Feted to Die: An Inspector Constable Murder Mystery (2 page)

And without waiting for a reply, Amelia darted back into the kitchen, leaving Helen to listen to the sound of rattling crockery as she gazed out of the window.

At Dunham Chambers, the offices of Messrs. Hall, Knight and Allday (Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths) in Dammett Worthy High Street, Robin Allday was surveying the day’s post.

Robin looked exactly what he was – a typical country solicitor. In his late forties, tall and lean, with horn-rimmed glasses and dark hair tending towards grey, he wore a slightly rumpled tweed suit and brown brogues as if born to the role. Among the usual heap of conveyancing documents, bills, and invitations to take out a selection of credit cards on advantageous terms, one item in particular appeared to hold his interest. He gazed at it for several minutes frowning, and then seemed to come to with a start, folded it and placed it in his jacket pocket, and with sudden resolution got to his feet.

“I’m just going over the road for a minute, Judith,” he said to his secretary as he passed through the outer office. “I shan’t be long.”

“Yes, Mr. Allday,” she replied in resigned tones. This was obviously nothing unusual.

Across the High Street stood the Dammett Well Inn, a long low timber-framed building decorated with hanging baskets overflowing with brightly-coloured plants. According to legend, the Inn had served as the village pub ever since King Richard III had stopped there on his way to the Battle of Bosworth to have a loose horseshoe repaired at the then village smithy, and had taken a tankard of ale while waiting. In view of the outcome of the battle, the landlord had decided against naming the inn “The White Horse” after the king’s charger, so it had been given the name of a local spring whose legendary magical powers were greatly prized by local maidens. Or those who claimed to be.

As Robin entered the lounge bar of the Dammett Well, he was greeted cheerfully by the landlord.

“Hallo, Robin. How are things? Don’t usually see you in here this early. Usual, is it?”

“Yes please, Gideon,” said Robin. He sighed.

“Problems?”

“No, not really. Just all the usual rubbish about property titles not being clear and where the boundary is for such-and-such a field and people talking about changing their wills …”

“None of which you’re allowed to tell me about, and I wouldn’t understand a word if you did,” laughed Gideon. He was a round balding merry-looking man with spectacular mutton-chop whiskers and a ringing country burr, who gave the impression that he had taken over as landlord of the pub at some point in the Dickensian period and had somehow stuck in place. “Right, there’s your brandy. I shouldn’t fret too much about whatever-it-is if I were you, Robin. In my experience, there’s very few things worth worrying yourself into an early grave for. Things always seem to sort themselves out. Here, I’ve just had a thought.” He chuckled. “You could always go and get your fortune told up at the fete tomorrow. I suppose you’re going?”

“I dare say,” answered Robin with a wan smile. “Sandra’s asked some of us up there for a drinks thing before it starts, so I expect I shall be there. Mind you, I’m not so sure about the fortune-telling business – it’s Horace Cope again, as always, and he already knows far too much about everyone in the village as it is. And no doubt Albert will be there if there are free drinks involved …”

“Heads up!” murmured Gideon in an undertone. “And a fine good morning to you, Mr. Ross. How are you this lovely day?”

“Very well, thank you, Gideon,” replied the newcomer. “I just thought I’d pop in to say hello, and I saw Robin come in just now, so I thought, well, why not a quick one as I’m passing?”

“Why not indeed? So what can I get you?” enquired Gideon, with a wry sideways glance at Robin.

“No, let me get this, Albert,” said Robin, opening his wallet. “G & T, isn’t it? There, Gideon, you’d better take for both of them out of that.”

“Well, that’s extremely kind of you, Robin.” Albert Ross was a small nondescript man with faded sandy hair whose age could have been anything between fifty and sixty-five. His somewhat apologetic air was not improved by his habit of blinking at the world frequently and rapidly through thick round spectacles.

“Your cousin all set up for tomorrow then, Albert?” asked Gideon.

“Oh, Horace is always ready for anything,” replied Albert. “He is so organised, he puts me to shame. Mind you, he has to be, with everything he has on his plate. He’s just sent his latest book review off to The Sin on Sunday this morning, and when I came out he was starting to write the predictions for next week’s papers, and then of course there’s the new TV show, so when he gets that he’ll be even busier.”

