The Case of the Fallen Hero (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Alison Golden

  THE CASE OF THE FALLEN HERO

  ALISON GOLDEN

  &

  Grace Dagnall

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  EPILOGUE

  INSPECTOR DAVID GRAHAM WILL RETURN…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  PROLOGUE

  Orgueil Castle, Near Gorey, Jersey

  Saturday, 3:30pm

  THE FOUR FRIENDS tumbled out of the minivan, thanked their driver, and stared agog at the imposing medieval castle that now towered over them.

  “Bloody hell,” Harry managed, wiping his glasses clean and staring at the huge walls. “It’s big, isn’t it?”

  Emily retrieved her priceless violin from the van’s back seat and joined him, looking up at the impenetrable, solid battlements that spoke of the castle’s impressively deep history. “Going for your Masters in architecture, then, Harry?” she joked. “It’s an eight hundred-year-old fortress. I don’t think big does it justice.”

  Harry made sure his battered cello case had suffered no further indignities on the ferry ride over from Weymouth and hoisted its weight onto his shoulder with well-practiced ease. “Well, I wouldn’t dream of upstaging our resident expert, you see.”

  Leo Turner-Price, accomplished historian and violinist, stared at the castle as though achieving a lifelong dream. “Emily is right about the structure being eight hundred years old. But there are records of substantial fortifications on this site that go back to the Bronze Age.”

  “Really?” Harry remarked. “Wow.”

  “All to keep out the beastly French,” Marina observed. The youngest of the four members of the Spire String Quartet, Marina was a shy but – as Harry once described her in an unguarded moment – “insanely attractive” viola player who taught young children at two of London’s most expensive schools. “Must have cost a fortune.”

  “Well, if that was their aim,” Harry opined, keeping up his role as the “bluff Brit abroad,” “it was money well spent.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. Fifteen years into her friendship with the wonderfully gruff, plentifully bearded Harry Tringham, she found that he was still learning how to filter the thoughts that entered his overactive brain, far too many of which were given unwisely free passage direct to his equally active mouth. She spotted the visitors’ entrance up some steps in front of them. “Shall we?”

  Emily was, in fact, the only member of the quartet to have visited Orgueil Castle before, or even to have performed on the island of Jersey. It was through her contact with the castle’s highly professional events manager, Stephen Jeffries, that they had been booked for the evening’s wedding festivities. Always in need of a dependable ensemble who could provide light background music one moment and a strident processional the next, Jeffries kept Emily’s name at the top of his hiring list. He had been heartily impressed when, during a wedding two years before, Emily had led a young string trio through various weather-related disasters, a collapsed marquee, and a bridal arrival so delayed that the groom was harboring the gravest of doubts, all before dashing off a beautifully polished Prince of Denmark’s March as the sodden bride entered, still dripping, into the Great Hall.

  “Emily, my darling!” Jeffries exclaimed as he walked out to greet them. “So lovely to see you! How’s your teaching going? Didn’t you just start at that exclusive little prep school?” he asked.

  “Fine, fine,” Emily told him. “It’s going well. Some of the little blighters even manage to practice before their lessons.” The whole quartet was nodding. Finding students who were prepared to work hard was like finding gemstones in the desert. “It’s nice to get a break, though, and a change of scenery.”

  “Better weather for this one, too, eh?” Jeffries said, hand aloft toward the bluest possible sky.

  “Much better,” Emily agreed. “And I want to thank you for this, Stephen. Gives us all a nice break from an unseasonably warm London. This is Marina Linton,” she said as the tall blonde extended a graceful hand, “Harry Tringham, our cellist and resident physicist,” she added, “and the historian Leo Turner-Price.”

  “Simply delighted to be here,” Leo enthused. “Remarkable building, really.”

  Jeffries led them into an open quadrangle that was home to a beautifully kept maze and then down some steps into the castle’s administrative area. Here they would relax and tune up until the wedding guests began to arrive at five o’clock. He moved paperwork and wedding paraphernalia off his biggest table to give them a safe, flat surface for their priceless instruments.

  “Okay, did everyone’s folders survive the journey?” Emily wanted to confirm and received a trio of nods in reply. “Excellent,” she said, quickly tying her curly, black hair into an unsophisticated ponytail. “So, we’ll start with the little Baroque set…”

  “Couperin,” Harry said, finding the sheet music in his folder.

  “And then the Purcell theater music?” Marina asked.

  “That’s right. Then Eine Kleine. Everyone loves that,” Emily continued.

  “All four movements?” Leo asked.

  Emily thought for a second. “Let’s play it by ear. Depends on timings and such, but we can axe the repeats if we need to hurry things along.”

  “Righto,” Leo said, slotting the pages in the correct order. “Which Processional did they choose in the end?”

  Marina clasped both hands together, as if in prayer. “Please tell me it isn’t Wagner again. I promised I’d quit weddings if I ever had to…”

  “Nope,” Emily reassured her. “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.”

