The Diane Dimbleby Murder Collection Volume 2

by Penelope Sotheby

  Priming his fist for another more violent assault upon the door, Crothers paused and cocked his head to one side, trying to shut out the noise drifting from below. He was sure that he had heard a bump through the door. While waiting, another sound, like someone stamping their foot, came muffled through the door.

  Instead of knocking, Crothers went down onto one knee and slowly flipped the letterbox open further. He slid his eyes across the opening slowly, just in case someone with a stick was waiting for an eye to appear. A white cage enclosed the back of the letterbox, and the outside light made it difficult for him to see past it into the gloom beyond. Another bump, louder because of the open letterbox, came from the hallway beyond. Crothers focused, squinting past the bars, and his eyes caught movement. Was that breathing? Scratchy shallow breaths?

  Another bump and Crothers saw it this time. The tires squashed against the baseboard as a motorized wheelchair tried to move forward. It backed away briefly before ramming the baseboard again. Crothers looked up from the tire to a foot, clad in a fluffy pink slipper. Up a blanket-covered leg to the armrest where a withered hand gripped a joystick. Up the arm to a shiny blade protruding from a black stain in a cotton blouse.

  Jeremy Thurston’s mother weakly manoeuvred the joystick backwards, reversing her direction, as her breath fought feebly to enter her lungs.

  “Webster!” cried Inspector Crothers. “Smash that window! Get this door open!”

  Webster drew his truncheon and with two strikes popped the centre of the window. Crothers reached for his phone and called an ambulance. Webster cleared the jagged remnants and reached through the door to the lock on the far side. After a moment of searching his fingers found the latch and twisted it, pushing on the door as he did so.

  Crothers pushed past Webster on his way to the injured woman.

  “Mrs. Thurston, I’m Inspector Crothers,” he said softly as he knelt beside the wheelchair, gently removing the hand from the joystick. “Help is on the way.”

  “I’m… not… Mrs.…” whispered the old woman harshly.

  The Inspector paused for a second, confused by the response. Did they have the wrong flat?

  “Who did this to you? Do you know a Jeremy Thurston?”

  “My… idiot… son,” she hissed. “Jeremy.”

  “Do you know where he is?” asked the Inspector, rising from his knees.

  The old woman pointed weakly towards the back of the flat.

  “Webster, stay with her,” ordered Crothers as he slid against the wall to get past the wheelchair.

  Webster took Crothers’ place beside the chair, and Crothers heard him speaking quietly to the woman, who responded intermittently with faltering breaths.

  Crothers passed two open doors that led off the hallway, one littered with piles of clothes and bedding, the other a grimy bathroom, before entering the sitting room. A dark brown sofa and the floor around it were covered in partially read newspapers. A small kitchenette with unwashed dishes stacked on the countertop opened up to one side. The other side of the room had a closed door flanked by two tattered prints.

  A muffled scream came from the direction of the door, followed by quiet cursing. Crothers moved cautiously to the door and paused outside, waiting for another sound. A harsh whisper drifted through, a warning to be quiet.

  The Inspector gripped the door hand slowly but firmly, the adrenaline flowing in his blood forcing a slight tremor through his legs. He had no idea what he would find on the other side of the door, and if it were not for the life of the girl, he really would not have wanted to find out. He had launched into the unknown and emerged unscathed too often for his luck to keep holding. The next time, this time, could be his last, and he was not ready for that.

  With a deep breath, rammed the door open, his weight behind his shoulder. Another muffled scream greeted him. Melissa Hope shuffled backwards through an open sliding glass door that led to a small concrete balcony. Jeremy Thurston stood behind her, one hand over her mouth, the other holding a pair of curved shears in which sat Melissa’s ring finger. On the finger was a silver band with an arrangement of jewels around its surface.

  “Stay back,” shouted Jeremy. “Stay back!”

  “Jeremy, I’m Inspector Crothers. I’m here to help you and Melissa.”

