by Deryn Lake
Table of Contents
Recent Titles by Deryn Lake from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Recent Titles by Deryn Lake from Severn House
The Reverend Nick Lawrence Mysteries
THE MILLS OF GOD
DEAD ON CUE
The Apothecary John Rawlings Mysteries
DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST
DEAD ON CUE
A Reverend Nick Lawrence Mystery
Deryn Lake
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2012 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2012 by Deryn Lake.
The right of Deryn Lake 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
Lake, Deryn.
Dead on cue.
1. Police–England–Sussex–Fiction. 2. Vicars,
Parochial–England–Sussex–Fiction. 3. Murder–
Investigation–England–Sussex–Fiction. 4. Detective
and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-354-9 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8226-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-460-8 (trade paper)
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.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
In memory of my little half-sister, Petrea Elizabeth, who
died when she was four hours old.
How different things might have been.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My most profound thanks to my friend and colleague Jean McConnell, who wrote and directed the Son et Lumière at Tonbridge Castle on which my story is based. Both myself and my two children were fortunate enough to act in this wonderful show and I can truly say that it was one of the great experiences of all our lives. I have never been better directed and how one small woman could amass and control that enormous cast is a stupendous feat. Bravo Jean. And may your play, Deckchairs, for which you are better known, be acted for evermore.
ONE
The smell of an early autumn bonfire drifted by his nostrils as Nick Lawrence dozed in a striped deckchair on a Saturday afternoon. It was a pleasant aroma, vaguely reminiscent of marmalade and marijuana. He had eaten the first but never smoked the latter, though he had once sniffed the air at a party and been informed by a giggling girl that that was what the unknown fragrance had been, adding to his somewhat limited knowledge of the subject. Beside him, on a small garden table, stood a portable radio from which the low and somehow comforting voice of a cricket commentator was speaking in a steady monotone. On his lap, perched rather uncomfortably, sat Radetsky, a mass of purring ginger fur. It was a golden early autumn day, it was a Saturday, and the Reverend Nicholas Lawrence was taking his ease. And then inside the vicarage the telephone began to ring. Coming back to full consciousness, Nick uttered a mild curse, removed Radetsky from his resting place, and made his way indoors.
The voice at the other end was extremely flustered. ‘Oh, Father Nick, I do hope I haven’t disturbed you.’
‘No, not at all, Mavis. I was in the garden, that’s all. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I’ve just shown a most interesting man round the church and he says he is extremely anxious to meet you. To cut a long story short –’ as if his churchwarden possibly could, Nick thought – ‘he has just moved into the village – only been here a week – and says he wants to take part in every aspect of village life. There’s only one snag that I can see – and that would apply to the older folk, of course, not the younger set.’ Mavis laughed gaily.
‘And that is?’
‘He’s black.’
‘Really, Mavis,’ said the vicar severely, ‘you shouldn’t say such things. A man is a man, regardless of the colour of his skin.’
‘Oh, I know that, Father Nick, indeed I do. I was just thinking of poor old Mrs Deakin.’
‘Well, she will just have to get on with it. Racial prejudice is a thing of the past and the sooner she gets that through her head the better.’
‘But she’s ninety-four,’ Mavis protested.
Nick smiled sadly. There were some things to which there was absolutely no answer. He changed the subject.
‘What’s the name of the newcomer?’
‘Gerry Harlington. He gave me a card. I think he’s an American. He had quite a strong accent.’
‘Is he attending church tomorrow?’
‘Says he wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Good. I shall make a point of speaking to him.’
‘Oh please do, Father. I know he’ll appreciate it.’
‘I shall be certain to make him welcome. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, Vicar.’
‘Good, then I’ll see you in church.’
Nick put down the phone and walked back into the garden. Radetsky had taken his place in the deckchair. Nick shoved him off and resumed his earlier position, turning the radio up a little louder. But this time he remained wide awake, thinking about the extraordinary village of Lakehurst and its strange mixture of inhabitants, many of whom seemed caught in a time warp.
He had come to the parish, newly appointed by Bishop Claude, exactly a year ago, Nick thought to himself as Radetsky whizzed on to his lap once more. And what a time that had been. Almost within days of his arrival a serial killer had struck, killing at random, a diseased and cruel mind apparently, yet all along there had been one intended victim. And by a fluke Nick had actually been able to help the police with the clue that linked the whole ghastly affair into one neat pattern.
