Mydworth Mysteries - Episode 7-9 E-Book

Matthew Costello

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

Seitenzahl: 499

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

From the authors of the best-selling series CHERRINGHAM

This compilation contains episodes 7-9:

THE WRONG MAN

When young Ben Carter is found murdered in an alleyway one snowy night in Mydworth, all the evidence points to his best pal. Harry and Kat become involved - can they find the real culprit?

SECRETS ON THE COTE D’AZUR

When Harry and Kat head south to the French Riviera, they look forward to dazzling parties, a shimmering sea, and wonderful food. But they soon find that the streets and alleyways of the Cote d'Azur hide secrets and danger of a most deadly sort.

A DISTANT VOICE

It's Midsummer in Mydworth - and a celebrated medium is in town with his lucrative supernatural show, raising suspicions. As the Midsummer festivities intensify, Harry and Kat find themselves in a game of deception and clever tricks, where nothing is what it seems, and everyone is a suspect ...

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Main Characters

Title

Mydworth Mysteries

The Authors

The Wrong Man

1. Last Rounds

2. Mabel’s Last Hope

3. Ben and Ollie

4. The Case Begins

5. Ben Carter

6. An Open-and-Shut Case

7. Slip-Knot Alley

8. The Condemned Man

9. The Station Inn

10. What Will Saw

11. The Moments Before a Murder

12. A Break at Last

13. A Little More Digging

14. Secrets

15. The Long Arm of the Law

16. The Truth About Blackmead Farm

17. An Unlikely Exit

18. A Long Night

19. The Final Hours

20. The Valentine’s Day Ball

Secrets on the Cote d'Azur

1. A Sunset to Remember

2. Strangers on a Train

3. The Côte d’Azur!

4. True Love

5. Deux Boulevardiers

6. To Catch a Crook

7. The Advantages of a Touring Motorcycle

8. A Surprise Visitor

9. A Trip to the Old Town

10. A Night on the Town

11. A Late-night Visit

12. Safe Secrets

13. To Catch a Blackmailer

14. The Truth of an Unlikely Romance

15. Follow the Money

16. Dealer Choice

17. The End of the Pier Show

18. Retour à Paris

A Distant Voice

1. An Intimate Gathering

2. Is There Anybody There?

3. A Most Strange Case Begins

4. A Return to the Grange

5. The Scene of the Crime?

6. A Plan is Formed

7. The Medium’s Guests

8. Converts

9. Showtime at Mydworth Town Hall

10. Voices from the Past

11. A Morgue and a Mausoleum

12. Voices From the Past

13. Secrets of the Accomplice

14. Is There Anybody There?

15. Let the Surprises Begin!

16. A Midsummer Chase

17. Just a Quiet Summer Evening

Copyright

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.

MATTHWEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

A Cosy Historical Mystery Compilation

Episode 7 – 9

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 as audiobooks.

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.

MATTHEW COSTELLONEIL RICHARDS

The Wrong Man

1. Last Rounds

Police Constable Bert Loxley made his way slowly past the locked gates of St Thomas’s Church, down Church Street, past Mydworth Motors, taking his time as he did his nightly rounds. This walk through the village was a regular-as-clockwork duty, to make sure that everything was as peaceful and quiet as could be, checking all the businesses properly shut up, windows closed, shutters down.

Behind him now, he heard the church clock strike the half hour: he paused for a second, and checked his pocket watch out of habit. Spot on.

Right now, the streets were empty – his shadow the only movement under the gas lamps.

Truth was, he’d hardly seen a soul tonight, though that wasn’t surprising: a cold mist lingered in the damp November streets, and he could feel the chill even through his heavy uniform and mackintosh.

As he turned back and went down the High Street, his footsteps echoed on the pavement.

Yes, peaceful and quiet.

Though this night had not started that way. A call to the station about a few patrons down at the Station Inn, fuelled by one too many, who might be heading into a proper fist fight.

Which would have been the most activity that he had faced so far in the two weeks of his new posting to Mydworth – save for a lone domestic problem that had ended with the couple, blubbering in each other’s arms, all suddenly forgiven. That is, Loxley knew, until the next row.

Tonight however, when he’d pitched up at the pub, the men involved had genuinely seemed to be on the edge of spilling out into the streets for a bare-knuckle battle.

But, as it turned out, simply by his walking in the door, the men seemed to freeze, neither of them clearly fancying the idea of a night cooling off in jail.

All Loxley had to do was ask: “Everything all right, gentlemen?” and the flushed faces had softened, glaring eyes lowered – and suddenly trouble had been averted.

Loxley had considered taking their names, mostly as an added bit of encouragement to finish their beers and head home quietly.

But with the grievances apparently fading – and the last round looming anyway – he didn’t think it warranted taking matters further. He’d jotted a couple of names in his notebook, wished the publican a good night, and headed back up Station Road into town.

Now, as Loxley turned to go down the High Street, he looked in through the windows of the Green Man, which he’d been told was the most civilised of the town’s watering holes.

The landlord wiping down the pumps, just a couple of regulars finishing up at the bar, and a handful of others, coats on, last farewells before dispersing to their homes.

For a moment he stood there, just taking in the evening: the warm camaraderie of the townsfolk leaving the warm, yellow light of the pub and heading to their cosy homes.

Mydworth. Such a tidy little town, Loxley thought. More like a village. And he wondered, being honest with himself, how long he would be satisfied with the sleepy ebb and flow of life here.

Life in the Metropolitan Police in London would be much more to his taste. Plenty of crimes to deal with, and Loxley knew that the Met had to be exploring the very latest methods of solving all sorts of cases.

But here, Sergeant Timms had been quick to inform the new constable on his first day at the station: “We do things the old-fashioned way, Loxley. Methods that stand the test of time.”

Except, Loxley guessed, Timms’ “methods” probably didn’t get tested on a regular basis.

But the world was changing, growing more complex every day. People wanting different things, peacetime life not bringing everyone the peace or prosperity they had expected. Or been promised by the politicians.

And tonight – brisk, a chilly November night as if winter was in rehearsal, Mydworth remained sleepy and safe.

