Mydworth Mysteries - A Shot in the Dark (A Cosy Historical Mystery Series Book 1)

by Matthew Costello

  If she’d read the map right – this was the way to the Dower House.

  And with luck, Harry’s housekeeper Maggie would have the whole place ready, beds aired, maybe a fire lit, coffee brewing.

  She smiled. Already the place sounding like home.

  *

  Harry ran full-out down Victoria Street, dodging the early evening theatre crowds that thronged the pavements.

  Two minutes to catch the train! God!

  Past the buses, the line of taxis, then into a packed Victoria Station, teeming with people, the air thick with smoke and steam, noisy with newspaper-sellers, porters shouting, the screech of carriage wheels and puffing engines.

  His eyes locked on the big indicator boards to check the platform for Mydworth, and he set off again through the jostling crowds of commuters, dropping a shoulder to get past a burly porter, nearly having to hurdle an empty trolley.

  Making good use of his rugby skills.

  A look at his watch. One minute left.

  Ticket in hand, Harry raced onto the platform just as the guard’s whistle blew. The great Southern steam engine – already chuffing, wheels spinning, the carriages clattering and clunking – began to pull away.

  Harry ran down the platform, reaching for a door, any door, pulling it open – a quick hop and a jump – somebody’s hands reaching out to grab him and pull him aboard.

  And then he was in, pulling the door shut with the leather strap and slamming the window closed to keep the smoke and steam out!

  Made it, he thought.

  A look around the carriage, and – squeezing into a spot – he sank back into the musty upholstery, nodding to the other occupants and the elderly gentleman next to him who shuffled along the crowded bench seat to give him space.

  “Thanks, old chap!” he said, turning and looking across at the bowler-hatted commuter who’d pulled him in.

  “Cutting it fine there,” said the man, taking out The Times and folding it carefully.

  Stating the obvious.

  Must remember the peccadilloes of my countrymen. Been a while, thought Harry

  “Wife’ll absolutely kill me if I’m not home for dinner,” he said.

  A phrase he’d heard so many times on this route as a single man – but never imagined he’d ever utter.

  I’m married, he thought.

  Isn’t that interesting. And to a yank no less!

  “Oh, dear me, yes,” said the old fellow next to Harry. “It’s surprising how few such murders come to trial.”

  The man obviously liked to read his paper and offer a running commentary.

  The other passengers laughed politely, and Harry turned to smile at them – but their heads were already deep in their evening papers again.

  He turned to the window, ready to watch the familiar path of his homecoming.

  The train rattled over the Thames now, past Chelsea Bridge. To one side, he could see Battersea Park, families relaxing, enjoying the early evening sun. To his left, an enormous building site – the foundations, he guessed, for London’s great new power station.

  And as he took in all this – the old and the new – he pondered on Sir Carlton’s words in that brief meeting in his private office.

  It seemed the Foreign Office had in mind a lot of ways to use Harry on his two or three days a week.

  “No stodgy meetings, Harry. Chap like you – your talent, your abilities – we intend to use all of that.”

  Then the most intriguing part…

  “Can’t say exactly what may be on offer. But I can promise you this. You won’t be bored.”

  Sir Carlton’s words were – well – rather amazing.

  What exactly would be on “offer”? What kind of work?

  Undoubtedly secret. That was clear. Important, too.

  And perhaps – Harry guessed – even dangerous?

  *

  Kat stood and stared at the Dower House.

  Okay, she thought, the place itself looks – well – very English.

  Thick climbing plants – with broad leaves and purple flowers – worked their way up two small pillars at the entrance, and then filled the walls below three second-floor windows.

  Down on the ground floor, one tall window on each side of the solid front door.

  Only one problem.

  The shutters were all… shut. The house was empty and locked. And a note on the front door said: “Trunks returned to depot, redeliver Monday 8am.”

  So, that meant that the truck had got here before her, found nobody home and disappeared for the weekend.

  Nice.

  And what about Maggie what’s-her-name – Harry’s “incredibly amazing” housekeeper?

  Wasn’t she supposed to be ready with a homecoming meal after the journey all the way from Cairo? Ten days by boat and car and not even a cup of coffee for a welcome?

  Kat shrugged.

  No use getting worked up about it. Things happen.

  Perhaps there had been some kind of mix-up. Maybe Harry’s telegram from Marseilles, the one with the change of travel plans, never reached the housekeeper?

  Kat stepped back and checked her watch.

  Hmm – seven thirty. What time did it get dark round here? She looked up at the sky – sun nearly set.

  Soon.

  She shrugged, her old field training kicking in. List options. Evaluate. Act.

  So, what were the options?

  One. Wait here for Harry.

  Hmm – cold – and could be a long wait.

  Two. Go stay in a hotel in town. Maybe – if she’d seen one. But she hadn’t. Place must have one, though?

  Three. Pub? Get a few drinks with the locals and wait for Harry.

  Tempting – but probably not the homecoming Harry was expecting.

  Four. Go find Harry’s aunt, her house, and – well – meet the family.

  She waited a moment.