“Now I heard a bit about that,” said Gideon, “but I don’t know the whole story, and I’m bound to get people asking because they all think I know everything round here. So what’s it all about?”

“Well,” said Albert, settling himself on a bar stool and taking a deep breath. “It’s a new programme which is going to be on Satellite 5 every week, and it’s called “Seeing Stars”. It’s a sort of magazine with celebrity guests telling their stories about supernatural experiences and how predictions came true for them and all that sort of thing, and they want to have as the presenter a really famous clairvoyant, who will also do his predictions for the coming week. And they’ve asked Horace if he would like to do it.”

“Ah, now hang on,” interrupted Gideon. “Didn’t I hear that Seymour Cummings is also in line for the job?”

“I suppose he told you that himself,” retorted Albert waspishly. “I wouldn’t believe anything you hear from Seymour Cummings. No, Horace is the man, trust me. So he’ll be up to London a lot more, won’t he, Robin?”

“Er, yes, I suppose he will. Lord, look at the time. I have to go.” And with that, Robin abruptly finished his drink, set down the glass, and hurried out, leaving the other two looking at each other in faint surprise at the suddenness of his departure.

Robin crossed the road and entered his office, where his secretary was just hanging up the phone.

“That was Mr. Palmer from Meadow Farm,” she said. “He wanted an appointment, so I’ve told him he can come on Wednesday at eleven o’clock.”

“Well, he can’t,” replied Robin shortly. “You’ll have to ring him back and make it another day. And if there’s anything else for Wednesday, cancel it.”

He entered his office and, quietly but firmly, closed the door.

Ivor Pugh surveyed the view from the top of the church tower with a gentle smile. In the far distance, rolling hills studded with beech woods were interleaved with green pasture and the striking yellow of oilseed rape. Closer, within the tree-lined curve of the unseen river, the chimneys of Dammett Hall rose above the solitary gigantic cedar which dominated the front lawns where tents were already appearing for the next day’s fete. And clustered around the feet of the church, Dammett Worthy itself, a collection of tile, thatch and slate punctuated by the multicoloured patchwork of the supermarket car park.

Ever since becoming vicar at the parish church of St. Salyve some twenty-seven years earlier, the Reverend Pugh had always tried to find a few moments every day to climb the tower and look out over his parish. He felt that, in a sense, it brought him closer to his flock and closer to God at the same time. Having recovered his breath, for the hundred and sixty-eight steeply-winding steps never seemed to get any easier to climb, he started down again, passing the bell chamber and the ringing room where the ropes hung expectantly, before emerging next to the vestry door at the foot of the tower. A sudden thought struck him, and he approached the altar to check the water in the flanking flower arrangements. No, all was well – the Flower Society had not been so pre-occupied with preparations for the fete that they had neglected their duties in the church.

The vicar was a short grey-haired man whose sprightly walk and perky manner belied his seventy-four years, and were reminiscent of nothing more than a robin alighting on a bird-table in search of breakfast. Humming “Onward Christian Soldiers” under his breath, he made his way along the nave towards the west door which opened abruptly in his face, causing him to jump back with a surprised cry of “Good Lord!”.

“Sorry to disappoint you, vicar,” came the reply. “Only me, I’m afraid. Did I make you jump?”

“Well, yes, you did, as a matter of fact,” answered the vicar slightly breathlessly. “But no matter. Were you looking for me, Mr. Cope?”

“Horace, please, vicar, otherwise I shall have to call you Reverend Pugh, and that sounds so formal and unfriendly,” responded his visitor in an arch voice. “And we can’t have that, can we? All friends together, that’s what we are in our little village – am I right?”

Horace Cope gave what he obviously thought was a winning smile. The effect was not quite what he hoped. His round shiny face, perched atop a short plump body clad in a check suit in shades of fawn and green, was crowned by strands of greasy hair drawn across a bald crown, giving him the look of a disreputable bookmaker about to explain why he could not pay out a bet.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Cope … er … Horace. Now,” continued the vicar, in tones in which only a close observer could have detected the faintest hint of irritation, “what did you want me for?”