Nick smiled to himself as Radetsky turned three times then settled down. The police had been represented on that occasion by Inspector Dom
inic Tennant, he of the gooseberry-green eyes and pixieish charm. The vicar had the feeling that Tennant must have been quite an innovation in the Sussex force bringing about, no doubt, mixed emotions from his fellow officers. His assistant, Detective Sergeant Potter, had been far more what one imagined a policeman would be like. Young, straightforward, somewhat unimaginative, but fiercely loyal to his superior officer. Nick had liked them both and wished that it had been possible to have kept in more regular contact.
The cricket commentary ended and Nick glanced at his watch. It was six o’clock and time for the evening news. He removed the cat and went into the house to switch the television on. An hour later found him in The Great House downing a pint before going home to cook his supper and have a reasonably early night. It had been a joyfully quiet Saturday with no weddings, no services, no parish duties, nothing but a long glorious day to himself. Yet, despite the presence of the cat and William – Nick’s noisy but cheerful resident ghost – he had experienced the occasional pang of solitude and with them had come thoughts of Olivia Beauchamp.
She had not been around in Lakehurst for quite some while, booked for a world tour that would last for months. Nick had received a postcard from China and had imagined her, dark head bent over the violin, her enigmatic beauty smouldering, playing to a strangely quiet audience until the end when they would burst into loud and sustained applause. He could almost see her taking her bow, slim as a reed in her sulky red dress, her black hair tossing back as the conductor kissed her hand.
His reverie was spoilt by a voice saying politely, ‘Good evening, Nick.’
He looked up from his pint to see that Dr Kasper Rudniski had joined him. Tonight the doctor looked dreamy in a pair of jeans made of dark-blue denim that fitted like a second skin. Above these he had a crisp white shirt with ballooning sleeves that made him resemble a Russian doll. It had clearly been purchased in Poland and was of a style that Nick remembered in the sixties. However, everything looked good on the handsome doctor and there was the usual small murmur from the barmaids and various other young females as he walked into the bar.
‘Hello, Kasper,’ answered Nick, and wondered if the doctor and Olivia had ever exchanged a passionate kiss. But such thoughts were banished by the sudden sound of Jack Boggis, sitting in his usual place – back turned, facing the wall – chortling loudly at a piece in the Daily Telegraph.
Kasper looked at Nick, raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Plus ça change.’
It seemed to the vicar that ever since time began Jack Boggis had been sitting in the same chair in the same pub reading the same paper and would continue to do so until at last his corpse was discovered in the same position, stiff as a board, still holding a pint to its purplish lips. He grinned to himself and muttered his thoughts into Kasper’s ear. And there they were, giggling like a couple of schoolboys, when the outer door opened and footsteps could be heard approaching the bar. The next second an apparition appeared in the entrance, standing stock still, surveying the scene, and grinning when every eye – with the exception of Boggis’s – turned in its direction.
‘Why,’ it said in a deep Southern States drawl, ‘if this isn’t just the sweetest little public house in the whole wide world.’
The owner of the voice, a short, small and somewhat plain-of-feature black man, wearing the most wonderful cape, fully lined in red, together with a pair of matching trousers and pink handmade shoes, stood posing in the doorway, waiting for every eye to turn in his direction. For some reason Nick was reminded of Sammy Davis Jr whom he had seen in films during his childhood.
‘Can I have your autograph?’ shouted one of the rough trade round by the fruit machines.
‘Why most certainly you can,’ replied the newcomer, and, with a flourish of his cape, he produced a pen and crossed over to where the other lounged in ancient jeans and a stained T-shirt.
Startled, the youth said, ‘Are you famous then?’
‘Allow me to give you my card,’ said the American, producing one and simultaneously writing his name on the back of a beer mat. ‘You see, I am Gerry Harlington.’
‘Who?’ whispered Kasper.
Nick looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know except that I’ve heard he’s new in the village. Perhaps he is something in films.’
But Gerry had spied them whispering and, inclining his head graciously to the bewildered youth, advanced upon them, his hand held out.
‘Gentlemen, will you do me the honour of letting me buy you a drink?’
‘How kind of you,’ answered Nick, shaking it. ‘But let me introduce myself. I am the vicar of the parish, Nicholas Lawrence. And this is one of our local doctors, Kasper Rudniski.’
Gerry bowed. ‘My pleasure. It is an honour to meet two such distinguished residents of my new abode. Now, what can I get you?’
They told him and while Gerry was at the bar Kasper muttered, ‘Where has he come from?’
‘I don’t know but I am about to find out,’ Nick answered as the new arrival came back with a bottle of champagne held high, a girl following behind with three glasses.
