thirty miles away – a distant band of silver.

But somehow it was wrong. She was way off target.

She pulled over, turned the engine off and sat in the warm silence, suddenly forgetting the drive ahead, trying to let the tranquillity and peace of the English countryside wash over her. Just for a few minutes, she thought.

Her eyes began to close.

Whoa – Kat – wake up!

She shook her head clear and got out of the car. Then she picked up the map from the front seat and opened it fully on the low front hood of the car, trying to decode the way forward.

Surely, she couldn’t be more than ten miles away from Mydworth? But the roads on the map looked more like the twisty weave of a badly knitted sweater starting to unravel.

Then she heard a rumble. Some kind of machine.

She looked up from the map, late afternoon sun ahead. For a country that she always heard was cloudy and gloomy all the time, the sky a deep blue. Quite beautiful.

The machine making the “rumble” came into view, emerging from a field of tall wheat just yards away.

An old tractor. Red, rusty paint peeling all over, and pulling a wooden cart behind it with a sheepdog peering over the side. The tractor steadily belched puffy grey smoke into the sky and as it got closer, the driver nodded.

Kat smiled at the man in his cap, a few days growth of beard, quizzical expression on his face.

She raised a hand.

“Excuse me. But, um, I’m wondering—” She gestured at the map. She was struggling to be heard over the rumbling engine. She said it louder. “Could you maybe, um, show me—” Again – to the map – even louder. “Trying to get to Mydworth!”

The man, perched so many feet higher than her, slowed the already crawling tractor until it stopped. Then, with a wheezing cough from the engine, he shut it off.

“American, hmm?” he said. “Wot you doin’ here?”

“Um. Yeah. American, and what I’m doing is trying to get to Mydworth.”

“Mydworth?” he said, as if he’d never heard of the place. “Mydworth?”

Just my luck, thought Kat. Meet some guy who’s never left the farm.

She waited, while he scrutinised her.

“I mean, is it far?” she asked. “If you could just point—”

“Far? No, it’s not far.” The man snorted, looked back at his dog as if checking that the sheepdog was paying attention to the conversation. “But yer goin’ the wrong way, that’s for sure.”

Not exactly the most helpful local she ever ran into, Kat thought.

But then he climbed down from the tractor, nodded to her to follow him and crossed the road to the other side. Kat looked at the dog, who had decided to go to sleep, and followed the farmer.

He stopped at the edge of the road, then pointed across the field of wheat into a valley that lay just half a mile away.

“See that there?” he said. “That’s Mydworth.”

Kat followed his arm and looked down into the valley. There, nestled in a fold of hills, what looked the quintessential English town.

Something out of a picture book.

“You could walk it in five minutes,” he said, “if you didn’t have a car to get in the way, like.”

She took in the town: a sprawl of houses and roads. A couple of church steeples. Then what looked like some grand houses in the meadows beyond. A river curving lazily down the valley.

A station, maybe half a mile from the centre – and even now, a train pulling away, steam and smoke puffing as it headed for the hills.

So that’s Mydworth, she thought.

My new home.

And suddenly she didn’t mind at all that she had gotten lost.

3. Welcome to Mydworth

Harry looked down the long meeting table, the air thick with cigarette smoke. Twenty or so Foreign Office experts of all kinds. Faces stern. The mood sombre.

The average age at least fifty, he thought. Makes me the youngest in the room.

At the other end, one of the Far East trade experts was reading aloud from an analysis of rubber exports and British investment trends over the last decade.

Really? he thought. This is urgent?

Was this what his working day was going to be like from now on? Interminable, boring policy meetings in smoky, windowless rooms?

Damn well hope not! Chuck the whole thing in, if it is.

He sneaked a look at his Rolex Oyster. Nearly six o’clock. This “crisis” meeting had been going an hour – and so far, he still hadn’t a clue why he’d been invited.

It seemed there were rumours of a Communist uprising in Malaya. If true, British investment in the area would quickly collapse – and, overnight, fortunes could be lost.

Apparently, the Stock Exchange had already dropped on rumours of the emergency.

