A Selection of Recent Titles by Jeanne M Dams from Severn House
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES’S
MURDER AT THE CASTLE
SHADOWS OF DEATH
DAY OF VENGEANCE
THE GENTLE ART OF MURDER
BLOOD WILL TELL
SMILE AND BE A VILLAIN
SMILE AND BE A VILLAIN
A Dorothy Martin Mystery
Jeanne M. Dams
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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2016 by Jeanne M Dams.
The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8629-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-733-3 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-797-4 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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… one may smile, and smile, and be a villain …
Hamlet, Act I
William Shakespeare
ONE
‘Where’s Alderney? For that matter, what is it? Sounds like an expensive school.’
Alan chuckled. ‘I suppose it does at that. It’s a small island in the English Channel, one of the Channel Islands. You’ve heard of Jersey and Guernsey?’
My English husband isn’t always sure of what his Yank wife might know about my adopted land. ‘Of course. Cows.’
‘Also the islands famous for those cows. They’re the two largest of the group. Alderney is the next in size, and then there are Sark and Herm, which are not a lot more than large rocks.’
‘Oh! I’ve heard of the Dame of Sark. Isn’t that island independent of England, its own little duchy or something?’
‘Or something. Sark is feudal, but the governance of all the islands is a trifle complicated. They’re Crown dependencies, which means that they owe allegiance to the Queen but are neither governed by, nor represented in, Parliament.’
He went on to further explanation, very little of which I understood. Actually, once he launched into history, William the Conqueror and 1066 and all that, I stopped listening. The political system of a small group of islands I’d never seen was not wildly fascinating.
‘So I thought perhaps in late June. The weather’s usually quite good then, and it’s just before the mass influx of tourists.’
‘Sorry, dear, I missed part of that. What about late June?’
‘I thought it would be a good time to visit. A beautiful and very peaceful place, Alderney, and we’ve not had a holiday for a long time.’
The last one had been a trip to Orkney that we had both looked forward to. We’d intended to explore those remote and wonderful islands, and we did – sort of – but not until we’d become embroiled in the death of a wealthy but unpopular man. I was ready for a real vacation, and I’d learned to love islands. Except … ‘How do we get there? I’m not an awfully good sailor.’
‘Not to worry. The only practical way to get to Alderney is by plane from Southampton. A very interesting plane. You’ll love it.’
The gleam in his eye should have warned me, I thought a month later as I walked across the tarmac to the toy airplane sitting there. Our plans had changed; we had visited friends in London before leaving for our vacation, and then on a Monday morning had taken the train to Gatwick airport, to fly from there rather than Southampton. That made it a two-stage journey, the first in a perfectly normal small jet to the island of Guernsey. There we boarded a craft called the Trislander.
It resembled nothing so much as the balsa wood models that were popular when I was a child in America. The wings sat atop the box-like fuselage. There was a propeller on each wing, and one on the high tail. I saw doors on either side. I was escorted to one door, which opened directly onto my seat. Alan sat on the other side, but in a different row. ‘We’re distributed by weight, you see,’ he murmured. That thought did not increase my confidence.
There was no aisle, and no real cockpit. The pilot sat directly in front of the first row of passengers (there were seven of us) and turned around to give a brief report of flying conditions (‘A bit bumpy in spots’) and the obligatory safety announcement (‘There are life vests under your seats’). Then we were trundling down the runway with a roar that sounded much louder in this tiny box than in a well-soundproofed jet, and finally off the ground. I wished Alan were close enough to hold my hand. I also wished I had eaten some ginger before we took off; it’s my favourite preventive for motion sickness.
The flight was, however, very short and entirely uneventful. We picked up our bags (straight off the airplane to a small shed; no nonsense about a carousel and a long wait) and found a taxi to take us to Belle Isle, our bed and breakfast accommodation.
‘No passport control or anything? Even though this isn’t exactly part of the UK?’
‘Not exactly, but very few formalities.’ He clasped my hand. ‘All right now, love?’
We’ve been married only a few years, after the deaths of our first spouses, but Alan knows me very well indeed. He had felt my panic on the flight.
I smiled at him. ‘Fine. I won’t mind, next time.’
‘It’s actually a reliable little plane, you know. Sturdy, despite its appearance.’
I decided not to comment on that.
There is one principal street on Alderney, called Victoria Street. (I later learned that the name dated from a royal visit a good many years ago.) Our lodging was about halfway up the street, in an attractive house dating, I guessed, from the Georgian era. We settled down in our room, which was a little cramped but had a lovely bathroom and two big windows overlooking the busy street below.
‘Right,’ said Alan after we had unpacked and settled in. ‘What about a nice little walk to familiarize ourselves with the general layout?’
