Murder Near Slaughter

by L. A. Nisula

  Murder Near Slaugher

  copyright (c) 2019 L. A. Nisula

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Cassie Pengear was expecting a relaxing holiday in a Cotswolds village near Lower Slaughter, staying in a cottage borrowed from a friend of her landlady. She was not expecting to spend most of her first day there trying to find someone to give them the key to the cottage. And she definitely wasn’t expecting to walk in the front door and find a body on the sitting room rug. Now the local police consider her and Mrs. Albright suspects, and the London man she was counting on turns out to be Inspector Wainwright. If she wants to clear their names, Cassie will have to solve the murder near Slaughter.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Other books in the series

  Killing at the Carnival

  Death at Dinner

  Stabbing Set with Sapphires

  A Spartan Murder

  The Body in the Boxroom

  A Drowning in Bath

  The Death Downstairs

  Mugs, Murder, and Mayfair

  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

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 1

  THAT SUMMER WAS PARTICULARLY WARM in London, warm enough that I was beginning to understand why all the characters in Regency novels seemed to go to the country for the month of August. So when Mrs. Albright came to my flat to tell me that her friend, Mrs. Foster, had offered to let her use her cottage in the Cotswolds while Mrs. Foster was away and would I like to go along, I said yes at once. I wasn’t quite sure how the Cotswolds could be cooler than London—Scotland seemed more likely to have cooler weather, or the Shetland Islands—but I was willing to try anything. Of course, as soon as the plans were made, agreed upon, and sent to Mrs. Foster, the heat wave broke, and the days returned to normal. But by then, I’d already started looking forward to my first trip to the English countryside and had purchased four novels for the train which, going by their covers and titles, assured me there would be nothing redeeming about them at all, so there was no question of canceling.

  And so we found ourselves at Paddington Station on the appointed day, with more luggage than we could reasonably need. Mrs. Albright had been to visit Mrs. Foster before, so I left the details of the journey to her. She consulted a timetable and found our route. “We’ll take the nine-thirty train to Kingham, Cassie, and hope there’s some sort of taxi service at the station to take us to Oakwood Cottage. There was, the last time I was there.”

  That didn’t sound quite as reassuring as I would have liked, particularly as neither of us had exactly packed lightly. “Is Oakwood Cottage very far from Kingham?”

  “Not by carriage, but we wouldn’t want to walk, not with the cases. It’s near the village of Eybry, which is more or less between Upper Slaughter and Lower Slaughter.”

  That did not sound like the quiet place I’d been expecting, even though I knew from the guidebooks I’d read that the name Slaughter was derived from an old dialect and didn’t refer to murder at all, but drainage. “Are you sure I should be vacationing anywhere near a place called Slaughter?”

  Mrs. Albright laughed as if I’d made an excellent joke. Before I could correct her, she set off for the ticket office, and I had to concentrate on following her while pushing the luggage trolley without bumping into anyone.

  At least the train ride proved relaxing. Mrs. Albright had brought some letters to write, and I alternated between reading one of my new novels and staring out the window at the countryside, which became increasingly sunny and sheep-filled the farther from London we went. Surely nothing bad could happen someplace so calm and green. Of course, the novel in my lap told me all sorts of things that could happen in just such a place. But that was only a novel, as I reminded myself at the end of almost every chapter.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Kingham was just the sort of place I’d been imagining, with a neat little station surrounded by green fields and sheep. We were the only passengers to get off at the station. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing—less likely the cabs would be busy—or a bad thing—less likely there’d be cabs, but there was one free luggage trolley, so that seemed a promising sign. We piled our luggage on and wheeled it out of the station.

  When we got to the street outside, Mrs. Albright looked down both sides of it. “Now, when I was here last, there were a few people with vehicles to let near the pub. If I could just get my bearings...”

  “Looking for a lift, ladies?”

  We both turned and saw a police constable walking along the front of the station. “Is there someone who could take us to Oakwood Cottage near Eybry?” Mrs. Albright asked.

  “There is indeed. Mr. Westin down at the end of the street there. He acts as a cab driver when he doesn’t have any other business.” He looked at our suitcases piled up on the trolley. “Why don’t I ask him to come over here so you can put the luggage trolley back when you’re done with it?” The constable didn’t wait for an answer, but went back down the way he’d come and spoke to a man leaning against what seemed to be a milk cart. The man nodded and started getting his horse ready to leave. The constable came back towards us. “He’ll be here in a minute. Enjoy your stay.” He tipped his helmet and continued on his way.

  “It is a refreshing change to have a policeman with no bodies around,” Mrs. Albright said as she started sorting out her luggage.

  I smiled at that. “I do always seem to run into policemen when I travel. Maybe that was my encounter for this trip.”

  Mrs. Albright laughed. “We can hope.”

  Mr. Westin brought his cart over at that moment, which prevented further conversation. “Where are you ladies heading?”

