by Ali Carter
Praise for A Brush with Death
‘A delicious new voice in crime writing... Excellent on the English aristocracy and written in a fine, wry style, we will hear much more of Miss Mahl.’ Daily Mail
‘Absorbing, charming and funny, A Brush with Death heralds a fresh and welcome new voice in crime writing. Susie Mahl is also a welcome new detective: witty, warm and very inquisitive.’ Antonia Fraser
‘This is a crime novel for mystery fans sick of gore and sexual violence. Just curl up and lose yourself happily in this world of animals and toffs – closely observed by a beady-eyed artist turned amateur sleuth who realizes all is not as innocent as it looks and is determined to do something about it.’ Ruth Dudley Edwards
‘It’s a big fat BRILLIANT!!!!’ Amanda Prowse
‘A Brush with Death is a perfectly English mystery, with an abundance of all the right jokes, details, and muddy dogs. Author Ali Carter’s first book is a lovely romp and shows promise for a wonderful tongue-in-cheek mystery series.’ Foreword Reviews
‘Animal lovers, Anglophiles, and fans of humorous, socially observant whodunits will look forward to the next Susie Mahl mystery.’ Publishers Weekly
‘Its rich details on the British leisure class may interest fans of Downton Abbey and G.M. Malliet’s “Max Tudor” mysteries.’ Library Journal
‘Fans of country-house cozies will delight in this series debut.’ Booklist
‘The first book in a promising new series will remind you of Downton Abbey and Miss Marple, except that this Miss M is a pet portraitist with a penchant for rather expensive underwear, and it’s purely for her own pleasure.’ The Bookbag
‘An entertaining read, and one that had me up to the wee small hours.’ Crimesquad
‘A riveting, charming and very funny new crime series from the fabulously talented Ali Carter.’ Piers Morgan
‘Carter is a fresh and welcome new voice in crime writing and Susie Mahl a very different new detective.’ Crimereview
‘A Brush with Death is the first in a charming new series about pet portraitist and amateur sleuth Susie Mahl, and the debut novel from animal enthusiast Ali Carter.’ Crimereads
‘Brilliantly enjoyable; coolly observed.’ The Tablet
‘A fun read.’ Sussex Life
‘A Brush with Death is a charming and amusing murder mystery. It contains great character observations and is written with humour. She brings to life the world of the aristocracy and everything that goes with it. A pleasant change from the dark Norwegian noir genre. It is definitely a book to take on holiday.’ Country Wives
THE
COLOURS
OF
MURDER
ALI CARTER
For Ma and Emily
A more loyal sales force I couldn’t wish for.
Author’s Note
‘Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but moulds it to its purpose.’
Oscar Wilde
This is a work of fiction. Don’t be fooled by the first person nor look for direct correspondences. I have created a world for you to live and dream, not dissect. Susie is smarter, funnier, better company and much more talented than me. Her parents, not a patch on mine. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
On the 18th of January this year ten men received the following invitation,
Gentlemen,
Planning ahead to the summer… I will be hosting the annual cricket match at Fontaburn on Saturday 18 August and would be delighted if you would like to come and play. You and your respective wives are most welcome to stay both Friday and Saturday night.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards,
Archibald
The Honourable Archibald Wellingham, son of Lord Norland, was of the following opinion: if you want your A-list friends to come, an invitation must be sent well in advance. He was a conventional man in this respect. He came from good breeding with an estate in Norfolk to boot and, although unmarried and getting on a bit, he was perfectly capable of throwing a party single-handed. His boundless generosity enjoyed nothing more than filling Fontaburn Hall for a raucous weekend.
The hall was a place where people arrived and immediately felt at ease. The old formalities of past generations nestled in those cobwebs high in the ceiling corners, but Archibald’s style was more ‘pile in and help yourself’. So when invitations to the cricket weekend fluttered through the letterboxes of staple old friends, enthusiastic acceptances returned in no time at all. Four out of the ten men were keen to stay both Friday and Saturday nights and only Stanley Gerald thought he might bring his wife.
