Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Stella Cameron from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Recent Titles by Stella Cameron from Severn House
SHADOWS
SECOND TO NONE
NO STRANGER
ALL SMILES
The Alex Duggins series
FOLLY
FOLLY
Stella Cameron
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in 2015 in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 and 2015 by Stella Cameron.
The right of Stella Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Cameron, Stella author.
Folly.
1. Cotswold Hills (England)–Fiction. 2. Murder–
Investigation–Fiction. 3. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
813.5’4-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-626-7 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-071-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-554-1 (trade paper)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When you make a leap without a safety net you’re in dangerous territory. My leap into Folly, introducing Alex Duggins, her series, and the world of mystery it inhabits, was taken both as a seasoned writer and with a small army of fabulous supporters. This move was never a risk. Once a writer, always a writer, but still I needed courage and a fresh dose of self-belief. The former I had, the latter I might never have gained without the following people and props:
Thank you Jayne Ann Krentz and Mary Daheim for saying, ‘You can do it.’ Thank you Matt Cameron for being my sounding board when I wavered. Thank you Patricia Smith for being the best editor in the world and for working with me.
Thank you Gloucestershire, the Cotswold Hills and your amazingly generous people for answering many more questions than you might have answered with such willing interest and care.
Thank you Terri Farrell for loaning Bogie-the-beautiful to me and to this story.
Thank you Linda Hankins, DVM, Curt Girouard, DVM and the Danville Small Animal Clinic for advice and encouragement.
Thank you Cissy Hartley and Writerspace.com for the years of support.
Thank you Sheri Brooks and Dave de Heer for having my back every step of the way.
Thanks always to Dietrich Nelson & Associates, [email protected], for the years of support, but most of all for the friendship.
And this may get whacky, but … thank you to the following for being scrumptious enough to flavor my stories:
Trebor-Bassetts Sherbert Lemons (Detective Inspector O’Neil is grateful, too).
Spring Breweries and in particular their Ambler Ale.
Tesco’s Digestive Biscuits and the many brands of similar goodies that have always been part of ‘tea time’.
Marks and Spencer’s Battenburg Cake.
All the Cotswold tea shops I love – they are too numerous to single out, as are the pubs. One day I’ll write that list!
And last, but really first, Jerry Cameron, my fellow companion and patient sufferer along the often rough road of being a writer’s husband; you are the best, my love.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Alex Duggins is not the girl next door. At first glance she could be – but only until you come to know her better. Pub owner, graphic artist and animal lover, Alex returned to her little home town of Folly-on-Weir in search of a chance to regroup following her divorce. Surely she could find peace in the idyllic Cotswold Hills where she grew up.
Wrong, but you’ll learn much more about Alex’s trials and triumphs, and her close calls with disaster, as you read Folly.
A year ago, when I had written this, the first book in what I already knew would be a series, I brought the book out in a narrow print-on-demand program. This was my trial balloon as, after publishing many books with American settings, I moved into writing British mysteries.
How thrilled I was when Severn House came to me with a plan to publish the Alex Duggins series to a wide audience. Nothing warms an author’s heart more than having a good publisher who ‘gets it.’ And better yet, really loves it!
PROLOGUE
How long had it taken to change a life forever? A minute, ninety seconds – while he listened, barely understanding, as two men destroyed his own young innocence, and allowed another child to die?
Nothing was ever the same after that day. All the days and years that followed had led to this night of hope and fear.
‘Come on, boy, catch up,’ Dominic called. ‘We’ll freeze if we don’t keep moving.’
The only reason he could see the dog at all in the darkness was that his dark gray fur showed up against a thickening carpet of snow underfoot, and the falling flakes that grew heavier with each moment.
Brother Dominic stopped and watched Bogie approach like a trotting miniature show horse in slow motion, lifting each foot as if it burned.
‘OK, we’ll keep each other a bit warmer.’ He swept up his little gray buddy and tucked him inside an old tweed coat. ‘Now, we’ve got to get a move on. This is a borrowed coat and we need to give it back to Percy.’
