SILVER LAKE COZY MYSTERY BOX SET
BOOKS ONE TO THREE
HUGO JAMES KING
JESSICA LANCASTER
Copyright © 2019 Hugo James King, Jessica Lancaster
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Your respect and support of the author is appreciated.
All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are used fictionally and without intent of slander. Any resemblance to actual people are purely coincidental.
NOTE: Written in British English, utilising the grammar rules of British English. Example; Mr and Mrs - instead of Mr. and Mrs.
MURDER ON SILVER LAKE
MURDER ON RED ROSE DRIVE
MURDER AT MAPLE HOUSE
About the Authors
MURDER ON SILVER LAKE
A Silver Lake Cozy Mystery Novel
HUGO JAMES KING
JESSICA LANCASTER
MURDER ON SILVER LAKE
Dead on the riverbank. An ex-con artist.
Hated throughout the village and neighbouring town of Briarbury.
Suicide? Ruled out.
Murder? Most likely.
Revenge? Money? Power?
In a village filled with motives, someone isn’t telling the truth.
And someone is close to finding out how far a killer would go.
A cozy murder mystery novel set a fictional Cotswolds village, following female amateur sleuth, her rescue dog, and an entire ensemble of quirky small-town characters. Written in British English.
ONE
A child screeched. Followed by another. Seeming to cascade around my home. My finger twitched, pulling at the curtain in my living room.
“Don’t go near her house!” a voice screamed. “She eats kids!”
Scoffing at the sight of the two young boys walking by. I’d heard it all now. Eating kids; a new addition to what I’d heard already. Children walked by my house all the time, and each time, they called me out for my overgrown weeds and unkempt garden.
The two young boys edged away from the fence, as if the weeds overgrew enough to snatch them by their legs. In some way, it was my own fault for not taking care of the outward appearance of my home.
My small seven-year-old rescue beagle, Charlie barked at the front door. Skipping and jumping around, if they had approached, he’d have been useless in my defence.
“Quiet.” I snapped my fingers at him. “They’re not coming.”
As a widow in her early fifties, and without children, people assumed there must have been something wrong. Scary looking? I was not. But on occasion, when an idea struck, I’d get a crazed look in my eye.
My best friend, Ruth told me I looked cunning with an idea; a squinting eye and taut thin lips, like a line of concentration.
Charlie barked once again.
Saturday morning in the Green household, Charlie knew what it meant, and he wasn’t a fool. He’d been waiting by the front door since feeding.
During the week, I worked at a magazine, Inside the Cotswolds, writing articles about upcoming events inside the glorious and lush green rolling hills I called home.
On the stoop of the front door, I collected milk the local milkman, Mr Fishwick had left, and the Saturday morning paper, hand-delivered by the Winthorpe’s son from JIM’S, the local and only newsagents in Silver Lake.
Silver Lake had been my home for over thirty years, and in those years, I’d only lived in one home. I had shared it with my husband, before his death five years ago. He grew up here, so I stayed after his passing.
The village, while small, was separated into two areas; left of the bridge, and right of the bridge. I lived on the left, where all houses were detached, and each surrounded by large areas of land. The right was more densely populated with terraced housing, and small businesses; where all the main properties were; the village hall, the newsagents, the local police station, the GP’s office, and also the only way in and out of Silver Lake.
Connected to Silver Lake was the historic market town of Briarbury. Famed county-wide, Briarbury brought in countless tourists and a lot of money. Silver Lake wouldn’t have been a functioning village without it, as most of the residents worked there—myself included.
Charlie yapped once again.
“Right.” I gathered the milk bottle and newspaper into my arms. “Let me have a coffee, first.”
Slamming the door shut, Charlie sat with his droopy eyes staring back at me.
In my cluttered kitchen, I turned a blind eye to the strewn letters settled on the island counter. They’d grown over the years, and sometimes spilt into the drawers, the cupboards, wherever they found space.
The house needed a good clean. I had boxes of papers, letters, documents, all throughout the house, including half the dining table, the only space they hadn’t infiltrated was my home office. I placed the bottle of milk inside the fridge trying to avoid eye contact with the mess. It begged me not leave it, but I did—I had to. I was a busy woman.
Charlie whimpered.
“Fine.”
I knew he couldn’t understand, but he jumped to his feet, panting.
“Oh, I see I’ve got your attention now.”
By the front door, Charlie pawed at my blue and green spotted wellington boots.
Setting the newspaper on the ottoman, I took a seat before squeezing my feet into the boots.
Brriinngg. Brriinngg.
On the wall, the landline home phone rang out.
Charlie’s droopy eyes looked to me, he knew it put a dent in getting outside. I didn’t know what he was excited about, we were in January, the weather was dreadful, but it seemed he enjoyed getting out in the dirt.
I pushed myself from the ottoman, my knees cracking. “Oof.” I coughed to clear my throat. “I’ll be a minute, Charlie.”
Plucking the phone from the wall, I pressed it to my ear. “Hello, Evelyn Green.”
