Murder in the Mail
Penelope Sotheby
~~~
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2016 Penelope Sotheby
First published in 2016 by Jonmac Limited.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters and places, incidents are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Other Books By The Author
Murder in Bermuda (Book 1 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in the Bahamas (Book 2 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in Jamaica (Book 3 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in Barbados (Book 4 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder in Aruba (Book 5 in the "Murder in Paradise" series)
Murder at the Inn
Murder on the Village Green (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Neighbourhood (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder on a Yacht (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Murder in the Village (A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery)
Table Of Contents
Free Book
Other Books By The Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
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Other Books By This Author
About The Author
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Chapter 1
She stared down at the crumpled body, a life discarded like a used tissue. Dark pools oozed from holes that she couldn’t see. A hand lay within the spreading red, the clawed fingers looking as if caught in a moment in time, trying to scoop the fluid back into the veins.
The dagger fell from her slick fingers, clanking heavily upon the floor, the knell of a hellish bell of death.
Diane leaned back into her chair, the hard wooden back creaking as she did so. Circulation resumed to her legs again with a splash of tingling in her toes. She smiled at the monitor.
“I probably shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do,” she said to the small dog curled up on one of her feet.
Rufus raised his greying chin enough to cast a suspicious eye over his human.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like I’m becoming Countess Bathory. Though a good bath sounds perfect right…”
A huff came from the dog, clearly unimpressed by the explanation.
“You should be an interrogator with a look like that. Stone-cold Rufus, dog-tective extraordinaire.”
Seemingly pleased with his new title, Rufus laid his head back down upon Diane’s foot and fell quickly to sleep. Diane took a sip of tea, though it was starting to get cold. Writing always distracted her, got her caught up such that she forgot anything else around her.
The wind brushed fat raindrops against the window as she stared out into the garden. Puddles had formed along the gravel pathway to the shed, which looked hazy through the downpour. The deep grey clouds moved ponderously, as if dragging so much rain was a burden or penance.
“These are the best days for writing murder,” she thought.
A blinking light drew her attention back to her desk. Diane picked up her phone that had been laying face-down on a stack of unedited papers, its flashing light informing her that she had messages. Diane liked mobile phones in the sense that information and people were only a few taps away at any moment. But if concentration was needed then she found them distracting, as though it was her little master and she must be ready to do its bidding at the drop of a hat. So she usually turned the sound off and flipped it over while writing until the writing trance had taken hold of her. When this happened, only detonations of a thermonuclear kind could rouse her before she had completed a chapter.
An early morning message from Albert wished her a good morning and gave some brief details of his day ahead. He was in Somerset for the week visiting his daughter’s family, and they were off to the seaside at Weston-super-Mare for the day. He had talked about moving down there for the fresh sea breezes and relaxing pace of life, and Diane could tell he had been probing gently to see if she might have an interest in it. She had always been non-committal on the idea, replying that Apple Mews was sedate enough for her. Still, the sea had an allure that she didn’t mind daydreaming about; perhaps in a small cottage on a hillside overlooking the ocean, a small beach a short walk away down a private path, calm summers and howling winters. She found herself grinning at the idea again. Those thunderous skies as the sea tried to reclaim the land, lashing at the shore with mindless fury. Maybe, someday.
There was a message from Sissy Monroe. In the usual Sissy manner, she had taken up three texts with her message and it was only to say that she had another rumour about Douglas MacDonald and his fortune. Diane scanned the message and spotted the words, “Pools winner”, “murdered his neighbour”, and “Japanese sword”. In a usual Diane manner, she promptly deleted the message and stored the précis in her mental list of MacDonald conspiracy theories. There was always a chance that one of them would make a good story. There was a lot less chance that any were true.
She browsed her outline for the chapter, checking off the areas she had already covered and looking through what was to come. There was something about the overall scope of the book that she wasn’t comfortable with, but putting her finger on it was going to be as difficult of a time as Miss Charleston would have solving the case.
Rufus snorted as his breathing became deeper and his paws buffeted Diane’s foot as he chased rabbit criminals over grassy fields.
Diane let her mind drift, the patter of rain on the house hypnotizing her. The body on the floor. Discovered. What next? Who would be there next? What would I do in a similar situation? She had to tangle the story, hide the plot that she already knew behind false motives and secondary plots. The killer was known and had to become lost again.
The doorbell rang. Diane took a moment to wonder who it could be on such a horrid day.
