The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Merryn Allingham

  He can join me in the misery stakes, Flora thought. The only one who remained completely undisturbed by the whole wretched business was Jack Carrington. The final two books he’d ordered had arrived in the last few days and were in the cellar awaiting collection. Charlie Teague was still in quarantine and not able to mix, so unless Jack chose to break cover again, he would have to wait for his books. Meanwhile, Flora was faced with lonely hour after lonely hour, her savings account slowly dwindling, and an ache in her heart that her aunt’s beloved shop was so badly despised.

  Until one morning, she woke and made a decision. It was up to her to find a solution. If she could discover why Kevin Anderson had died – she didn’t believe in freak occurrences any more than the rest of the village – if she could show there had been skulduggery at work and the bookshop was blameless – trade would return.

  Where to begin, though? Investigating skulduggery was not exactly her forte. But didn’t she know someone for whom it was? Sudden clarity, a spark of illumination: she would go to Jack Carrington. He could help her. He had to help her. He’d been the one to find the body and he lived crime constantly. So who better? Today, when she closed the shop at five – there was no point in staying open longer – she would wheel Betty round from her shelter in the yard and deliver Carrington’s books to Overlay House.

  Four

  Jack Carrington had been more disturbed by his visit to the bookshop than he’d realised, for several nights finding it difficult to sleep. It was one thing to write about dead bodies, quite another to trip over a corpse when looking for books. The dead man, though, had appeared peaceful enough. There had been no visible injury except for the cut to his head and that was more than likely the result of his fall. Yet Jack was uneasy. He was unsure why and felt stupid that he couldn’t pin the feeling down. He decided, though, that when he came to be interviewed by the police, it would be best to say nothing of the doubts hovering in his mind, but simply give a brief account of his movements on the day he’d found Anderson.

  He was contacted a day later by a policeman whom he already knew. Jack had spoken to Inspector Ridley several times in the past when he’d consulted Brighton police, wanting to ensure he had the details of a current novel completely right. This time they met over a pint of beer at the Cross Keys, Abbeymead’s historic pub. Jack had been reluctant when Alan Ridley had suggested it. He’d been hoping for a brief conversation at his door, the local constable ticking a few boxes. Now it was turning into the kind of social occasion he hated, and in a pub of all places. But Ridley had helped him in the past and he felt obligated to agree.

  The smell of beer met him at the doorway, and inside a fug of cigarette smoke floated just below the dark timbers of the ceiling, making Jack’s eyes water. A football table had been pushed up against one of the latticed windows, restricting the light even more severely, but through the gloom he caught sight of the inspector already waiting at the shabby bar. On one side of him a group of men were talking loudly together.

  ‘Find a table,’ Ridley called out, spotting him in the doorway. ‘I’ll bring the drinks over.’

  The pub was crowded at this time of day, but Jack managed to find a table free that was as far as possible from the noisy laughter at the bar.

  ‘This talk is off the record, Jack,’ Alan Ridley said, bringing two foaming glasses to their table, ‘but it’s good to see you again.’

  Jack was instantly cautious. ‘Off the record? Why is that?’

  ‘The old man’ – he must mean his superintendent, Jack thought – ‘wants this business wrapped up as soon as possible. He doesn’t like the unusual and, you must admit, it’s a bit of an oddity. A visitor to Abbeymead breaking into the local bookshop and dropping dead. We’re pretty convinced, though, that it was a heart attack. Just waiting for the pathologist to confirm it.’

  Jack felt confused. If it was such an open-and-shut case, why was he here with a beer glass in front of him and talking off the record?

  ‘The papers have got hold of the story,’ Ridley went on, ‘and it looks like they’re out to make a meal of it. You know the kind of thing, lost heir’s nephew travels thousands of miles to Sussex and promptly dies. The sooner we can close it down, the better, but I need a line to spin them.’

  ‘You think a cosy chat with me will give you one?’

  ‘Everything helps. You were there – and you’re a man steeped in crime. You must have some idea what happened.’

