THREE SILENT THINGS a cozy murder mystery (Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Margaret Mayhew

  THREE

  SILENT

  THINGS

  A cozy murder mystery

  MARGARET MAYHEW

  Village Mysteries Book 2

  Revised edition 2020

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA 2008 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Margaret Mayhew to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ©Margaret Mayhew

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  ISBN: 978-1-78931-564-6

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

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  GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG FOR US READERS

  For Ella and Tilly

  These be

  Three silent things:

  The falling snow . . . the hour

  Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one

  Just dead.

  Adelaide Crapsey 1878–1914

  One

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  It started to snow on New Year’s Eve. The colonel stood at the sitting-room window of Pond Cottage as darkness was falling and watched the flakes float by and touch down without a sound. These be three silent things: the falling snow . . . the hour before the dawn . . . The first was very true, and so was the second – as he knew from sleepless nights, waiting for daybreak to come – but what was the third? He couldn’t remember, nor where the words were from. They had come into his mind from out of the past – probably learned long ago at school.

  The flakes settled thickly over the village green, snow on snow, snow on snow, and before long the green had turned to white. As it grew darker he drew the curtains and put another log on the fire. Thursday, the battle-scarred old cat that he had inherited along with the cottage and who had condescended to share his home, stretched and yawned and resettled himself comfortably in his place at the end of the sofa nearest the inglenook.

  The colonel sat down in the tapestry wing-back chair on the other side of the fireplace and thought about the year ahead. He had faced the last eleven years alone since Laura had died and it seemed likely that he would face all the rest that remained to him in the same way, and at sixty-six there were probably still quite a number to go. It was something that he preferred not to think about too much, but New Year’s Eve was a time for taking stock of one’s life, and for looking back, as well as forward.

  He had been living in Pond Cottage for nearly a year. Time had passed somehow and he had learned to deal with the solitude and the silence. They were spectres that he had succeeded in taming, if not in banishing. He counted his blessings: a married son and a daughter-in-law, a grandson and another grandchild on the way; a dear and loving daughter, successful and happy in her career. This nice old cottage in Frog End, a beautiful Dorset village; pleasant acquaintances he had made here; enough money not to have to worry too much about it; his health; his strength; his wits and his garden – which had turned out, in its making, to be an unexpected ally. Most people would say he was a very fortunate man in every respect except one – the one that mattered to him the most. He could no longer count Laura among his blessings – only the memory of her. Thank God, at least nobody could take that away.

  Thinking of his children reminded him that he ought to ring them to wish them a Happy New Year. He dialled Marcus and Susan’s number in Norfolk first and his daughter-in-law answered the phone.

  ‘Happy New Year, Susan.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Father. And to you.’

  He wished he could persuade her to call him Hugh; he had suggested it several times, but it seemed unlikely that she ever would. ‘How are you all?’

  ‘Well, Eric’s running a temperature, so we’re a bit worried about him. He’s very touchy at the moment.’

  When was he not? the colonel wondered, reflecting on his grandson’s endless tantrums. ‘How are you, Susan?’

  ‘Well, I always feel awfully sick in the mornings . . . it was just the same expecting Eric, but the doctor thinks everything’s all right.’

  ‘That’s good. Take care of yourself.’

  It was the latest thing to say to people: take care. The new young postman who wore a baseball cap turned back to front and shorts in summer, kept telling him to do that, and so did others who could have no real interest in him doing so. He had an idea that it had come from across the Atlantic, rather on the lines of ‘have a nice day’. In Susan’s case, though, he did mean it. He couldn’t help his lack of any real affection for her – that was beyond his control, as was his unfortunate aversion to his over-indulged and whingeing grandson – but he could wish her well, which he certainly did, and the child she was carrying. She was his son’s wife and therefore a part of his own responsibility.

  When Marcus had lost his job last year Susan had gone back to her mother and the marriage had been on the rocks. But now there was a new job and a new house and a new baby on the way. He had good reason to hope that the New Year would be a happy one for them.

  He tried Alison’s London number but got her answering machine and left a message in obedience to its crisp command. She had saved Christmas for him by coming down to the cottage, bearing gifts and a Fortnum’s hamper and, most of all, bringing the gift of herself and her company. They had gone to church, eaten and drunk a great deal and played chess and cards by the fire. In the end, the dreaded event had passed almost painlessly. He had learned that Christmas could be a sad time, however much you tried to ignore it. The carols, the cards – even the tree that he and Alison had dutifully decorated – all conspired against you. There was no escape from bitter-sweet memories. Or from regrets.

