Murder in the Village
Penelope Sotheby
~~~
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2016 Penelope Sotheby
First published in 2016 by Jonmac Limited.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places, incidents are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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Other Books By The Author
Murder in Bermuda (Book 1 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in the Bahamas (Book 2 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in Jamaica (Book 3 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in Barbados (Book 4 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in Aruba (Book 5 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder at the Inn
Murder on the Village Green (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Neighbourhood (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder on a Yacht (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Table Of Contents
Free Book
Other Books By The Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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About The Author
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Chapter 1
“Good morning Constable,” bellowed Diane Dimbleby as she strode rapidly around the corner of Monk’s Market, startling Martin Jackson, the village’s dedicated police officer.
White headphones engulfed the sides of Diane’s head, a thrumming beat making her ignorant of the volume of her voice. Her eyes were magnified by large thick glasses that sat improbably upon the bridge of her thin nose, like a bottle balanced on a dagger’s edge. Each vigorous stride saw her thrusting out her elbows and her pink velvet tracksuit billowed around her small frame, seeming many sizes too big.
“Let’s hope that holds off for the fête, eh,” yelled Diane, who vaguely waved a skeletal hand to the north. Dark clouds bulged and slid ponderously across the sky, threatening rain and ruin to the fête.
Martin turned as Diane streaked past, letting her trailing hand turn into a wave. He closed his mouth that had been ready to reply but was never given the chance. Watching her go, he saw Diane cross the main street and head to the old cricket pitch and the village green where preparations were well underway.
“She’s a funny old bird,” remarked Tommy Giles, stepping out from the convenience store in a stained dark-green apron. “You think she can see the centre of the universe with those glasses?”
“Some say she can see into souls and pick out the secrets we all keep hidden,” replied Martin absently as he reached up to adjust his helmet that had drifted slightly during his encounter with Diane.
“Let’s hope not, mate. I don’t need any old biddy seeing my privates.”
Tommy winked, and his perpetual grin got wider. He slouched in the doorway, one hand in the pocket of his baggy jeans, the other scratching his side.
“I don’t think anyone needs to see them, Tom.”
“Speaking of which, how was your night out with Jilly?”
Martin blushed slightly, straightening up to make himself a little taller, though he was still a head shorter than Tommy, and started walking down the street.
“Got a job to do, Tom,” he said as he picked up the pace, putting the convenience store behind him. “See you at the Goose later.”
Tommy chuckled and shook his head before turning back to the fluorescent interior, grabbing a pack of tins that he was supposed to be stacking on a shelf.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Diane’s rapid progress slowed as she neared the large tents that had been erected all across the green. Just beyond them in the parking lot was a group of vans and trucks covered in gaudy artwork, people milling around them, lifting canopies and whole sides of the vehicles to reveal jumbles of stuffed animals and toys. A couple of large lorries were unhitching webs of steel trusses like petals on a blooming flower.
She saw Douglas Macdonald gesticulating wildly at a group of workmen that were holding mugs in thick, grimy fingers. He was obviously very animated about something and Diane wondered what it could be with the fête opening the next day. Douglas flapped his arms one last time, his face a blazing red, highlighted by his stark white shirt, then stormed away.
“Mr. Macdonald,” cried Diane, removing her headphones and stabbing a finger at her phone to pause the noise.
Douglas looked up from scowling at the ground in front of him, and his demeanour changed instantly. Stepping over guide ropes that booby-trapped his path, he met Diane between the tent for the cake contest and the one housing the café.
“Ms. Dimbleby, good to see you. Please, call me Douglas,” he said in a heavy Glaswegian accent.
“Are the preparations going well?”
“Oh yes yes, quite well,” replied Douglas. He nodded his head at the group still drinking their tea. “Just a little friendly encouragement needed here and there.”
“Did my marquee lady get you what you needed?”
“She’s been the smoothest part of all this. The tent was delivered yesterday at the crack of dawn. I only spoke to her that night. Thank you for suggesting her to me.”
“Oh, my pleasure Mr. Macdonald. I’m glad she was able to come through for you.”
“I’ll have a slice of the winning sponge cake set aside for you,” said Douglas, “Mrs. Gilbert will be the one to beat again, I think. She’s got a magical touch with those cakes.”
“That would be delightful. I have been trying to get her to make one for my niece's wedding, but she’s just so focused on the fête.”
“Aye, she’s a determined competitor. And I’m sure the prize money doesn’t hurt either.”
Diane smiled at the not-so-subtle implication.
“You are very generous, you know. I think you’ll have a bumper crop of cakes this year. Everyone wants to try their luck for such a prize.”