‘I thought you’d been here before.’
‘Not to Alderney, only Jersey and Guernsey and Sark, and years ago at that. I’m told this is the best of the lot. Better put on your hat; the sun is strong.’ He gave me his arm. ‘Shall we?’
I might as well say at once that I fell in love with Alderney before I’d been there five minutes. The weather didn’t hurt. It was a perfect day: bright sunshine with just enough breeze to keep it from being too hot. There were flowers in hanging baskets, in win
dow boxes, in tiny gardens. Many of the houses and shops were painted in cheerful pastel shades of pink or blue or yellow; one shop was pale yellow with window and door frames of bright turquoise.
Victoria Street is certainly a tourist’s mecca. Just a few steps from Belle Isle was the Visitor Information Centre, where we stopped to pick up a map of the island and other information from the friendly staff. We found shops selling clothing and souvenirs, and several restaurants. But it was obvious, even on casual inspection, that this was also the main shopping area for islanders. There was a business-like hardware store, a pharmacy, a general store-cum-post office, a farm shop selling local meat and cheese and produce along with basic groceries. I peered into the bakery as we passed and saw not only delectable pastries, but good wholesome loaves of bread.
On a busy weekday afternoon the street was thronged with people. They gathered to chat in little knots of two or three, their shopping bags on their arms. Drivers stopped their cars in the (very narrow) street for conversation with friends, blocking the road completely. No one seemed to get impatient; no horns sounded in irritation.
We walked to the bottom of the street, ‘bottom’ in this case being an apt term. Victoria Street has a decided grade, as, I was to discover, is the case almost everywhere on the island. There are very few spots where the walking or driving is level for more than a few yards. ‘Do you want to go on down to the harbour?’ asked Alan, looking at his map.
‘How far is it?’
‘Half a mile or so.’
‘Then I’d rather change my clothes first. And have a cup of tea.’
Which just goes to show how thoroughly I’ve adopted English ways since moving from Indiana several years ago.
We had our tea, and a couple of biscuits each, provided by the management. They came in little packets and were actually called cookies on the label. More and more Americanisms are creeping across the Atlantic, and I’m not at all sure I like it. Whatever they were called, however, they were good, and nicely filled up a corner that had been registering mild hunger. Then I got into jeans and sneakers, and we walked on.
If I thought Victoria Street was hilly, I soon learned that it had far steeper cousins. Braye Road wound its curvy way down to the harbour on a pretty good incline, but at one point I stopped to look at what seemed to be bougainvillea growing on a house off to the right. ‘Alan, for heaven’s sake. Look!’ I pointed. The house, only a few yards from where I stood, sat at least ten feet lower. Its roof was at about the level of my shoulders.
Alan whistled. ‘When we go out for real walks, we’d best take our sticks and hiking boots,’ he commented. ‘Looks like the terrain could get a trifle rugged.’
‘Not much like the Cotswolds, is it?’ Some years before, we’d taken a walking tour of the Cotswolds and enjoyed its gently rolling hills, but Alderney was, I realized, going to be a whole ’nother story.
The walk down to the harbour, though a bit steep, was very pleasant. Homes on either side were sturdy, well-built and neatly painted. Some had tiny front gardens. Men and women were at work on many of the houses, digging, painting, repairing. They responded to our waves with cheery greetings. The traffic up and down the road was as good-humoured as that in the village; where there wasn’t room to pass, one car would pull over to the side and wait for the other, with no sign of ill temper.
I was slightly winded by the time we reached the bottom. The slope had forced a faster pace than I would have liked, so I was glad simply to stop and look at the harbour spread out before me.
There was, of course, the usual clutter of any working seaport. Huge shipping containers littered the pier, along with the derricks used to unload them. Boats of every size and type from rowboats to pontoon boats to cabin cruisers to cargo ships were tied up at the dock or moored out in the water, along with sailboats ranging from simple sloops to full-fledged yachts.
But beyond the busyness there was the beach, a crescent of golden sand, and beyond that the sea, as sparkling and blue as the Mediterranean, and as beautiful.
I love the sea. I always have. Growing up in Indiana, with the nearest ocean something like eight hundred miles away, I had to content myself with the waters of Lake Michigan, where my family used to go for vacations. I thought it was wonderful until one summer we went on a long road trip to the east coast, and I saw the ocean for the first time. Heard the crashing waves, tasted the salt on my lips, watched the tide coming in. I was hooked forever. The big lake was still nice, but it wasn’t the same.