  ‘I didn’t know Kevin Anderson. I’d never seen him before. For that matter, I’d never seen Flora Steele before. I found the body while I was waiting for Miss Steele to fetch my books from the cellar.’

  He felt the inspector’s penetrating eyes on him. ‘You don’t know Miss Steele then? That’s a pity.’

  ‘I’d never been to the bookshop before. I pay a boy, Charlie Teague, who delivers and collects my orders. I’m not going to be much help, I’m afraid.’

  Alan Ridley took a long draught of his beer. ‘We’re working on the assumption that Mr Anderson was in the bookshop for a reason. We thought he might have been meeting Miss Steele.’

  ‘He would hardly have broken into the premises if that was the case.’

  ‘The window was broken, true, but not necessarily by Kevin Anderson. He may have discovered someone breaking in, tackled him and paid for it with his life.’

  ‘Flora, Miss Steele, told me she’d never met Anderson, except when he almost ran her off the road the previous evening.’

  ‘That’s what she told my sergeant, too, but she’s a young woman. A pretty young woman. She might be bending the truth.’

  ‘Why on earth would she do that?’

  ‘Secret liaison? Villages talk and she didn’t want people knowing?’

  The suggestion made Jack’s eyes widen. A relationship between Flora and the dead man? It was possible the girl had met Anderson elsewhere other than in a speeding sports car, but it seemed unlikely. She had been genuinely bewildered at finding Kevin’s body in her bookshop. This was to be the old story, it seemed. The inspector was looking for a line and, in doubt, had fallen back on romance.

  ‘You’re sure she never dropped a hint?’ Ridley pursued.

  ‘As sure as I can be. In any case, Anderson is Australian and he’s only been in England a few weeks.’

  ‘These modern girls are fast workers, you know! And it could have been a long-distance romance. I’ve heard all this guff about his uncle inheriting the Priory, but it could just as well have been Flora Steele that had him make the journey.’

  Jack frowned into his beer. ‘Sorry,’ he said, after a long pause, ‘I can’t really help.’

  ‘Ah, well, it was a possibility. A titbit to feed the press.’ The inspector gave a long sigh. ‘They’ll be disappointed when they discover they’ve been running a story that’s going nowhere. Once they learn it’s death by natural causes.’

  ‘If it is.’

  ‘Bound to be.’ Ridley drained his glass. ‘I best be off. Shouldn’t be drinking on duty! But thanks for meeting me.’

  ‘Before you go, I should mention that my fingerprints will be on the chap’s wallet. I tried to find out who he was before Flora called the police.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on, for what it’s worth. It’s a rum do, that’s for sure. The place was broken into but nothing stolen. If the dead man didn’t know Miss Steele, what reason could he have for being there?’

  It was what Jack would have dearly liked to know himself. ‘Why he died seems just as important a question,’ he said quietly. ‘Anderson was a young, fit-looking man.’

  ‘Like I said, we’re waiting for the post-mortem to be sure.’

  ‘Is it possible you could let me know the results?’

  The inspector looked surprised.

  ‘I was the one who found him,’ Jack said quickly. ‘I’d like to know, just to close the affair.’

  ‘It’s not really protocol, but… as a special favour, I’ll drop you a note. Don’t suppose you’re on
the telephone yet?’

  Jack shook his head, and drank down the last of his pint. ‘If you would, Alan. I’d best be off, too. I’ve a deadline to meet.’

  The laughter at the bar had become raucous and he was glad to have an excuse to leave.

  It wasn’t the last he was to see of the inspector, however. A day or so later, he was returning from a walk he often took in the woods nearby, when he was surprised to see a car drawn up outside his house. Very few vehicles ever bumped along the muddy lane, but as he drew nearer, Alan Ridley jumped out and waved at him.

  ‘Thought I’d call in person,’ the inspector said. ‘Better than trying to write it all down.’

  ‘You’d best come in.’

  Jack hardly sounded welcoming, but he couldn’t help himself. If Ridley was here to tell him the results of the post-mortem, wouldn’t they be simple enough to be written on the back of a postcard?