But Harry was a Middle East expert. The only thing he knew about rubber was that his beloved Alvis ran on Michelins.

What’s all this got to do with me? he thought.

He glanced across at Sir Carlton Sinclair, chair of the meeting – and Harry’s boss. He saw Carlton acknowledge the querying look, then cough loudly.

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m afraid that Mortimer and I have another briefing in ten minutes and we shall have to take leave of you shortly.”

Harry caught the slightest flicker in Carlton’s eyes.

Another briefing? Carlton hadn’t mentioned it.

But Harry had the sudden thought that the real reason for his being summoned to London was perhaps soon to be revealed.

“Sir Harry is recently returned from Cairo, where – amongst other duties – he was tasked with, ahem, monitoring nationalist and communist organisations. I invited him along, in the hope that we might all benefit from his experience albeit in a different theatre. Sir Harry, I believe you’ve prepared a brief comparative analysis…”

Oh no I haven’t, thought Harry, and well you know it.

“Perhaps you could enlighten us briefly before we hasten to our next meeting?”

Harry smiled broadly. That smile – he hoped – buying him a few seconds to prepare his non-existent analysis.

“Of course, Sir Carlton – and thank you so much for your introduction.”

He opened his notebook to a page filled with dense notes (a comparison of trout streams near Mydworth that he intended to show Kat in the autumn) and ran his finger down it briefly as if to remind himself of salient points.

“Gentlemen, I’d like to start with a little background, if I may. I arrived in Cairo back in ’25, as a diplomatic attaché…”

*

Kat drove slowly into Mydworth, the low rumble of the Alvis bouncing off the houses in the narrow lanes.

The sidewalks (must start calling them pavements) were nearly empty, the stores all shut with blinds down and canopies up.

She guessed most people were already home, having their evening meal.

Their dinner? Supper? What did they call it over here?

A few cars and the odd horse and cart trundled past.

She came to a small crossroads. To the left, she saw that a cobbled road ran down towards a distant riverbank.

Ahead, the lane she was on dog-legged past a pub and then disappeared.

The pub – The King’s Arms. Doors wide open, a little group of workmen sipping pints of ale, enjoying a pipe, now watching her, curious at the sight of this strange woman in a green sports car.

Must check that place out with Harry, she thought. Right now a pint of whatever beer those guys are drinking would hit the spot.

She looked right: a market square from the looks of it, surrounded by more stores – tearooms, bakery, newsagent. Off in one corner a water trough for horses. A water pump.

Then, at the far end, a large building, nearly as tall as the church spires – some kind of town hall, she guessed.

She stopped for a second, the lane quiet. Outside of the pub, no-one around. She dug out and checked the hand-drawn map that Harry had made for her a month or so back – not expecting she’d be using it to navigate alone to her own home!

Then she clunked the Alvis into gear, crossed the square and drove up another little cobbled street on a gentle rise. On either side, she saw more stores now. These were the basics of town life: butcher, baker, cobbler, blacksmith, fishmonger, dairy…

The houses: two-storey, tiny upstairs windows, some leaning crookedly, looking very medieval.

At the top of the lane, another crossroads. Straight ahead, a big church and graveyard. And, on one corner, yet another pub (of course). The Green Man – looked a little fancier, with an entrance wide enough for cars, and even a restaurant attached.

Another glance at Harry’s map, and she made a left there, and then a right into a dirt track that led around behind the church, rising up a slow hill out of the town.

If she’d read the map right – this was the way to the Dower House.

And with luck, Harry’s housekeeper Maggie would have the whole place ready, beds aired, maybe a fire lit, coffee brewing.

She smiled. Already the place sounding like home.

*

Harry ran full-out down Victoria Street, dodging the early evening theatre crowds that thronged the pavements.

Two minutes to catch the train! God!

Past the buses, the line of taxis, then into a packed Victoria Station, teeming with people, the air thick with smoke and steam, noisy with newspaper-sellers, porters shouting, the screech of carriage wheels and puffing engines.

