A Study in Stone

by Michael Campling

  A STUDY IN STONE

  by

  Michael Campling

  A British Cozy Mystery

  A Devonshire Mystery Book I

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  The Kenning Family History

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Michael Campling

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  Dartmoor

  Dan Corrigan peered out through the grime-streaked windscreen and clung tight to the steering wheel of the old Toyota RAV4 as the car bounced and shuddered over the potholed tarmac. He’d been driving for hours, stopping only when absolutely necessary, but now, as the sun swept towards the horizon, he needed to get out of the damned car.

  There’s nowhere to pull off this bloody lane, he thought. Not even a lay-by. He had to press on, but there was no sign of his destination, only the endless single-track road that twisted and turned, meandering its wilful way across the countryside. And as the last of the early evening light faded, the tall hedges on either side pressed in on him, the probing fingers of crooked branches clutching at the car’s wing mirrors. Impossibly, the road seemed to be getting narrower all the time, and as he turned a corner, the road rose steeply, dwindling into the distance.

  “This can’t be right,” he muttered to the empty car. “I must’ve taken a wrong turn.”

  But the app on his phone had distinctly told him to take this road, and just as he slowed the car to a crawl, he caught sight of a light in the distance: the faint orange glow of a streetlight flickering into life. It was the most civilized thing he’d seen for the last forty-five minutes, and a faint hope stirred in his heart. Cautiously, he pressed his foot on the accelerator, and ignoring the rattles and creaks of complaint coming from somewhere beneath the car, he drove up the steep incline.

  I don’t believe it, he thought. But there, caught in the glare from the headlights, a white sign peeped out from the hedgerow:

  WELCOME TO EMBERVALE

  PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY

  “If I go much slower, I’ll grind to a halt,” he grumbled, but finally, he was in the right place, and he eased back on the accelerator, looking out for a street sign as the hedgerows gave way to houses and tidy front gardens.

  But if the street was labelled in any way, he must’ve missed it, and there was no one in sight to ask for directions, so he drove on, trying to read the nameplates that seemed to adorn each house, no two in the same style.

  His phone told him to make a right turn, and Dan obeyed, steering the Toyota into a side street, and here, at last, was the house he’d been looking for, its quaint slate sign announcing it to be: The Old Shop.

  As his sister had promised, the house was fronted by a square patch of rough gravel that served as a parking space, and as the Toyota’s tyres crunched over the uneven surface, he looked up at the cream coloured cottage. Although the house was in darkness, it looked pleasant enough, and it would certainly be more than big enough for his needs.

  Not bad, he told himself. Not bad at all. Killing the engine, he made sure that the headlights were off, then he climbed from the car, arching his back. The cottage’s keys were attached to the car key along with half a dozen smaller keys that he’d have to figure out later, and he headed for the front door, anxious to get his stuff shifted inside so that he could sit down, attack the meagre stock of groceries that he’d bought on the way, and possibly crack open a bottle of beer.

  But as he struggled to slide the key into the unfamiliar lock, someone called out from behind him:

  “Hello, there.”

  Dan glanced over his shoulder. “Hi.” He tried the key again, but it wouldn’t turn.

  “Nice evening,” the stranger said, apparently in no hurry to leave. “I was just on my way to the pub.”

  “Okay,” Dan replied absently. “I see.” There was another, very similar key on the bunch, so perhaps he’d made a mistake. He tried it, but this one was even worse. It didn’t even fit the slot.

  The stranger chuckled. “This always seems to happen. I think the lock must be a touch tricky. If I see a new arrival, I usually tell them to try the back door.”

  Dan stopped what he was doing and faced the man properly. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” He hesitated. “How do you know that? About the lock?”

  The man hooked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the next house on the street. “I’m a neighbour. I’ve lived here for a few years, so I’ve seen lots of people arrive here for a holiday. Not so many recently, though. Are you here for long?”

  Dan shook his head. “I’m not on holiday, just taking a break from London. This is my sister’s house. She’s been abroad for a long time. Usually, she lets it out, but as you say, not so much these days.” He forced a smile. When was this man going to walk away and let him get on with moving in? Did he have nothing better to do?

  “Oh, your sister,” the man said. “Yes, I think we’ve met. I can see the resemblance now.”

  “Really?” Dan looked more closely at this strangely perceptive man. People usually remarked on how dissimilar he was from his sister: she was fair-skinned, he had a ruddy complexion; she was blonde, his mop of thick hair was dark; her nose was elegantly petite, his was broad and strong. On the other hand, it was a fact noticed by few, that both he and his sister had the same grey eyes.

  “Yes.” The man stepped closer, his hand extended for a shake. “I’m Alan, by the way. Alan Hargreaves.”

  “Hi. I’m Dan.” They shook hands. Alan’s grip was firm, and Dan realized that his neighbour was younger than he’d first supposed. They were probably about the same age, but Alan’s clothes were dull to the point of being dowdy.

  “So, how long will you be with us?” Alan asked. “One week? Two?”

  “I haven’t made my mind up,” Dan replied. “I’ll see how it goes.”

