A Simple Country Killing

by Blythe Baker

  A Simple Country Killing

  Blythe Baker

  Contents

  Description

  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

  About the Author

  Death, and Helen Lightholder, return to Brookminster with the murder of the village vicar. As Helen investigates the ghastly crime, she soon finds herself a suspect of the local police. To clear her name and protect her friends, Helen must discover the truth and outwit a devious killer.

  But Helen’s personal life is not without its own mysteries and one of them continues to stalk her in the shadows...

  1

  Upon my return from London, I found myself far more exhausted than I ever thought I could be.

  It was early in the morning, a Monday in the middle of August. I had been in the capitol city for eight days, staying with Patrick and Lily Gordon once again while officer after officer filtered through their home, seeking out the information I had brought with me.

  Everyone, including Patrick and Lily, was astounded when I told them that I had been the one to kill Sidney, who I learned was indeed using a false name. His real name was Helmut Reinhart, and he had been on the run ever since Roger was killed.

  One night, as a rainstorm rattled the windows of the Gordon’s townhome, a man named General Klein, someone that Roger and Patrick both served under, pulled me into Patrick’s study where we could discuss the matter in private. He stood at the window, peering out into the stormy night, chewing on the end of his mahogany smoking pipe.

  “I imagine that you know the truth now. The real truth, I mean. About Roger’s death,” he said.

  I stared cautiously at his back, my mind racing. “I…believe so.”

  There were three realities of Roger’s death. First, there was the article released in the papers after his death, claiming he had been killed in an air raid bombing. Until just about a month ago, that was how I believed he had died.

  Second, there was the story that he had been killed by a German spy who he had discovered infiltrating the ranks of the British army, a man who had later sought after me for secret information that Roger had slipped to me unknowingly.

  And third…there was the real truth, the truth that maybe only one or two people knew.

  Roger was actually alive, and he’d been spending the months since his supposed death fulfilling secret and dangerous missions for the government. At least, that was what I assumed he was doing. I hadn’t spoken to him myself, but he had made himself known to me just before I left for London, revealing that he had been the mysterious silhouette I had seen many times in the shadows, watching after me.

  General Klein turned and looked at me, smoke billowing from his pipe. “Are you certain?” he asked.

  Unsure whether he was one of the few who knew Roger was still alive, I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t going to be the one to reveal that information. As far as everyone else was still aware, Roger was dead, and I had to play along with that until he made it clear otherwise, for my own protection, as well as his own.

  Klein was a foreboding man, with his thick moustache and hard gaze that had seen far too much warfare. “Well…” he said. “I’m sorry it all turned out this way. We realize you are just as much a victim as he was.”

  Those cryptic words told me nothing, but I knew he couldn’t very well reveal to me that Roger was alive when there were very likely ears directly on the other side of the door who would overhear. And that would surely compromise Roger’s mission.

  A glimmer of something serious flickered in Klein’s gaze, and in that moment, I knew he meant to tell me that Roger was alive.

  “I do know the truth, Sir,” I said. “Every bit of it.”

  General Klein nodded. “Very well. Your country thanks you for your service, Helen Lightholder. And for that of your husband, delivering the code key to you in such a way, knowing it would be kept safe. My only regret is that you had to suffer through the difficulties that Helmut Reinhart brought on you. I imagine this experience has been troubling.”

  Troubling was a very mild way of putting it.

  Lily Gordon insisted that I stay with them while I recover from the shock of Sidney – Helmut’s – attack, but I told her I was needed back at home. “Besides, he’s gone now. I don’t have to be frightened of him any longer.”

  And I believed that. I didn’t have to be frightened of him living right next door, or his ability to kill me whenever he pleased. He was no longer alive…but that didn’t mean he didn’t live on in my nightmares, which came every time I closed my eyes at night.

  They weren’t strange nightmares. They were not filled with bizarre twists and turns, nor were they confusing. I didn’t have to run anywhere, and things weren’t hidden behind locked doors, as most of my nightmares with Roger had been.

  It was as if my mind had captured that moment when I killed Sidney and permanently recorded it in my memory to play over, and over, and over. As such, my nights were rarely filled with sleep anymore. Instead, I would lie awake, reading, trying to distract myself from the dreams that seemed to taunt me from just beyond the veil of sleep.

  Returning home to Brookminster was both a great blessing and a bit of a worry. As the first light of dawn appeared over the hills outside the village, I stood at my door, staring up at the house that had become so much of a strange place to me since I had moved in.

  Unwillingly, my eyes shifted to the house next door.

  It looked much colder than it ever had before. Once, it brought a smile to my face. It was the place where a friend lived, someone who had proved himself trustworthy time and time again. The front garden was a place where many good conversations had been had, where laughs had been shared, where my heart had been warmed and comforted.