Stanley had recently walked up the aisle with Archibald’s childhood sweetheart Primrose. He didn’t boast any form on the cricketing front, and hadn’t been included in the weekend before, but having bought a castle nearby, inviting him seemed to Archibald a friendly thing to do.
The winter whizzed past with back-to-back shooting invitations, spring was spent on the Swiss slopes and as the summer weekend appeared on the horizon Archibald found himself in his study reviewing his guest list.
The Geralds’ RSVP had been the first to return, confirming they’d arrive in good time for kitchen supper – they wouldn’t want to miss out on fish pie. Yes! thought Archibald, this was immensely reassuring. Primrose had been to stay many times before, she knew the form and would be a great help at keeping the show on the road. Not that Fontaburn house parties had failed in the past, but the next name on the list, Charlie Letterhead, gave him pause. Charlie hadn’t been seen on the circuit for months, ever since returning from tour in Afghanistan in fact, and rumour had it he wasn’t in a good place. But Archibald, a man of routine and convivial nature, wasn’t going to let that get in the way. A friend in need is a friend indeed and a weekend away might be just what Charlie needed.
As for Daniel Furr Egrant and George, Duke of Thelthorp… These men rang last week to say they’d be arriving late. Not at the end of a day’s work, oh no! – they didn’t do nine-to-five jobs. Daniel, the perfect mixer on a country weekend, was coming fresh off a private jet and George, no surprise with the grouse season in full flow, would be taking his usual detour through St James’s to pick up more cartridges. This meant supper would be over when these two arrived. So, avoiding any grumbles on their part, Archibald tore a piece of paper off his pad and made a note to stock up on malt whisky. Then returning to his list of guests he put a little tick by each of their names.
It was now time to even out the numbers, and as Archibald gently rocked back on his chair a smile swept across his face. Princess Tatiana Davitoff’s name was scribbled down. This minxy Russian had sidled up to him at a recent Sotheby’s sale and he’d dined with her twice since in quick succession. As he sat here now, staring out the window, recalling her enthusiasm for his great summer weekend, he saw her green eyes, those thick black lashes, her ruby lips yet to part, that rumple of glistening dark hair pouring over one shoulder leading his eye to her bosom. Then blast! – the moment was dispelled by his mother’s words ringing in his ears, ‘Darling it’s very important you stay focused on producing an heir.’ Lady Norland, a dutiful mother, never shied from pushing broody members of the English upper classes her son’s way. And as Archibald sat at his desk he took in a deep breath and siphoned through his mother’s options for the three remaining female spots. Nope, not one was going to make the cut. So instead he grasped the telephone and dialled Charlotte Mapperton’s number.
Charlotte was an old friend. Her husband Hugh, on the other hand, was not, for the simple fact Archibald couldn’t stand venture capitalists who were after his money. But it wa
s now August, Hugh would be swanning around Silicon Valley, and Archibald had the phone to his ear ready to convince Charlotte she should come and stay.
‘How marvellous,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m heavy with child but I’d simply love to.’
‘I’m not expecting you to play cricket.’
Charlotte chuckled, ‘Arch?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you still single?’
‘Yes.’ He veered away from mentioning the Princess. It’s not like something was going on… yet.
‘Excellent! I have an all-singing, all-dancing new American friend. Please, please can I bring her?’
‘Do,’ said Archibald, always being one for the more the merrier.
‘What’s she called?’ he asked, and with Charlotte’s reply Hailey Dune’s name was added to the list.
Archibald laid down his pen and reached for his address book. One more girl and the numbers would be even. Then, after a quick flick through the names he snapped it shut, got up from his desk and left his study muttering to himself, ‘For heaven’s sake there are still two weeks left for a girl to land on my lap.’