  “Oakwood Cottage,” Mrs. Albright told him.

  “Near Eybry. Right. Let’s get these bags up here.” He hopped down and started swinging our bags up into his cart. Once he’d gotten them off of the luggage trolley, I remembered what the constable had said and wheeled it back to its spot at the station. I’d learned it was always best to stay on the good side of policemen, at least until it couldn’t be helped.

  As I was returning to the trolley, I heard Mrs. Albright say, “The key is being kept at Daisy Cottage. If you would be so kind as to stop there first.”

  The driver nodded. “Stop at Mrs. Otway’s cottage on the way. Right. Well, climb up and we’ll be off.”

  Mrs. Albright and I managed to get ourselves and the last of the hand luggage up into the cart. Mr. Westin didn’t seem to think the amount of luggage was odd, so perhaps we hadn’t packed as badly as I’d feared. In any case, we were soon on our way to Daisy Cottage.

  Mr. Westin didn’t say much as we drove, which left me free to enjoy the scenery. It was hillier than I’d imagined, but cool and green, with shady trees hanging over the road and long stretches of green fields with little white blobs I assumed were sheep meandering over them. It looked like just t
he sort of place Mrs. Albright and I could have the sort of relaxing holiday we’d been hoping for.

  I was just starting to get very irritated with a train case—I couldn’t tell which of ours it was—that was poking me in the knee when the cart stopped at the lane branching off of the road. “That’s Daisy Cottage,” the driver said, pointing to a small cottage at the end of the lane. “Quick walk from here to Oakwood Cottage if one of you wants to hop down and get the key and meet up there.”

  I very much wanted to stretch my legs, particularly as there wasn’t much room in the cart, so I quickly volunteered. “I’ll go.”

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Mrs. Albright offered.

  As she was wedged between her hat box and the tea hamper and I wasn’t certain she could extract herself without unloading half our things, I quickly said, “Don’t bother. I can manage.”

  “Then Mrs. Otway is expecting us. Tell her you’re with me and ask for the key. She’ll know what you mean.”

  The driver looked ready to come and help me down, but I managed it on my own before he got the reins secured. “Just follow this lane about ten minutes in this direction, and you’ll see the path to Oakwood Cottage. There a green gate and a willow tree out front.”

  “Sounds simple enough. Thank you. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I waved as the cart moved on, as it seemed the thing to do, then opened the gate to Daisy Cottage and made my way up the short path to the front door.

  The front garden was just what I expected of the Cotswolds: flowers cascading out onto the path, boxwood bushes forming a neat barrier, wildflowers mixed in with roses and foxgloves. I imagined Mrs. Otway as someone looking rather like Mrs. Albright, spending her days weeding and trimming or whatever one did with plants. Then I almost slipped on a fish and chips wrapper and noticed the boot prints all around. So much for romantic country life—Mrs. Otway must have a gardener. I hurried the last few steps to the door.

  I didn’t see any signs that someone knew I’d come, no twitching curtains or shadows moving behind the windows. That surprised me a little, as Mrs. Otway knew we would be coming for the key, and I would have thought would be waiting for us. Still, she could have lost track of time. I tried the brass knocker. There was no answer. I tried again, making sure to give the knocker a firm hit against the door. Still nothing. I tried rapping on the wood with my knuckles, but that carried less well than the knocker, so I tried the knocker again. It seemed quite clear that no one was coming. I stepped back and tried to see the second story of the cottage, but it didn’t look as if anyone were home.

  Unless she was in the back garden. Surely the cottage had some sort of back garden. I walked around the side of the cottage and found there was indeed a back garden, planted with flowers and several rows of vegetables. It was also empty. Wherever Mrs. Otway was, it wasn’t her garden. I leaned over the hedges to be certain she wasn’t crouched down attacking some weed or insect infestation, or, as Inspector Wainwright would no doubt say given my tendency to stumble over crimes, lying there dead. She was doing none of those things.

  In the interests of being thorough, I found the gate to the back garden and went to the kitchen door, where I knocked several times then peered through the windows into the kitchen and the front parlor, just in case there was something wrong. Everything seemed fine. At least, there were no bodies, but there was also no Mrs. Otway.

  There was a cottage nearby, just far enough away to make calling it next door a stretch. It was worth trying, at least. Perhaps there would be someone there and they would know where to find either Mrs. Otway or the key to Oakwood Cottage. I crossed the lawn and went to the front door. This time when I tried the knocker, I could hear the sounds of someone moving about inside. A minute later, the door was opened by a woman of about my age wearing a print dress and a large apron. “You’ve got the wrong house, dear. I’m not expecting visitors.”

  “I was looking for Mrs. Otway,” I said quickly before she could close the door on me.

  “That’s her house next door, but she’s out.”

  “Yes, I tried the knocker.”

  “Then you knew she wasn’t in.”

  I wasn’t about to let my only chance at information get away without questioning. “I thought you might know where she’d gone and when she’d be back.”