“It wasn’t really you I was wanting, actually,” replied Horace. “I was out for a stroll round the village, and as I came past the churchyard I thought I’d have my usual few minutes at the Dammett Well … my little “communion with the spirits”, as I call it …”

“Hmmm, quite!” The irritation in the Reverend Pugh’s voice grew plainer.

“Sorry, vicar, no offence intended.” Horace did not sound remotely contrite. “But I thought that with my little fortune-telling performance coming up at the fete tomorrow, I might as well enlist all the help I can get.” He giggled. “And then I thought, while I’m here, why not have another little burrow through your church registers, if that’s all right by you. You never know that reminding myself of the name of some village girl’s granny may come in useful. You know what I always say – the Well for inspiration, the Church for information!”

The vicar sighed. “Yes, er … Horace. Of course you may look at the registers again. As they are public documents, you have every right.” The word ‘unfortunately’ remained unspoken. “You know where they are. Please make sure you put them back in the cupboard when you’ve finished. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go out. Her Ladyship is expecting me up at the Hall to confirm some arrangements for the fete.”

“Oh yes, of course, you’re opening it, aren’t you? How lovely!” cried Horace. “No doubt I shall see you up there beforehand – you will be at Sandra’s do for a little drinkie first to steady the nerves, won’t you? Well, you mustn’t keep the Lady waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow at twelve. Toodle-pip!”

And with a gay wave of his hand, Horace disappeared into the vestry. Ivor Pugh stepped out into the churchyard, took a deep breath of fresh air, and started down the path towards the lychgate.

Chapter 2

A brisk breeze was snapping the flag flying from the roof of Dammett Hall, but it could not totally dispel the warmth of a beautiful summer’s day. All morning the south lawn had seen a constant buzz of activity, as a procession of
cars disgorged flower arrangements, cages of guinea-pigs, folding wooden chairs, bunches of enormous carrots, wedding cakes, wrought-iron boot-scrapers, and the thousand other things which go to make up a traditional fete in the English countryside. Visibly in charge and glowing with enthusiasm, Laura Biding with clipboard in hand seemed to be everywhere at once, pointing new arrivals towards the correct tent, rounding up toddlers who had escaped from the car while their mothers were unloading the boot, instructing the Scouts on the programme of sports events, and all with an air of calm competence which seemed to indicate that nothing had been left to chance.

Lady Lawdown looked out of the drawing room window at the preparations in hand and smiled fondly. A knock came at the door, and Amelia Cook entered carrying a tray.

“I thought you might like some coffee, Your Ladyship.”

“Oh, Amelia, you’re so thoughtful. Thank you so much. I haven’t had a moment to think about anything, and I expect you’re rushed off your feet in the kitchen. What a shame Mrs. Richards couldn’t stay to help, but I dare say you’ve got it all under control. You wouldn’t mind just popping up to Mr. Cummings’ room and telling him there’s coffee waiting, would you? Lovely.”

A few minutes later, Seymour Cummings entered the room. His fifty-odd years sat easily on him alongside a healthy tan, and he wore his comfortably casual check shirt and cord trousers as if born to the country lifestyle, yet with a touch of sleekness which hinted at a level of city sophistication and the money that went with it. He joined Lady Lawdown at her vantage point at the window and looked out over the preparations taking place on the lawns.

“Morning, Sandra,” he said, greeting her with a peck on the cheek. “Laura seems to be on top of everything. I feel I should offer to help, but I’m feeling awfully lazy this morning. I hope you didn’t mind me not coming down for breakfast.”

“Of course I didn’t, darling,” replied Lady Lawdown, “although Mrs. Richards was rather sniffy. You know she likes to do the whole country-house-breakfast thing when I have someone staying. But I told her that you were probably still quite exhausted from your lecture tour, and you deserved a lie-in on your first Saturday. Just autograph your column in tomorrow’s Sunday Stir for her in the morning – that will brighten her up. Anyway, do have some of this coffee Amelia’s made for us, or you’ll be in her bad books too.”