*

Finally – crossing the square, past the Town Hall and the bank, all secure, to Hill Lane – Loxley scanned the quiet side streets, the nearby small shops shuttered, most homes now dark. Early to bed being very much an adage held close by many in this little town, even on a Saturday night.

He’d soon be done. Time to return to the station where that, too, would quickly go dark.

Any rare late-night summons would be directed to Timms at home, who would – for any significant matter – come and roust Loxley from the single room that he rented above the gentlemen’s outfitters.

Halfway down Hill Lane, past the shops now, and just at the point where the street lights came to an end, he took his usual left turn into Slip-Knot Alley. This oft-used shortcut led up to the football pitch and a line of tumbledown cottages at the edge of the town which marked the end of his rounds.

What was it, the locals called these alleyways?

Ah yes, “twittens”, that was it.

He unclipped his torch from his belt, turned it on: the pale beam of light catching swirls of mist on the pathway ahead.

His own steps echoed as he walked down the serpentine lane, a wall of brick on both sides.

This twitten must, he imagined, be a favoured spot for the young couples of the town, seeking a few minutes hidden away from prying eyes.

Wouldn’t be surprised if I stumble upon something like that, even on a chilly night like this.

Then, as if in answer, the narrow lane curved for its final time, revealing a grassy opening, neatly surrounded on the side by thick bushes.

And Constable Loxley saw something in the cone of light from his torch.

*

For a moment he froze, thinking that what was ahead, curled up on the grass, might be the romantic pair he’d been imagining previously.

But no. Loxley immediately knew what the shape must be.

Of course. Some fellow heading home from the pub, using this as a shortcut, must have stumbled and decided a few minutes of a chilly snooze was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Before he got to the person, Loxley cleared his throat, to give the chap some warning.

“All right then. Having a spot of trouble, are we? Best you try to—”

Loxley expected the man to stir at the loud voice, giving it the heft that a request from the authorities should bring.

But this person – nothing.

Loxley moved closer, now – with the air growing chillier by the moment – even a bit concerned for the fellow.

“Now c’mon then, my lad. Time you were off home, time to get up.”

At that, Loxley gave the back of the man’s shoes a little kick. Just a small “tap, tap”, a last manoeuvre before dragging the drunk to a standing position.

But that did nothing.

So, Constable Loxley bent down, to see...

...something wet near the body glistening, catching the light from the torch.

Loxley’s stomach tightened. He reached down to hook the man’s arm, to turn him around, so he could see up close what glistened all around him, like a thick muddy pool.

Something that Loxley had never seen in such quantity, and perhaps never expected to see in the town of Mydworth.

Blood.

So much of it.

For a second, Loxley wasn’t sure what to do. Then he turned the body over so he could see the face and – more importantly – the wound.

There was no chance that the man would still be alive.

With so much blood lost, that would be clearly impossible.

But now, in the dim light from his torch, he saw two things.

The wound. Or actually, wounds, centred in the man’s mid section.

Whoever had done this had acted quickly, brutally. The sight of those wounds, intimidating, even – the Constable had to admit – frightening.

And then he noticed the other thing.

The man’s face.

He recognised it.

It was the face of one of the men from the pub quarrel.

From the fight that Loxley had interrupted, and – he had thought – extinguished.

One of those men now dead.

He stood up, and stepped back from the body, as he ran through what needed to be done now.

His training – so recently completed – coming instinctively into play. Discovery of suspicious death, constable’s priorities, list in order...

The body to be cordoned off, Sergeant Timms to be alerted. The alleyway to be sealed at both ends, examined minutely for evidence.

Loxley ticked off all the steps that would have to be taken.

The locals would soon become aware of the activity, torches, car lights. More police would need to be summoned from Chichester to assist.

Did the man have family? They would need to be awakened in the middle of the night, once the constabulary could answer the basic question of – who was he?

With the larger question pushed aside for now: who wanted to kill this man... and why?

Loxley gave himself a moment, a deep breath, the air chasing away the metallic smell that had filled his nostrils when he first bent down.

And before he started to do all that must be done, another thought came to him.

Perhaps sleepy Mydworth isn’t so sleepy at all.

2. Mabel’s Last Hope

Harry raced up the steps of the Town Hall, snow flying from his warm camel trench coat. He wondered how Kat – who’d driven here earlier, all the way from Arundel – had fared with the Alvis in the snow.

Over breakfast she had laughed as the first flakes had fallen. “You call that snow? You should see what a winter Nor’easter looks like in January in New York. Back where I come from, Sir Harry, we’d label that a ‘dusting’.”

He had smiled. He did enjoy the way Kat gave his British view of things such a nice American twist. Refreshing!

Entering the hall, he saw groups of people busy decorating it – some on ladders hanging pink streamers, a few busily attaching large red crepe-paper hearts to the wall.

Winter might have thrown some weather at them, but in here? Spring looked ready to be sprung.

And then he saw Kat, with Aunt Lavinia. His wife was at the top of a ladder, stretching up to tack a twisted garland proclaiming “Happy Valentine’s Day!” onto the centuries-old walls of the Town Hall.

Harry tossed his coat onto a folding chair, hurrying to Kat, whose fingertips appeared to be just a few inches shy of their target.

“The troops have arrived,” he said, one hand out to steady the ladder.

Kat turned, ever stunning, even with what looked like her gardening trousers and a grey puffy fisherman’s sweater, hair pulled back. Amazing how she can pull off that look, he thought, as she said: “Well, your aunt and I are in the market for gentlemen with a bit more of a, shall we say, reach?”

“Knew I was good for something.”

And he watched as Kat came down the ladder and handed him the pink and white garland.

When he reached the top step of the ladder, he turned to both his Aunt Lavinia and Kat, saying, “I imagine I cut quite a figure like this, eh?”

“You remember what traditionally comes after pride, Harry?” said Kat, teasingly wobbling the ladder.

“Hey, steady now,” said Harry. “Don’t want to damage your Charleston partner for Saturday!”

*

Kat was laughing at a story Lavinia told about last year’s Valentine’s Ball – something to do with a man in a tux that no longer came even close to fitting him – when she heard the doors to the hall swing open with a bang.

