THE COUNTRY INN MYSTERY an absolutely gripping whodunit full of twists

by Faith Martin

  Frowning, Jenny made sure that the bacon for her traditional English breakfast wasn’t burning under the grill — it wasn’t — and reached for her phone. Quickly, she searched for the telephone number Inspector Franklyn had left for her, and hit the call button.

  She didn’t know what his plans were for the day, and hoped that he wasn’t still in bed. Something told her that Inspector Franklyn was the sort of man who’d be grumpy and snappish if roused from a sound sleep.

  But she was doubly lucky. Not only was Franklyn already up, but both he and his sergeant were planning to meet at the inn. And the inspector was only too happy to accept her offer of breakfast for him and his junior officer, on the house.

  Jenny didn’t know what Richard or Muriel would have to say about this promise of free food, but she didn’t think that even the money-grubbing Sparkeys would have the nerve to present the police officers with a bill!

  As Muriel had predicted, most of the Regency weekenders were early risers that morning as well — probably because most of them had slept poorly. Also, none of them seemed to have much of an appetite, to Jenny’s genuine dismay and distress, and most of them opted for cereal and toast, and only picked at these. Jenny tried not to take it personally.

  On the plus side, it did mean that by the time the police officers arrived, the dining room had been used and cleared and was once again empty, so Jenny was able to provide a nice spread for them — and herself — on a cleared table by the window. And they could talk without being overheard.

  Franklyn eyed the spread of omelettes, French toast, beautifully browned sausages and crispy bacon with an eager eye.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ he said with a happy sigh, pulling out his chair and stuffing his napkin into the front of his shirt. ‘I was wanting to have a word with you anyway,’ he began, the moment he’d sat down and speared a sausage. Jenny poured them a cup of coffee each and topped up her own cup.

  ‘Good — I wanted to speak to you too. Have you heard about Ion’s adventures at the pond last night?’ she interrupted him, rather rudely, but she needed to make sure that he’d understood the full urgency of the matter and had taken the proper steps.

  Franklyn gave a brief nod. ‘The night-duty officer made a report and phoned me first thing.’

  ‘I hope you made sure someone stayed on duty all night at the pond?’ Jenny said, helping herself to a slice of French toast and taking a bite. Good. Hot and savoury, just how it should be (Worcestershire sauce was one of the greatest inventions of mankind, in her book).

  ‘Don’t try and teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ Franklyn told her off grumpily. ‘Of course I had a young constable stay there until . . .’ he checked his watch, ‘the divers get there. Which should be in about twenty minutes from now.’

  Opposite her, Lucy O’Connor took a bite of the lightly herbed omelette and briefly closed her eyes in bliss. She’d never been able to get the hang of a good omelette herself — they either turned out to have the consistency of rubber, or the eggs were raw and runny in the middle. But this was perfect.

  ‘Any idea what matey-boy was after last night?’ Franklyn asked the cook curiously. He seemed unconscious of the fact that he was now treating her like a member of his team, and his sergeant hid her smile with another bite of the deliciously light and fluffy omelette.

  Jenny shrugged, then frowned. Thinking back to yesterday afternoon, one particular episode did spring to mind . . . Was it possible . . . ? She opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment Franklyn held up a finger.

  ‘Oh, before I forget, we’ve got the preliminary forensic reports in. About that air rifle,’ he began portentously. ‘It was wiped clean — no prints on it at all. Which is rather significant, don’t you think?’ he asked, eyes twinkling. Although his policeman’s mind had instantly recognised the fact that no fingerprints meant that it couldn’t have belonged to some innocent local, he wondered how long it would take the cook to realise the same thing.

  Jenny blinked then beamed at him. ‘Oh good! I’m so glad!’

  Franklyn paused, and the piece of sausage that was halfway to his mouth hovered in mid-air. Beside him, Lucy too shot Jenny a quick, puzzled look.