Talking to his dog was an indulgence Dominic reserved for when they we
re alone. He smiled at the thought. They were rarely as alone as they were in the middle of this night, on this hill in the Cotswold Hills that were so spectacular in daylight, yet so pitiless when every step was an act of faith.
He had pulled the hood on his habit up to cover his head and ward off some of the cold. The old, brown cloth was already soaked and starting to freeze.
Silence seemed absolute. Except when a gust of wind sent frigid, leafless branches raking together.
Not a single vehicle had passed on the narrow road that forked away from the tiny village below and rose to traverse the hill. There was a scatter of farms and houses up here, all with feeder tracks from the road. But any people out there were probably tucked up and sleeping by now.
You couldn’t see any buildings from the road.
Bogie scrabbled closer and pressed his wet nose to Dominic’s neck.
The wind picked up, drove straight at him, and he leaned against it to push his way on. The snow drove into his face and crammed inside his collar.
He crossed his hands over the dog and pushed his bare hands beneath his arms.
This had to be done.
Old wrongs must be put right, lies dispelled quickly, for the sake of peace, his own but more importantly, the others involved. His challenge was to bring secrets into the light without harming the innocent.
His faith should make him unafraid for himself but he was, after all, still human. And his first attempt at reaching out in friendship had gone so badly.
Below lay the village of Folly-on-Weir but he saw only a few pinpricks glowing from windows.
A light bobbed up the hill, getting quite close, he thought, and stopped. It looked like a lantern rising and falling in a walker’s hand.
Gone.
Ahead he saw the deeper shade of dark where some woods spread along the side of the road.
As hard as he stared, he didn’t see the jiggling light again. Company would be welcome but he shouldn’t expect any.
The walk since the last place he’d found to sleep had been long and often difficult.
A voice carried on the wind. Dominic stood still again and strained to hear, but it must have been his thoughts playing tricks.
‘Help!’
There was nothing imaginary this time. It came from the direction of the woods and Bogie, straining around to see and growling faintly, got rid of any doubt that they had heard something.
‘… hurt!’
Without another second of hesitation, Dominic struck off the road and headed for the woods. The uneven ground was treacherous, tripping him repeatedly, but he blundered on, his pulse pounding at his temples.
The stiff, wet hood fell down around his neck.
Once among the tree trunks, his pace slowed. He had to put Bogie down again and grab at branches as he went.
‘Oh, thank God,’ a man cried out. ‘I see you, keep coming. Over here.’
Dominic speeded up, not caring what he might walk into, and almost yelled with relief when he saw a crouching figure.
When only feet separated them, the man rose and held his torch so that Brother Dominic could see him better, see how he prepared to attack.
He knew it was too late now but he had to try reason. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.
‘I’m making sure you can’t do more harm,’ the other said. ‘Because I won’t have you spoiling everything, Brother. You should have stayed away, damn you.’
ONE
Privacy and peace.
Early the previous year, Alex Bailey-Jones had come home from London to the Cotswold Hills, to Folly-on-Weir, to bury herself in familiar surroundings and to become too busy to live in the past.
So far she wasn’t doing so badly, even if she did catch some curious stares from those she had once happily left behind.
Snow covered the frozen leaves and twigs that crackled beneath her feet. The canopy of tree limbs overhead was bare.
The snowfall had dwindled to a fine, icy swirl. She blinked and turned her head aside.
The woods stood on a knoll overlooking the village below. Up here in the surrounding hills there were homes and farms, each one distant enough from the others not to be overlooked.
On the highest point to the west stood what locals called The Tooth – the jagged remains of Tinley Tower, the folly from which the village got part of its name.
The world felt still.
Gray skies slumped on gray-white fields, and on the hills beyond the village. Thin smoke straggled from chimneys and lights through small leaded windows were signs morning came early in Folly-on-Weir. These and the inevitable dog walkers on the village green, a couple of hardy, dedicated souls who threw balls into the snapping air. Their joyful companions were clearly unperturbed by the cold while they dashed back and forth beside the long pond.