  Well, hell yes. Option four. Wasn’t that the obvious one? What were families for? And didn’t Harry’s Aunt Lavinia – Lady Lavinia, she reminded herself – have a grand place right up the road?

  She pulled out the crumpled sketch map she’d used to find the Dower House, straightened it out and peered at it.

  Sure enough, there was a path leading from the back of the house across a couple of fields right up to the front door of what Harry labelled “the Mortimer country seat”.

  Mydworth Manor.

  Now – didn’t that sound like the kind of establishment where a girl could get a stiff drink and a meal when she needed one?

  And she definitely needed both.

  She grabbed her jacket from the back seat of the Alvis, and clipped the tonneau in place, giving the car a roof in case it rained.

  After all, didn’t it always rain in England?

  Then she scribbled a note for Harry and pinned it to the front door.

  With luck, he’d be home in an hour and they could all have a little family get-together with Aunt Lavinia, while Harry dug out some keys to the house so they could come back here and get some sleep.

  She headed through the garden – stopping to sniff a totally lush rosebush on the way – then slipped through a cute little picket gate and headed off across a broad meadow.

  After five minutes, she paused. Pulled out the sketch again and inspected it carefully.

  She’d expected the manor house to come into view by now, but all she could see was the far range of wooded hills.

  No matter – the meadow sloped gently upwards – the Mortimer estate was probably just in the valley beyond.

  Aunt Lavinia is going to be so surprised to see me, she thought, in the gathering dusk.

  Though, well she knew, sometimes surprises aren’t always welcome.

  4. A Death at the Manor

  Harry slammed the compartment door shut and watched the train slowly chug away from Mydworth station, heading into the darkness and to the coast.

  Then he followed the other commuters past the ticket hall and round into th
e tiny station yard where taxis sometimes waited.

  But the yard was empty. He checked his watch in the light of the single street lamp.

  Not worth waiting – best a brisk walk up through the town to the house.

  Should only take twenty minutes, he thought, and he set off up the hill.

  *

  Kat clambered over a fence, slipped – and landed with a thud, on her face, on the wet grass.

  “Damn,” she said out loud. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Then she stood up, wiped the mud off her khaki trousers and top – selected for how she thought they made her look like one of her idols, the amazing Amelia Earhart.

  Now, the whole outfit was stained with muddy circles.

  Oh well.

  Half an hour she’d been walking – so much for Harry’s renowned map-making skills. So far, she’d crossed one stream, avoided a herd of cows, and lost a shoe in a hedge. Now covered in mud, her remaining shoe… useless.

  Not quite the evening she’d been expecting.

  But hey – it can only get better, she thought. She carried on across the meadow, avoiding what they called cowpies at home.

  Luckily a half-moon had risen, and there was just enough light to chart a course.

  And then in the distance she heard music – familiar music.

  Fats Waller!

  The voice carrying clearly over the meadow…

  “Ain’t Misbehavin’. Saving all my love for you.”

  Extraordinary! Fats himself, right here in the English countryside!

  She headed towards the sound, and minutes later reached the crest of the hill to see – down in the valley, only a couple of hundred yards away – a large country house.

  It made the Dower House look like a hut.

  “Wow, wow, wow,” she said – this time in a hushed voice – as she stopped and took in the unexpected sight and sounds.

  Looking stocky and square, the house squatted behind perfect lawns dotted with classical statues, surrounded by woodland.

  She could also see easily a dozen bedroom windows, framed by thick ivy across the upper floors; a grand entrance with glowing lanterns; and a sweeping gravel drive that came out of the woods and curved round a fountain, with a cherub armed with bow and arrow, set back from the house.

  And even from up here, the source of the music was clear: a large downstairs living room, or whatever they called it here, running along the side of the building, with French windows thrown wide open, and a dozen or so people standing inside, all in evening dress, chatting, laughing.

  Drinking cocktails!

  A pause in the music – and then the gramophone launched into a new disc – a song that she and Harry absolutely loved back in Cairo: Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love.

  Which of course is exactly what we did, she thought.

  Albeit, less a decision than, in her opinion – inevitable.

  Hell, yes! This is more like it, she thought, a thrill of excitement making up for the crazy hike through muddy fields. First night in England, and we’re going to a party, Kat!

  She brushed a stray piece of straw from her hair and wiped her muddy hands on her jacket.

  Hmm, guess I’ll have to borrow some clothes. And definitely some shoes.

  With a skip in her step, she headed barefoot down the gentle slope towards the house.

  *

  Kat walked across the dark shadowed lawn of Mydworth Manor watching the smartly-dressed guests being gently ushered out of the reception room and into a formal dining room: tall windows revealed a long table set with candelabra, glass and silver sparkling, maids and footmen ready to serve dinner.

  Well – isn’t this something, she thought.

  She suddenly realised that in this muddy state – she might not quite get the welcome she was hoping for.

  Maybe better to head for the servants’ entrance and enlist some help getting an outfit?

  Don’t want to frighten Aunt Lavinia – or the elegant guests!

  She walked a bit closer to the house, trying to figure the layout. To one side stood what she guessed were outbuildings and stables – in the darkness, she could just see the outline of cars parked in a line.