  Sidney Mason had been a wonderful person in my life…and it broke my heart to realize that he was never real in the first place.

  I unlocked my door and stepped inside, where I found everything in my shop just as I had left it.

  My eyes drifted toward the back door, where Sidney would so often come to see me, knocking on the window and peering inside, waving at me while wearing that charming grin of his. He would offer to fix the squeak in my door, or the sticking drawer in one of my window displays, or the wobbly leg on my dining table. But it wasn’t just me. He would offer the same to anyone who needed help. He was a good man.

  But it was all to get to me. To find information about Roger. To ultimately find the letters that Roger had written to me, and then to destroy them so the information couldn’t be transmitted back to his superiors.

  Sidney had died thinking he’d won, when in reality, I’d memorized the letter that Roger had written to me, the important one, the one that held the precious code key that Sidney had been so bent on destroying.

  I dragged my suitcase upstairs, already feeling exhausted. I had yet to get any sleep that night, having been awake in order to catch the train that left London so early in the morning.

  I collapsed onto the bed, not even having the energy to remove my jacket. I grabbed my pillow, drawing it toward me, and pulling my legs up toward my middle, and quickly fell asleep.

  I woke with a start, what felt like just a few minutes later…only to find that it was very nearly dark again, and the amber light of sunset was flickering through the opposite windows of my little flat.

  I pulled myself out of bed, my l
imbs aching and stiff from lying in the same position for so long, and wandered over to the window.

  It was nearly dusk. I’d slept the whole day…without having another terrible nightmare.

  I rubbed my eyes, my lashes sticking together with sleep.

  There was no sense in staying in. I would likely not sleep through the night now.

  I should have set an alarm…I thought bitterly.

  I had no fresh groceries, no milk, nothing to readily eat, and my stomach growled with hunger pangs.

  It was best if I went out to find something to eat, even something small to just tide me over until the morning when I could find my ration coupons and go get my allotted groceries for the week.

  I knew the pub would be open, but after Sidney’s fiasco there, I had no interest in that place. The inn might be a better choice, though the last time I had been there had been with Sam Graves, and I wondered if the owners might have thought it had been a romantic engagement.

  I changed my jacket, ran a brush through my hair, and made my way out to the street in order to find something to eat.

  The roads were peppered with puddles, and water droplets clung to the ends of the branches of the trees. Somehow I’d managed to sleep through the rainstorm, as well.

  Streetlights flickered to life as I passed beneath them, filling the street with a warm glow. The clouds were puffy and dark overhead like a blanket over the village.

  I breathed in the fresh air, the scent of the rain still present. It was one of the things I loved most about Brookminster. London’s air was smoky, coated the lungs, and sometimes even smelled foul, as if something had died within the walls of the nearby buildings.

  It was not so here, though. Brookminster was such a different place.

  I came upon the center of town, on High Street, and headed toward the inn, when the low, stone wall of the church appeared. I followed alongside it, the church sitting atop the hill as it always did, made of beautiful, pale stone. It was quiet now, at this hour. The vicar, Mr. James, was likely to be at home now with his wife, enjoying the coolness of the evening.

  The cemetery was peaceful, as well, which was a relief. The stones all rested in their rows, shadowed in the fading light. For a brief moment, I considered stepping inside and seeking out the grave of the Polish refugee who had been killed recently, just to pay my respects.

  I can pay my respects tomorrow, when my stomach is full and I am not hurrying to beat the setting of the sun.

  I kept walking, the gate of the cemetery coming into sight…when I thought I heard a voice.

  “…lp…m…”

  I stopped, straining my ears. I was standing in the middle of a busy street, after all. Many families were likely preparing their children for bed. Some of the little ones might still be out playing in the back garden, enjoying their last few minutes of freedom before their mothers dragged them in for a bath or for their evening story.

  And I did hear children, along with other voices. A group of people down the street were leaving the inn, one man throwing back his head and laughing. A woman stood out in her garden, speaking with another woman, though their voices were so low I likely wouldn’t have heard them had I been walking beside them.

  That wasn’t the voice I heard, though, I said to myself. It seemed more –

  And then I heard it again.

  “…Help…me…”

  My stomach dropped to my feet.

  Not again. Oh, please…not again.

  2

  I stood frozen to the spot, my heart pounding in my chest. Had I really heard someone calling for help?

  No…that couldn’t be. Not when the rest of the world around me was as pleasant and as calm as it was. Birds were singing their last songs for the day, retiring to their nests tucked away in the limbs of the nearby trees. A couple made their way down the street on their bicycles, likely ready for a comfortable, relaxing night in. Lights began to shine in the upper windows of the ivy-strewn homes down High Street, preparing for the first of the stars to flicker to life in the dark sky overhead.

  I glanced over my shoulder into the cemetery. I was just hearing things, wasn’t I?