“Never thought of trying your hand, Ms. Dimbleby?”
“Oh, definitely not. My late husband used to say that my apple pies were delicious and then feed half of it to the dog. He may have been a detective, but he was a terrible liar.” Diane smiled at the memory. “I know my strengths, Mr. Macdonald, and few of them lie in the kitchen.”
Douglas gave a hearty laugh and nodded his head in agreement.
“I know what you mean, I know what you mean. Food spontaneously combusts when I appr
oach it in the kitchen. I’m glad to have Mrs. Hartnell to cook for me now. Saves on the smoke damage.”
With a smile in her eyes, Diane bid Douglas farewell and, slotting her headphones in place, continued her speedwalk around the village.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Jilly Newman helped her father lift another crate of tomatoes down from the back of his van to the cart sitting on a grassy lot. Similar carts stood around with similar families stocking up their personal stalls as couples wandered around looking at the produce. The local farmers who usually spent Fridays at the open air market had pulled out all the stops for the day that preceded the fête’s opening. People had already started to fill the hotel and were using the spare time to check out the local wares. A couple of stalls were making a lot of noise hawking their wares, calling out prices for bags of sweetcorn and tubs of tomatoes.
“Blast that Mickey Jenkins,” said Jilly’s father, Larry Newman. “He’s got a mouth the size of Shrewsbury. He ought to be made to wear a sign or something, the amount of noise he puts out.”
“Oh, dad. He’s just trying to run his business,” replied Jilly, tucking a stray blonde hair behind her ear.
“I don’t mind that, but he’s scaring sheep two counties over. They’ll be having kittens instead of lambs.”
Jilly turned back to the inside of the van, reaching for her mobile phone that was wedged into her trouser pocket. She flipped on the screen, trying to hide it from her dad who was still mumbling about the noise. She hadn’t received any messages.
“Why haven’t you messaged me?” she said to the empty message inbox.
“Who you talking to?” her father said, poking his head around the van door.
“No one, dad. I was just talking to myself trying to decide what to bring out next,” said Jilly as she slid her phone back into her pocket hiding it from her father’s view.
“When you start arguing with yourself I’ll call the nuthouse to come get you. Now, I think we need more corn, love. We’re a little low still. “
Larry disappeared again as a group of people drifted by, manhandling a fruit or vegetable. Jilly could hear him bartering with a couple about some strawberries. She slid the crate of sweetcorn to the lip of the van, hopped down and carried it over to the stall.
“Morning Jilly,” said Diane, appearing from behind a couple that were migrating along the stall front.
“Ms. Dimbleby, good morning to you too,” said Jilly as she dropped the crate to the ground, narrowly missing her toes.
“Two pounds of those delightful tomatoes please,” said Diane, pointing to a stack of fist-sized fruit.
Jilly pulled out a plastic bag and started selecting tomatoes, firm and fragrant, just as she knew Ms. Dimbleby liked them.
“How’s your mother preparing for the contest?” enquired Diane. “Mrs. Gilbert has been on a roll. Though it sounded like last year was close between the two of them.”
“Mom’s got a secret weapon this year, so Mrs. Gilbert had better watch out.”
“Ooh, that sounds like a delicious rivalry. Lemon sponge cakes at dawn, eaten at twenty paces.”
Jilly giggled and handed Diane her bag, taking the proffered money.
“I wouldn’t put it past them to come to blows over the contest tomorrow,” whispered Jilly, leaning over the stall. “Gilbert’s already been bad-mouthing mom to Mr. Carson and the vicar, that and buying them drinks down the Goose. Buttering up the judges, she is.”
Diane frowned at the revelation, pinching at her sense of fair play.
“Well, at least Mr. Macdonald seems to have avoided her machinations. I can’t see him letting two votes overrule who he thinks should win. His money helps keep those two in business, you know.”
“Well, Mrs. Gilbert had better watch her step. Mum’s coming, all guns blazing this time.”
“Good good,” replied Diane, who moved aside as more people wandered up to the stall. “Good luck with the sales, dear. And to your mom too.”
Jilly gave a quick wave and went to answer a question from the young woman.
As the rush died down, Larry leaned over to his daughter and said quietly into her ear:
“Be careful around Ms. Dimbleby. I hear she’s got contacts in the police up in Shrewsbury. Husband was a copper too. Word is she helped catch his killers. So watch what you say, right?”
“Yes dad, of course I will.”
Jilly couldn’t just tell her dad that she had been out with Constable Martin Jackson the night before. He would never trust her with anything again.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Diane pushed open the front door of her home to be greeted by a half-hearted barking from the end of the hallway.