Rufus rolled onto his feet and yipped at the intruder. The rabbits had escaped, and he was not pleased. He made a slow amble to the arch leading to the hallway followed by some more barking, showing his disapproval.
The bell rang again. And again. The ringer pressed the button repeatedly, almost frenziedly.
Diane wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her and walked carefully past her vicious guardian. The ringing disturbed Diane with its ferocity, and she checked through the peephole in the centre of the solid white door.
The fish-eye lens of the peephole showed a panorama of Diane’s front
yard through the sheets of falling rain. On her front step stood a young woman; strands of brown hair were matted across her face and shoulders. She was dressed in a long blue waterproof poncho, though the hood had been ignored, with light brown slacks that were darker below the knee from the rainwater and sodden light brown shoes.
“My dear, you’re drenched,” said Diane as she swung the door open. “You’ll catch a death out in this weather like that. Come inside, quickly.”
The dripping woman squelched into the entranceway, and Diane immediately took her poncho, hanging it from a rack behind the door. She ushered the woman into the living room and grabbed a large towel from an airing rack in the kitchen. Rufus made for the kitchen table where he sat, keeping an alert eye on the living room beyond.
“Here you are. Now, what are you doing out on a day like this?”
“You are Miss Dimbleby, aren’t you?” asked the girl. She looked at Diane with her large brown eyes wide under thin dark eyebrows. Her olive skin glistened as the light of the living room caught droplets of rain.
She held the towel that Diane had given her like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. She had a nervous tension about her that disquieted Diane a little, but she made sure to stand near to the fireplace and the ornamental poker that rested on a rack near it.
When Diane nodded, the girl said shakily:
“Oh, Miss Dimbleby, I need your help.”
Her shoulders sank in relief, and she raised her left hand that had been partially hidden behind her leg. A white box rested in her palm which she extended towards Diane.
“I---I don’t know what to do.”
Diane tentatively took the proffered box and examined it closely as she drew it to her. It was an ordinary plain white box of thin cardboard. She weighed it in her hand and didn’t feel any noticeable extra weight inside.
“What have we here?” she enquired. “Let’s have a cup of tea and discuss what this is all about.”
Leading her guest into the kitchen, Diane placed the box on the table and made for the kettle. A scrape of chair legs and a low rumble from Rufus told her that the girl had taken a seat.
“My name’s Monica, Miss Dimbleby. Monica Hope. I’m friends with Rose O’Dowd, Tommy Giles’s girlfriend. They’ve spoken about you and what you…” She paused, deliberating her next word, “do.”
“Ah yes, Tommy. You’re not from Apple Mews, are you?”
“No. Rose and I went to college together, but I’m from Ironbridge.”
“And you’ve come to me with this package.”
“Oh, Miss Dimbleby, I don’t know what to do,” she repeated, a slight quiver returning to her voice. “I got up this morning and picked up my mail and this box was with it.”
Diane placed a steaming cup of tea before Monica, along with a bowl of sugar and a creamer jug. She took a seat opposite and slid the box in front of her.
“And you opened the box?”
Monica seemed to turn a faint shade of green at the mention of it and just nodded.
“Do you mind if I...?”
This got no response, Monica instead deciding to stare into the swirl of cream in her tea.
Flipping the box over, a label was attached and written in a clear script was:
M. Hope
43 Valley Gardens,
Ironbridge,
Shropshire TF8 4TR
The postmark wasn’t much more helpful, reading Shrewsbury and the date of postage being the day before. They weren’t helpful to Diane, but she was sure that the Police would have a better time drawing out information by working with the Royal Mail. Maybe they would have a CCTV shot of the package being posted.
Diane hesitated, Monica’s demeanour boding something ill. While the tape around the lid had already been slit open by Monica, the lid was a tight fit around the base. With some reluctance, she worked the lid upwards and exposed the contents.
Inside, cotton wool puffed outwards, expanding to meet the new-found freedom. Diane pulled a set of tongs from a canister near her stove and carefully excavated downwards, placing the loose cotton into the box lid. Slowly the level inside the box dropped, and the wool became heavier and sticky with red.
On a cushion of wool rested a finger. It had been poorly severed at the base, a cut right through the bone, and blood had leeched out of it into the surrounding wool. Just above the rough edge of skin was a ring, ornate gold with a setting of two sapphires and two rubies around a single square diamond. The nail was nicely painted, a pattern of small flowers, yet it was chipped in places, and a jagged tear had taken off the very tip.