  ‘I’ll not stop, old chap, but I promised to let you know what the pathologist said. It’s what we thought. A rogue heart attack.’

  ‘That must be good news. It should take the case off the front page. Not much mileage in a heart attack.’

  ‘They’ll play the poignancy card, young man away from home, et cetera, but yes, we’re hoping it will be an end to any furore the press were wanting to kick up.’ Ridley paused, sucking in his teeth, then, moving closer, he said into Jack’s ear, ‘Between you and me, though, it isn’t that certain.’

  Was that the reason Ridley hadn’t committed his words to paper? The uneasiness that had been lurking in the back of Jack’s mind stirred into action.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘The pathologist couldn’t find any problem with the chap’s heart, apart from the fact that it had stopped. No sign of disease or even wear or tear, and the bloke’s doc Down Under confirmed as much. Anderson was fit enough to go surfing on a regular basis and rarely walked through his surgery door.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’ Jack asked cautiously.

  ‘Me? Nothing. I’m not a medic and I’m happy enough to wrap the case up as natural causes. Unusual but natural. There was some speculation about poison, but—’

  ‘Poison?’

  ‘The pathologist wondered. It looked like the bloke’s airways had narrowed and he’d suffered some respiratory distress, which isn’t always the case in a simple heart attack.’

  ‘Was there a trace of any poison?’

  ‘Not a drop. That’s the problem. If there was a poison, it was one that’s not easily detected. Invisible once ingested. I don’t suppose you’ve come across any oddities in the research you’ve done?’

  Jack shook his head, then recalled the book on poisons that he’d recently bought. He would definitely check.

  ‘Keep it under your hat, though, won’t you?’ the inspector said. ‘The pathologist was flying a kite, I think. He only mentioned it to me because the chap’s general health was so good that it was bothering him. Without definite evidence, we’ve decided it’s best to go with the heart attack. The bloke’s dead and we haven’t anything to prove differently.’

  Jack opened the car door for the inspector to climb back in and found himself nodding, though he wasn’t sure why. Ridley’s suggestion had done nothing to ease his mind and, letting himself into the house, he felt troubled.

  For the next few nights, he slept badly, and during the day slumped gloomily at his desk, finding it difficult to write. Some sixth sense had been telling him that all wasn’t what it seemed, and though he’d been at pains to stress to Flora Steele that a heart attack in a young man was perfectly possible, he hadn’t really believed what he was saying. Not entirely. And she certainly hadn’t. He’d rather liked her for that. Liked that she was a little fiery, a little too candid. Jack wondered how she was getting on.

  He found out sooner than he’d expected. Having struggled unsuccessfully with the same paragraph for most of that day, he’d been about to give up and go down to the kitchen for yet another ham sandwich – he couldn’t be bothered to cook – when there was a knock on the front door. He ignored it. He didn’t welcome visitors. The only people he ever talked to were his publishers, his agent, and an occasional policeman, anything to do with what earned him a living. Everything else was out of contention.

  The knocking began again, this time louder. He gritted his teeth. Some do-gooder from the village wanting him to donate to charity, or find Jesus, or join the Mother’s Union. He thought he’d seen them all off by now. The third knock was more of a thump and caused him to spring out of his chair and slam the window wide open. He had been ready with a barrage of cutting remarks, until he saw the pair of hazel eyes looking up at him. Flora Steele.

  He would have to go down, he supposed. He couldn’t leave her standing there; even a hermit couldn’t do that. Her eyes had held an angry glint, he’d noticed, though at the same time she looked quite fragile. Different from when he’d seen her last. He ran down the stairs, comforting himself with the thought that at least he’d get the books he’d ordered. She must have brought the new arrivals with her, and perhaps, just perhaps, they would push him towards writing fluently again.

  At the front door, Flora made no attempt to hand over the books that Jack could see resting in her bicycle tray. In the bookshop, he’d thought her face lovely, paintable even if he’d been an artist, but now her hair was scraped back into some kind of bobble and her eyes held a warning spark.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Steele.’ He tried to sound welcoming. ‘It’s kind of you to bring my order. Can I take them for you?’ He went to lift the books out of the bike tray, only to have his hand pushed aside.

