The Nursery Rhyme Murders

by Anthony Litton

  THE NURSERY RHYME MURDERS

  ANTHONY LITTON

  Copyright © Anthony Litton 2015

  The right of Anthony Litton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Author’s Notes

  Prologue

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

  Humpty Dumpty was deader than all!

  ‘No that’s not right; what is it? I’ll remember in a minute. Mind you, best make sure!’ The figure, hunched at the foot of the old wall, was chattering and chuckling to itself as it gave the damaged skull an extra bash or two to make perfectly sure that its owner was dead. ‘Oh yes, I’m sure he is, must be, but best make sure, yes! When the hammer had smashed down twice more the figure was briefly content. In truth there’d been no doubt that the victim was dead; you don’t hurtle head first off a thirty foot drop and survive - particularly if the fall is aided by a vigorous and spiteful push in the back. Still, the hitting was such fun, the figure carried on a bit longer, very much enjoying the resulting squelch and crunch.

  Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

  And all the Kings horses and all the

  King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again!

  ‘Yes, that’s it! I knew I’d remember!’ Finally the figure was satisfied and had just one last job to do, before the gentle old man who was the victim was left alone at last, broken, bloody - and satisfyingly dead.

  Chapter 1

  ‘Bloody hell! This I can do without!’ muttered Desmond, under his breath, unusually irritated.

  Gwilym and Eleanor looked across the breakfast table, Eleanor looking up from her own voluminous post and Gwilym from his scanning of the headlines of some half-dozen newspapers. All three were extremely busy people and breakfast was often the only time of the day when they could be sure to catch up with what the others were doing. In the short time Gwilym and Desmond had been back in Beldon Magna they’d quickly got into the habit of the three of them having breakfast together. The first part of the meal was usually spent in discussing their various plans for the day and the second going through their mail – or in Gwilym’s case, the newspapers; he flatly refused to deal with his correspondence until the evening. It was a quiet and comparatively leisurely start to their busy days that all three had grown to value during the time the partners had been staying with Desmond’s mother. It was a time the two men particularly enjoyed. They ate in the lovely little morning room looking out through diamond-paned windows onto Eleanor’s beloved orchard, and the leisurely pace was a far cry from the frenetic start to their days which had been the norm for the many years they’d both lived in London.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gwilym, surprised at seeing his usually genial partner so worked up.

  ‘It’s Tessa, bloody woman,’ Desmond muttered, though this last was, again, under his breath, well aware that his mother frowned on any form of bad language.

  Both the others laughed. Desmond and Tessa LaVerne, a mega-star before the term was coined, had had an ongoing love-hate relationship for the best part of twenty years.

  ‘You’ll both stop laughing when I tell you what she wants!’ smiled Desmond, his usual good humour rapidly returning. ‘She wants to come and stay with us!’

  He was right, that did stop the others seeing the funny side.

  ‘Here?’ asked Gwilym incredulously.

  ‘Well, that’s where we are, isn’t it?’ responded Desmond tartly.

  ‘But she hates the countryside – says it’s too empty!’

  ‘I know,’ Desmond agreed. ‘That’s why I’ve always felt safe whenever we were out of London,’ he added, laughing a little. ‘Anyway, it’s out of the question, obviously,’ he added thankfully.

  ‘Why is it out of the question?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘Because, Mother, we’re in your house and – believe me – you would not want Tessa LaVerne as a house-guest!’ he replied bluntly.

  Eleanor entirely agreed. She had never met her, but had heard a great deal about the lady’s larger-than-life personality which, when enraged, as was frequently the case, spat fire and brimstone far better than most known volcanoes.

  ‘You could invite her and you could all stay in the Dower House,’ she suggested.

  ‘Oh!’ said Desmond, seeing his best excuse disappearing through the open window into the summer morning’s early sunshine.

  ‘Yes, it’s a great idea,’ said Gwilym enthusiastically. ‘There’s plenty of room for the two of you to be able to avoid each other if you want to!’ he continued jovially.

  ‘Both of us? And where, precisely, do you plan to be?’ asked Desmond coldly.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a lot going on at the pub, so I’d stay there, give you two time together,’ his partner said, smiling hopefully.

  ‘Good try, my devious Welsh friend, but Tessa needs at least two of us to keep her even half bearable, so you will most certainly not stay at the pub!’

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try, I suppose!’ nodded Gwilym, his dark, mobile features breaking into the warm grin that always drew people to him. ‘I suppose it’s the show,’ he added rhetorically.

  Desmond nodded, ‘She wants us to do a show we’ve been talking about for a while,’ he added, as explanation for his mother.

  ‘And you’re not keen?’ she asked her son. She knew that, despite the two men being in business together, it was Desmond who had the major say in which shows they actually produced. Once that decision was made, Gwilym got involved in the casting and, more particularly, took absolute control of all aspects of the contract negotiations, finance, publicity and so on, that were required to be done well for any show, however good, to succeed. In recent years he’d also driven, and had the final say on, their company’s acquisition of endangered old theatres, an expensive passion they both shared.