She turned to see Nicola, who ran the Women’s Voluntary Service, and alongside her another woman, young, pretty, walking hand in hand with a little girl who clutched a stuffed bear tight.

Kat worked a couple of days a week for Nicola at the WVS, helping out with legal work and administration: the threadbare charity – such a good cause – supporting Mydworth women with all kinds of problems, no questions asked.

Kat had mentioned to her yesterday that she was helping decorate the Town Hall for Saturday’s charity ball – she guessed that Nicola was here to see her.

Kat watched them hurry over – the woman’s eyes showing the marks of someone who had recently been crying.

Or – more to the point – someone who had been crying a lot.

Harry had turned away from his aunt, and now came beside Kat.

“What do we have here?” he said, as Nicola closed the distance, the speed and franticness of her arrival an odd contrast to the colourful garlands and crepe-paper hearts that decorated the hall.

Whatever lay ahead – it was clearly not festive.

*

As was Nicola’s style, she got quickly to the point.

“Kat, Sir Harry,” then to Lavinia, “m’lady.”

Kat saw Nicola pause to look at the obviously distressed woman beside her. “I wonder, if we could have a word in private? This is Mabel Brown. And little Elsie. It’s about something rather serious.”

Kat was nodding even before she reached the end of her sentence. Meanwhile, Lavinia, quick to act, took a step forward, and bent down to the towheaded little girl. “You know, I am sure I spied a plate of biscuits somewhere around here.” Kat saw Lavinia shoot a look at the mother and Nicola. “Why don’t you and I see if we can find them?”

The little girl, one hand holding her well-loved bear, the other her mother’s hand, looked up at her mother, who was quick to nod.

Then Lavinia, the girl’s hand now held gently in hers, said to Kat: “There’s a small room you can use behind the stage. Nice and private.”

And with that, as if taking little Elsie on some great adventure, Lavinia walked away with her, elaborating on the array of biscuits that awaited them.

“Shall we?” Kat said, indicating the side door that led to the back-stage area.

*

They pulled four chairs together to make a circle in a room filled with boxes of ancient props and decorations. Kat wished they had some tea at the ready.

At moments like this, she had learned, the stuff was positively essential.

Harry, she saw, kept an easy manner, projecting steadiness and reassuring calm.

“So, what seems to be the problem,” he said, looking at Kat, then adding the vital words, “and how can we help?”

Nicola turned to Mabel whose hands were intertwined as if wrestling with each other over some dispute.

Kat thought she saw a glimmer of yet more tears in the corner of each eye.

“It’s my Ollie,” said Mabel, tentatively. “My husband.”

The woman took the deepest of breaths.

“Y-you see – he’s in Pentonville Prison in London. And they’re going to hang him! Friday at dawn. Dawn!”

And with those rather amazing words, the young woman fell apart, sobbing, heaving as Nicola draped an arm around her.

While all waited for this terrible storm – if not to end – to at least subside.

*

Harry handed the woman his folded handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes, then began to talk again.

“They said he killed Ben Carter. Murdered him.”

Harry took his seat. He knew the case. Wasn’t often that Mydworth was rocked by such a grisly affair. The young chap, Carter, had been found brutally stabbed in a narrow cut-through on the edge of the town, just up from Hill Lane.

The evidence, as reported in the Mydworth Mercury, overwhelming: a bloody knife found at the house of Oliver Brown; as well as a shirt – dappled in blood – discovered in his vegetable patch. Buried, but apparently too quickly, and easily found.

He and Kat had talked about the case when the lurid details first came out, following developments through the courts to the final guilty verdict before Christmas at the Old Bailey in London.

With Kat’s background working for a New York criminal lawyer, she had agreed: there seemed little doubt that Oliver Brown had murdered his old friend in a drunken rage.

In desperation, it seemed, the defence had resorted to pleading that the whole affair should be seen as a crime of passion; there’d been absolutely no attempt to deny that Brown had struck the fatal blows.

For now, Harry held back any questions – the most important of which would be, What on earth could he and Kat do to help this woman and her husband? Justice had reached its decision.

At one point, Nicola added details: “The WVS were able to arrange a solicitor to manage the case. Charles Strudwick... you know him?”

Harry nodded. Strudwick was an elderly and perfectly adequate partner in one of Mydworth’s oldest practices. Eminently respectable, but perhaps not someone you’d want to entrust with your life in a murder trial.

“Anyway, Mr Strudwick’s barrister in London won an appeal last month. Hoping for more information to come to light.”

Harry thought, With all the evidence as reported in the paper, what more information could possibly be needed?

“The lawyers did the best they could, I’m sure,” Nicola said, “but we just heard this morning, the appeal failed.”

“And my Ollie didn’t do it!” Mabel said.

Of course, Harry thought, that’s what any wife would claim about their accused husband.

He saw Kat lean forward, reach out and take Mabel’s two hands in hers. Hold them. Then very gently she said, “Can you tell us, why you think that, Mabel? Why you believe your husband isn’t guilty?”

And Harry saw that Kat’s grasp – gentle and supportive – had given the woman some strength to tell what she believed.

Now it would be a simple question: would her words be anything that they too could believe?

3. Ben and Ollie

My Ollie wouldn’t kill anyone,” said Mabel, as if the very notion was patently obvious. “I mean, he has a temper all right, and he can get into a spot of trouble. But kill someone? Never!”

Harry glanced at Kat. Was this the defence? It didn’t stand for much.

“I read in the reports,” Kat said, “that Ben and your husband were old friends?”

“Yes. I mean, they knew each other – all grew up in Mydworth, didn’t we? Course, Ben had come up in the world, and my Ollie, still, well, just a farmhand. But they were never enemies, not really.”

Harry found the choice of the words “not really” rather interesting.

So did Kat, apparently.

“But there had been – or was – something?”

Yes, Harry thought, she sensed something not being said here.

Least, not yet.

Mabel looked again to Nicola as if she needed a bit of a prod to say what she was about to say. Then, “Long time ago, we three all knew each other, and, and... well, Ben and me, we was going together then. Ollie used to joke that Ben still carried a torch for me. But I told him, time moves on, Ollie.”

