Cozy Mysteries : A Parfait Murder - Out of the strong came forth sweetness: (Cozy Food Mysteries Women Sleuths Series, Bakery Mystery Books) (Murder and cake Book 4)
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A Parfait Murder
Out of the strong came forth sweetness
Copyright
Published in the United States by Luna Snow
Published 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of this material in any way. You must not circulate this book in any format. Luna Snow does not control or direct users’ actions and is not responsible for the information or content shared, harm and/or actions of the book readers.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Prologue
Pat Green’s recipe for Raspberry Parfait (Bella Donna optional!)
Introduction
Pat Green is a retired Librarian and known as the local 'mover and shaker'. She has lived happily in a sleepy Cotswold village all of her life, but when the status quo is challenged she see's red. Why is the local vicar acting so strangely and why does the local school headmistress need her help? Pat has saved the village before. But can she do it again? Who exactly are the greedy Pemberton's and will poor old Joe ever get his jar of honey? All is not quite as it seems in this tale of tea, cake and MURDER.
Chapter 1
The curtains twitched throughout the village, as the blue lights of the police car flashed through the dying embers of a late autumn afternoon.
There had been a murder in the sleepy village of Little Fannington. At first it had been thought that it was a case of death by natural causes; if greed and gluttony can be called natural. However, a certain doubt had been cast over the original verdict, and the death looked suspicious. A suspect had now been arrested, based on forensic evidence found at the scene of the crime
Murder they said, murder most foul. The suspect was not a burly young man, nor a thug, but a sweet and innocent looking pensioner; a retired librarian who was a stalwart of community life, a church warden and lifelong member of the local branch of the Women’s Institute. As the police car raced through the village, the pale face of the arrestee looked out into the dark shadows of the night.
What had she done?
She couldn’t say that she was sorry, not in the least, but her heart sank at the prospect of never seeing her dear little village again. Her mind raced with ideas, fuelled with adrenalin. How on earth could she get out of this fix?
Some said that Patricia Green was nothing but an old busy body. And an eccentric old busy body at that. But these people were in the minority.
She had not grown old gracefully with the years, and at the still relatively young age of 60 she looked rather wild and untamed.
Patricia had been born in the old country village of Little Fannington, set deep in the heart of the Cotswolds where the old stone cottages glinted golden in the afternoon sunlight.
Everyone knew Pat. A busy body, yes; eccentric, most definitely - but at her worst she was still the kindest woman that anyone was likely to meet.
The summer was almost over, and Patricia Green stood in her rambling garden as the sun started its descent in the western sky. She was a woman who noticed the passage of time, and observed each season. It had been a long and hot summer, like the summers she remembered from her childhood, but this evening she observed a noticeable change in the air, a coolness that she had not felt before. She watched as the last of the bees buzzed around their hives, bringing the last of the nectar homeward.
"You'll be looking forward to a bumper crop of honey this year Pat?"
The voice disturbed the quiet of the evening, and made the woman turn with a start.
"Oh Joe! Don't go making me jump like that. Not at my age."
"You're as fit as a fiddle and well you know it. You’re a mere youngster."
Jo Innes was the jolly faced neighbour of Pat Green. He had been a widower for 3 years, and Pat has helped him get through the tough days since the death of his wife Jesse. She too had lost a good friend in Jesse, and Pat often thought about the good times they had spent together. She had never married, and sometimes she wondered what it would have been like to have children and grandchildren of her own, but not very often.
What you never had, you never missed, was Pats philosophy.
She liked Joe, but never in that way. She often thought that if she had let him get close to her then he would have wanted more. Besides, it didn't seem right. Jesse had been her best friend.
There had been a boy once, but that was a long time ago and now just a distant memory. She could hardly recall his face these days; just that he was a sweet boy. He too would be an old man now, or perhaps even dead.
Joe leaned against the white garden gate that separated the garden from the pavement.
"I've just heard some news that you aren't going to like Pat. I shouldn't be telling you this of course."
Joe was an active man and got involved in all aspects of village life, and even sat as a member of the local Parish council. Life in the village had remained unchanged for years, but slowly modern ways were even reaching the sleepy hamlets such as theirs. He thought it his duty to try and maintain the status quo as much as possible, although it was hard to halt progress and even he admitted that you sometimes had to move with the times. But like Pat, he knew that ‘new’ didn’t always mean better!
Two new houses had already been built on ‘greenbelt’ land on the outskirts of the village and had caused some controversy to say the least. There were rumours of lucrative bribes to council officials to obtain the necessary planning permissions and the whole thing had been decidedly ‘dodgy’. The little village of Low Fannington sported a church, a small shop and bakery, a pub and a primary school. The new houses brought several additional big cars onto the quiet country roads. Rich 'townies' down from London to enjoy the countryside. Unfortunately they weren't content with enjoying the countryside as it was, and had existed for hundreds of years, and they were eager to bring a piece of the city back into the small village. They had even been heard to complain about the lack of good coffee and some of the villagers already feared a ‘Costa’ or Starbucks’ appearing in their tranquil home.