His eyes locked on the big indicator boards to check the platform for Mydworth, and he set off again through the jostling crowds of commuters, dropping a shoulder to get past a burly porter, nearly having to hurdle an empty trolley.

Making good use of his rugby skills.

A look at his watch. One minute left.

Ticket in hand, Harry raced onto the platform just as the guard’s whistle blew. The great Southern steam engine – already chuffing, wheels spinning, the carriages clattering and clunking – began to pull away.

Harry ran down the platform, reaching for a door, any door, pulling it open – a quick hop and a jump – somebody’s hands reaching out to grab him and pull him aboard.

And then he was in, pulling the door shut with the leather strap and slamming the window closed to keep the smoke and steam out!

Made it, he thought.

A look around the carriage, and – squeezing into a spot – he sank back into the musty upholstery, nodding to the other occupants and the elderly gentleman next to him who shuffled along the crowded bench seat to give him space.

“Thanks, old chap!” he said, turning and looking across at the bowler-hatted commuter who’d pulled him in.

“Cutting it fine there,” said the man, taking out The Times and folding it carefully.

Stating the obvious.

Must remember the peccadilloes of my countrymen. Been a while, thought Harry

“Wife’ll absolutely kill me if I’m not home for dinner,” he said.

A phrase he’d heard so many times on this route as a single man – but never imagined he’d ever utter.

I’m married, he thought.

Isn’t that interesting. And to a yank no less!

“Oh, dear me, yes,” said the old fellow next to Harry. “It’s surprising how few such murders come to trial.”

The man obviously liked to read his paper and offer a running commentary.

The other passengers laughed politely, and Harry turned to smile at them – but their heads were already deep in their evening papers again.

He turned to the window, ready to watch the familiar path of his homecoming.

The train rattled over the Thames now, past Chelsea Bridge. To one side, he could see Battersea Park, families relaxing, enjoying the early evening sun. To his left, an enormous building site – the foundations, he guessed, for London’s great new power station.

And as he took in all this – the old and the new – he pondered on Sir Carlton’s words in that brief meeting in his private office.

It seemed the Foreign Office had in mind a lot of ways to use Harry on his two or three days a week.

“No stodgy meetings, Harry. Chap like you – your talent, your abilities – we intend to use all of that.”

Then the most intriguing part…

“Can’t say exactly what may be on offer. But I can promise you this. You won’t be bored.”

Sir Carlton’s words were – well – rather amazing.

What exactly would be on “offer”? What kind of work?

Undoubtedly secret. That was clear. Important, too.

And perhaps – Harry guessed – even dangerous?

*

Kat stood and stared at the Dower House.

Okay, she thought, the place itself looks – well – very English.

Thick climbing plants – with broad leaves and purple flowers – worked their way up two small pillars at the entrance, and then filled the walls below three second-floor windows.

Down on the ground floor, one tall window on each side of the solid front door.

Only one problem.

The shutters were all… shut. The house was empty and locked. And a note on the front door said: “Trunks returned to depot, redeliver Monday 8am.”

So, that meant that the truck had got here before her, found nobody home and disappeared for the weekend.

Nice.

And what about Maggie what’s-her-name – Harry’s “incredibly amazing” housekeeper?

Wasn’t she supposed to be ready with a homecoming meal after the journey all the way from Cairo? Ten days by boat and car and not even a cup of coffee for a welcome?

Kat shrugged.

No use getting worked up about it. Things happen.

Perhaps there had been some kind of mix-up. Maybe Harry’s telegram from Marseilles, the one with the change of travel plans, never reached the housekeeper?

Kat stepped back and checked her watch.

Seven thirty. What time did it get dark round here? She looked up at the sky – sun nearly set.

Soon.

She shrugged, her old field training kicking in. List options. Evaluate. Act.

So, what were the options?

One. Wait here for Harry.

Hmm – cold – and could be a long wait.

Two. Go stay in a hotel in town. Maybe – if she’d seen one. But she hadn’t. Place must have one, though?

Three. Pub? Get a few drinks with the locals and wait for Harry.