His dogs Yin and Yang were ragging around in the hall. ‘Do stop it,’ Archibald barked as he flung open the front door and out they shot, bounding into the fresh air, full of excitable energy and ready for six o’clock walkies. Letting them be for a sec, Archibald stood on the doorstep of Fontaburn Hall and admired the beauty of his garden stretching out in front of him. His fortunate circumstances were gilded by the early evening summer light. A particularly beautiful time of day he thought, as he pulled the door shut with a bang, marched after the dogs and didn’t once turn around to glimpse what lingered in the wings of this fine example of Tudor architecture. No, no he was far too preoccupied dreaming up the ideal final girl for his weekend.
The following week – in the most roundabout way – Archibald happened to hear of an attractive artist on commission drawing racehorses nearby. Her name was Susie Mahl…
The Honourable Archibald Barnabas Cooke Wellingham is my mother’s second cousin once removed’s goddaughter’s husband’s cousin. How Norfolk’s most eligible bachelor came to hear I was temporarily living nearby should be inexplicable, but the crème de la crème of the British social class can drum up a connection, as tenuous as it may be, in every civilised country, capital, county or state round the world at best, and throughout Europe at least.
Now, please don’t mistake my family, the Mahls, for being this high up the social ladder; we’re middle class and always have been. But Sarah Smith, the goddaughter of my mother’s second cousin once removed, married well and left her modest home in north-west London to land comfortably in a Wiltshire mansion of great proportions, with a bank balance to match and a title in tow. This stratospheric leap of social class sent verbal repercussions travelling at great speed down the maternal line of my family. So, when Mum, who has always been hot on genealogy, heard I had a commission to draw racehorses in north Norfolk, she immediately informed me ‘it’s no distance at all’ from said goddaughter’s husband’s cousin’s country seat. And within seconds she’d stopped talking to me and picked up the telephone to call her second cousin once removed and make the connection.
Within forty-eight hours, much to my mother’s triumphant joy, I received a formal invitation to join Archibald Barnabas Cooke Wellingham’s house party on the evening of Saturday 18 August at Fontaburn Hall.
My mother having gone to such lengths left me feeling I couldn’t possibly refuse and so, despite the fact I’d never met any of the tenuous links, I signed myself up for a dinner party and night with a houseful of grand strangers.
It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with this type of company, as several pet portrait commissions have led me to family piles in the past and my years in private education (albeit on a fully funded scholarship) have stood me in good stead, but Fontaburn Hall fell bang in the middle of a week’s work. Not something I ever like to break.
I’d been commissioned by the renowned Norfolk trainer Aidan McCann, or ‘Canny’, as he’s better known amongst friends and rivals who envy his ability to pip them to the post. He wanted me to draw six racehorses, his ‘yard favourites’ as he calls them. Cha ching! went my dormant commercial side, waking to the realisation that, if these drawings were a success, I could go on and sell prints to the owners as well as every winning punter from then on in. I had to make these pictures as good as I possibly could, no matter the subject was an animal I knew very little about.
Riding isn’t my thing. I didn’t grow up with horses so I find it hard to understand what all the fuss is about. It seems to me a black or white matter: you either love them, or you don’t. Those who do were weaned off breast and onto saddle – not a moment in between, plonked on Shetlands even before they can walk. Although the self-lessness of mothers whose little poppets have been bitten by the bug is remarkable when you come to think about it. Sacrificing lie-ins for mucking out and putting up with that smell both inside and out. Not to mention the expense of it all.
Apart from pony-club camp – and the inevitable snogging – I’m only attracted to one other horse-related activity – a day at the races, rubbing shoulders with champagne socialists and men in top hats.
So, when Canny asked me to draw six of his National Hunt winners, despite the fact I knew I was taking on an enormous challenge (I’ve only drawn one horse before) I gladly accepted in the hopes an invitation to the Cheltenham Gold Cup or the Grand National might follow.
When we’d struck the deal, he immediately informed me, ‘The middle week of August is a good out-of-season time to visit.’ The horses would be roughed off still, and with the slight decrease in the amount of work he suggested yard groom Lucy would have me to stay in one of her two spare rooms. Canny would by then have fled Pluton Farm Stables to summer on his yacht in Do We Really Care Where.