There had already been several late night parties or 'orgies' as Pat liked to refer to them as, and the police had been called on several occasions about the noise.
"You'll never guess what those folk in the new house have gone and done now?"
Joe paused for effect. He knew that Pat liked a good gossip.
"Well Joe, go on."
"They've only gone and asked the vicar to stop the church bells from ringing out the hour at night after 10."
The tiny church of St Oswin's dated back to the Norman times and featured an old, square bell tower.
"But those bells have been ringing since the time of Edward the Conqueror. They have survived both civil and world wars. And now some slick banker from the City doesn't want his sleep to be disturbed by the ringing of our church bells. I wonder he can sleep at night anyway - no-one becomes that rich by being honest."
It was true. Harvey Pemberton was a re
tired city banker. His 'modest' little place just outside the village sported 10 en suite guest bedrooms as well as a master suite, a tennis court, indoor swimming pool and gymnasium, and a very large garage that housed numerous luxury and expensive cars.
"For whom the bell tolls eh Pat?"
Joe smiled as Pat furrowed her brow.
"It's no laughing matter Joe. The bells will just be the start of it, you see. It will be the tip of the iceberg. Before you know it, his city friends will be buying up all the available property round here to use as weekend retreats, and it will kill the village. I think I will go and have a word with him."
"Now Pat, don't be hasty. Think before you act. You've got history you know."
It was true. Pat was a well-known activist. In a sleepy village where the average age was retirement, Pat was one of the movers and shakers. She had led a successful campaign, single handed, to stop a proposed fracking project on land just over a mile away from the village. She had led an unlikely band of protagonists from the sleepy depths of the Cotswolds, and for a period of 3 months they had become eco warriors, their neat Marks and Sparks cardigans replaced with cheaply printed T-Shirts – ‘Fannington Says No to Fracking’ and ‘Frack-Off’. The local vicar had played an active part in the protest and had received a great deal of publicity when he appeared on the front page of many National and Local newspapers wearing a t-shirt that bore the words ‘Hands Off our Fanni’ in large, black capital letters; it had done wonders for their campaign. That had been Pat’s idea too.
“Well something’s got to be done Joe. You give these people an inch and they take a mile, or whatever the alternative is in decimal places. Another change I’ve never got the hang of. Why can’t people just leave things as they are, keep the status quo? I mean, it’s the church bells today, but what will it be tomorrow? Before you know it these people have changed the shape of the countryside forever.”
Joe smiled. Pat was a woman of enormous energy. To see her pottering about in her garden you would think she was just another retired woman in her late middle age, one of the countless that are never represented in the media or popular culture, almost left behind you might say. But once she got an idea in her head there was no stopping her. He looked on in admiration as the fire lit up in her eyes, the passion and steely resolve rising to the surface.
With the golden glow of the sun setting behind her she looked like a queen; a veritable goddess.
“So, what do you have in mind Pat?”
“Well, for one thing I’m going to go round and see Eric first thing, he can be too easily influenced. I need to make sure he doesn’t make any rash decisions. Not before he consults the rest of the parish anyway. Then I’ll go and give that Pemberton bloke a piece of my mind. I’ll have plenty of time before helping with the reading at the primary school tomorrow.”
Eric Thomas was the slightly ineffective vicar of St Oswin’s. His moment in the sun had been wearing that T-Shirt that had caused so much of a stir in the media. He had originally refused to take part in the protest against the fracking project, but Pat had a rather persuasive air and had bullied him into it. He had been rather afraid of what the Bishop might think, and was surprised to receive a letter from him, commending his actions. Normally the church didn’t like to get involved in politics, but times were changing. Besides, the Bishop was rather new, rather young, and in the eyes of Eric, quite radical. He had said that the publicity was good for the church, bringing it into the 21st century so to speak. And besides, the church had been the politics of the day, the crown v the church- well documented in history.
Yet since his rise to the top news item, he had sunk once again, relegated to a grey and insubstantial country vicar.
“Well, just you take care of yourself Pat. Don’t be getting too involved.”
Pat laughed.
“I don’t know what you mean Joe; I don’t know what you mean!”
Chapter 2
There was definitely a notable change in the air. When Pat awoke she could almost smell autumn approaching. An unusual, earthy smell that made her think of bonfires and windfall apples. The mornings were not so bright, the sun a weak yellow and the sky almost hazy with the thick morning dew.