Tempting – but probably not the homecoming Harry was expecting.

Four. Go find Harry’s aunt, her house, and – well – meet the family.

She waited a moment.

Well, hell yes. Option four. Wasn’t that the obvious one? What were families for? And didn’t Harry’s Aunt Lavinia – Lady Lavinia, she reminded herself – have a grand place right up the road?

She pulled out the crumpled sketch map she’d used to find the Dower House, straightened it out and peered at it.

Sure enough, there was a path leading from the back of the house across a couple of fields right up to the front door of what Harry labelled “the Mortimer country seat”.

Mydworth Manor.

Now – didn’t that sound like the kind of establishment where a girl could get a stiff drink and a meal when she needed one?

And she definitely needed both.

She grabbed her jacket from the back seat of the Alvis, and clipped the tonneau in place, giving the car a roof in case it rained.

After all, didn’t it always rain in England?

Then she scribbled a note for Harry and pinned it to the front door.

With luck, he’d be home in an hour and they could all have a little family get-together with Aunt Lavinia, while Harry dug out some keys to the house so they could come back here and get some sleep.

She headed through the garden – stopping to sniff a totally lush rosebush on the way – then slipped through a cute little picket gate and headed off across a broad meadow.

After five minutes, she paused. Pulled out the sketch again and inspected it carefully.

She’d expected the manor house to come into view by now, but all she could see was the far range of wooded hills.

No matter – the meadow sloped gently upwards – the Mortimer estate was probably just in the valley beyond.

Aunt Lavinia is going to be so surprised to see me, she thought, in the gathering dusk.

Though, well she knew, sometimes surprises aren’t always welcome.

4. A Death at the Manor

Harry slammed the compartment door shut and watched the train slowly chug away from Mydworth station, heading into the darkness and to the coast.

Then he followed the other commuters past the ticket hall and round into the tiny station yard where taxis sometimes waited.

But the yard was empty. He checked his watch in the light of the single street lamp.

Not worth waiting – best a brisk walk up through the town to the house.

Should only take twenty minutes, he thought, and he set off up the hill.

*

Kat clambered over a fence, slipped – and landed with a thud, on her face, on the wet grass.

“Damn,” she said out loud. “Damn, damn, damn.”

Then she stood up, wiped the mud off her khaki trousers and top – selected for how she thought they made her look like one of her idols, the amazing Amelia Earhart.

Now, the whole outfit was stained with muddy circles.

Oh well.

Half an hour she’d been walking – so much for Harry’s renowned map-making skills. So far, she’d crossed one stream, avoided a herd of cows, and lost a shoe in a hedge. Now covered in mud, her remaining shoe… useless.

Not quite the evening she’d been expecting.

But hey – it can only get better, she thought. She carried on across the meadow, avoiding what they called cowpies at home.

Luckily a half-moon had risen, and there was just enough light to chart a course.

And then in the distance she heard music – familiar music.

Fats Waller!

The voice carrying clearly over the meadow…

“Ain’t Misbehavin’. Saving all my love for you.”

Extraordinary! Fats himself, right here in the English countryside!

She headed towards the sound, and minutes later reached the crest of the hill to see – down in the valley, only a couple of hundred yards away – a large country house.

It made the Dower House look like a hut.

“Wow, wow, wow,” she said – this time in a hushed voice – as she stopped and took in the unexpected sight and sounds.

Looking stocky and square, the house squatted behind perfect lawns dotted with classical statues, surrounded by woodland.

She could also see easily a dozen bedroom windows, framed by thick ivy across the upper floors; a grand entrance with glowing lanterns; and a sweeping gravel drive that came out of the woods and curved round a fountain, with a cherub armed with bow and arrow, set back from the house.

And even from up here, the source of the music was clear: a large downstairs living room, or whatever they called it here, running along the side of the building, with French windows thrown wide open, and a dozen or so people standing inside, all in evening dress, chatting, laughing.

Drinking cocktails!

A pause in the music – and then the gramophone launched into a new disc – a song that she and Harry absolutely loved back in Cairo: Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love.