  “She doesn’t check with me, but I’m sure she’ll be back.”

  I had hoped to find one of the village gossips, but clearly, I hadn’t. I tried one more time. “It’s just that she was expecting us—well, my friend. She didn’t say anything about where she put the key, did she?”

  “The key?”

  “To Oakwood Cottage.”

  “I didn’t know Mrs. Foster was planning on renting that out.”

  Too late, I hoped I hadn’t revealed too much. “I don’t think it’s really being rented out, just loaned to a friend from London.”

  “Well, she didn’t say a word about it to me. Maybe she went to meet you at the train station.”

  “Perhaps. Thank you anyway.”

  I waited in case the neighbor had any other ideas about Mrs. Otway’s whereabouts, but she merely said, “You’re welcome,” and closed the door.

  I made my way back across the lawn to Daisy Cottage. If Mrs. Otway had been at the train station, she would have met the train, and as there weren’t many people there, I would think she would have been noticeable. And surely Mr. Westin would have recognized her and told us she was there when we explained where we were going. But perhaps she had gone to meet us at the cottage. She’d known, or at least would have been able to guess, when we were arriving and could have gone to Oakwood Cottage to meet us with the key. That seemed possible. Mrs. Albright had known which train we’d be taking when she’d written to say we were coming. No doubt I’d arrive at the cottage and find Mrs. Otway in the kitchen with Mrs. Albright and a pot of tea. I went back to the main road and followed it in the direction I’d been told led to Oakwood Cottage.

  It was a short walk to the cottage, and when I got there, I found Mrs. Albright standing in the front garden with the luggage, and no Mrs. Otway.

  “Did you get the key, Cassie?”

  “There was no one there to give it to me.” I outlined what I had done to try and locate Mrs. Otway. “So I thought perhaps she was waiting for us here.”

  “She wasn’t, unless she’s inside.”

  That seemed worth at least checking, so we both we to the front door and tried it, only to find it locked. Mrs. Albright peered through the front window then tried to push up the sash. “I don’t understand it. I told her we’d be on the nine-thirty from London. She must have known we were coming.”

  “I hope she’s all right.”

  Mrs. Albright shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry. The driver would have told us if she’d been taken ill or something.”

  “I suppose. Then what should we do?”

  “The village isn’t that far from here. Let’s see if we can hide the luggage in one of those sheds and walk to Eybry. Perhaps we’ll meet her on the way there. If not, someone may have seen her, or she might have gone to do some shopping and lost track of the time.”

  It seemed a sensible plan, and I was getting hungry myself; so we checked the outbuildings until we found a shed that was unlocked and contained gardening equipment where we could hide our luggage, then set off down the path towards the village of Eybry.

  Chapter 2

  THE VILLAGE OF EYBRY WAS INDEED CLOSE—it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to walk there—and small enough to be easy to navigate even though we had no idea where we were going. The lane we’d been walking down led us along a small river, past neat little cottages that became smaller and neater as we got closer to the village, and over a small footbridge spanning a shallow ford, and eventually directly to the high street and its small row of shops. “Keep an eye out for her,” Mrs. Albright said as we walked.

  I had never met Mrs. Otway, and I didn’t think Mrs. Albright had either
, so I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to keep an eye out for her, but I started looking for any groups of people that could explain why she had needed to leave her cottage when she knew we’d be arriving. As it was more-or-less a quarter to noon, most of the shops were empty but preparing for the workers who would be coming for their midday meal. It meant I had a good look at the wares the various shops sold, but not much luck spotting Mrs. Otway. We passed the pub, which seemed to be open despite the tables outside being empty, although that might have had more to do with their stickiness and broken chair legs than anything; a pity, as the train station seemed ages ago now and a bit of fish and chips would have been welcome. But from the noise that wasn’t muffled by the door, it didn’t seem like the sort of place a friend of a friend of Mrs. Albright’s would frequent.

  We kept walking until the shops along the street began to give way to cottages. Mrs. Albright paused as the road began to bend. “I don’t think there’s anything but cottages that way. I didn’t see any sign of her, did you?”

  I shook my head. “No, but then I don’t really know what she looks like.”

  “I was assuming there would be something happening. You don’t just decide to wander off when you’re expecting to meet people coming on a very specific train, particularly when you’re the only way they can get inside their cottage.”

  That made sense to me, but I wasn’t sure how it helped us. “What do you think we should do?”

  Mrs. Albright looked back towards the square. “We haven’t eaten anything since we left London. The pub looks a bit dodgy, but we just passed a cheese shop. Why don’t we stop in and see if they make sandwiches? While we’re there, we can ask if they know of anyplace Mrs. Otway might have gone or who she might have spoken to.”

  That all sounded very logical to me, particularly as I was hungry and had been trying to find a way to suggest stopping for something the whole way through the village, so I quickly agreed and followed Mrs. Albright back down the high street.