‘Thought I’d forget your order and get a little something for a celebration,’ said Gerry with an apologetic smile. He stared at Kasper long and hard before taking his seat. ‘You really ought to be in pictures, pal. As I said to Tom Cruise the other day, “New talent is getting so hard to find. What’s happened to all the good lookin’ fellas?”’
‘And what did he answer?’ Kasper asked curiously.
‘He put his arm round my shoulders and stated, “Wherever they are, you’ll find ’em, Gerry.”’
There was a slightly uncomfortable silence as nobody was quite sure whether to believe him or not. Then Nick asked, ‘Where have you moved in to?’
‘I’ve bought Abbot’s Manor. It’s been up for sale for a while but it’s a great piece of real estate and I just had to have it.’
There was a stunned silence as the vicar and the doctor exchanged a glance. The house that the American had just mentioned had originally been built in medieval times and was in fact still fully moated. There was a distant view of it from the hill at Speckled Wood. It had been practically everybody’s dream to buy it and when old Colonel Astaire had died and left the place to a nephew who had swiftly put the ancient dwelling up for sale, there had been a few murmurs of interest. But the price had been prohibitive; just over a million pounds in fact. Gerry Harlington must indeed be a man of resources.
‘I take it you are in films?’ asked Kasper directly.
Gerry smiled kindly and poured three glasses of The Great House’s best champagne. ‘Well, cheers people – as you say in England.’ He drew in a breath and sighed. ‘By God, I love this place. I tell you your little old village of Lakehurst beats New York, LA, Vegas – remind me to tell you of the time I played there – Norleans, you name ’em. This is the life, here. Where a man can breathe the pure fresh air like the good God intended.’
Nick and Kasper stared at him, speechless. From his corner Jack Boggis let out an audible laugh and Gerry immediately turned towards him.
‘Why, good evening, sir. I’m afraid I didn’t see you stuck away in your nook. Allow me to introduce myself. Gerry Harlington, at your service.’
Boggis glared, said, ‘Evening,’ and returned to his paper.
Gerry continued, either obtuse or courageous, ‘That must be a mighty fine newspaper that you have there.’
Jack slapped it with his hand and said, ‘The Telegraph. Greatest newspaper there is.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Nick answered.
‘Well, you show me a finer. That Guardian rubbish is full of grammatical errors.’
For no reason the vicar felt angry. ‘As a matter of fact I think the Guardian is well written and extremely informative. I much prefer it to the others.’
‘Left-wing rubbish,’ said Boggis nastily.
‘Now, now, sir,’ answered Gerry. ‘I had no wish to cause an argument. Come and have a glass of champagne with us
.’
‘No thanks, I’ll stick to beer,’ said Jack as affably as was possible for him and returned to the newspaper.
Gerry rolled his eyes upward, showing a great deal of white and mouthed, ‘Oh my,’ spreading his neat black hands in a gesture of amused despair. He leant back in his chair. ‘Well now, people,’ he continued, ‘let me propose a toast. To England.’
Nick and Kasper raised their glasses and the vicar thought longingly of his early night – but no chance.
Gerry was speaking. ‘I like you two boys and I feel certain that question marks are running round in your minds about me even while we speak. So I’m going to tell you my life story and how I got to where I am today. But before I start I want you to realize one thing.’ He fixed them with eyes black as coal in the snow. ‘I did not choose the theatre. No sir. The theatre chose me.’
The vicar thought that might be quite an apt way of describing any calling but did not dare say a word.
The story unfolded like a bad film, plodding onwards, scene by boring scene. First there was the little black baby born to an unhappy mother – he was her eleventh child – ‘And she didn’t want no more children to raise single-handed, I can tell you.’ Naturally enough, she wept bitter tears when the infant was laid in her arms.
The birth took place in a log cabin – where else? And, predictably, the whereabouts of the sire of this brood were somewhat hazy. Next, the father dramatically reappears but dies in a terrible accident, once more Nick was not sure exactly what happened and how. Then a ne’er-do-well uncle adopts the little boy and takes him to somewhere called Norleans.
Kasper had glanced helplessly at Nick at this stage of the proceedings and the vicar had mouthed the words ‘New Orleans’. Kasper had smiled gratefully.
And it was in this strangely named town that the theatre had done its calling. For Uncle Woody was a professional entertainer and somehow or other wove the youthful Gerry into his act. The rest of the tale was predictable enough. Soon the young Harlington was starring on Broadway, then Hollywood called and he was into the big, big time.