  “Right. Well…” Alan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “As I said, I’m just off to the pub. They have a decent selection of ales if you’re at a loose end while you’re here.”

  Dan made a show of tilting his head from side to side as if weighing up the possibilities. “Thanks, but I’ll probably get settled in.”

  “Okay, but if you change your mind, it’s just along Fore Street. You can’t miss it, it’s the only pub in the village. The Wild Boar is its official name, but most people just call it The Boar.” Alan smiled. “Personally, I think of it as The Interminable.”

  Dan found himself laughing. “The Interminable Bore. Very good.”

  “Mind you, I don’t say that to the landlord’s face. Kevin is all right once you get to know him, but…” Alan waggled his hand. “Bit of a temper.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, but I doubt I’ll try it. Not really my thing.”

  Alan lowered his eyebrows as if sizing Dan up. “Of course, it’s not like the trendy cocktail bars of London, but we like it. It’s a good place to meet the locals. They run a quiz every now and then, and there’s a meat raffle every Friday.”

  “Oh my God,” Dan breathed. “Is that a real thing?”

  “Yes. It’s not something I’d make up, trust me.”

  Dan shook his head. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a lot to unpack, so it was nice to meet you, Alan, but I’d better ge
t to it.”

  “No worries. Enjoy your stay.” Alan shot him a genuine smile then marched away, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath.

  When was the last time I heard someone whistle? Dan asked himself. He looked around at the silent houses, imagining for a moment that he’d travelled back in time. But this was good. Peace and quiet. Solitude. It was what he wanted. What he needed. And taking out his phone to use as a flashlight, he went in search of the cottage’s back door.

  ***

  Dan stared at the television. Four channels. Four. No satellite, definitely no cable, and apparently, no broadband. There was a telephone, but no router.

  “What the hell am I going to do?” he muttered. He’d shifted his few belongings into the house, and he’d even hung his shirts in the wardrobe. His food supplies were basic, but he’d knocked together a quick veggie chilli and wolfed it down. Then he’d thrown himself onto the sofa in the small lounge and opened a bottle of beer. He was looking forward to that drink, but the German lager hadn’t been in the fridge for long enough, and it tasted sour and gassy. He took a couple of sips then put the bottle on the coffee table and slumped in his seat, the evening stretching out before him, long and desolate. There was nothing worth watching on the TV, so he turned it off with the remote, and a sudden silence filled the room. He tilted his head, straining his ears, but he couldn’t hear a single sound. Not even a distant car.

  Dan drummed his fingers on the sofa’s armrests, then he pulled out his wallet. Yes, he had some cash: enough for a pint or two. The wonders of contactless payments may not have made it to this little village, but the prices around here would be much lower than in London, wouldn’t they?

  I should stay in, get some rest, he told himself. Yes, I should definitely have an early night. Definitely.

  He stood, straightening his shirt, then he strode across the room and hurried through the kitchen. Ignoring the washing up, he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door, and a moment later, he was striding along the quiet street. At the corner, he turned right and was rewarded with the sign for Fore Street. The pub was not far away, its painted sign swinging in the breeze, and as Dan marched along the road, without really meaning to, he began to whistle.

  CHAPTER 2

  Exeter

  Dan Corrigan stopped in the narrow street and took out his phone. According to the map, he was just a few minutes away from the coffee shop, but this wasn’t the first time today that it had promised such hopeful news. Indeed, at one point, the software had cheerfully announced that he’d reached his destination, but Dan, staring at the storefronts on offer (a tattoo parlour, a hairdresser, and some sort of retro videogame emporium) had been inclined to disagree.

  Why had he even agreed to come here today? Because I need to make the house bearable, he reminded himself. The cottage, though comfortable enough, was sadly lacking in terms of creature comforts, and one or two essentials were missing as well. The only sharp knife in the kitchen was so flimsy that it was a danger to anyone who dared to wield it, the can opener was only mildly more effective than a swift jab with a chisel, and the cafetiere! The metal filter was so worn and bent that not only did it fail to contain the ground coffee, but it seemed to fire it upwards in swirling jets of foaming liquid that sputtered from the spout to soak anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. So when, in the pub the night before, Alan had suggested that he could pick up the things he needed on a trip to Exeter, even offering to show him around, Dan had agreed to go along, and in a moment of madness, he’d offered to drive.

  So far, he’d managed to buy a decent cafetiere and a chef’s knife, complete with a good-sized chopping board, as well as one or two other useful items, but he was rapidly running out of patience. Alan might have sensed this, because when they’d passed a secondhand bookshop, he’d dived inside, leaving Dan to his own devices for a while.

  Dan had welcomed the chance to wander around getting his bearings, but now, the ghost of the golden ale from the night before had appeared to haunt him, and he had to have coffee—good coffee, and lots of it—but his damned phone had confounded him.

  See Exeter and die, he thought balefully, staring along the cobbled street. Die of thirst, die of boredom, die of confusion.

  “Are you all right there?”