  All four sighed slightly. “It’s a terrific piece,” Leo allowed, “but too much of a gallop for a processional, surely?”

  Emily found the music and finished organizing her own folder. “She’s the bride, Leo. And it’s her…”

  “Special day!” the quartet chorused and then laughed together.

  Jeffries watched this polished routine with unconcealed envy. “Honestly,” he said as the four musicians finalized their folders, “I would simply die to make every aspect of these weddings as smooth as working with you guys.”

  “Aw, Stephen. You’re an angel,” Emily replied, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’ve already had a run-in with the mother of the bride,” he admitted, his face relating just how ugly the encounter had been. “Terrifying woman. A foot wider than I am,” he confessed, “and with a decidedly mean streak. These people get it into their heads that just because they’ve spent a fortune on getting their offspring hitched, they can treat people however they like!”

  Jeffries was a stylish and experienced man, unused to brusque treatment. He allowed that the bridal party was under considerable pressure to ensure their lovely daughter’s wedding day was as close to perfect as possib
le, but still, their discourtesy toward him seemed so unnecessary, especially when he was doing his level best to meet their every need.

  “I’ll leave you to it. Yell if you need anything,” Stephen said with a companionable hand on Emily’s forearm, and then, with a dramatic flourish, he left to supervise the preparation of the reception.

  Emily’s preference was to begin playing even before the guests arrived, ostensibly to create the “right atmosphere,” but more practically to check acoustics and intonation. The quartet seated themselves in the corner of the quadrangle where the marquee – the same one that had suffered the spectacular structural failure during Emily’s last performance at the castle – was set up. Guests would shortly be wandering on the lawn of the quad, ducking inside to grab a drink or a canapé, and generally rubbing shoulders before the arrival of the bridal party.

  The group went through the plan, talking quietly in the short gaps between movements of the tasteful Couperin suite Harry had arranged for them years before. Once it was confirmed that the bride was ready to go through with the ceremony (and in Emily’s twenty-year experience of weddings, this was by no means an absolute certainty), the quartet would have only a few moments to quickly relocate to the Great Hall and prepare for the Processional.

  Later, after the bride reached the altar, the musicians’ time would be their own. Jeffries would hand them a generous check each, and they’d enjoy the rest of the evening at the castle before retreating to a local hostel for the night. The castle, for its part, would then play host to an extended party before the guests collapsed into bed; there was plentiful accommodation within the giant edifice so that, as Jeffries always thought of it, they wouldn’t have to stagger far.

  “Let’s skip the minor-key Purcell movements,” Marina advised. “I don’t feel like playing in D-minor under a sky as beautiful as this.” The quartet unanimously agreed and launched into the joyously dotted rhythms of Purcell’s more animated theater pieces. The eighty or so invitees were arriving in a steady stream, and the quadrangle filled with music, the clink of wine glasses, and old friends catching up after too long apart.

  Their intonation unimprovable and their balance as tightly controlled as ever, the quartet quietly reveled in the freedom of simply playing for fun. After the second movement of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Harry leaned over to Marina and grinned. “Doesn’t really feel like work, does it?”

  “Not even a little bit,” she said, following Emily’s lead for the beginning of the Minuet.

  An excitable Stephen Jeffries scuttled over. “She’s here!” he announced in a boisterous whisper. “Action stations!”

  Emily used eye contact alone – as the best leaders can – to bring the Minuet to a quick but elegant halt, and the quartet made their way to the Great Hall, slightly in advance of the politely ushered guests. Moments later, the ravishing Marie Joubert – soon to be Marie Ross –stepped steadily and confidently down the aisle in her white lace gown with its elaborate train, the filigree of Handel and the beaming smiles of her family her lasting accompaniment.

  CHAPTER 1

  AFTER A SUBSTANTIAL and satisfying breakfast, as only Mrs. Taylor’s experienced kitchen staff could muster, Inspector David Graham inhaled the extremely promising cup of tea he’d just poured. He relaxed in his window seat. The view, all the way to France on a morning as clear as this, was a source of great tranquility to him. The crystal blue waters were dotted with little boats, and even through the hotel dining room’s double-glazed windows, he could pick out the cry of seagulls, wheeling in the sky. Perhaps a hundred small vessels were moored in Gorey’s ample marina, although some were already venturing out into the English Channel for what promised to be a memorable day of sailing. Graham savored the first sip of his Assam tea much like a wine connoisseur would appreciate a nicely aerated claret and watched the white canvas sails unfurl as a trio of small sailing craft made their way out of the harbor.

  Graham had lost perhaps five pounds, he estimated, since his arrival in Gorey, despite Mrs. Taylor’s massive, traditional breakfasts and the occasional Thai curry night at the Bangkok Palace. He hadn’t had a drink in over two months, not even on his thirty-sixth birthday, which had passed quietly three weeks earlier. Graham kept his fair hair a little shorter than before, both for ease of maintenance and because he thought it gave him a slightly more polished bearing. His blue eyes were rediscovering their old twinkle, especially after a good, strong pot of Assam and a mile or so walk around Gorey. He felt, in the main, that the worst of the past and its many challenges were now behind him. Jersey’s sea air, the change of environment, and the much reduced workload were all doing him a world of good.