  He flicked through the January edition of the parish magazine. The new young vicar was exhorting his parishioners to give thought to their spiritual lives in the New Year, as well as to more temporal considerations such as new diets and summer holiday plans. There was to be a meeting of the Over-Sixties Club in the village hall on the tenth of January for a cup of tea and a sing-song; a jumble sale would be held in the hall later in the month, admission 50p, all contributions welcome; and there was to be a charity Quiz Night in the Dog and Duck, tickets £5 a head. Somebody was going to give a lecture, with slides, on The Dorset of Old and someone else had started up a Venture for Retired People aimed at ‘discovering hidden talents and combating boredom and loneliness by getting involved in new activities, hobbies and studies. An exciting journey of self-disc
overy.’ A worthy notion if ever there was one, he thought, but somehow more depressing than uplifting.

  As far as he knew, he had no hidden talents; the few he did have had already been discovered and put to use long ago. He had no particular hobbies either – unless listening to music and the radio or reading counted, and he didn’t think they did. Nor did chess or card games. Occasionally the Cuthbertsons asked him over for a bridge evening which they took rather too seriously for his liking. The major, fortified by a large, and frequently replenished, glass of whisky at his elbow, fancied himself as the Omar Sharif of Frog End, but, in fact, Mrs Cuthbertson was a far better player.

  No, hobbies meant actually doing things: making models, woodwork, throwing pots, collecting, painting . . . He’d taken up gardening, more or less because he’d had to unless he wanted to live surrounded by a jungle, but gardening was somehow in an altogether different category, as his green-fingered neighbour Naomi Grimshaw would certainly agree. So far as she was concerned, gardening was a way of life. Almost a religion. After all, a garden was considered an earthly paradise – in the right hands, of course. ’Tis very sure God walks in mine. He had read those lines somewhere. It was doubtful that God would care much for his, as yet, but he might well fancy a quiet stroll in Naomi’s.

  Maybe, he should go to cookery classes and learn to cook better. Naomi persisted in bombarding him with her misspelled recipes, and had ruthlessly outlawed instant meals-for-one from his fridge, carrying out snap inspections that reminded him of his old sergeant-major at Sandhurst, but the truth was that he had no real interest in cooking for himself. A chop, a steak, a piece of grilled fish, scrambled eggs . . . he could manage those and some vegetables without too much bother. Often he simply opened a tin, following the bad example of his predecessor, old Ben, who had left a mountain of empty and rusty cans in the cottage back garden.

  Perhaps he should join the Venture for Retired People and take up tapestry – a hobby that was, apparently, very popular with old soldiers. He could sit by the fire, stitching away at something useful – a chair seat or a kneeler for the church. The trouble was that his experience with a needle was strictly limited to sewing on buttons in the army and botching it up. Or maybe he could learn a new language – Mandarin, for instance, to add to his fluent French and German and to the very basic Cantonese and Malay he had picked up serving in Hong Kong and Singapore. The problem would be how to put Mandarin to any use in Frog End, and his days of being sent off to the Far East to serve his country were over. How about painting? There was plenty to paint in Dorset – beautiful countryside, quaint old thatched cottages, ancient manors, fields, woods, streams, bridges, a wonderful coastline . . . the snag was that he’d never been any good at art and he doubted if there would be much pleasure or satisfaction in doing it badly.

  He set aside the magazine and listened to one of his old Gilbert and Sullivan records to raise his spirits.

  Behold the Lord High Executioner,

  A personage of noble rank and title.

  A dignified and potent officer

  Whose functions are particularly vital.

  Defer, defer to the Lord High Executioner . . .

  The colonel beat in time with his fingers against the chair arm. Alison had wanted him to get compact discs and a new, state-of-the-art player with loudspeakers posted around the room, but, so far, he had resisted. He supposed that when the vinyl records eventually became impossibly scratched and ancient he would succumb. No good setting his face against change. One must move with the times.

  At eleven o’clock he primed the whisky decanter, got out glasses, and filled a small jug with water in readiness for his neighbour. Soon after, he heard her pounding at the front door. Naomi Grimshaw stamped into the hallway, swathed in a voluminous red wool cape and shedding snow from her moon boot trainers. Her thatch of short grey hair was adorned with large white flakes which she shook off like a dog as she unfurled the cape in the swirling movement of a matador in the bull-ring, revealing a neon pink tracksuit beneath.

  ‘Bloody awful night, Hugh. The damned stuff’s already a foot deep. If it goes on at this rate, we’ll be snowed in. Brought you a New Year offering, by the way.’ She thrust a jam jar at him. ‘Not one of my best efforts but it’s edible.’ The jar bore a crooked label and he deciphered Naomi’s scrawl: Rubarb & Ginger. He smiled; it would be a tragedy if she ever learned to spell.

  ‘That’s very kind – thank you. Come and sit down. The fire’s going rather well.’

  In the sitting room she rubbed her hands at the sight of both the blazing log fire and the whisky decanter. ‘Ah . . . just what the doctor ordered.’

  She picked up Thursday and deposited him firmly at the other end of the sofa, taking over his place close to the fire. If a cat’s look could kill, the colonel thought, amused, Naomi would have fallen stone dead. He poured out her usual stiff measure with a splash of water – no ice, which she considered a waste of space – and handed her the glass. She encircled it with her large, rough gardener’s hand and sniffed at it appreciatively.

