Bunburry--A Murderous Ride
Page 1
Contents
Cover
Contents
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
About the Book
Cast
The Author
Title
Copyright
1. The Bus Stop
2. Marge and Liz
3. Gussie’s Garage
4. Meeting Mike
5. An Arrest
6. The Mysterious Stranger
7. Mike’s Mother
8. Lord Teflon
9. Back at the Pub
10. The Chase
Epilogue
Next episode
Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series
Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. In “Murderous Ride,” the second Bunburry book, Alfie discovers that he has not only inherited a cottage from his late Aunt Augusta but also a 1950s Jaguar. He is dismayed: for reasons of his own, he no longer drives. Aunt Augusta’s best friends, Liz and Marge, persuade him to get behind the wheel again – but that’s just the start of his troubles.
About the Book
Alfie discovers it’s a seriously bad idea to get on the wrong side of the local police sergeant. Especially when he finds himself at a murder scene and the sergeant decides Alfie’s the murderer. There’s only one thing to be done. Alfie has to track down the real murderer himself – which will force him to drive as he’s never driven before.
Cast
Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …
Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing …
Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.
Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.
Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”
Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises …
Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.
BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade…
The Author
Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015, has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies and recently published her first mystery Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar.
HELENA MARCHMONT
A Murderous Ride
»be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
»be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is written in British English.
Copyright © 2018 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Olga Wojtas as Helena Marchmont
Edited by Allan Guthrie
Idea and series concept: Kathrin Kummer & Rebecca Schaarschmidt
Project editor: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Kirstin Osenau
Cover illustrations © shutterstock: Protasov AN | Canicula | Sk_Advance studio | ivangal | Ola-la und © iStockphoto: kievith | kbwills
E-book production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde
ISBN 978-3-7325-5522-2
www.be-ebooks.com
Twitter: @be_ebooks_com
Follow the author on Twitter: @OlgaWojtas
Let me be surrounded by luxury, I can do without the necessities!
Oscar Wilde
1. The Bus Stop
Alfie decided that the bus shelter contravened the Trade Descriptions Act. It had a roof, true, but it was open on three sides, which meant it offered no shelter whatsoever from the rain lashing horizontally into his face.
There was no sign of any bus, even though the faded timetable behind the glass stated that it should have arrived fifteen minutes ago, and Alfie had been waiting for at least twenty-five.
Like all Londoners, he complained bitterly about the capital’s public transport: no buses for hours and then three arriving at once, tube delays and breakdowns. But now that he was living in the country, he realised that London transport was a miracle of efficiency. Here in Bunburry, express trains shot through at speed, leaving the locals dependent on ancient and erratic rolling stock. The country bus route had been altered with the apparent aim of causing maximum inconvenience. The stop by the post office in the High Street was no longer in use: buses didn’t come through the centre of the village any more but stopped only at this isolated shelter on the outskirts, a good half-mile from Windermere Cottage.
Just as Alfie was regretting his impulse to visit the surrounding area, he caught sight of a single-decker bus in the distance. He stepped forward, preparing to signal to it. He wasn’t going to risk the driver failing to see him.
A car suddenly raced past the bus on the wrong side of the narrow road. It was heading straight for a second car travelling in the opposite direction, which braked sharply, its horn blaring. At the last moment, the rogue car pulled in to its own side, straight through a pool of water, sending a parabola of muddy spray over Alfie.
“Moron!” yelled the other driver through his partially open window, but since the rogue car was long gone, the shout seemed directed at Alfie.
When the bus pulled up, Alfie was standing in the shelter, supporting himself with a hand splayed against the glass. He waved the bus on with his other hand, hoping that the driver would assume he had abandoned his journey because of the soaking. In fact, the new waxed jacket had protected him from the worst of it. But he was trembling uncontrollably, his head full of the sound of screaming tyres and tearing metal. He had thought he would free himself by escaping London, the unexpected inheritance of Aunt Augusta’s cottage letting him leave the home that was no longer a home. But there was no respite. He would wake in the night, and for a few seconds, he would think Vivian was there beside him. And then would come the realisation, as sharp and raw as that first moment.
“It will take time,” Oscar had said, “but gradually it will get better.”
It wasn’t getting better. He couldn’t imagine it getting better. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it to get better. That would mean he had lost Vivian from his heart as well as his life.