Which of course is exactly what we did, she thought.

Albeit, less a decision than, in her opinion – inevitable.

Hell, yes! This is more like it, she thought, a thrill of excitement making up for the crazy hike through muddy fields. First night in England, and we’re going to a party, Kat!

She brushed a stray piece of straw from her hair and wiped her muddy hands on her jacket.

Guess I’ll have to borrow some clothes. And definitely some shoes.

With a skip in her step, she headed barefoot down the gentle slope towards the house.

*

Kat walked across the dark shadowed lawn of Mydworth Manor watching the smartly-dressed guests being gently ushered out of the reception room and into a formal dining room: tall windows revealed a long table set with candelabra, glass and silver sparkling, maids and footmen ready to serve dinner.

Well – isn’t this something, she thought.

She suddenly realised that in this muddy state – she might not quite get the welcome she was hoping for.

Maybe better to head for the servants’ entrance and enlist some help getting an outfit?

Don’t want to frighten Aunt Lavinia – or the elegant guests!

She walked a bit closer to the house, trying to figure the layout. To one side stood what she guessed were outbuildings and stables – in the darkness, she could just see the outline of cars parked in a line.

As she rounded the side of the house, searching for a servants’ entrance, she glanced up at the bedroom windows.

In one of them, she saw something – a shape and shadows moving.

Must be somebody late for dinner, she thought. Better hurry up – smells good – don’t want to miss it!

But then, before she looked away, a man appeared at the window, silhouetted against the bedroom light. She watched him grab hold of the window frame – then climb up onto it!

And now, through the open window, she heard loud voices coming from the room.

What the…?

She saw the man pivot, as if to climb out of the window, his foot reaching down into the ivy and trellis for a footing, his body now fully twisted round so his back was to her, one hand gripping the window frame, one reaching down to get a hold in the ivy.

A shrill scream from inside the room.

A piercing, terrifying, woman’s scream.

And, right at that window, a muzzle flash and a gunshot – crisp and loud out here in the gardens.

And the clinging man fell backwards, as if punched, falling, head rocking back, arms spiralling, legs now in the air, kicking, taking forever to land. Kat knew he must land so hard from that height.

With a horrible thud, he hit the ground.

Kat stood still, not moving, mouth open in shock, not able to say or do anything for a second. Another man appeared at the window, arm raised, revolver in hand and…

Bang!

A second gunshot, this one somehow seeming louder – as if the first shot had silenced the world. The muzzle flash brighter too -

Bang!

And now a third.

And Kat felt, rather than heard, the bullet thread through the air near her, and realised she was in the firing line. For the second time that day, instincts kicked in and she crouched and ran towards the nearest cover: a milky-white stone pedestal plinth, with a helmeted figure atop it holding a sword in one hand, and a head in another.

And as she reached it, stumbling, falling – she hit somebody hard with her shoulder who fell back with the impact against the pedestal with a loud…

“What the bloody hell—?”

“Harry?” she said, grabbing a familiar-feeling arm, as yet another two shots rang out.

Bang! Bang!

And a fragment of marble shattered above their heads.

“Kat? Can I not leave you for an afternoon without a war starting?”

“I didn’t start this one.”

“Good to hear. Um, any idea what’s going on?”

“None at all. But there’s a man down, over in the bushes there. Fell from the window.”

“Uninvited guest perhaps? Got your note by the way.”

“Yes, gathered that.”

Bang! Kat saw a chunk of muddy grass spiral away into the darkness by her feet. She tucked in her legs a little more.

“Okay, so I’m a bit late to this party,” said Harry. “Out of interest – how many shots is that?”

Kat thought for a second.

“Six – I think.”

“Think?”

“No – I’m sure.”

“Good,” said Harry. “Sounds like a standard-issue Webley. He’ll have to stop to reload.”

Kat watched her husband stand and brush down his suit, then shout up to the window: “I say! Do you mind awfully cutting that out, somebody could get hurt.”

Bang!