  Dan turned on his heel. The middle-aged woman was studying him with polite concern. She was well dressed, in a long black coat and kitten heels, and her hair, streaked with silver, had been expertly cut in a style that suited her extremely well. For a moment, it struck Dan as very odd that the woman should feel confident in approaching a strange man in a quiet backstreet, but it was the middle of the afternoon, and although the street was quiet, the main shopping drag was just a few yards away. Plus, this isn’t London, he reminded himself. They do things differently here.

  He forced a smile. “Yes, fine thank you. Just checking my phone.” He waggled the device in the air unnecessarily. “You know how it is. Never switched off. Never a moment’s peace.”

  “Oh dear.” There was sympathy in her pale blue eyes. “Only, you look a bit lost. And to be honest, if you carry on down here, you’ll be heading off the beaten track. I’m on my way to work, but most people don’t venture down this way.”

  “Right. Okay.” Dan’s grin felt fixed to his lips. Go on, he told himself. Admit that you’re lost. Ask for directions. But it was no use; he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Well, in that case, I’ll go back the way I came.”

  The woman didn’t say anything. She just watched him as if expecting more.

  “Cheers,” Dan said, then he turned and walked away without looking back.

  The main street was depressing. Yes, there were coffee shops here, but they were the franchises he could find on any street in the western hemisphere. And he didn’t just want an indifferent mug of brown stuff, he wanted carefully selected organically grown beans, roasted in some obscure way over a wood fire by a fairly paid Ghanaian, ground to a tolerance of one hundredth of a millimetre, and brewed by a barista with theatrical facial hair and a deep knowledge of non-pressurised baskets. He wanted artisanal. He wanted COFFEE.

  And he was damned if he was going to settle for anything less.

  The painstaking search on his phone had shown him the top ten coffee shops in Exeter, and he would try once again to find the place holding the top spot: The Aquifer Café. And this time, he would succeed.

  Walking faster now, he traced his path back to the place he’d left his…what was Alan, exactly? A neighbour, certainly, but a friend? They’d only met the day before, but they’d hit it off over a pint in the pub, and despite having nothing whatsoever in common, the time had flown past in his company. I don’t know, Dan decided. Is it worth my while making friends around here? Probably not. He wouldn’t stay in Devon for long. Soon, he’d feel like heading back to the city. London. The place where you couldn’t heave half a brick without hitting at least half a dozen baristas, and all of them masters in the art of the consistent crema. True, most of the baristas he knew had doctorates in Medieval Literature or some such, but at least they’d found gainful employment. They were the lucky ones.

  Dan halted outside the secondhand bookshop and peered in through the window. Why was it so easy to see inside? Why wasn’t the glass streaked with dust and dirt? Different, he thought bitterly. Whoever said variety is the spice of life, was an idiot. A movement caught his eye. There, inside, a man had raised his hand in acknowledgement. Alan.

  Dan hurried into the shop, attracting stares from the surprisingly large number of customers. What? Am I wearing a sign? Perhaps it was his speed that attracted attention. No one around here was ever in a hurry. No one. And it was driving him crazy.

  “What’s up?” Alan asked as Dan marched between the cramped rows of shelves. “Everything all right?”

  “Don’t you start,” Dan shot back.

  Alan’s face fell, the hurt look in his eyes a silent rebuke.

  “Sorry,” Dan mumbled. “Er, h
ow are you doing? Found anything good?”

  Alan wrinkled his nose. “Not really. Shelves full of bestsellers. No good to me.”

  “But, surely, if they’re bestsellers, they ought to be worth reading, shouldn’t they?”

  “You’d think.” Alan halfheartedly pulled a paperback from the shelf then pushed it straight back. “No. I don’t want bubble-gum for the mind. I’m looking for something a bit different. Something with a bit of weight.”

  Dan pointed to a shelf labelled Fantasy. “Those are pretty thick.”

  “No, no. I don’t mean physically heavy. I mean something a bit…” Alan circled his hand in the air.

  “More challenging? More intellectual.”

  “Just better,” Alan corrected him. “I’m looking for something better.”

  Seeing an opportunity, Dan said, “Maybe we should try somewhere else. In fact, I’m sure I saw one or two bookshops just now, and on the way, we can stop for a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh, I get it. This is about the fabled coffee shop you kept talking about. You couldn’t find it, and now you want to drag me along to help you.”

  Is it that obvious? Dan managed a good-natured smile. “Something like that. I thought it would be…nice if we grabbed a coffee, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can go ahead.” He took a step back. “I’ll see you later. Give me a call when you’re ready for a lift. I can meet you at the car park.”

  “I’ve got a good mind just to let you go,” Alan said. “I can tell you’re bluffing, you know. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  Dan held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “I’ll tell you what. Help me find the coffee shop and it’ll be my treat. Anything you want.”

  Alan raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Come on then. What are we waiting for?” Then without waiting for a response, he headed for the door.

  Waiting? Dan thought. Me? Never. And he hurried after him.

  ***

  Dan sat back, breathing in the coffee shop’s steamy aroma. “You smell that? That’s pure, mountain-grown Costa Rican.”