  The home front was also nicely stable. Graham had come to a most reasonable arrangement with Mrs. Taylor following his recent investigative success. Amid the prospect of very unwelcome media attention, Graham had swiftly solved the brutal murder of a White House Inn guest whose body had been discovered on the beach below. Mrs. Taylor had chosen to express her gratitude by allowing Graham to stay on in a room with an even better view, at a heavily discounted rate. Originally, Graham had planned to find a cottage or apartment in Gorey or within driving distance of it, but he found that he liked the Inn enormously. The other guests were either long-termers, like himself, or were on vacation, and either way, it made for a relaxed atmosphere. The food was excellent, some of the best on the island, and the chef found marvelous uses for the varied local seafood.

  Uppermost in Graham’s decision-making, though, was Mrs. Taylor’s admirable selection of teas. In the dark days prior to his long overdue departure from London, Graham had found himself leaning on tea – which he had found to be a surprising but effective crutch – during his painful journey staving off alcoholism. Tragedy had driven him to the brink of despair, and as his marriage had crumbled, Graham sought oblivion. Good friends, a superb physician, and the support of the Metropolitan Police had helped him pull through. However, once he’d cracked a murder case in his home village of Chiddlinghurst, just outside London, Graham found he could interest himself only in a quick and complete exit from the area and the painful memories it held for him.

  Gorey, in welcome contrast, was proving idyllic, the single murder at the Inn, six weeks before, notwithstanding. Now Graham was finding gratification in both his professional and personal lives. Under his direction, the other three fulltime members of the Gorey Constabulary, the tiny policing outpost that was responsible for public safety in this part of the Bailiwick of Jersey, were fast becoming highly competent officers. Graham allowed that Constable Barnwell was still something of a well-meaning oaf, but he was showing promise and drinking a lot less himself these days. Young Constable Roach was committed to his own professional development and Graham couldn’t ask for a more solid and dependable second-in-command than Sergeant Janice Harding. With her steady hand on the tiller, theirs was now a tightly run ship that was quickly gaining a reputation as a hard-working and effective outfit.

  The community that resided at the White House Inn was also a genuine source of solace and enjoyment for Inspector Graham. A welcome break from his police work could be found in the dining room or on the spacious terrace where he had fallen easily into conversations and made fast friends with many of the long-term guests. Above all, he found time and time again, it was the tea that kept him happy, alert, and content with his lot. There was little more he would demand of the world, he noted to himself on this beautiful Sunday morning, than a good pot of Assam and this incredible view.

  But Graham wasn’t a man to sit around all day. He’d made a point of visiting a number of the historical sites in Jersey and its excellent zoo, and he was becoming something of an amateur historian of the area. The period of the German occupation was of particular interest. The old underground hospital with its built-in railway system, as well as the dozens of defensive positions and turrets that dotted the coast line – part of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall – were fascinating to him.

  And t
hen there was Orgueil Castle – pronounced “Or-Goy” – the imposing medieval edifice that watched over the town like a sleeping stone giant. He’d visited it twice already, but he tended to find the place a little too crowded for his liking once the tour buses arrived. Visitors both from the British mainland and from France, which was actually far closer and had a comparable cultural influence on this little island, would swarm the castle at certain times of day. Because of that, Graham’s plan this morning was to show up at opening time and see if he could have the place to himself, at least for a short while.

  There was a shuttle bus that ran through the town, but it didn’t run this early on a Sunday, so Graham decided to walk. Not even churchgoers were out and about yet, he noted as he glanced at his watch – only eight twenty-five. The castle opened its doors at eight-thirty during these last weeks of the tourist season, and he was glad to be their first customer. The imposing monument was a complex pile of thick stones, straddling the line between function and elegance. Striding up the steep approach road to the visitors’ entrance, Graham could see signs of the repairs necessary to patch up the effects of many centuries of weathering, with some of the stone battlements a different, more recent color. As he reached the main gate, he marveled at the sheer immensity of the structure and the time and effort and expense it would have taken – all in pre-industrial times, he reminded himself – to hew and transport the rock. The decades of craftsmanship that were demanded by any truly solid fortification simply boggled the mind.

  Graham’s favorite parts of the castle, apart from the sweeping battlements and their commanding views of Gorey, the Channel, and France beyond, were the passageways beneath. Topped by thick, stone arches, these walkways burrowed within the castle itself. He never tired of strolling through them, imagining the heroics required to build precise arches in the days before calculators and computers, when an engineer was, by necessity of his profession, something of a genius. There was barely a straight wall in the castle, he noticed yet again, assuming that there was some military advantage to be had from constant turns and banks, rather than abrupt, ninety-degree corners. He admired the beautifully kept maze and then headed back under the castle, following a passageway that ran by a large bronze statue of a figure seated on horseback.