It would be the first job I’ve had when the commissioner is absent, although the names of the horses – Boy Meets Man, On the Pull, Wearing the Trousers for the geldings, and Mum’s the Word, Great Knockers and High Maintenance for the mares – tells you more than enough about Canny’s clientele.
My head felt heavy as I lifted it off the pillow, waking from a jolly good night’s sleep. The air was calm, the curtains weren’t even fluttering in front of the open window and I really felt up to the challenge of drawing today. I swung my legs out of bed and gave my whole body a vigorous shake, getting it in the mood for hard work before a late afternoon departure to Fontaburn Hall.
If it wasn’t for Lucy Redjacket, chief mucker-out-er and step-in landlady, I would certainly have burst into tears last Tuesday, turned on my heel and gone straight back home to Sussex. Drawing Aidan McCann’s horses was proving to be a struggle. Lucy, however, generously welcomed me into her cottage adjoining the stables and despite there being ten years between us we’ve muddled along together with ease, her never once showing any resentment at giving up precious time each day to help me cordon off whichever horse it is I’m attempting to draw.
Today my sitter was a gelding, Wearing the Trousers, a supreme steeplechaser with thirty-four victories, including a Gold Cup and two King George VI Chases. He may be worth an arm and a leg, so Lucy told me, but his career as a model was quite a different matter. Wearing the Trousers he certainly was. Frisky like you cannot imagine, gallivanting all over the place and absolutely impossible to draw. It really was quite frightening at times, what with a bucking behind and a whiplashing neck.
By the early afternoon the heat had got the better of him and finally he relaxed, although by then time was short and I only just managed to get down a few sketches before the clock struck and maddeningly I had to pack up for the day.
It was all Mum’s fault and quite unlike her to have gone to such lengths to get me this evening’s invitation. Perhaps she pitied me more than she let on for being unmarried, and hearing that her second cousin once removed’s goddaughter achieved it and married above herself, Mum fancied th
e chances for her own daughter: me.
But, to be fair, as I packed my overnight bag, I thought of Mum, sitting at home in south London bubbling over with excitement anticipating her daughter’s time ahead, and I knew deep down inside it was a good thing for me to get out. Weekends away are something the introspections of my art keep me from doing much of the time. And when these rare, out-of-the-ordinary invitations such as Archibald’s come along, I’m not one to shy away.
In truth, I am and always have been rather fascinated by privileged people and I confess that I do like to be spoilt once in a while. So, with these happy thoughts in my mind I put on a smile and skipped downstairs.
‘Susie!’ said Lucy as I approached the yard in my very comfortable new trainers (not the running sort) to say my goodbyes. Her ginger-and-white cat Red-Rum was by her side; a pet I love despite my father’s rhetoric, ‘Mahls love cooking and hate cats.’
‘That’s me off, Lucy.’
‘Wal, you enjoy yourself,’ she said with her recognisable Norfolk intonation. ‘You’ll be finished and leaving me for good far too soon now we’ve got the knack of cordoning off these beauts.’
‘It’s all thanks to you that I’ve broken the back of them,’ I said as I smiled at the horses’ heads looming out of the metal-topped stable doors, awaiting their final meal of the day.
Canny has ninety-five National Hunt horses in total, two quads of stables back to back, interconnected by a not-so-pretty red brick arch. And I don’t notice it now but the horsy smell of this set-up had initially taken a certain amount of getting used to. It got up my nose like nothing I’d ever come across before, but then I’ve got a very sensitive nose.
Aside from that pong and the functional aesthetics, Canny’s yard is the equivalent of five-star hotel accommodation. High-net-worth animals, kept in cotton wool, fed well and receiving top-class care and attention by some underpaid groom such as Lucy, who is in love with the horses, other members of equally committed staff and the boss, or all three at once.