“Eve!” a voice called back. “It’s Ruth.”
“Oh, Ruth. Everything okay?”
Ruth Martin had been my best friend for many years. She had been with me when I married my late-husband Harry, and I was with her when she married, then when she gave birth. We’d been through everything together. “Making sure we’re on for lunch this afternoon,” she said. “I’ll be over around 1 P.M. I’m heading into Briarbury to Petunia Heights now.”
“When will they hire a weekend nurse?” I chuckled back.
Ruth and her husband, Frank Martin, owned and operated the GP in Silver Lake; the doctor’s practice. Frank being a doctor and Ruth a nurse.
Frank took weekends off, but Ruth volunteered the late-mornings of her weekend to the care home in Briarbury.
“I enjoy it. Besides, they have the best chocolate yoghurt,” she snickered. “A direct quote. Put it in the magazine.”
“Oh, yes. Maybe more people would visit their relatives if they knew about the yoghurt.”
“We can only hope.”
“Say hi to Maude for me.”
Maude Green was Harry’s mother. In her eighties now, and for the last few years, she’d been living at the Petunia Heights care home. I’d visited her twice a month or so. We’d celebrated Christmas together when my mother and sister were here.
“Maybe she’ll talk to me this time,” Ruth snorted back a chuckle. “Anyway, I’ll see you later.”
“Yes.” I glanced to Charlie as he whimpered by the front door. “I best be off, Charlie’s giving me those big bug eyes.”
“Don’t forget to wrap up. We might see snow.”
Dud. I put the phone on the hoo
k.
Charlie pounced at my boots, sticking his tongue out and smiling.
“Let me get my coat.”
On the hangers by the door, were an array of jackets and cardigans. I wore my beige wool cardigan beneath my thick blue and white winter jacket.
I feared Ruth was right. It was the middle of January, and the middle of winter it seemed. It rained heavily most nights, even some mornings, and walking the dirt path worn in by tourists and joggers, it was bound to be a muddy walk.
I clicked my tongue. “Come on.” I fiddled with a red tartan scarf, wrapping it around my neck. “I’m ready.” I grabbed the newspaper and shoved it under my arm.
Snapping my fingers, I opened the front door and let him free.
Charlie was a well-behaved dog, so I didn’t leash him or carry tiny plastic bags for poop. He knew when to go; wait until we got home, mark his territory in the garden and he’d never run off, but if he did, he answered to my calls.
“Go on, then.”
I nodded as he leapt out into the garden.
TWO
On the weekend, Charlie and I walked along the worn paths near the river flowing into the lake the village was named after. Without Charlie in my life, I’d probably never go for walks and getting out of the house wouldn’t have been so easy. I’d have relied solely on Ruth and the job at the magazine to get me out of the house.
“Right.” I nodded to a bench fifteen minutes into our walk. “You run around while I take a much-needed seat.” I waved the newspaper in his face, assuming he knew from my actions; we’d been doing this for almost two years now.
Charlie ran as fast as his little legs carried him.
My usual spot, the bench was the first place. It gave me an excellent view over the river, but only from the top of the hill. At the bottom, near the riverbed you could dip your toes in the water, but given the current weather conditions, I didn’t want frostbite.
In the summer, the river and the lake were popular among tourists and local families escaping the heat. I was ready for the summer to begin, at least then I wouldn’t need to wear layers upon layers of clothing to keep warm.
I never visited the lake during summer. It reminded me too much of my late-husband Harry. We’d take a boat out onto the lake, he’d fish with Frank, Ruth’s husband, or someone else from the boy’s club he belonged to, and I’d drink wine with the wife, or Ruth, because we were rarely inseparable.
Two joggers pulled my attention, one wearing only shorts and a tight fit Lycra t-shirt, while the other wore a pair of compression stockings beneath his shorts.
It baffled me. My wide eyes said more than I could as they ran past me. Shaking my head, I pulled at the newspaper beneath my arm. I headed straight to the entertainment section, considering it research.
Like any good writer, I was doing my due diligence. I needed to know what had been written and covered, and what these newspaper writers stole from me.
Scrolling my finger. “Done, done, done.” I muttered headlines aloud, shaking my head and tutting. “Christmas performance at The Queen’s Playhouse. Old news.” I didn’t read the complete review, skipped to the end. “Very amateur.”
A loud scoff came from the back of my throat.
The Queen’s Playhouse was a small amateur dramatics venue in Briarbury, the clue, ‘amateur dramatics’, was in the name. They weren’t high-scale productions with a budget, but they were great for the children and families. They also hosted comedy nights and all number of different small-venue performances.
I slapped the pages together, taking a once over glance at the front page. “Big business comes to Briarbury,” I read aloud. “Investment opportunities—blah-de-blah.”
My Harry had been in property development, and I knew the type of people who’d be showing their faces. It made my skin crawl, thinking about the people from the big cities coming to bring Briarbury into the future. I’d heard it all before; Harry had tried to protect the town and all its features.