She paused.

“But there was that... history, yes.”

“And what about the night it all happened?” Kat said. “Did you see Ollie when he came home from the pub?”

“No. I’d gone to bed, hadn’t I?”

Harry glanced at Kat again, now remembering the woman’s testimony as written in the papers.

“So, you don’t actually know what time he got in?” said Harry.

“Well, it was later. After the pub closed. That’s what I said in court.”

Harry smiled and nodded at that. “But – you can’t be sure?”

Mabel shrugged away the obvious point.

“He woke me up with his snoring. Asleep on the rocker, by the fire, he was. Always snored, he did, after a few pints.”

“So nothing unusual about that night?” said Kat.

“No. Only the police coming round at dawn, banging on the door, taking my Ollie away...”

Harry could see that Mabel was about to break down again, but Kat put a hand on her shoulder. “That must have been so frightening.”

“It was. And little Elsie, she didn’t understand.”

Harry watched how gently Kat asked questions.

“They had been at the Station Inn?” she said. “Lot of drinks I guess?”

Mabel nodded. “My Ollie, he liked his ale. Could get a bit out of order. But never nasty with it, you know? Not like a lot of the lads.”

“But there had been a bit of a fight, hadn’t there, earlier in the evening?” Harry asked, doing his best to be as gentle as his wife had been.

Mabel hesitated, then said slowly, “The police was called. Seems the two of them got into some kind of dustup. But no real harm done. Things all calmed down, with Will there.”

Will. Not a name Harry remembered from the newspaper story.

“Will?” he asked.

Mabel nodded. “Will Davis. One of the lads, he is. Was with them in the pub. All friends together, see? Whatever happened, had passed.”

Then Mabel began shaking her head. “My Ollie has a temper, yes. But he loves me – loves our little Elsie – more than anything in the world. He wouldn’t—” the words hard now, with lips quivering “—get angry and throw it all away.”

And she looked up, through what were now constantly glistening pools.

“It’s only three days away. Three days, and I lose my husband; my little girl her father. Please, m’lady, Sir Harry... help me.”

Harry was ready to answer but Kat beat him to the punch.

“Mabel, I’m not sure what Sir Harry and I can do. But I guess Nicola has all the details?”

Mabel nodded, the slim offer of hope having its affect.

Kat turned to Harry. “We can look into things. See if anything was missed from the evidence.”

Mabel leaned out of her chair and – like grasping a lone rocky outcrop in a raging sea – gave Kat the biggest hug.

At which point Harry heard his aunt enter, chattering away with her new charge.

“Ah, there’s your mother. Elsie here was wondering where you were.” Lavinia leaned down to the little girl, still holding half a biscuit. “Though we had the grandest time – with our oatmeal biscuits – looking at all the decorations.”

The little girl went to her mother, who stood up.

Kat looked at Mabel. “We’ll do our best. But please don’t think we can promise anything.”

“But you’ll try?” Mabel said.

Harry answered that one. “We will absolutely do that.”

And then, feeling that they were now facing an impossible task, he watched as Nicola, with a grateful smile to Kat, escorted the woman and her little girl from the stock room, and out to the hall.

It was Lavinia who pointed out the obvious.

“I know the case. From the papers, of course. You two have your work cut out for you.”

To which Kat replied, “Do we ever...”

*

Kat pushed open the heavy door of the Town Hall and pulled her coat tight against the falling snow.

“How about we leave the Alvis here, walk back to the Dower House?” said Harry, as he joined her. “I can pop down, pick it up later.”

“Good idea,” said Kat. “I take back what I said about New York. This English snow? Looking like the real thing. Quite beautiful, actually.”

She took Harry’s arm, and together they plodded across the square and up the High Street, the snow shin-deep.

Around them, in the gathering darkness, she saw the shops all shutting early, the gas lights in the street already lit, throwing pools of yellow light.

A bunch of delighted kids on the corner were throwing snowballs.

“Harry,” she said, snuggling against his warm coat as they walked. “The evidence does sound damning.”

“To say the least. The murder weapon found. The bloody shirt. And what happened at the pub beforehand?”

“I just couldn’t bear to say ‘no’ to her.”

“Oh, me too. You know, Kat, I do understand how the people in the lovely town of Mydworth have come to appreciate our rather unlikely skills. But rabbits out of hats? Tough call, as your fellow New Yorkers would say.”

“Agree. Totally.”

She held his arm tight, the thought of Mabel’s husband facing the gallows... such a grim image.

Especially leaving behind that little girl.

“I have an idea. You’re in London tomorrow, aren’t you?” she said.

“Don’t remind me. Another interminable meeting, yes,” said Harry. “Early train – if it’s still running.”

“Then home for the rest of the week?”

“That’s the general idea.”

“So, we’re not too busy, are we?”

“Not terribly,” said Harry.

They walked in silence for another minute, treading carefully in the thick snow. Then, at the crossroads by the Green Man, she turned to him, their breath making small clouds in the chilly evening air.

“It’s just... I wondered... what with you being at the Foreign Office and all, maybe you could pull some strings in London? You must know someone who knows someone?”

“Not sure that my knowing anyone can stop the wheels of justice and the dire fate ahead for Oliver Brown.”

Kat nodded at that.

“Not even to win a delay? Another appeal? Worth pursuing, right? I mean, really?”

Harry nodded, but then looked away as if there was something troubling him.

“Trouble is, it all comes back to the small matter of the damned – and damning – evidence,” he said. “All pointing in the direction of Oliver Brown having stabbed Ben Carter.”

“I know. But can I let you in on a little secret?”

“Why do I think I’m about to hear a tale from the great metropolis of Manhattan?”

She laughed, as they stood now for a moment at the foot of their drive. “Because you are. My work for that defence attorney? Know what we saw, more than just a few times? Evidence that seemed magically to ‘pop’ up. The police, the DA—”

“Sorry, DA?”

“District Attorney. The city’s prosecutor. Both eager to close a case, get their suspect in jail, and move onto other things.”

“While the real killer goes free?”