“Ah,” said Kat, confused. “Sorry. That must be six. Though, Harry – I really do think it was seven.”

“Counting. Always tricky at times like this.”

She stood up too, grabbed her surviving shoe, and looked across at the house. More lights were now on, and people were crowding at the downstairs windows. She heard shouting and crying from up in the bedrooms.

“Harry. The man who fell…” she said, knowing that seconds could mean the difference between life and death. “Come on.”

With Harry just behind her, she ran towards the house.

There, in the shrubs and flowers below the window from where the shots had been fired, she could see a dark shape.

The body of a man, lying on his back, not moving. Limbs splayed. The angles – unnatural.

She crouched down next to him, her fingers quickly reaching to the neck, looking for a pulse. His skin was still warm, the eyes blankly open. A young man. A lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Harry was at her side. “Anything?”

She hated it when there was nothing she could do.

“No,” she said. “He’s dead.”

5. The Constable Calls

Kat stepped back, as Harry crouched and leaned in to inspect the body.

“Quite a drop,” he said, nodding towards the bedroom window. But then he tilted the man’s head gently, and the lock of hair fell away: “But – I don’t think it was the fall that killed him.”

In the darkness, Kat could now make out a bullet wound to the man’s temple, blood glistening.

As a young volunteer nurse in France, back in 1918, she’d seen enough casualties to know that such a wound was almost certainly fatal.

She felt Harry’s hand – warm on her arm, felt his body next to hers, knowing that he understood what she was feeling now.

Both of them had that shared history of war. In moments like this it could return without warning, raw and vivid.

She stood up – Harry’s arm still on her shoulder – then turned as a woman’s voice cut loudly through the silence.

“Good God! Harry? Is that you?”

From out of the darkness, a flashlight was suddenly pointed at her and Harry, as a group of figures rushed towards them. “Hell-lo Aunt Lavinia,” said Harry, shielding his eyes from the dazzle.

As the flashlight was lowered and the group approached, Kat saw a tall, elegant woman leading them, the brightly coloured Japanese silk shawl over her shoulders catching the moonlight perfectly.

So… this is the famous Lavinia, thought Kat, taking in her every feature.

Harry had told her so much about his aunt – but not how striking she was.

Tall, like Harry, with a kind of languor about her movements.

Her hair was dark and fashionably short – with the type of kiss curls you’d normally see on a younger woman. Her clothes elegant, her face sharply defined, with high cheek bones and barely any make-up.

She looks like… like a… leopard, thought Kat.

Lavinia stopped suddenly – clearly shocked to see Harry – and then even more shocked to see the body at their feet.

“Oh my,” said Lavinia, focusing the torchlight on the body, then taking Harry’s hand as if to steady herself. “Poor boy. Is he… dead?”

“Afraid so,” said Harry. “You know him?”

Kat watched Lavinia lean closer, then pull back quickly.

“Oh God – it’s Coates. My driver.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry. “Any idea what happened?”

“Heard a gunshot. From the look of things, I think Cousin Reggie shot him,” said Lavinia, looking up at the still-lit bedroom window above. “As to why? I have absolutely no idea.”

“I think perhaps I do,” said Harry. Kat watched as he took out a handkerchief, crouched down by the body, reached into the man’s jacket pocket… and gently pulled out an ornate diamond necklace.

As he stood – the jewellery sparkled and shimmered in the light from the house. Kat heard a gasp from the small crowd of onlookers behind her.

“Extraordinary,” said Lavinia.

“That’s not all,” said Harry, nodding towards the flowerbed. And now, Kat could see the light catching other pieces, scattered on the ground: single jewels, bracelets, rings…

The man must have held them clutched in his hand as he fell.

Kat watched Harry fold the handkerchief with the necklace and place it in his trouser pocket. Then he took off his jacket and gently placed it over the body.

After a few seconds, he rose and faced the small group of onlookers, in their evening dress, who now pressed closer.

“There’s nothing we can do for him now,” he said, gently ushering Lavinia’s guests away from the crime scene. “I suggest we all move back to the house and telephone for the police.”