  ‘You are?’ the inspector said blankly. He had no idea why this particular piece of news should please the cook so much. Although the presence of the wiped-clean air rifle now made it a significant item — somehow — in what had happened yesterday, it didn’t exactly fill him with such good cheer.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Jenny enthused. ‘I really do like Min and Silas, you see, and so I’m very glad that they’re now in the clear. And I know you had to suspect them of creating that diversion on purpose.’

  Franklyn blinked, his mind a total blank. ‘Oh, er, right,’ he said, and slowly proceeded to chew his sausage thoroughly. And since it wasn’t polite to talk with your mouth full, he made a great show of his mastication. His mind, however, began to race. Damn it, what had this damned irritating woman seen so instantly that he hadn’t?

  Jenny beamed at his agreement and attacked her slice of French toast with renewed vigour. Like she’d just said, she’d never really liked to believe that the American couple had been involved, and hearing Franklyn give them the all-clear had made her day. ‘So what else have you got?’ she asked cheerfully.

  Luckily, it was Lucy O’Connor who came to her boss’s rescue. ‘Sorry, I don’t get why you think the American couple are now out of it,’ she said, thus saving Franklyn from the ignominy of being forced to ask the question himself.

  Jenny, hastily chewing the remains of a mouthful of French toast, swallowed hard. ‘Well, because there were no fingerprints on the rifle,’ she repeated. Jenny looked from Franklyn, still hastily and innocently chewing his breakfast, and then back to Lucy’s frowning face, a little frown of worry appearing on her own forehead.

  ‘So?’ the blonde-haired young woman asked, a shade impatiently.

  Jenny took a sip of coffee. Did the sergeant not agree with Franklyn and her own assessment as to where the evidence was clearly pointing? ‘So clearly the rifle had been left there by the killer,’ Jenny said, nodding her head happily, ‘and not by some random villager.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘I get that,’ the young blonde woman said testily. ‘What I don’t get is why that should let Min and Silas Buckey off the hook,’ she persisted.

  ‘Oh,’ Jenny said, a shade blankly. ‘But it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ But it clearly wasn’t obvious to Lucy, who was still staring back at her with a mixture of growing anger and bafflement.

  ‘What was the rifle there for?’ Jenny asked kindly, trying to help her out.

  Franklyn speared another sausage and cast his sergeant a sympathetic look. He wasn’t following the cook’s reasoning any more than she was, but he was happy to sit back and see where this all went — because he would have bet a month’s salary that Jenny Starling was about to pull one of her famous rabbits from the hat.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Lucy said, beginning to sound aggrieved now.

  ‘But what does a rifle do?’ Jenny persisted patiently.

  ‘It shoots things,’ Lucy snapped.

  ‘Exactly! In other words, it makes a damned big awful racket. A big bang, a sharp noise — something that simply can’t be ignored by anyone who hears it, especially if it’s fired at close quarters to you.’

  ‘A distraction!’ Franklyn suddenly yelped, almost spraying the tablecloth with masticated sausage in his sudden excitement. Because now he’d finally got it, at last — he’d twigged what the exasperating cook was getting at! ‘If Min hadn’t made a fuss about the spider, someone could have fired off the rifle and made everyone look away from the pond in that way!’ he explained to his sergeant.

  ‘Exactly,’ Jenny said, nodding happily. ‘And the presence of that rifle always did have the feel of a Plan B about it, don’t you think?’ She gave the two police officers a grin. ‘You know, a sort of backup in case of emergency.’

  ‘Which means,’ Fra
nklyn pressed on, desperate to get it out before Jenny could pip him to the post, ‘that the killer deliberately put the spider on Min Buckey’s shoulder, hoping that she’d do exactly what she did do, and get everyone’s attention trained on her. But if she didn’t spot the spider, or it simply fell off before she could see it — well, the rifle could be fired as an alternative distraction.’

  ‘Which means that Min was used by the killer, and thus couldn’t have had anything to do with it,’ Jenny nodded. ‘If Min or Silas had been in on whatever it was that happened to Rachel, there wouldn’t have been any need for a Plan B would there? The rifle wouldn’t have been needed.’