“Exactly. So, listen, Harry,” she grabbed his forearm, “why don’t we, in the days ahead, talk to anyone connected to the two men? Look for another motive. Another suspect. Look for any secrets. Anything – and everything. Worth a shot don’t you think?”

Harry fixed his eyes on her. He’s thinking this over, Kat thought.

“Not terribly sure at this point. But,” Harry took her arm again as they headed up the drive towards the house, “well – dammit – why not?” he said turning to her. “The hangman, as they say, waits for no man.”

And with the sudden idea – the possibility, even though she had not a jot of proof – that there could have been a mistake in the judgement, Kat took a deep breath.

Then, as if simply planning another festive activity to accompany the upcoming weekend’s charity ball, she said: “Shall we plot and plan? Now, I mean. Right now?”

“Absolutely. Quick cup of tea, warm up by the fire, then carry on over dinner?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t think about starting an adventure like this without the mandatory pot of tea!”

And Harry laughed, as they stepped up to the porch of the Dower House, the air cold, crisp, and the snow crunching below their feet.

4. The Case Begins

Thank you, Maggie,” Harry said as their housekeeper put down the tray with two plates of bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes.

The sunroom at the side of the house, small but perfectly comfortable, was catching the first glimmerings of the rising sun. A winter sun, but still – through the glass – not without warmth.

“Yours is the runny egg, sir, just as you like it,” said Maggie. “Top up the teapot, shall I?”

“Maggie, you are a godsend,” said Harry, buttering toast as Maggie took the teapot away to refill it.

“You don’t have to butter me up to get a spot more tea, Harry,” she said over her shoulder as she left the room.

He laughed at that.

Maggie had been by his side for so long. More than a housekeeper, that’s for sure.

Harry leaned over to his wife. “Whatever would we do without her?”

“Eat less, that’s for sure. I mean, we both know the extent of your cooking skills—”

“Hey there – no need to be harsh, now. Think I successfully scrambled an egg once.”

“Scrambled?” said Kat. “Confused it, more like.”

Kat, grinning, took a mouthful of toast; a scattering of crumbs on her lower lip. Harry knew they had important things to do now, not least the coming rush to the station.

Still, looking at her now, bathed in that morning sunlight?

Well, one could be excused for thoughts of procrastination.

“All right – back to the plan, then,” he said. “Think we’re sorted? I bow to your expertise.”

Kat nodded. “Well, I didn’t run real investigations in New York. Took depositions, sure. Spoke to people. But I did get rather involved in an incident or two in my postings.”

“The Istanbul affair? Sounded a tad dangerous when you told me about that one.”

“More than a tad, dear Harry. But okay, start at the beginning with the victim. I’ve got an address for Ben Carter. Lodgings out on a place called Blackmead Farm. You know it?”

“Rings a bell,” said Harry. “Up off the Arundel Road, I think? Good luck in this snow. What then?”

“The crime scene, for sure – and the victim.”

“Absolutely. Still thinking of another chat with the wife, too?”

“Probably,” said Kat. “But that – maybe later. I want to talk to the constable who discovered the body first.”

“Relatively new to the post, I remember from the newspaper reports.”

They waited while Maggie reappeared with the teapot, then returned to the kitchen.

“What about the solicitor?” said Kat. “You know him?”

“Decent enough chap. Not sure he’ll be much help. But it would be good form to let him know we’re taking a look at the case. I might have an angle on the barrister in London.”

Another bite of toast, and the crumb disappeared.

“You keeping an eye on the time?” said Kat.

“Oops,” said Harry. “Breakfast – and the company – too delicious to leave.”

Kat laughed at that. “Don’t you worry. I’ll give you a lift, check out Ben’s lodgings, then on to the police station.”

“Enjoy your encounter with Sergeant Timms.”

“Encounter? Is that what you’d call it?”

“Hardly the face of modern policing, now is he? Okay, that’s your day planned. Here’s hoping I can somehow get access to Pentonville.”

“That poor man,” said Kat. “A noose only days away.”

“Yes. But remember, that poor man – until we know otherwise – is still a brutal killer.”

“Think you do a very good job of reminding me, Harry.”

“I imagine it’s why you love me,” he said, getting up and giving her a kiss, then putting on his jacket. He grinned. “It is, isn’t it?”

Kat laughed, and then she quickly drained her tea cup, standing as well.

“Oh. Let’s not forget. There’s the third man to track down,” Kat said.

“The who?”

“Will Davis – the peacemaker Mabel mentioned? Think we can meet him together?”

“Good idea.”

And with that, Harry grabbed his coat and briefcase. Maggie had informed them that a roast chicken would be waiting for them for dinner: roast potatoes, her secret raisin stuffing, and her special carrots that tasted more like dessert than the obligatory vegetable.

At which point, thought Harry, we might just know if all this fuss is a waste of time – Oliver Brown’s fate sealed.

Or maybe not.

And as Harry opened the front door, he said: “I do love all this domesticity. You know, breakfasts, roast dinners, wife running me to the station...”

“But much more fun with our little extracurriculars?”

“Birds of a feather.”

And they left the cosy Dower House. Already Harry could see the morning growing chillier again, blue skies now dotted with looming grey clouds.

Maybe even more snow on the way.

*

Kat dropped Harry off at the station, barely in time for him to race up the platform stairs to catch the 8.14 to London Victoria, then coaxed the Alvis back through the snowy streets and out onto the Arundel Road.

From there she took at least two wrong turns before she finally spotted a tilted, sad-looking sign announcing “Blackmead Farm” – just a dirt road with deep, snow-filled ruts, giving the Alvis a steady stream of nasty shakes as it rumbled up to the house.

And the house...?

As a girl, Kat had a time where she enjoyed reading scary books, especially late at night, with a Hudson Valley thunderstorm roaring outside, sending lightning streaking across the summer sky.

She’d be curled up with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or – even more amazing, more terrifying – Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

And often, when done reading – or strongly urged to go to bed by her father – she used to wish that maybe her room light could stay on.

Now, seeing this house here, she was reminded of those books. Probably quite grand in its day, the farmhouse now looked ominous; signs of neglect and decay everywhere.