I wished to write something hard-hitting about that, but instead, I was tasked with reporting on an upcoming chocolate shop. They were putting on taster sessions before Valentine’s Day, perfect for getting couples to stay during the romantic season.
Unfortunately, the magazine I worked for didn’t deal with anything remotely controversial or hard-hitting. It’s not what Inside the Cotswolds was about, we were about fluff pieces and keeping tourism alive. We weren’t about putting blood in the water for business people to come sniffing around at our untapped potential.
Slamming the paper on the bench at my side, I tipped my chin up over my scarf. The cold air nipping at my face. My nostrils flared, and my eyes pierced into a squint; the thoughts of business people arriving were maddening.
“At least I get to go chocolate tasting,” I grumbled with a smug grin.
I eased my fingers into each other, placing them on my lap. If I was to write exposé pieces, the stress would kill me. No, I nodded to myself, sighing deeply from my chest; I was happy to get pampered and call it work.
Relaxing my shoulders and closing my eyes. I’d been indulged on spa weekends, aromatherapy classes, and fancy champagne events. The owner of the magazine, Patrick Powell, also owned a number of other magazines and newspapers, including the one I threw to my side. It’s a shame they were so far behind in content from the magazine.
Chuckling, my cheeks froze in place, pinched and cold.
Charlie yapped from afar. My eyes opened in a shot.
I called out to him. Scanning the horizon of the grassy mound.
“Charlie?”
His brown and white dotted fur bobbed over the pale green.
I snapped my fingers. “Get over here.”
He ran fast on his short legs. Adorable as he bounded over.
Approaching, I noticed a thick brown square in his mouth.
Sitting upright. “What have you got there?”
He spat it out at my feet. A brown leather wallet.
“Stealing from people?” I sighed. “You’ve got dirt all over your nose.” I bent to grab the wallet. “Fancy.”
The thick wallet was packed with plastic cards. I pulled at one, a credit card. It belonged to Mr Gilbert F Sodbury. Not a name I thought I’d be reading this morning, or even a person I’d be seeing anytime soon.
Tapping my foot and squinting at Charlie, I wasn’t impressed. “Where did you find this?” I asked behind my clenched teeth. “I’d like to put it back,” I continued in a mumble. Gilbert was the last person I wanted to see in the New Year, and I didn’t want to smell the yeasty beer on him.
Charlie nudged at my hand, rubbing his snout against my skin.
“You’re getting dirt everywhere.” I dusted the mud away. “And not on my jacket.”
He pawed at my jacket, like he heard and continued anyway.
Wiping away the mark, it didn’t crumble like wet dirt. It left behind a slight maroon colour against the blue. “Cut your paw?”
He nudged at my hand once again with his snout.
“What do you want?” I stood from the bench, grabbing the newspaper and the wallet. “Let’s put this back where you found it.”
Charlie raced ahead. I followed on after him; walking at a snail’s pace.
“You’d better not bring anything else back,” I said after him.
He yapped, turning his head while leaping on over the hill.
On occasion, Charlie would bring me little trinkets, from branches he enjoyed carrying around to the occasional small dead animal. It’s almost like he could sniff them out, especially when we walked through the woods and he’d take me off the beaten path.
A scream broke out.
“Oh. God, Charlie?”
I walked faster, following in his footsteps.
A woman dressed in navy fleece pants and running jacket stood near the bottom of the riverbank. She screamed once again, panting, her trembling cold breath spat clouds around her face.
She turned, tears in her eyes
. Charlie pawing at her leg. He noticed me and raced in my direction, jumping and bouncing from the ground.
“What is it?” I asked.
The woman shook her head, tears in her face and eyes.
I glanced to the ground.
Something had washed onto the banking.
A body.
THREE
I didn’t get a look at the body, nor did I want to see it, not with what I already imagined was the body of the Silver Lake village drunk.
The police force of Silver Lake and Briarbury was small. Four officers, I believe, and one inspector, my brother-in-law. They were all on the scene, each with rolls of police tape under their arms.
I was back on the bench. Tapping the wallet against my knee. A mobile phone clenched in my other hand, pressed to my ear. I’d phoned Ruth in my panic, but not a single word of what she was saying hit me.
“You still there?”
Huffing. “Times like this, I wish I still smoked.”
“Gosh.”
My tongue clicked. “Look at me, there’s a dead man. And I’m making it all about me.”
“You certain it’s Gilbert?”
“Must be.” I glanced at the wallet, laying it flat on my knee. “I have his wallet.”
“Evelyn!”
“What?”
“That’s part of their investigation.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Put it back, right now.”
I sighed heavily. “I’ll hand it to Paul once he’s finished talking to the Peterson’s daughter. She’s distraught, the poor thing.”
“Why did you even pick it up?”
When I called Ruth, I blurted out the order of events, but it was a ramble. I’d have been surprised if she remembered anything after the interval of silence I took.
“Charlie brought it over.”
“Let him take it back.” Her voice petering into a snicker.
“It was covered in dirt—mud, whatever, blood perhaps.”
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