  “We don’t need your help,” said Jeremy more quietly. “We’re going to get married. She agreed to marry me.” There was a grin on Jeremy’s face, a grin whose happiness had no bearing on the situation at hand.

  “That’s great,” replied Crothers. “But I need to talk to Melissa for a while. Can you let me do that?”

  “No,” snapped Jeremy. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, do you?”

  Melissa’s eyes said otherwise.

  “Jeremy, you have got to let Melissa speak for herself. Marriage is about making decisions together, letting each person have their say.”

  “But, she wants what I want,” said Jeremy, a hint of confusion entering his voice. “Isn’t that true, my love?”

  Melissa tried to speak, but the hand over her mouth made the words come out as huffs of breath.

  “Please, Jeremy,” said Crothers as he took a small step forward. “Let me talk to your fiancé.”

  Jeremy’s eyes went from the Inspector to the side of Melissa’s face and down to the ring on her finger. His grip on Melissa’s mouth seemed to loosen, and he opened his mouth to speak. A scream emerged as Melissa got a finger between her teeth and bit down hard. Jeremy tried pulling his hand away, but Melissa had a solid grip.

  “Bitch!” snarled Jeremy and he closed the shears on her finger, cutting through the muscle and bone easily.

  Melissa released his finger then, letting her own scream drown out Jeremy’s curses. Crothers took a couple of steps forward in the confusion. He was still several feet away as Melissa gripped the wrist of her bloody hand while Jeremy dropped the shears and reached for her hair.

  “You’ll never marry anyone else,” he yelled as he yanked her face up to look at his own. Her eyes were wide with pain and fear. “You are mine!”

  With his final words, he reached with his bitten hand and shoved Melissa over the edge of the balcony.

  Crothers dived through the doorway as Melissa’s feet left the concrete floor and she toppled backward, the rail pivoting her body over. Jeremy just watched with a small smile of satisfaction on his face.

  Crothers’ shoulder slammed into Jeremy’s stomach, doubling him over and the Inspector ricocheted towards Melissa. He flung his body at her legs as they tilted upward, her body already far over the edge. He wrapped his arms around her knees and hoped his muscles would hold. Her feet kicked him painfully in the stomach, and he fell to his knees, jarring them upon the unyielding concrete.

  “No!” bellowed Jeremy, who still had the shears in his hand. He moved menacingly towards the Inspector and raised the pointed blades as Sergeant Webster launched through the door and hit Jeremy with his body. Jeremy’s head glanced against the edge of the balcony and he crumpled to the floor, Webster crawling on top of him, his fingers prizing the shears away.

  Crothers pushed downwards upon the legs of the screaming Melissa and her head reappeared over the lip of the balcony. Webster punched Jeremy once for good measure before helping the breathless Inspector pull Melissa back to safety.

  Epilogue

  Crothers switched off his phone, for once turning it completely off. He had made his last call to Diane Dimbleby to inform her of the condition of Jeremy and Melissa and to thank her for all of her help. She had probably saved two lives, and this was not the first time. After that, he had decided he was done for the day, the week, the year, for all he cared. He had seen enough for one day, and his heart was heavy.

  Pushing open the back door, a familiar wet nose and tongue were sticking around the edge even before it was fully open. Gunner’s tail wagged wildly with excitement, a situation that had broken more than one low-lying vase. Darrell reached down and ruffled the wavy hair on the span
iel’s head while simultaneously trying to force his way past and into the house.

  The kitchen was bright compared to the dark night he had left behind the closed door. A rich scent wafted to his nostrils, and he sniffed deeply. Shepherd’s pie. Salivation was involuntary, and he made for the oven, pulling down the front door as he grabbed for a mitt. He could hardly wait, the home-cooked meal being a distant memory due to work.

  As he spooned significant potato-crusted dollops onto a plate, Darrell’s wife leaned over his seated shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek. Her lips burned pleasantly on his cheek and drifted down to his heart. He was content, a night that could only be capped by having time with his son. But it was a school night, and the lad needed his sleep.