Paint visibly peeling – and any paint that remained, faded to the dullest of browns. The front garden – if that was what it was – even though covered in snow, showed the signs of being let go; odd clumps of ragged vegetation shrugging through the white.

Not the cheeriest place for Ben Carter to live, she thought.

She slowed the car, pulling it close to the front door. No sign of any other vehicles and – at first – no sign of anyone living here at all.

Kat wondered if she might possibly have the wrong place. The house looked completely abandoned.

There was only one way to find out.

*

She stood on the top step and rapped on the door, its splintery wood in dire need of repair.

No answer. She knocked again, hearing the sound echoing through the eerie old house.

She was about to give up when the door opened, creaking on rusty hinges.

A woman stood there, the same age as Kat – give or take – wearing the demure and drab costume of a housekeeper.

Her hair pulled back. No makeup that Kat could see. The dress, a pale grey, falling to the mid calf, and with severe black shoes that matched the role and look.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Kat smiled, and hoped this surprise visit didn’t bring about a quick rejection of her request.

“Yes. Hi. I’m Lady Mortimer—” thinking that might help “—and I was hoping I could have a word with the owner of the house?”

“Can I ask what it’s about?” said the woman, eyeing Kat suspiciously.

“It’s to do with Ben Carter.”

The woman didn’t allow her face to register anything.

“Ben Carter is dead. Has been for some months now.”

Kat nodded as if what the woman said made perfect sense.

“I know,” she said. “I need to talk to the owner of the house. Is he at home?”

“Mr Urquhart’s always at home.”

Kat waited, the woman still peering intently at her around the half-open door, fresh flakes of snow now beginning to swirl about them both. Then, finally, Kat saw the woman hold the door open wider.

“You’d better come in.”

Kat did as she was told, stepping into a dark hallway, the interior barely any warmer than the outside.

She took in the place: bare stone-tiled floor, dark wallpaper peeling from the walls, brown-painted doors firmly shut, a corridor leading to the rear of the house where, Kat sensed, perhaps a warmer kitchen lay.

“I’m Connie Price, the housekeeper,” said the woman, pushing the door shut and turning to her. “Mr Urquhart’s up in his rooms, but – I must warn you – speaking to him can be quite a challenge.”

Kat kept smiling, adding quickly, “I do like challenges. And thank you.”

“This way then,” said the housekeeper, cutting her short.

Kat followed her across the hall to a flight of stairs.

Those stairs, covered by the darkest maroon carpets, were wide enough to support a parade of family traipsing down, perhaps to see what good old Santa had left under the tree. Kat had the feeling this grim place maybe didn’t host so many festive events any more.

She noted that the place had electricity, but it wasn’t being put to an extensive use. A single lamp with tassels lit the staircase.

Connie walked steadily ahead of her, and as they reached the top of the stairs and turned to go down a long, dark corridor past more brown-painted doors, Kat heard a muffled voice ahead of them.

“Who’s there?” came the voice, plaintive, strained. “I hear you! Who is it? Connie? Is it you?”

The housekeeper stopped at the end of the corridor, and opened the last door to reveal a sitting room, lit only by another dim floor lamp in the corner.

“Mr Urquhart,” said Connie, stepping into the room while Kat paused behind her in the doorway.

Most of the furniture in the room was covered with once-white cloths, all now turned dingy. Just a table and an old desk, scattered with papers, stood uncovered.

On the floor was another thick carpet – ancient, colours faded – with sprawling swirls that looked either like dragons or exotic plants.

A door at the far end of the room stood open. Through it, Kat could see a single bed, and next to it a washbowl and a table crammed with bottles of ointments, medications.

The paraphernalia that goes with caring for the elderly, the same the world over – so familiar from her own father’s last years.

Back in the sitting room, caught in the flickering light from a spluttering fire, Kat saw the old man himself, propped up in a wing chair, wrapped in a faded blanket, a tattered, quilted hat on his head like a Victorian gentleman.

Kat watched him slowly peer round the side of the armchair and croak at the housekeeper: “Connie! It is you! Wherever have you been? I heard voices! Can’t you hear them as—”

Then the man noticed Kat standing in the doorway.

“Who’s that? There! In the darkness! Step forward. Show yourself!”

Kat walked into the room, wondering...

Could this timid old man somehow help her uncover a hidden truth about Ben Carter’s death?

Or was she just wasting time?

The hours to the hanging, ticking away.

5. Ben Carter

Mr Urquhart took out a pair of glasses from the top pocket of his dressing gown, wiped them on his sleeve, put them on and peered at Kat.

“All right then. Who exactly are you?”

Kat thought, The old man’s faculties wobbly, and his eyesight clearly none too good.

She took some steps forward, and stretched out her hand.

Urquhart might be over 80 years old, but Kat saw the faint flicker of a spark in his eyes as if picking up a glow from the coals in the fire. Frail or not – he still maybe had some of his wits about him.

“This is Lady Mortimer,” said Connie.

“Lady Mortimer eh? You can’t be here soliciting for war bonds, yes? All that nonsense is over. So, m’lady...”

“Mr Urquhart—”

“Jeremiah, please!”

Kat smiled, encouraged by his unexpected liveliness. “I was hoping to—”

“And Lady Mortimer – an American, to boot? Didn’t even know my country allowed such things. I went to America once you know! Texas!”

“It’s a beautiful state,” said Kat.

“Towns are nice. But that countryside? Just desert and oil far as the eye can see. And tumbleweeds everywhere!”

“Did you live there?” said Kat, smiling at the old man’s strange recollections.

“Good Lord no. Are you mad, Lady Mortimer? Too hot! Far too hot! Didn’t stay long. Came home soon as I could.” He leaned close to Kat. “Now sit, sit! We can have a nice chat. Connie fetch us a pot of tea. Cups too.”

Kat saw the old man grin at his own witticism.

She looked around for an uncovered chair, finally seeing a straight-backed chair, the wood covered in peeling gilt, the seat a tattered red brocade.

It would do just fine as she told Jeremiah exactly why she was here – if he would give her the chance.