‘Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness’, she thought to herself as she threw back the sheets and started to get dressed.
There was certainly a change in the air.
Since she had retired from her job in the local library in town, Pat had become very active in village life, keen to embrace her new found freedom and put her skills to use in the voluntary sector.
On her first day as a retired lady, she had approached the village school; a red bricked Victorian edifice in the middle of the village, paid for, and built by a wealthy industrialist who had made his home in the gentle countryside after making his money in the smoky city. It had once been the seat of learning for over a hundred local children, the intake of several small villages and hamlets within the vicinity, but now the children had grown up and in the majority, flocked back to the city, seeking jobs and culture, keen to swap their local heritage and pretty yokel accents for something more refined.
Pat herself had attended the school, and her father before that. God rest his soul.
Now the school population dwindled and there were barely 30 children in the school. A few times it had been in danger of closing, but something had always happened to save the day.
Pat had offered her services to listen to the children read each morning, especially the ones that found it more difficult. Although she had no children of her own, she was patient with the pupils, gently encouraging them as they read slowly through the set reading material.
She sometimes read to the children in the afternoon, bringing in some of her favourite stories from childhood, and introducing the children to some of the old fashioned favourites. She herself had been an avid reader since quite a young age and her love of books had ultimately influenced her choice of career; a librarian. Pat had found a new vocation and she relished her daily visit to the school. It kept her young.
She was crunching her cornflakes with relish, sat in her rather unkempt yet clean kitchen and enjoying the warmth of the morning sun as it shone through her window, when suddenly she stopped mid-crunch. She had almost forgotten about the church bells.
Her good mood was immediately spoiled, and letting her spoon drop clumsily back into the bowl of soggy flakes, she took in a deep breath before rising from the table.
This meant war.
The kitchen clock struck 8. The vicar should be awake by now and she would call straight away. It was tough if she disturbed his breakfast, Eric Thomas needed shaking up a bit.
Grabbing a large and battered handbag, the contents of which could keep a man (or woman) alive in the wilderness for several months, she set off, marching the short way to the vicarage with purpose.
The vicarage, or ‘The Manse’ to give it the austere Victorian name engraved upon the wooden lintel above the entrance porch, was a red bricked, rather gothic and pointy looking building, all angles and gable ends. Over time the ivy had taken hold, giving the impression that the whole western side of the building was made out of foliage. It made the house look very attractive from the outside, but damp and dark from inside; the leaves masking the window panes and bathing the westerly facing rooms in a strange, green light.
Pulling on the bell, she heard it tinkle down the long hall and into the inner sanctum. It took three tugs of the bell before she heard the slow, lumbering steps of Eric Thomas shuffling towards the door.
The poor man had obviously just woken, and was still bleary eyed. The little, grey hair he had left stuck up on the top of his head, as if he had just received a serious fright.
“Ah Miss Green, you quite startled me so early in the morning. I do hope that nothing is amiss?”
Although the two had known each other for over 30 years, the vicar was still formal in dealing with Pat, as he was with all of the spinsters and widow
s of the Parish. As a single man himself, he couldn’t take too many chances – not if he wanted to remain single, besides, he liked to keep a distance from himself and his parishioners, which was quite difficult in such a small space.
“Well Eric, that depends entirely on you.”
Eric Thomas had no other option but to let Pat into the hallway. He wasn’t very good with women at the best of times, especially not the bossy ones. Whenever he saw Pat his thoughts immediately drifted to the day he had sat down to breakfast with his daily paper, only to be faced with his own photograph plastered all over the front page; and in that T-Shirt. He gave an involuntary shiver as she passed.
“Do come inside Miss Green, I’ve just made a pot of tea.”
She was already sat at his kitchen table before he had even finished the sentence.
“Now, what seems to be the matter?”
Sitting at the table he shifted his wire rimmed spectacles nervously. The woman looked as if she was on a mission.
“I have only one thing to say to you Eric. Bells!”
The poor man’s face turned a particularly pale shade of grey. He never looked well at the best of times, and now he looked positively ashen.
“Well, I’m not sure what…exactly what you mean?”
He stood and rather limply started to pour some weak looking tea into two china cups.
“Come now, don’t mumble man. I think you know exactly what I mean. Things travel fast in this village and nothing is secret for long. I heard that the new folk, the ones that have built that huge house have asked for the church bells to be silenced at night. I have never heard of anything so preposterous in my entire life. Now tell me what you are doing about this Eric, nothing I hope?”
The poor man blinked; his face a blank canvas. He hardly knew what to say in response.
“Well I…”
“These interlopers from the city, we can’t have them coming into the village and telling us how things should be run. If you build a house within earshot of a church, then it’s tough in my book. I mean, it would be laughable really, if it didn’t make me feel so angry.”