  I haven’t been getting much sleep…and goodness knows I have been living in a mindset where everything that could possibly go wrong will. It is more than likely that I am just hearing things, and my mind is trying to play tricks on me.

  That was it. It had to be. I was not ready to accept that I had, indeed, been hearing someone crying out for help. Especially not from the church cemetery.

  I took a step, my attention already redirecting itself toward the inn, ready for my meal.

  But a clear sound of coughing made me stop once again, along with an agonized cry of pain.

  My stomach turned to ice.

  I realized I could keep walking. It was not my responsibility to stop and make sure that whoever it was who was crying out was all right. How did I know it wasn’t just a group of older children, playing among the tombstones?

  That wasn’t my only option, either. I could go and find help.

  I turned and gazed into the cemetery, my eyes searching for any sign of distress. I found none, though; everything seemed as it always was.

  I can’t leave them…I thought. If I do, I might be too late when I get back. Perhaps I could help. Maybe it’s nothing more than a twisted ankle, or perhaps a bump on the head.

  Steeling my nerves, I knew that I couldn’t just walk away. It wouldn’t be right.

  I turned back to the gate and stepped through, into the cool, darkness of the cemetery.

  “Hello?” I called out as I followed along the worn, dirt path that wound its way through the graves. “Is someone there?”

  “He – help – ”

  The voice was slightly louder, and it sounded familiar, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on who it belonged to.

  “Keep talking,” I said, picking up the pace.

  “Here…”

  I made a sharp right turn, following along the wrought iron fence that ran alongside the street. Beyond, I saw an older woman walking her greying terrier, which was happily sniffing at the air, his tongue lolling out.

  I heard coughing once again, just a short ways from the edge of the fence. How had no one else heard it?

  I came around the trunk of an ancient elm tree, and gasped as I saw the body of Mr. James slumped against it, clutching at his stomach…his fingers glistening with fresh, ruby red blood.

  “Mr. James,” I said, kneeling beside the vicar, resting my hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Mr. James, can you hear me?”

  The sharp tang of blood reached my nose, metallic and strong in the cool, summer air. It made my stomach coil into knots.

  The thin man slowly lifted his chin up toward me. It had only been a fortnight since I’d seen him last, but his face, now gaunt, seemed almost unrecognizable. The usual smile and kindness in his eyes were replaced with a pained grimace, and clouded vision.

  “Hel…Helen…” he mumbled, his breathing shallow and labored.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  His head lolled to the side, exposing some of the greying hair on his dark head near his temples.

  “Mr. James, stay with me,” I said, gently shaking him. “You need to stay awake. I can go get you help, but you need to stay awake, all right?”

  He struggled to look at me once again, his green eyes hazy behind his tortoiseshell glasses.

  “He…he hated me,” Mr. James said, then sputtered. Blood spattered from the edge of his mouth, dotting the front of his shirt as well as mine. “Never…meant to – ”

  He was losing too much blood. I moved the front of his jacket and found the whole front of his shirt stained, with a dark, gleaming spot just below his ribs the size of a sixpence. One of his lungs must have been punctured.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “If you just hold on for a few minutes, I can go find you some help, and we can get you to the doctor, get you all patched up
– ”

  With surprising strength, he grabbed onto my arm, pulling me back down toward him.

  His eyes were wide with desperation, and as he opened his mouth to speak, he coughed, more blood mingling with his spittle. “No…” he said. “I know to – to whom I go…”

  “Who did this to you?” I asked.

  Mr. James shook his head. “His anger – he said he never could let me – I tried to – tried to – ” He gasped for air, sputtering once again, his body swaying.

  I reached out to help steady him. My hands found warm stickiness against his chest…which made my stomach twist.

  I knew I couldn’t leave him. As he coughed, his entire body trembled. His face had lost all color, and the pink spots coating his lips proved to me that even if someone were to get here in time, he likely wouldn’t survive being carried away from this spot. The movement alone would probably kill him.

  I quickly pulled the sweater I wore from my shoulders, and rolling it into a ball, pressed it against his chest. “Here, keep pressure on the wound,” I said, realizing my own hands were shaking terribly. “It’ll help stop the bleeding.”

  Mr. James, gasping for air, didn’t respond. He leaned his head back against the tree.

  “I’m…not afraid…of death,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  My eyes stung with tears as I stared at him, the last of the sunlight dipping behind the rolling hills in the distance. Wind rushed through the boughs of the elm tree above our heads.

  He had only ever been kind to me. Kind to everyone. Honorable, righteous, and compassionate. He spent his free hours helping those in the village, caring for the sick, visiting the poor. He taught wonderful sermons every Sunday morning, and it was clear from speaking with him for just a moment how much he loved what he did, and how strong and how deep his faith was.