  Darrell chatted softly while he ate, not about work but the office gossip of their respective workplaces. Once he was filled beyond capacity, they passed into the living room, took a station on the sofa with a good view of the TV and within five minutes, Darrell was giving his snoring commentary to the programming.

  Diane smiled softly to herself as she pulled around the corner to the road where she lived. She had left Monica once the Inspector had called, reassuring her that she was safe again, and giving her cell phone number to the girl in case she needed someone to talk to.

  Inspector Crothers had informed her that, though Melissa had the finger chopped off, doctors were certain that they could reattach it such that she would have minimal loss of function. Of Jeremy Thurston, he had sustained a head wound and was securely held in the hospital under guard. His mother, while weak, was expected to recover fully and recommence the abuse of her son.

  Crothers had a rough story from Jeremy, his motives being deeply tied to his mother. She seemed an unpleasant sort, having abused both Jeremy and his father, the latter by repeatedly denying him marriage and emasculating him by having affairs with other men until he died a sad and broken man. She had then turned all of her attention to Jeremy, labelling him as worthless, and telling him that no woman could love him, and that he would never marry because of how pathetic he was. Still, he had cared for her as she aged.

  Working at the jewellery store, he saw how happy engagement made people, and he wanted the same. He had tried to become friendly with co-workers, but they had found his advances clumsy and even a little frightening at times. Eventually, he had found Melissa. They had been friendly at work but at some stage, Jeremy had wanted more, though he had been rebuffed. He saw Melissa as his one chance of happiness, and when she left without a forwarding address, he had become frantic. Over and over, he had stewed in the idea of marrying Melissa until he could not do anything else. He had tricked her new address out of her old roommates and decided he needed to make her an offer that she couldn’t refuse.

  The finger he had sent as a warning: marry me or else. But she had never received it. When he found out that someone else had the finger, he decided to take his shot and give Melissa no choice, no more chances to reject him. The poor girl had been abducted in plain sight. Thankfully, it had ended no worse than it did.

  Diane pulled into her driveway, turning off the engine before she felt something was wrong. Had she left the living room light on? Maybe the police had when they left earlier. Surely they had locked the house up?

  She scanned the front of the house for any other signs of irregularity. Rufus was not barking, which was good. Did the living room curtain twitch?

  Diane chastised herself. She was letting this day get the better of her. She had read too many crime novels for her own mental well-being. She popped the car door and headed to the house, her stride a little less vigorous than usual.

  There… the curtain had moved, she was sure. It could have been Rufus knocking along its edge. He liked to sleep behind them at night while the lights were on. As a precaution, Diane reached for her phone. Scrolling through, she found the app she wanted.

  The key slid into the door, and Rufus barked loudly on the other side. Surely a good sign, she told herself. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door wide, standing back in the garden to watch from a safe distance. Rufus barrelled out and ran circles around Diane’s legs, his excitement getting the better of his usual resigned indifference.

  Nothing appeared out of place. The door to the living room was shut, however, and with a whirling Rufus panting around her, Diane took a step inside the door and listened. Nothing but the manic dog breathing.

  With a skip of her heart, Diane pushed in the living room door and prepared her phone.

  Albert knelt in the middle of the floor in his best suit and tie, his hand holding a small open box in front of him. The object inside the box glistened and flickered as Albert’s hand shook faintly. He swallowed like there was a golf ball in his throat and sweat sparkled on his brow.

  “Diane, my love,” he said shakily. “Will you marry me?”

  Diane’s finger twitched and a siren blared from her phone.

  The End of Murder in the Mail

  Murder in the Development

  Chapter 1

  The secateurs snipped at the branches of the sprawling rose bush. Diane’s gloved hand gripped the spiked wood as the secateurs bit through and she threw it down upon the growing pile of debris that she was forming on a wrinkled blue tarp. Her actions, while precise, were distracted as her mind wrestled with a thorny problem of its own.