He sank down on to the metal bar that passed for the bus shelter’s seat. Bunburry had offered an unexpected distraction when he found himself on the trail of a murderer. But that was three months ago and now one day followed another in the gloomy monochrome of an English winter.
A small hatchback pulled up at the bus stop, slowly enough to avoid giving Alfie a second soaking, but fast enough to startle him. The driver leaned over and wound down the passenger window.
“Alfie! Have you missed the bus?”
An elderly white-haired lady was peering at him through outsize spectacles.
He managed a rueful smile. “Morning, Marge. Yes, I think I must have done.”
“Where are you heading? I’ll give you a lift.”
He shook his head. “I’ve decided it’s not the weather for a day out.”
Marge snorted. “Soft Londoner. When I was your age, I would think nothing of a twenty-mile hike in this.”
“I wouldn’t think much of it either,” said Alfie. “I’m going home to sit in front of the fire.”
“That’s almost a mile. I don’t imagine you’re capable of such a long walk. Hop in, I’ll take you back.”
“Thanks, but honestly, I’m fine. I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“I’m in no rush. Come on.”
“I got splashed a bit by a passing car,” Alfie said. “I don’t want to get mud on your upholstery.”
“Alfie, this isn’t a fancy limo. It’s seen a lot worse. Just get in and stop arguing.”
Alfie did as he was told and fastened the seat belt, his legs jammed against the dashboard. It was only slightly more comfortable in the front than in the back. The small car was fine for Marge, who was petite, and for when she had Liz as a passenger, but it definitely wasn’t the vehicle for a six-footer like himself.
“So where were you going?” asked Marge as she headed for the road that would take them back into the village.
“Wherever the bus took me. A magical mystery tour.”
“Nothing very mysterious about Cheltenham. And it’s not a patch on Bunburry.”
“But I hear you can pick up some very racy books in the charity shops.”
Marge grinned. “Gussie and her books. Yes, I wouldn’t have dared donate them locally – the vicar would have had a heart attack. Oh, Alfie, Liz and I miss her every single day. It’s good to have you here. You’re our link to her.”
He had no link to anyone. He had been welcomed into the village because of the affection so many people seemed to have for Aunt Augusta, but she had had so little impact on his childhood that he didn’t even have a clear memory of what she looked like.
He and his mother had never returned to Bunburry after his grandparents’ death and his child’s mind had accepted that that was just how it was. It was only now, over thirty years later, that he was questioning why his aunt hadn’t been part of his life. And given the lack of contact, he remained bewildered by her leaving her cottage to him.
He couldn’t even ask Liz and Marge. They seemed to assume that Aunt Augusta had had a close relationship with him, and he didn’t want to destroy their illusion of happy families.
“You’re very quiet, Alfie,” Marge remarked.
“Still thawing out,” he said. “The countryside’s very cold. You need more buildings.”
She pulled up outside Aunt Augusta’s long low cottage and swatted at him with her gloved hand. “Any more talk like that and we’ll have you deported.”
“To somewhere warm and sunny, I hope.”
“Just wait till spring. Gussie always said Bunburry in spring was the most beautiful place in the world.”
“And if Aunt Augusta said it, it must be true.” He tried to make it sound as though he had a wealth of Aunt Augusta’s insights. “Thanks for the lift.”
Marge was studying him closely. “You don’t look well,” she said. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”
He mustered another smile. “Really, I’m fine. Just a bit cold.”
“Look at you, you’re skin and bone. You’re not eating properly. Come round for supper tonight.”
“I’d love that, thank you.” He leaned across to kiss her on the cheek, then got out of the car and waved as she drove off.
Once inside the cottage, he leaned back against the door and exhaled. He didn’t want to go back out but if he sat indoors, he risked re-experiencing the shock of the speeding car.
Oscar. Just the distraction he needed. He could ring Oscar.
He went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, dialling Oscar’s number on Aunt Augusta’s old-fashioned phone. Oscar was happy to text, but one of his many idiosyncrasies was that he refused to talk except on a landline. Alfie had now developed the habit of ringing Oscar on the phone rather than his mobile.
The number rang, and Alfie prepared for Oscar’s latest eccentricity, answering the phone in the persona of a butler in case of cold callers.
An old man’s croak: “De Linnet household. Lane the butler speaking. May I help you?”
“Lane, kindly inform the young master that Alfie McAlister wishes to speak with him.”