  Desmond nodded. ‘In some ways I’d like to,’ and he outlined the idea for a big budget musical built around the hits of forty years with the original four singing stars performing them. ‘It’s just that I’m not sure yet and have decided to shelve it for a while.’

  ‘She knows this?

  ‘Oh yes, I wrote to her,’ he replied. One of the many irritations of the singing star was that she flatly refused to use anything electronic, so emails, texts and so on were out of the question; it had to be the telephone or a letter.

  ‘And she wants to do it, and she thinks she can persuade you when she’s here?’ Eleanor asked.

  ‘I think so. I thought she was keen to do it – and now I know just how keen! There’s no way anything less than her own West End show would get her to leave London!’ he laughed. He knew his friend was such a city girl that she viewed even the London parks as so much wasted space, too green and rural to be interesting. ‘Even with the use of the Dower House, I still would rather put her off, though,’ he continued turning to his mother, ‘thanks all
the same.’

  ‘Actually dear, it’s something I’ve been meaning to raise for some time: your both living here, I mean,’ she added. She stifled a smile as she saw the two exchange a hurried, guilty look, very little different from when they were two boys caught out in some mischief, she thought. ‘Don’t look so guilty, you both must have thought about it. I certainly have,’ she replied bluntly. ‘Don’t look so hurt, either!’ she added, smiling again at their reaction. ‘I love having you all here,’ she continued, looking down as the third of her guests wriggled about before settling down again across her feet. ‘But you need your own home, your own… what’s the modern word? Oh yes, your own space!’

  She was right and both men knew it. Big as “The Plovers” – Eleanor’s old house dominating the southern side of the village green – was, it was still too small for them to all live there and at the same time for the duo to run their theatrical business efficiently. For that they needed a properly set up office. Desmond knew that he couldn’t continue using his mother’s dining table, large though it was, as his desk. Both he and Gwilym had also been putting off employing the extra full-time staff that they knew were needed locally, in addition to their fully staffed London offices, now they’d moved permanently back to the village. They’d also done no entertaining of friends since their return. So much had been happening that they’d not missed it, but both men knew that at some point they would again want to have some of the joyous house parties they’d enjoyed in London.

  ‘So, I’ve been thinking – why don’t you two move into the Dower House?’

  They both were startled by the offer.

  ‘But… surely the terms of the gift were it was yours only as long as you need or want it?’ said Desmond after a short pause. ‘And you don’t want to live there again do you?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No,’ she replied simply. Indeed, she’d never once gone inside again from the moment her husband collapsed from his fatal stroke in its large library.

  ‘So, as you don’t want it… couldn’t Ian legally demand it back?’ he asked, though knowing what his mother’s response would be.

  ‘He may well wish to try – though I wouldn’t advise it,’ Ian’s aunt responded crisply, ‘but your grandfather’s will was quite explicit; it was mine for as long as I either need, or want it. Well, I still want it – though as a home for you two,’ she replied, adding implacably, ‘there is no way in this world that I will let that lovely house go back to the estate and have it misused, or even sold off, to bail your cousin out of his latest financial mess.’

  ‘But surely he couldn’t! Wouldn’t the Trust stop him?’ Gwilym said, startled.

  Eleanor shook her head, her usually serene features, showing rare anger; an anger reflected in her grey eyes. ‘The Trust is virtually useless, which is one of the reasons I resigned from it. It’s excluded from having ownership of the Dower House, plus, unfortunately much of the land. So, if he got it back he could sell the next time the estate needs money.’

  ‘The next time? Good Lord!’ Desmond said, stunned. He’d never paid much attention to his cousin’s estate. He knew he was a bad businessman, but had always thought that he was more than wealthy enough to protect the estate from any danger.

  ‘Ian is not the best at either business or running the estate. Unfortunately, he thinks he is and came near to getting rid of Robert Parry a few years ago. Ridiculous! Robert is by far and away the best agent of any of the local estates, so it was fortunate Ian finally changed his mind. Anyway, he’s not getting the Dower House and I’m not going to live in it again, but it’s got to be lived in. It’s too lovely a house to go to waste – so, do think about it, please.’

  They agreed they would, though in truth there was little to think about. His mother’s suggestion solved all problems at a stroke.

  ‘When was Miss LaVerne thinking of coming, by the way?’ Eleanor asked, cutting across their thoughts.

  ‘What? Oh, being Tessa, it’s immediate! She suggests this weekend!’ laughed Desmond. ‘As ever, totally spur of the moment and bugg… blow everyone else’s convenience!’

  ‘Could you put her off for, say, three weeks?’

  ‘I could – but why?’

  ‘The village fête,’ his mother replied succinctly

  ‘The fe…? Oh, get her to open it you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re opening it!’