“Now now, Rufus. I was only on my morning walk. I’d take you with me if you could keep up.”
A small dog, greying hairs around its mouth, peered around the kitchen doorway. Rufus looked unconvinced by whatever Diane was saying to him. Unconvinced or apathetic. Diane could never tell.
Wandering back to the kitchen, Diane dropped the bag of tomatoes on the pine table and went over to the kettle to make a cup of tea. While the water boiled, she removed her jacket and headphones, placing them on the kitchen counter while she checked her phone for any calls she had ignored. She found technology to be very intrusive when she was out in the world and preferred to ignore texts and calls until in the comfort of her own home.
Albert had called while she was walking, as had Susan Talbot. She decided to call Albert first as he never took long on the phone, his understanding of technology only matched by cavemen, and he disliked not understanding anything.
After a couple of short bursts of noises, Albert answered in his usual brusque manner.
“Albert.”
“It’s Diane. I was just out for a walk.”
“Oh Diane, my dear. I called about tomorrow. Pick you up at ten, right?”
“That’s right, and I’ll show you the wonders of country cooking.”
“Great. I’ll be there at ten. Look forward to seeing you.”
“See you then, Albert.”
They both hung up, and Diane went to the violently rattling kettle and reached for a cup and the jar of teabags.
“I tell you, Rufus. He never minces words on the phone. It is going to be nice to see him tomorrow though. It would be the perfect day for a proposal, don’t you think?”
The dog sat heavily on the ground, its belly resting on the floor forcing it to sit a little taller. Rufus let out a small huff through her nose as if not impressed by Diane’s question. His small black eyes stared up with a look of sympathy for the poor human.
“Oh come on now. He’s got to do it sometime. It’s been five years since we met on that trip to the Pennines. I don’t know what he’s waiting for.”
Rufus responded by licking his belly and lying down, chin flat to the floor and eyes closed as if listening to all this talk was exhausting. Diane enjoyed Rufus’s commentary. It was like a disinterested deity trying to ignore the jabbering of its creations.
She poured the boiling water over the teabag, filling her cup, and dialled Susan Talbot while it steeped. She wondered what rumours Susan might have heard this time. Susan picked up, and the deluge of chatter started, barely pausing to acknowledge any of Diane replies.
“Diane, dearest, I’ve been dying to talk to you. How was your walk? Good. You worked with that Douglas Macdonald a couple of days ago, didn’t you? Not worked, but you know what I mean. Well anyway, you know how he is with his money, splashing it around like a bad aftershave. Who pays five hundred pounds for a lemon sponge cake? Five hundred pounds. And all the money he’s dished out on this fête and to the vicar, not to mention that ironworks project thing just outside of town. I hear it’s thousands and thousands of pounds. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, so anyway, I was talking to Kathy Riley, you know, the old headmistress, and she heard from Tilly Hutchens, who has a brother-in-law from Glasgow, that Macdonald might be on the run. Yes, on the
run! He says there was a security van robbery in Edinburgh that was about the time Macdonald came to town with his pockets bulging and bought Critchley House. Imagine that, old Douglas Macdonald holding up a security van and running off into the night only to end up managing a village fête! I tell you, he’s hiding from something, and that just makes sense. You see how angry he gets sometimes. So it all pans out. What do you think, Diane?”
When Susan paused while talking it always came as a surprise and Diane was caught off guard. She stammered into the phone for a second to give herself time to process everything Susan had unloaded like a machine gun. Diane concluded, as usual, that Susan’s rumours about Douglas Macdonald didn’t make much sense. He had been a deep-sea diver that uncovered Nazi treasure, a smuggler who sold a stolen Rembrandt to a secret buyer, and now a robber of security vans.
“Susan, you can’t just go spending money after a bank robbery, you know. The bank keeps track of all the serial numbers on the notes, and the police have the other banks keep an eye out. If Mr. Macdonald rolled into town and started buying up land left and right, the police would be all over him like ants on honey. He’s been around here for what, fifteen years? I think even the Shropshire police would have tracked him down by now.”
There were a series of “Ah, but” sputters at the end of the line; these were Susan’s attempts to bypass Diane’s argument. He’d paid off the police, paid off the bank clerks, laundered his money through drug gangs, and numerous other steadily more outrageous comebacks. Diane listened for a while, pulling her teabag from the cup before she agreed with Susan that it was definitely plausible now, with all those things taken into account.
Susan seemed happy and rang off to call the network of women that helped the ”truth” get out; “doing a public service” was how they saw it.
Murder in the Village: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Page 1