*

“I see,” the old man said when Kat finally was able to explain what she was looking into. And amazingly enough, after all this time, she saw two small wet pools in the corner of the man’s eyes.

“Loved that lad, I did. Like he was my own son.”

Kat saw him look up now to the mantelpiece – to a framed photo of a man in officer’s uniform.

“That’s my own brave boy, Arthur,” said Jeremiah. “Lost him in ’16. So, after the war, I needed help running the farm – some of the village lads came to work for me. Ben was the best, though. But then, he moved on. Made something of himself, you know?”

Kat took a sip of the tea. She noticed her cup had the smallest of chips, though she was sure that an inspection of its underside would reveal that it was once a very fine and pricey cup.

“That is why, when he came back to Mydworth, it made me so glad.”

Kat nodded as the man talked. He dabbed at his eyes. “And what happened to him... terrible. I just don’t even know what to—”

Kat put up a hand, gently, simply signalling that the two of them didn’t have to go into all that.

Instead, she had another question.

“He lived here for a while, yes?”

“Well, even when he moved away, he always used to pop back to visit every now and then. Checking up on me, he said. And then he came home to the village, got himself a proper job – a good job – was looking for a place to stay, just a room, he said. Well—” Urquhart laughed. “Got plenty of those here. He insisted I take the rent money. Think he knew how difficult things were. Helped me pay dear Connie. She’s such a good sort too, you know. Ha! Just to put up with me, Lady Mortimer.”

Another conspiratorial lean forward towards Kat.

“And that is no easy task. But I’ll see her right. When I’m gone. She deserves it.”

Kat nodded, but from the dire state of the house, she couldn’t imagine there would be more than pennies to leave to the young housekeeper.

The house... probably worth less than the old man’s debts.

She waited while he stared into the flames.

“We all go, in the end, don’t we?” he said. “But I have nothing to complain about. So many are taken too early.”

Kat nodded. “You miss Ben.”

Another long pause and, despite his irascible nature, the man’s face fell. “I do. I do indeed.”

Then he turned back to her, his voice suddenly brighter.

“Sometimes, you know, I think I hear him. Still here, in the house! Wandering about downstairs. Talking. Laughing. Must be imagining things.”

“Really?” said Kat, trying not to sound disbelieving, and saddened at Jeremiah’s confusion. “Old place like this, must creak and groan a bit.”

“Yes. Right. That’s what Connie says. But – here’s the thing – I’m not ‘mad’. I know what I hear. Saw him too one night, with my own eyes, in this very room.”

Kat just nodded. There was no doubt he believed what he had seen.

As the man spoke, he became more agitated. Then he reached out and touched Kat’s hand.

“Listen to this. I was in bed. I heard a noise out here. It was so dark, but, in the firelight, there he was! By the desk. Right... right there! Clear as day! I called out to him – Ben! I said, Ben my boy! – but he turned away, hurried downstairs, too quick for me. I was going to follow – but the stairs, ha! Connie says I mustn’t use them. Doctor too. My condition they call it. Bah, condition! Just because I’ve tripped up a couple of times.”

Kat could imagine the young housekeeper having trouble looking after this old gentleman.

She decided not pursue any questions about the sighting of Ben’s ghost.

“Jeremiah, did Ben ever have any enemies?”

“Enemies? That boy? Never! Everybody loved Ben. Good old Ben, they’d say. Generous to a ‘t’, steady and dependable as they come!”

Kat smiled.

“Yes. That’s what I’ve heard too,” she said. Then, seeing the old man slump back in his chair she quickly added: “Wondering... do you think I could look at his chambers?”

“His room? Just along the corridor there. Nothing’s been moved. I told Connie – leave it just the way it is.”

Kat smiled and leaned forward to pat the man’s right hand. There was something special about that hand, looking like something painted by Rembrandt.

Aged, fragile, and yet, Kat thought, precious. Even beautiful.

Then the man turned, and shouted as best he could: “Connie!”

*

Connie pushed open the door to the room at the far end of the long dreary hallway. Again, it was lit by a single lamp, the shade stained yellow, struggling to provide some way to light the path.

But Ben Carter’s room had a window facing south, and – with the sun rising higher – that sun had filled the small room, making it seem almost cheery. Out of the window, Kat could just see the distant buildings of Mydworth, the tall church steeple.

And laid out in front of them, snow-covered fields, probably once home to herds of cattle and sheep.

Those days clearly long gone.

She also thought: How will Urquhart be able to stay on, afford Connie, with Ben’s rent gone?

“Do you mind me asking, m’lady, what you got to do with Ben?” said the housekeeper, still standing in the room behind her.

Kat turned.

“My husband, Sir Harry Mortimer and I are looking into the case, for a friend, you see. Put them at ease that nothing was missed.”

And this seemed to spark something in the dour woman before her.

“Missed? What do you mean – missed?”

Interesting reaction, that word hitting a nerve.

But why?

“Yes. You know how people think. Worried that, somehow, they didn’t get all the facts. So yes—”

Again...

“—missed.”

The woman nodded, but stayed, hovering, as Kat looked around the room.

“His things?” Kat asked.

“There wasn’t much. Some clothes. A book he was reading. Notebooks related to his work in the electrical shop. Packed it all up and sent it to his next of kin, some cousin in Manchester.”

“Ah,” said Kat, sliding open an empty drawer – then another.

Apart from a crucifix above the bed, and a faded print of Brighton seafront, nothing remained in this room of Ben Carter.

It was as if the place had been... scoured.

Strange...

“Mr Urquhart told me that nothing in here had been touched,” said Kat, opening a small wardrobe bare even of hangars.

“He forgets things. Gets them wrong. I told him what I had done.”

Kat nodded. “No other family?”

She had a feeling that she had to press Connie. The woman was – for some reason – reluctant. But why?

“Lost his dad in the Great War. His mum, well, she couldn’t go on without him. Jeremiah took him under his wing. Gave him work, sure. Was like a dad to him as well.”

So – Jeremiah lost his own son, and then this young orphan had turned up on the farm to help out. No wonder the two had a special bond.

Kat paused. The next question, a difficult one.

“Connie, can you think of any reason someone would have wanted Ben Carter dead?”