“I called Rose, I thought it might be a sick prank. She told me to come and see you, that you’d know what I should do.”
Monica still hadn’t looked up from her tea. Diane lifted her glasses and squeezed the sides of her nose, squinting as she did so. She had been fine slaughtering fictional characters, but her morning was not ready for a dead girl’s finger in her kitchen. She was sure the finger’s owner was dead. Unless they were simply very very sick, living people didn’t go around mailing body parts to others.
Diane let out a sigh, and a shiver ran along her spine. “A normal person would have been upset by the sight of a severed finger,” Diane thought. “So Monica is normal at least. But me, not so much.”
“We will have to call the police,” said Diane. “I know someone there that can help. He’ll take care of everything, I’m sure.”
“Thank you. I knew I should call them, but I was scared because this person sent it to my flat. I didn’t want to wait there, just in case…” She left the implication unsaid.
“Do you know who it could have been that sent this? You’ve not had any other strange correspondence?”
“None.”
“How about suitors? You’re an attractive girl,” said Diane. “Has anyone taken a liking to you that seemed… unusual?”
“There was a guy at a bar a couple of months ago. He got a bit handsy, and the bouncers chucked him out. But nothing else. I’ve been too busy to worry about men for a while.”
“He hasn’t called unexpectedly? Or you saw him across the street when you were out?”
“No. I haven’t seen or heard from him again.”
“Well, do what you can to remember what he looked like. The police will probably want to talk with him.”
Diane went into the living room and dialled Inspector Crothers on her cell phone. She walked back into the kitchen as the phone rang repeatedly. Monica was finally drying her hair, great waving swathes of it flashing around the room. The Inspector didn’t respond, so Diane took a picture of the box and its contents and sent it via text message to the same number. Not twenty seconds later, Inspector Crothers’ name flashed up on her cell phone.
She filled him in on what details she had and told him that Monica was still at the house and that they would wait for him there.
Fifteen minutes passed as Diane alternately comforted and quizzed Monica before there was a knock at the front door. Damp images of Inspector Crothers and Sergeant Webster appeared in the peephole.
“Where’s this finger?” asked the Inspector as he pulled off his dripping coat.
Diane showed them both into the kitchen. Monica turned in her chair but didn’t get up, instead letting her head drop as though she was expecting to get chastened. The Inspector looked around briefly before making for the open box on the table. Diane got a couple of cups down from the shelf and made everyone some tea while the Inspector snapped on some blue surgical gloves. Meanwhile, Sergeant Webster was pulling evidence bags from his pocket, into which the Inspector placed the lid and cotton wool after a brief inspection.
“Sergeant, take Ms. Hope into the living room. I’ll want to talk to her in a moment.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Webster. He placed the sealed evidence bag on the table and moved to assist Monica into the next room.
“You do seem to attract unusual situations, Diane,” said the Inspector without looking up
from the box.
“I suppose I have somewhat of a reputation for such things.”
“So it would seem.”
The Inspector picked up the finger and looked it over, rolling it around to look at it from every angle.
“Messy cut,” he said quietly. “I’d guess pruning shears or something of that nature. Definitely not an expert job.”
“What do you think about the ring, Inspector?”
“It doesn’t look cheap, that’s quite a chunk of ice in there. I’ll have the picture of it circulated through local jewellery stores. That’s assuming it’s local, of course.”
“I think it’s an engagement or wedding ring,” said Diane. “Look at the shape of the finger. It curves slightly to the right which makes me think it’s from a left hand, which would make it logical to be the ring finger.”
Inspector Crothers nodded in agreement.
“You have a sharp eye, Diane. But it doesn’t help much if we don’t have a fingerless woman to compare it to. Luckily, we’re in an area where most women seem comfortable keeping their fingers attached.”
The Inspector slipped the box into another bag and the finger into a third. He turned over the bag containing the box and scribbled the address into his notebook.
“Now, I must speak to the witness. I would appreciate if you would stay in here, Diane. This is now a police matter.”
“As you like, Inspector. I’d get right onto the post office and jewellers if I were you though. No time to lose.”
“The Sergeant will be heading back to Shrewsbury with this evidence, and he will have his instructions. Right now I have this witness to talk to, and I’m going to get that Rose O’Dowd and Tommy Giles over here if you don’t mind. Your living room might get a bit crowded, but we haven’t got the station here in town anymore.”
Murder in the Mail: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Page 1