  ‘You can have them, certainly, but it’s you I’ve come to see, Mr Carrington.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Can I come in? I need to speak to you.’

  ‘The house is in a bit of a mess right now,’ he began to bluster.

  ‘I don’t mind mess,’ she said, collecting the books from the bicycle tray and walking across the threshold before he could stop her. ‘Where to?’ She turned to him with a bright smile.

  ‘You’d better come in here,’ he said, unable to keep the glum note from his voice.

  She followed him into one of the two large reception rooms that covered most of the ground floor of Overlay House. He never used the room himself, or the other one for that matter. The kitchen provided everything he needed.

  ‘This is a nice room,’ she said, looking around her, ‘or it could be.’ She walked towards the tall glass doors that led on to the terrace. ‘Pity about the garden, though.’

  ‘I’m not aiming to win Gardener of the Year.’

  ‘Evidently not. When Charlie Teague emerges from his quarantine, you could ask him to do the weeding for you. I believe he tidies quite a few gardens. So… your books,’ she said, clearing a space for them on what the landlord had called an occasional table.

  Jack leant forward, eager to scan the material he’d been waiting for.

  ‘Have you noticed?’ she asked suddenly, pointing to the invoice she’d laid beside the books. ‘I suppose you must have. Your initials spell out your first name. Well, almost. JAC.’

  He knew he was looking guilty but couldn’t help himself.

  Flora glanced sharply up at him. ‘What’s wrong with your name? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘But neither would you.’ The question in her eyes had him blurt out, ‘Not if your name was Jolyon Adolphus Carrington.’ He didn’t know why he’d confessed to a secret he always hugged to himself as tightly as possible.

  ‘Jolyon? Really?’ The broadest grin imaginable spread across her face.

  ‘Yes, really. Now can we get on?’

  Flora must have taken the hint because she said in a businesslike fashion, ‘Shall we sit down and I can tell you why I’m here?’

  Her briskness at least meant she wouldn’t be staying long. Jack had been about to offer a cup of tea, it was the done thing and he should try to con
form, but then decided that he would send her on her way as soon as possible. He was no longer comfortable around people and Flora Steele ruffled him more than most.

  She plumped herself down on the stiff sofa he’d inherited with the house. ‘Gosh,’ she said, ‘this is uncomfortable. How do you cope with it?’

  ‘What is it you wanted, Miss Steele?’

  ‘Flora,’ she said. ‘I really think you should call me Flora – if we’re to be working together.’

  He blinked. ‘We’re working together? In what way?’

  ‘I have to discover why that man died in my shop and you can help me. You’re a crime writer, you’ll have ideas,’ she finished vaguely.

  ‘I doubt that crime fiction qualifies me to do better than the police, and they’ve made it clear that Kevin Anderson died of heart failure.’

  ‘His heart failed, certainly, but why? I don’t believe it was some kind of amazingly bad luck for him. I think it was a suspicious death.’

  ‘You’re alone in that… Flora. The police believe differently. It is possible for an otherwise fit young man to die suddenly. Don’t forget, Anderson collapsed after breaking into your shop. The effort of doing so could have triggered a hidden problem.’

  ‘That may be what the police prefer to believe. They simply want to tidy up loose ends, send Kevin back to his uncle, and forget it ever happened. That makes life easy for them, but it doesn’t for me.’

  Jack frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why is this so important to you?’

  ‘Because my business is being ruined by rumours that I need to scotch. Whispers that in some way the All’s Well is a dangerous place and best avoided. The only way to put paid to those rumours is to find out what actually happened.’

  Feeling uncertain, Jack got up and walked over to the glass doors. For a while, he stood looking out onto the wilderness of tall grass and straggling hydrangea, before turning back to her. ‘Do you honestly think that if you discover there’s been foul play, there’ll be no more talk in the village?’