  ‘Yes; but I was only asked to do it to irritate Marcia,’ she smiled. For years the family at the big house had tried to re-claim the social heights, which they felt were their due, back from Eleanor. Their success had been mixed, less so from any efforts by Eleanor herself, than from the stubborn refusal of the villagers. They all fully realised that Sir Ian and Lady Blaine cared little for the villages of the estate, whereas Eleanor, daughter of a previous squire, cared a great deal.

  ‘She’d be a big draw, that’s for sure,’ Gwilym murmured, ‘and such a catch that a village boy made good has such famous friends!’ he goaded gently, well aware that, though Maximian, their production company, was jointly owned, Desmond was very much its public face.

  ‘If you make one more dig like that, this village boy will have one less such friend,’ smiled Desmond.

  ‘Yes, she would be a big draw – and this year we have church repairs and more topping up of the Almshouses funds,’ his mother said, serious for a moment. She was well aware of both the state of the church roof and, more than most, was also aware of the constant drain on the charity’s limited funds.

  ‘Fair enough,’ sighed Desmond accepting the inevitable. ‘I’ll write and suggest she comes then.’ Though God help us when she and mother collide! he thought grimly.

  After a few more brief comments they rose from the breakfast table, to go their separate and busy ways. At the doorway, Desmond looked back at his mother and was surprised to see just a touch of sadness flicker across her usually well-schooled features. On impulse, he returned and hugged her. ‘We would love to stay here – not move out, you know,’ he said worriedly.

  ‘And why would you do that?’ she asked in feigned surprise, knowing he’d caught her fleeting look.

  ‘I just thought you may have got used to the company, that’s all,’ he said.

  ‘And that I’d miss you? Don’t be silly; it would be Huffny I’d miss!’ Hearing her name the honey coloured fur-ball came out from under the table and looked hopefully about, in case it was time for her walk.

  Suddenly the sound of police sirens racing past the edge of the green, caused them all to look up in surprise. Then the phone rang and Gwilym, being the nearest, picked it up. The others watched in consternation as they saw the blood drain from his face.

  ‘There’s a body been found up at the Hall!’ he said, shock clear in his voice as he fumbled to replace the handset.

  Chapter 2

  ‘The Hall! Do we know who?’ asked Desmond, thinking immediately of his cousin and his wife.

  ‘They’re not sure. That was Robert Parry. Apparently one of the gardeners, John Abbott, I think he said, found the body at the foot of the old castle walls, but the face is virtually unrecognisable.’ He paused, before adding gently, ‘but they think it’s old Doc Rutherford.’

  Eleanor went white with shock and her slight frame rocked slightly, before her habitual self-discipline cut in.

  ‘Unrecognisable?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, they thought at first he’d fallen from the curtain wall but… his face looks too badly damaged, so they’ve called the police.’

  ‘Desmond – would you go up and see what’s going on?’ Eleanor asked her son, suddenly.

  ‘Of course, if you want me to, though I suspect the police won’t want a crowd of people gawking at them,’ he responded.

  She nodded her thanks. ‘And… and if it is Allan Rutherford, let me know, please,’ she said, her voice now back to its usual calm.

  Desmond wasn’t fooled, however. He knew how fond of the retired doctor his mothe
r was. Ever since he’d come to the village, as a newly hatched GP, almost fifty years previously, they’d both worked closely together, young though the recently married Eleanor then was, on innumerable projects for the betterment of the village and its inhabitants. When, briefly, there was a fallow period of volunteers to help keep the Almshouses charity in much-needed funds, it was he who, with Eleanor herself, had spent many extra hours raising money for it, as well as cajoling other very busy people to step in and help.

  ‘I will,’ Desmond promised as, avoiding the pleading eyes of Huffny, he grabbed his car keys and hurried out of the door.

  He drove quickly through the village and swung in between the two picturesque lodge gates and into the curving driveway leading up to the house. Lined with beech trees it had been one of his favourite walks when he was a boy and on his way to see his grandfather. He loved the dappled shade of the ancient trees, with the ground around them studded with snowdrops and early crocuses in winter and daffodils in Spring. Today, though, he was as blind to their beauty as he was to that of the rich, silky green of the ancient Rhododendron bushes, attractive even without their Spring showing of exotic flowers, which backed onto the stately ranks of the beeches. His mind was still numb at the Agent’s news. Any sudden death was a shock, but when – if – it was someone as dearly loved as the old doctor it hit doubly hard.

  Part-way along the main drive he turned off onto a narrower roadway which took him away from the manor house itself and led to the ruins of the small castle that had stood on a slight rise for almost four hundred years until it was blown-up by Cromwell’s troops. Now all that remained of it, in the now secluded and beautiful spot, came into Desmond’s view as he rounded the final bend and hurriedly parked the car. There was a police cordon already being put in place at the foot of the remaining, partly ruined castle wall and a masking tent was already half-erected. He could see the obviously severely shocked figure of John Abbott, the gardener, still shaking and clasping his hands tightly together, sitting on the verge nearby with a policeman and the land agent hovering over him.