Then, late in my life, my husband died and I moved to England. I’ve been told that at no point in England is one more than sixty miles from the sea. I don’t know if that’s literally true, but it can’t be far wrong, and that, for me, is bliss. If I feel like watching waves, I can get in the car and go, even if Alan is busy with something else. I can take a few sandwiches and eat my lunch and listen to the cry of gulls wanting to share (or wanting it all) and still be home in good time for tea. The wind blowing in my face is a tonic, refreshing and invigorating.
I grasped Alan’s hand and sighed with pure contentment.
However, I’m nearing seventy, and Alan has passed that milestone. After a while I got tired of standing, and the sun was getting a little too warm for comfort, even with my broad-brimmed straw hat for protection. Alan loosed my hand and stretched his neck and shoulders. ‘Getting stiff,’ he said. ‘The old boy needs a rest. In other words, how about a pint?’
‘That sounds perfect, but I don’t know if I’m ready to walk back up that hill.’ I turned around to look back. The hillside looked beautiful, covered with wildflowers on one side of the road and attractive houses on the other. It also looked even steeper than it had coming down.
‘We don’t have to, just yet.’ He gestured with his head. ‘I’m sure one of those pubs can provide good beer.’
We went into the Divers Inn, which was just beginning to fill up with customers, mostly visitors, I thought. We enjoyed our beer, laughed over the dummy in the corner dressed in full old-style diver’s rig, helmet and all, and talked about dinner. ‘I don’t want to eat out,’ I said. ‘I’m tired. Couldn’t we pick up sandwich makings somewhere and eat in our rooms? I’d like to sit and read the stuff we picked up about the island, and plan what we’re going to do tomorrow.’
The barman directed us to a small but very nice grocery store where we bought materials for an upscale picnic supper: pâté and Stilton, smoked salmon, a couple of interesting salads, granary bread, and some fresh apricots and raspberries.
‘Wine?’ I asked the woman at the till.
‘Are you staying at the harbour or in town?’
‘In town.’
‘Then you’ll want the off-licence at the Coronation Inn. It’s in the High Street, just at the top of Victoria Street. Look right and you’ll see it.’
I groaned at the thought of walking up Victoria Street after the climb up Braye Road, but Alan took pity on me. ‘Let’s take a taxi back to Belle Isle, then I’ll walk up to the off-licence.’
‘You are a verray parfit gentil knight,’ I said gratefully. ‘You’re on.’
So we had our picnic, with a nice bottle of some sort of Spanish white wine, and planned out our next couple of days. It had been a lovely day, quiet, leisurely – the perfect beginning to a holiday. We went to bed well-pleased with Alderney, each other, and life in general.
If I had known what lay ahead, I would have lit out for home by the first plane.
TWO
The next day dawned clear and cool, perfect weather for wandering about the island. We lazed in bed until the last possible moment for breakfast, which was excellent: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (both local, we were assured) and fruit. When we were sated, we thought exercise was in order, so set out for a proper exploration.
‘Up or down?’ asked Alan.
‘Neither. The church is just across the way. Let’s have a look.’
I have a great fondness for old English churches. This one, I g
uessed, was not particularly old, certainly not medieval, but it was a pleasant-looking building in grey stone, irregular in design, with an apse-like structure in front of us as we approached through the churchyard. Some scaffolding at the side encroached upon the walkway.
‘Doesn’t look as if any work is actually going on,’ I commented.
‘Probably the usual lack of funds,’ said Alan.
The sun was already growing warm, and the interior of the church was pleasantly cool. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw that a few people were gathering in the choir stalls. ‘I think we’ve walked into the beginning of a service,’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ said Alan imperturbably. ‘I saw the notice. Morning Prayer. Shall we join them?’
A handful of women and the vicar were settling down. We asked, of course, and they graciously invited us to participate. There was a little bustle as they found prayer books and Bibles for our use, and we read and listened to the familiar, beautiful words of the Psalms and canticles for the day.
When the service was over, we introduced ourselves. The young man in the collar was not, it transpired, the vicar. ‘The regular man is on holiday,’ he explained. ‘I’m a locum from a village near Canterbury. My name is James Lewison.’
‘Alan Nesbitt, and my wife, Dorothy Martin.’
Older people sometimes blink at the difference in our names. This young man didn’t even blink. ‘And did I hear a transatlantic accent during the Psalms?’ he asked me.
‘Yes, I’m American originally, but I’ve lived in England for some years. In Sherebury, virtually under the bells of the Cathedral.’
‘Ah, yes, you recently acquired a new bishop, didn’t you? And a fine man, I’m told.’
We chatted about our new bishop and church matters in general for a few minutes. ‘So how long are you going to be here?’ I asked.
‘Only two more weeks. The vicar’s been gone for a week, and he’ll allow himself only three away from his duties.’
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