  As she rounded the side of the house, searching for a servants’ entrance, she glanced up at the bedroom windows.

  In one of them, she saw something – a shape and shadows moving.

  Must be somebody late for dinner, she thought. Better hurry up – smells good – don’t want to miss it!

  But then, before she looked away, a man appeared at the window, silhouetted against the bedroom light. She watched him grab hold of the window frame – then climb up onto it!

  And now, through the open window, she heard loud voices coming from the room.

  What the…?

  She saw the man pivot, as if to climb out of the window, his foot reaching down into the ivy and trellis for a footing, his body now fully twisted round so his back was to her, one hand gripping the window frame, one reaching down to get a hold in the ivy.

  A shrill scream from inside the room.

  A piercing, terrifying, woman’s scream.

  And, right at that window, a muzzle flash and a gunshot – crisp and loud out here in the gardens.

  And the clinging man fell backwards, as if punched, falling, head rocking back, arms spiralling, legs now in the air, kicking, taking forever to land. Kat knew he must land so hard from that height.

  With a horrible thud, he hit the ground.

  Kat stood still, not moving, mouth open in shock, not able to say or do anything for a second. Another man appeared at the window, arm raised, revolver in hand and…

  Bang!

  A second gunshot, this one somehow seeming louder – as if the first shot had silenced the world. The muzzle flash brighter too -

  Bang!

  And now a third.

  And Kat felt, rather than heard, the bullet thread through the air near her, and realised she was in the firing line. For the second time that day, instincts kicked in and she crouched and ran towards the nearest cover: a milky-white stone pedestal plinth, with a helmeted figure atop it holding a sword in one hand, and a head in another.

  And as she reached it, stumbling, falling – she hit somebody hard with her shoulder who fell back with the impact against the pedestal with a loud…

  “What the bloody hell—?”

  “Harry?” she said, grabbing a familiar-feeling arm, as yet another two shots rang out.

  Bang! Bang!

  And a fragment of marble shattered above their heads.

  “Kat? Can I not leave you for an afternoon without a war starting?”

  “I didn’t start this one.”

  “Good to hear. Um, any idea what’s going on?”

  “None at all. But there’s a man down, over in the bushes there. Fell from the window.”

  “Uninvited guest perhaps? Got your note by the way.”

  “Yes, gathered that.”

  Bang! Kat saw a chunk of muddy grass spiral away into the darkness by her feet. She tucked in her legs a little more.

  “Okay, so I’m a bit late to this party,” said Harry. “Out of interest – how many shots is that?”

  Kat thought for a second.

  “Six – I think.”

  “Think?”

  “No – I’m sure.”

  “Good,” said Harry. “Sounds like a standard-issue Webley. He’ll have to stop to reload.”

  Kat watched her husband stand and brush down his suit, then shout up to the window: “I say! Do you mind awfully cutting that out, somebody could get hurt.”

  Bang!

  “Ah,” said Kat, confused. “Sorry. That must be six. Though, Harry – I really do think it was seven.”

  “Counting. Always tricky at times like this.”

  She stood up too, grabbed her surviving shoe, and looked across at the house. More lights were now on, and people were crowding at the downstairs windows. She heard shouting and crying from up
in the bedrooms.

  “Harry. The man who fell…” she said, knowing that seconds could mean the difference between life and death. “Come on.”

  With Harry just behind her, she ran towards the house.

  There, in the shrubs and flowers below the window from where the shots had been fired, she could see a dark shape.

  The body of a man, lying on his back, not moving. Limbs splayed. The angles – unnatural.

  She crouched down next to him, her fingers quickly reaching to the neck, looking for a pulse. His skin was still warm, the eyes blankly open. A young man. A lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.

  Harry was at her side. “Anything?”

  She hated it when there was nothing she could do.

  “No,” she said. “He’s dead.”

  5. The Constable Calls

  Kat stepped back, as Harry crouched and leaned in to inspect the body.

  “Quite a drop,” he said, nodding towards the bedroom window. But then he tilted the man’s head gently, and the lock of hair fell away: “But – I don’t think it was the fall that killed him.”

  In the darkness, Kat could now make out a bullet wound to the man’s temple, blood glistening.

  As a young volunteer nurse in France, back in 1918, she’d seen enough casualties to know that such a wound was almost certainly fatal.

  She felt Harry’s hand – warm on her arm, felt his body next to hers, knowing that he understood what she was feeling now.

  Both of them had that shared history of war. In moments like this it could return without warning, raw and vivid.

  She stood up – Harry’s arm still on her shoulder – then turned as a woman’s voice cut loudly through the silence.

  “Good God! Harry? Is that you?”

  From out of the darkness, a flashlight was suddenly pointed at her and Harry, as a group of figures rushed towards them. “Hell-lo Aunt Lavinia,” said Harry, shielding his eyes from the dazzle.

  As the flashlight was lowered and the group approached, Kat saw a tall, elegant woman leading them, the brightly coloured Japanese silk shawl over her shoulders catching the moonlight perfectly.

  So… this is the famous Lavinia, thought Kat, taking in her every feature.