  Lucy, looking a little chagrined, conceded rather reluctantly that the cook’s logic seemed sound. And her respect for her boss went up a notch or two. Franklyn might have the reputation back at the station house for being a bit old-school, but there were clearly no flies on him.

  ‘Mind you,’ Franklyn said now morosely, ‘until the quacks are finished doing the autopsy — which with any luck should be any time now — we don’t even know if there is a “killer” involved at all. Although,’ he added quickly, as both women looked at him sharply, ‘clearly there’s something underhanded going on here.’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Lucy began, but just then Franklyn’s mobile went, and he reached into his jacket pocket and lifted it out. ‘DI Franklyn,’ he said crisply. He listened for a moment, frowned, and glanced at his watch. ‘Hmmm. Funny that — I would have said that he was the type to be a stickler about time. You know what solicitors are like — time is money. Don’t worry, he’ll probably show up sooner or later. Has our super-doc nearly finished his post-mortem examination do you know?’ He paused, sighed, then said, ‘Right. But make sure he calls me the moment he’s finished. I don’t want to have to wait for his written report.’ And then he hung up.

  He hastily took a last bite of sausage and nodded across to his sergeant. ‘It seems Mr Braine, our local friendly neighbourhood solicitor, hasn’t turned up for his appointment at the police station. We’d better go and see what’s keeping him.’ He rose and then glanced down at Jenny kindly. ‘Thanks for the breakfast — it was superb.’

  Jenny, rather distractedly, smiled back at him. ‘Don’t mention it,’ she murmured vaguely. And watched him go with rather troubled eyes.

  She didn’t like the sound of Vince Braine’s no-show at the police station.

  She didn’t like the sound of Ion’s adventures last night either.

  And something was telling her that she was being very dim indeed about this whole affair. Something, she was sure, was staring her in the face and she just wasn’t seeing it . . .

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dr Rory Gilchrist was hastily packing his cases. He wore a vaguely disgruntled expression, and cursed a bit under his breath as a recalcitrant sweater refused to fit into the space he’d left for it without creasing the shirt underneath. With a sigh, he shoved it down anyway.

  No two ways about it, the Regency Extravaganza had turned out to be a total disaster, and he was looking forward to getting back to his college. With a bit of luck, after a decent tea, even the dull chat that could be expected at High Table would act like a perfect panacea for his frazzled nerves.

  He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten-thirty. Perfect. A quick soft drink in the bar, and then he’d set off and should be back in Oxford by twelve at the latest — traffic and road conditions permitting.

  In that, however, Dr Gilchrist was being unduly optimistic.

  * * *

  Jenny Starling was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to her quiche Lorraine, which was making up part of the lunchtime menu, when she just caught a glimpse of Inspector Franklyn going past the bar and heading up the stairs but wasn’t in time to stop him.

  For whilst the police had been absent, Jenny had been doing a lot of thinking — about stray corsets, torn reticules, Rachel Norman’s love of money, and a lot more besides. And if the conclusions she was coming to proved to be correct . . .

  Grimly, she took off her apron, popped her quiches in the oven to cook, then scrupulously washed her hands at the sink. She still had some pea and ham soup to prepare, but right now she had something even more pressing to do.

  Like it or not — and Jenny most definitely did not — it was time she had a quiet word or two with the inspector.

  * * *

  Jenny was sitting in her favourite window seat, waiting for the inspector to come back downstairs. She was not looking forward to the upcoming interview one little bit.

  But she didn’t think she’d got things wrong. In fact, no matter how hard she tried to rearrange the facts, or pick holes in her thinking, she was pretty sure that the murder of Rachel Norman could only have happened in one way. And knowing how it was done firmly pointed the finger at who must have done it. The only thing she wasn’t totally sure of was the motive — but she was confident a quick trawl of the police records would quickly establish that.

  As the travelling cook sat in the sunshine streaming in through the open window and morosely contemplated the intricacies of a young girl’s death, Sergeant Lucy O’Connor pushed open the door to the inn and stepped inside. Since it was barely past opening time, the only customer was Old Walter, who was sitting in his favourite stool by the bar sipping his beer. Richard Sparkey had left the bar empty, and had gone back into the kitchen, probably in search of a snack before he could expect the onslaught of the lunchtime crowd.