“Alfie McAlister,” the fake butler repeated. “I believe I once heard the young master mention that name. I shall endeavour to remind him of sir’s existence.”
There was a sound of tapping on the receiver that grew fainter. Alfie guessed this was supposed to indicate departing footsteps.
“Alfie McAlister,” said Oscar in his own voice. “Alfie McAlister … Are you the chap who went on that expedition to the Cotswolds and was never seen again?”
“I think you’ll find we last spoke on Tuesday.”
“But I haven’t see you.”
“And whose fault is that? I’ve invited you down here often enough. The rooms at The Drunken Horse are superb.”
“Please! I hope I shall never sink so low that I’m obliged to stay in an establishment that celebrates equine alcoholism.”
“Your loss,” said Alfie. “So, how’s life in the old country?”
“An endless sybaritic whirl. The opening of a new gallery – you wouldn’t believe what can be achieved with papier-mâché and pipe cleaners – then a premiere at the National that got a standing ovation. Probably because the seats are so uncomfortable. And last night I took Kathrin and Rebecca to dinner at The Ivy where we sank several bottles of the Widow.”
Alfie knew he was supposed to feel jealous or wistful but felt only relief. It seemed frenetic, hollow. He would be expected to be sociable, entertaining, good company. Here in Bunburry, there was an old-fashioned consideration for the recently bereaved, even if everyone thought he was grieving for Aunt Augusta.
“And your call is very timely,” Oscar continued. “I went to check on your flat yesterday, and something’s missing.”
Alfie felt a lurch of apprehension. “What’s missing?”
“You, you dolt. The doorman asks after you with tears in his eyes. Your neighbours are drawing up a petition demanding your return. So, when are you coming home?”
Without Vivian, the London flat would never be his home again. And he felt like a guest in Aunt Augusta’s cottage with its distinctive decor. He liked the serene bedroom, tolerated the gaudy kitchen, detested the avocado suite in the bathroom, loathed the seventies-style spare room, and was still horrified by the psychedelic wallpaper in the parlour. If he was going to stay, the cottage needed significant renovations, and he didn’t feel he had the necessary energy. Or perhaps he knew Windermere Cottage was simply a staging post.
“There’s far too much to occupy me here,” he said. “I’m going round to Liz and Marge’s for supper.”
Oscar gave a theatrical gasp. “Well, that will certainly put The Ivy in the shade. What epicurean delights await? Poached eggs on toast preceded by a small sweet sherry?”
“I’ll have you know that the ladies are excellent cooks. I had a venison casserole the other evening that deserved its own Michelin star. And as for the apple crumble, made with apples from their own garden – even you would have been impressed.”
Then he had the idea of neutralising the car incident by turning it into an anecdote for Oscar’s amusement. “Let me tell you about my day so far. I woke to discover it was pouring with rain.”
“Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginati
ve,” Oscar retorted. Alfie recognised this as one of Oscar Wilde’s bons mots – Oscar quoted his namesake so often that Alfie sometimes wondered if he thought he was a new embodiment of his hero.
“Be patient. It gets even more exciting. I decided to find out where the bus goes, but first I had to find the stop – they don’t like to put it anywhere obvious where it might attract passengers. I spent half an hour getting soaked to the skin, and just when I thought I couldn’t get any wetter, a crazed speed merchant shot past through a puddle and turned me into human blotting paper.”
He waited for Oscar to make another Wildean quip but there was silence.
Then Oscar said: “So you’re not driving.”
More curtly than he planned, Alfie said: “Of course I’m not driving. I don’t have a car.”
“I’m sure that even in the backwoods, there’s some means of hiring a car.”
“I’m sure there is,” said Alfie. “But I don’t have my licence with me and I wouldn’t begin to know where I’ve left it in the flat. So I’m reduced to public transport. I know, you can’t imagine such deprivation.”
“Alfie. The longer you leave it, the worse it’s going to be.”
“I’m not leaving it. I just haven’t had time.”
“You’ve had more than enough.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, that’s not what I mean. I’m not talking about Vivian, I’m talking about driving. You need to get back behind the wheel. You’ve turned this into a problem when it needn’t be. You weren’t even in the damned car. And -”
“You probably mean well,” Alfie interrupted, “but this really isn’t helping. We’ll speak another time.” He slammed the receiver on its cradle before Oscar could answer and sat with his fists clenched. How dare Oscar lecture him? Oscar, supposedly his closest friend, should understand.