  “Maybe,” Diane said distractedly, her gloved finger adjusting her glasses unnecessarily as if focusing her vision would do the same for her mind, “maybe James was having an affair with his brother’s wife. Then Dean would have a motive for killing her!”

  Her voice rose triumphantly for a moment before another branch got a snip and a frown descended, pushing her eyebrows behind the thick lenses of her glasses.

  “No no no, that won’t do. James had been in Germany for two years. Otherwise he would have known about the stolen amulet. There’s no affair there unless he grew wings.”

  The plot line of her book had taken a devilish turn when Albert had spotted a plot hole while giving her latest chapter a read through. It wasn’t so much a hole as a chasm, she had realized. Albert’s simple question about why the murder had happened had split the story open like a knife to the stomach.

  Diane briefly inspected the rose bush and gave it a slight nod before moving on to a wayward Morning Glory. She shuffled through the dew-covered grass, the ankles of her trousers already soaked and hanging heavily around her feet. The air of the previous night had been chilly, an early taste of the winter that hovered in the near future, poised to step in when the heat of summer retired to other parts. The beauty of the blooms in the garden had drifted away with the sun, leaving the limbs of plants brown and fast becoming bare.

  The delicate hum of Apple Mews drifted through the Sunday morning air, church bells having called to the faithful a couple of hours before. Few cars passed by, their rumble subdued as though respecting the inherent peace of a brisk Sunday morning in a small country village. No dogs barked, and children played quietly indoors while parents relaxed with their overstuffed newspapers. Puffy white clouds slid smoothly over the bright blue sky with no threat of rain or snow. They seemed to have somewhere else they needed to be and were content to pass unnoticed by the people below. Diane was so focused that all of this quiet beauty of the day passed her by without a second thought. Her first, second, and third thoughts were all far away in a room with the body of Pamela Smythe, whose husband, unbeknownst to the houseguests, had buried several grams of lead into her chest. Or had he? Albert had thrown it all into chaos. Diane was ready to scrap anything and everything to make her story work, but she did not know where to begin. She had a body and a weapon and a house full of guests with motives for murder, except for the one person she wanted to be the red herring: James.

  Albert had stayed indoors to finish washing the breakfast dishes. He had always had a love-hate relationship with plants: he loved to look at them, and they hated him for touching them. His daughter had called him the “
vegetarian grim reaper” after a disastrous two weeks one summer when she had left a robust rubber plant and some herbs in his care. He had come to terms with his supernatural abilities and Diane never asked him to help in the garden out of respect. But this morning, he knew that her mind was plagued with the issues he had given her, and a good savage pruning of the vegetation would help her think it all through.

  He peered over the mountain of soap bubbles, for he enjoyed doing the dishes with more than a recommended infusion of detergent, and watched Diane pause again, the secateurs mid-bite. She seemed to be mouthing to herself while staring past the plant that was gripped mercilessly in her gloved hand. Albert smiled softly. He loved Diane’s thoughtfulness in all its forms, from her books to her plans for holidays. She could get lost for hours in an idea, and Albert had become used to entertaining himself during those periods, acting as a sounding board only when she required.

  The serenity of his view contrasted with his MP3 player from which Little Richard was enthusiastically discussing the lifestyle of a Miss Molly. The player had been a gift from his daughter who made valiant efforts to keep her father current with technology, no matter how much he protested. Albert felt an odd attraction to the bawdy energetic music. His feet wanted to move, but he restrained himself having once been told that his dancing was dangerous for anyone or anything within leg-flailing distance. Physical dexterity was not a gift he had ever possessed, and he took efforts to minimize potential damage from a wildly waving arm or, more generally, limb.

  Albert had paused in his attack upon an egg yolk that had decided to become fast friends with a breakfast plate. Little Richard was drifting into the distance, heading to the moment when a new artist would threaten Albert’s self-control. Except there was another sound taking its place, a light chirping of unfamiliar birdsong, and it was coming from the living room. It took him a moment before Albert realized that it was Diane’s phone calling for assistance.