  The sergeant looked around the empty room, glanced at Jenny, and was about to go past her, no doubt to head upstairs where she expected to find her superior officer questioning Rory Gilchrist, when the inspector stepped out from the door behind the bar.

  He spotted his sergeant immediately and began to walk briskly towards her. They had found the solicitor at home with car trouble. He had given his statement, and had somewhat reluctantly confirmed that the Oxford academic had been having ‘trouble’ with his ex-wife. But although Gilchrist had just confirmed this, he couldn’t see how it could possibly give him a motive to want Rachel dead.

  He had a slight scowl and he briefly shook his head at the younger woman’s questioning gaze. As he did so, his phone began to vibrate and he pulled it impatiently out of his pocket.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘We’ve got the results of the autopsy in at last. And you’re not going to believe this!’

  Lucy blinked. ‘What? Don’t tell me it was natural causes after all?’ she asked, her head spinning.

  ‘No,’ Franklyn said, his face darkening. ‘She was murdered all right. And not only that — we know now who must have killed her!’

  ‘We do?’ Lucy said with delight, as Jenny Starling sat up a little straighter in her chair, a look of relief crossing her own face at the thought that perhaps she might not have to have that awkward little chat with the inspector after all.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ Inspector Franklyn reiterated. ‘In fact, given this new information, there’s only one person who could possibly have done it! Sergeant, you have your cuffs with you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Lucy said smartly, reaching for the handcuffs on her belt. Her heart was beating faster in a mixture of excitement, triumph and dread. For the first time in her career she was actually going to arrest a murderer! Now this was what she’d joined the police service for!

  ‘OK then. Let’s go. You can also read him his rights if you like. Don’t mess it up.’

  ‘Thanks, sir, but who is it?’ Lucy all but shouted.

  ‘Ion Dryfuss,’ Franklyn said flatly.

  And Jenny Starling’s heart sank.

  Before they could leave, she stood up abruptly. ‘Excuse me, Inspector, but I really don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said. She didn’t shout — in fact, she doubted that her voice carried even so far as Old Walter sitting by the bar. But her quiet words jerked both police officers to a halt.

  Quickly, Franklyn looked over at her and scowled. ‘I’ll ask you not to interfere, Miss Starling,’ he
said firmly. ‘I won’t deny you’ve been helpful so far, mind, but . . .’

  ‘Inspector, I’m sorry, but . . .’ Jenny wanted to tell him that if he arrested the Welshman now he’d only look foolish when he was forced to release him again later, but she wasn’t quite sure how to put this tactfully. Instead, she decided to come at things from a different angle.

  ‘Can you tell me why you think only Ion could have killed Miss Norman?’ she asked instead. ‘It’ll only take a few moments, and I really do think I might be able to help.’

  Franklyn was about to tell her, rather pithily, that he wasn’t in the habit of sharing police information with members of the public, but then he caught Lucy’s pleading eye, and realised that his sergeant, too, was still in the dark. After a quick glance around, confirming that there was no one in a position to overhear them, he moved a little closer, and bent his head.

  And with Lucy listening in on one side of him and Jenny on the other, he quietly told them what the pathologist had discovered.

  ‘Rachel Norman didn’t drown. She was suffocated,’ he said flatly. ‘Some faint bruising, which only became apparent hours after her death, showed that someone had held a hand over her mouth and nose and suffocated her.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Lucy breathed.

  ‘Exactly,’ Franklyn nodded. ‘And the only person who could have done that is the person who pretended to drag her out of the pond, but in fact actually took the opportunity to kill her instead. Ion Dryfuss.’

  ‘Oh but that can’t be right, sir!’ Lucy said aghast, and at the exact same moment, Jenny Starling too shook her head, and said, ‘No, I’m afraid that won’t wash.’

  The two women both broke off and looked at each other questioningly, and Inspector Thomas Franklyn felt his heart sink. It was, of course, to his sergeant that he turned first.