“But Oliver Brown did it, didn’t he? They convicted him – so he did it, right?”

Bit of an edge there, thought Kat. She’s acting like she’s got something to hide.

Kat looked around the spartan room. The narrow bed, the simple chest of drawers.

“Everybody liked Ben,” said Connie.

“No enemies, then? That you know of?”

“I said ‘no’, Lady Mortimer.”

Kat smiled. “That you did. Just wondering if maybe something came to mind. Some encounter?”

“Ben Carter had no enemies.”

If there was one thing Kat knew, it was that anyone, anywhere, might have an enemy.

So why was Connie so confident?

“Can I ask you one more question?” Kat said. Connie stood there, and without giving her assent, waited. “Mr Urquhart... will he be able to get on? I mean with Ben and that rent gone?”

“Long enough,” said Connie. “The doctor told me that he hasn’t got long. Every day could be his last.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“Suspects maybe. But that’s it.”

“He talked about his... condition?”

“Makes him wobbly,” said Connie. “Confused. Tired. Imagines things, as you see. What’s ahead for him is maybe for the best – know what I mean?”

Kat wondered how the old man’s passing would affect this woman?

She seemed to have affection for Urquhart. But, without the financial support, how long could she hang on here, working?

Kat took one last moment to look in the woman’s eyes.

Funny thing about secrets, she thought.

Try as you might, somehow there is always that tell-tale sign of something not being said. Not being revealed.

And that secret?

Time to dig deeper, she thought.

“Have you worked here long, Connie?” said Kat, softening her tone.

“Since school,” said Connie, with a shrug, as if there had never been any other options for her.

“And you and Ben were here for years together?” said Kat. “Were you close?”

“Like family, we were.”

“Must have been a busy farm, back in the day?”

No answer, though Kat felt she saw in the woman’s eyes, perhaps some longing for those times.

“And now... just you and Mr Urquhart? Not easy, hmm?”

“It’s what I do, m’lady. I’m happy with my own company. And taking care of the dear man.”

“I’m sure Mr Urquhart is very grateful.”

“I can’t complain.”

Kat could sense Connie wanting to close this conversation. Time to change tack.

“That night – the night Ben died – do you remember much about what happened?”

But before the young housekeeper could answer, Kat heard Urquhart calling from his room, his voice panicky.

“Connie! Connie! I can’t find my tea!”

“I’d better go,” said Connie.

“Don’t worry,” said Kat. “I understand. I can see myself out.”

As Connie turned and headed down the corridor to deal with Jeremiah, his voice still clamouring, Kat toyed with the idea of maybe sneaking a look around downstairs.

But then decided, Better to come back again, maybe with Harry. There were more questions to ask.

Especially now with her every instinct telling her that Connie was hiding something. But what?

Was it connected to Ben Carter? Well, time – Kat hoped – would tell.

That is – if there was enough time.

6. An Open-and-Shut Case

Kat drove carefully back into town, the streets still quiet, snow banked high in the hedgerows. She parked outside Mydworth Police Station.

The steps up to the front door had been swept and salted, but were still dotted with treacherous icy patches.

Inside, as she pushed open the door and entered, she saw the portly figure of Sergeant Timms at the desk, pipe in one hand, mug in the other, and a newspaper open in front of him.

Hard at work fighting crime!

A compact fire blazed in the hearth.

“Aha, um, Lady Mortimer!” said Timms, hurriedly pushing the paper to one side, standing and dragging a ledger across in its place.

“Sergeant Timms, good morning.”

“How may I be of assistance, m’lady?” said the police sergeant, slipping round the desk and pulling out a chair for Kat to sit in.

As he retreated to his side of the desk, Kat saw a couple of faces peer out at her from the back office, then retreat out of sight.

Timms’ two constables, she guessed. One of them perhaps the chap who’d found the body?

“Brisk morning,” said Timms. “A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Kind of you, sergeant, but I’m not stopping,” said Kat, sitting and unbuttoning her coat in the warm room. “I have a favour to ask.”

“Oh yes?” said Timms. “Anything at all that the Mydworth Police can do to assist, m’lady.” Though – from Timms’ grumbling tone – it sounded to Kat more like “oh dear”.

The sergeant’s patience with Kat and Harry’s little investigations – which certainly didn’t show him or the department in a competent light – had grown thin in recent months, she knew.

“You will have heard that Oliver Brown’s appeal has been dismissed?” she said.

“Yes, m’lady. Good thing, too,” said Timms. “Waste of everybody’s time, that was.”

“Wheels of justice,” said Kat, with what she hoped was a sympathetic shrug.

“Ah yes, though those wheels do come off sometimes, don’t they?”

“Indeed they do,” said Kat, knowing that she and Timms were now talking about two completely different things.

Which suddenly seemed to dawn on the sergeant.

“Er, you’re surely not here to look into the Brown case,” said Timms. “Are you?”

“Just a review, Sergeant Timms,” said Kat. “For a friend. You know – dotting i’s, crossing t’s. Man’s life in the balance, so to speak.”

“Really,” said Timms. “And, forgive me for asking, but what precisely does that mean?”

“Speaking to witnesses. Examining the scene of the crime. Talking to the constable who found the body, perhaps.”

Kat watched as Timms did his best to put on his full-on disgruntled face.

“And on whose behalf are you doing this?”

“The WVS.”

“Oh. I see. Brown’s wife – poor lady – putting her oar in again, is she?”

Kat smiled. “Not terribly sure what that means. Oar? But I’d guess you’d agree that Mrs Brown certainly has a right to try and save her husband?”

“To the bitter end, it would seem,” said Timms, his voice rising. “All rather useless, as I am sure you understand. Doesn’t mean we all have to ‘jump’ when the woman says ‘jump’.”

“Of course not,” said Kat calmly, refusing to respond in kind. “But we all want justice, do we not?”

“I dare say you wouldn’t be questioning ‘justice’ if you’d seen the state of that poor lad Carter. Trust me. In this case, justice is the hanging of Oliver Brown, and a hanging there shall be, I am glad to say.”

Timms is in rare form this morning,