  ‘Good old Chivas! Wish I could afford it. Thank God you don’t get any of that other rubbish, Hugh. It’s a real pleasure having you for a neighbour. Down the hatch.’

  He sat in his wing-back chair with his own drink – no ice, no water. A Scot would have approved. Thursday was re-settling himself huffily, still casting baleful glances in Naomi’s direction.

  ‘Did your son and his family get off all right?’

  ‘Allah be praised, yes. Loved having them but I’d had enough. The cottage is too small and the kids are too noisy and my Aussie daughter-in-law never stops complaining about the English weather. As though it never, ever rains in Sydney. Lucky they left before it started snowing. They’ll be on the way back to their summer now. Extraordinary to think of it. Talk about upside down.’

  ‘When will you see them again?’

  ‘Maybe not till next Christmas – if they come over again. Or I might go there, if I can face the flight. I’d sooner go over in the summer, though – our summer. It’d be cooler there then. Can’t stand the heat.’ She studied him over the rim of her glass. ‘You’re looking well, Hugh. Much better than when you first came here – you were miserable then. I was quite worried. Frog End must suit you. I was afraid you’d find it too dull after your rolling-stone army life.’

  He smiled drily. ‘I wouldn’t call it dull exactly. Not every village can boast a real-live murder – if that isn’t a contradiction in terms.’

  ‘Huh. That’s true. Poor old Ursula got what she deserved, though. She was a bitch. Not a single wet eye at her funeral. Everyone was delighted to see the back of her – except for Ruth, of course. She’s the one I felt very sorry for. It can’t have been much fun having Ursula for a mother and then having her bumped-off like that.’

  ‘She’s planning to stay on at the Manor, I gather.’

  ‘Looks like it. Rattling around in the place, but that state of affairs may change eventually. Our nice young doctor is very attentive there, have you noticed? Ruth’s not playing ball, though – there’s a rumour of some old love affair she still hasn’t got over – but Tom Harvey’s the persistent type. He’ll bide his time if he’s any sense, and I’m quite sure he has. She’s going to open a sort of garden centre there – did you hear that morsel on the grapevine? Selling plants she’s raised. Not like those frightful places that don’t grow any of their own stuff and cart it all over from the Continent. She’s asked me if I’ll help a bit getting it off the ground – pass on a few tips. Give the odd talk . . . you know the sort of thing. How To Prune Your Roses, Planning Your Herbaceous Border, Choosing The Right Shrub . . . nothing too airy-fairy. Down to earth stuff.’

  He got up to put another log on the fire. It flared up, crackled and then settled. He prodded around with the poker, making more flames.

  ‘She couldn’t ask for anyone better qualified.’

  ‘Thank you for those kind words. Speaking of gardens, Hugh, ho
w’s yours?’

  ‘Well . . . covered with snow at the moment, like they all are. I have to admit I haven’t done a thing lately. Not for several weeks, in fact. I’m afraid I never even finished sweeping up the leaves.’

  ‘Oh, leave the bloody leaves – I never bother much with ’em. They’ll rot down nicely and they give shelter to some useful creepy crawlies – little chaps you’ll want there on your side after the winter. Snails too, unfortunately, but you can always deal with those later on.’

  He sat down again. ‘Poison them, you mean?’

  ‘God, no! I never use anything like that. Don’t agree with it. I simply move the damn things out of the garden. Put them all in a bucket and dump them somewhere else. People say they always come back but if they do, I just take ’em out again. No, now’s the time to do a spot of planning ahead. Spring’ll be here before you know it and you want to be thinking about what improvements you’re going to make. The winter’s best for doing that because you can see the skeleton of the garden, as it were – the bare bones of it. See where it could do with some more flesh, or whether things need changing around or getting rid of. Out with anything that doesn’t pay its way – that’s my motto. Be ruthless. Soon as the snow’s gone, take a jolly good look. How about planting some marsh marigolds in that damp corner by your pond?’

  ‘If you think it’s a good idea.’

  What little he knew about gardening, he had mostly learned from his neighbour. When he had bought the cottage he had known less than nothing and cared not a jot, but little by little she had inspired him with her unbounded enthusiasm and her knowledge and, with her help, he had gradually turned his own long-neglected tangle of nettles and brambles and old tin cans into the beginnings of an attractive garden. The lost pond had been rediscovered and dredged, some plants carefully rescued, others ruthlessly uprooted, new ones put in, according to the advice offered. Her own garden was, to his mind, a model of what a country cottage garden should be – apparently semi-wild. Not a straight line or any geometrically sharp edges in sight. Plants seemed simply to grow where they had seeded – in beds, along paths, between stones, cascading down old stone walls, climbing up others. He had discovered, though, that, in reality, Naomi kept a tight grip on nature and knew exactly what she was about.