Her breath puffed white vapor into the air and she swallowed against a lump in her throat. Gratitude and sadness were strange but familiar companions. This was her future, this place and whatever she made of her life here. It was the only future she wanted from now on and making it count felt like her big chance at healing the past. Thirty-three was a fine age, a great age to hope for a fresh start.
To the left of the main village, obscured by a ridge, lay another smaller, shabbier section known as Underhill. With her single mother, Alex had grown up there, although she’d gone to school in Folly-on-Weir while Lily Duggins worked at the only pub, as she still did.
Despite the dismal morning, honeyed shades of stone showed up warm and inviting on the buildings lining the commons. Corner Cottage, with its thatched roof and single second-story gable caught Alex’s eye as it inevitably always did. Some years earlier she had finally been able to buy the little home for her mother, and Lily’s quiet pleasure made them both happy.
Emerging from the edge of the woods, Alex looked back between the trunks of old beeches and the snow-etched bark of younger trees and saplings. The hard lines of jagged brambles and sticks of undergrowth stood out against the bluish haze like snapped, fragile black bones. Too bad it had taken shock and loss to open her eyes to these small beauties everywhere she looked.
She saw another shade, gray, fleeting and fleeing. There and gone. A breath lodged in her throat.
Something had moved.
Probably a rabbit or a pigeon – perhaps a stoat. There had been reported sightings.
Squinting into the eye-watering brightness cast by the snow, Alex saw the shadow move again. It seemed to rise for an instant, then fall away, out of sight.
Pricking, a thousand tiny points buzzed from between her shoulder blades, up her neck and into the hair at the base of her scalp. Her own primal warning of menace.
She tied a green woolen scarf tighter around the neck of her heavy black coat and pulled the hood further forward over her short hair before turning downhill again. Time to get on. No time to get hung up on imagined wraiths.
The Black Dog Inn sat to her right and a little back from the village green with a lantern-strung forecourt in front where people ate and drank for a good part of the year. The multicolored lights were on now as they were every morning, a welcoming twinkle no matter the weather.
Very faintly, she smelled wood smoke.
Most mornings Alex walked down the hill to work, but she drove her Land Rover along the narrow road between village and hill dwellers a couple of times a week – when she needed to visit nearby Bourton-on-the-Water, Broadway or somewhere further afield.
She owned The Black Dog now; in fact, it had been when she’d heard Will and Cathy Cummings, the former owners, might have to sell up to clear their debts that she’d decided to come back from London and step in. Now the Cummings managed the place and continued to live on the premises. And Lily, who used to be the Cummings’ barmaid, was in charge of the seven guest rooms and reservations for the small restaurant. Receipts were picking up well enough. These things took time but they were going in the right direction.
A good arrangement.
; Wasn’t it? There were times when Alex noticed quick looks from the Cummings, at her or at one another, that belied the friendliness they showed her openly. Apart from her failed marriage, she was the local success story, the girl from nothing who had made her name as a graphic artist at the head of a department in her husband’s prestigious advertising firm. After they married Mike had made her his equal partner in every way. But money and success did different things to different people, and without her knowing it was happening, his search for new thrills had poisoned what she and Mike had. There could be no mending the rift, no matter how much Mike had wanted to try.
Alex couldn’t always shake the feeling that there were those in Folly who would have enjoyed seeing her creep home, penniless and defeated. Some folks didn’t hold with people who got above themselves …
She still looked at the pub with a twinge of amazement to think that it was hers. The walk down the hill each day gave her a great view of the place and a lot of satisfaction.
The ground was steep here and Alex took short running steps, driving in the heels of her short boots to keep a solid footing.
An unexpected and icy wind caught her by surprise. Her lips and nose reacted immediately and she put a gloved hand over the lower half of her face.
A moan that built to an agonized wail startled her. She jumped sickeningly hard and, with a pounding heart and her stomach twisting, looked in all directions.
It came again. Pain or desperation – or both. And whoever cried out was in the woods, above Alex now and to her left.
Folly Page 1
