The Dudleys of Budleigh
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 –Seventeen Words
Chapter 2 – A Rather Pompous Man
Chapter 3 – A Very Bizarre Scenario
Chapter 4 – Check the Complaints
Chapter 5 – The Verbal About Herbal
Chapter 6 – Death is Nothing at All
Chapter 7 – A Wake, a Walk and a Talk
Chapter 8 – It’s the Quiet Ones That Cause the Damage
Chapter 9 – Umbrellas and Phone Calls
Chapter 10 – A Nice Cup of Tea
Chapter 11 – That’s One Way to Stop a Train!
Chapter 12 – The Thamacin Revelation
Chapter 13 – The Insurance Company Payout
Chapter 14 – You’re Sitting Opposite the Star
Chapter 15 – Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way
Chapter 16 – Deja vu Once Again
Chapter 17 – The Denouement
Chapter 18 – A Star in the Heavens
Chapter 19 – Coffee at Earls
Postscript
A Good Walk
West Down Beacon
Dedication
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also available
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Copyright © 2019 by PA Nash.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Published 2019
www.eastdevoncosymysteries.com
“Dudley’s out to get me!”
Frank and Ella are back for another East Devon cosy mystery.
The note sent to Anthony Buckerell read “In the seventh hour of the night on the seventh day of the year you will die.”
At 7.59, surrounded by police in a windowless locked cell, he did.
How? Ask Dudley.
Ella finds herself reluctantly continuing her role as part of this delightful detective duo as they delve into the lives of their suspects — each one named Dudley.
If you enjoy cosy mysteries set in the glorious English countryside, then join Frank and Ella on an easy to read discovery of the East Devon seaside town of Budleigh Salterton, as they seek to find the murderer amongst the Dudleys of Budleigh.
Amongst the pages of The Dudleys of Budleigh you’ll experience coastal walks, exotic plants, kidnapping, a theatrical denouement and a whole lot more as Frank and Ella uncover the less convivial parts of a gentle seaside town.
The second book in the East Devon Cosy Mystery series is available on Amazon Kindle.
Chapter 1 –Seventeen Words
Retirement is wonderful, Frank thought. No more pressure. No more stress. No more looking at the clock. No more living by other people’s expectations. No more… well,everything.
It was a cold and frosty Tuesday morning in January. Christmas had come and gone and last year’s adventures had begun to fade into a hazy memory. Frank and Ella were strolling with Bella and George through the woods along the old railway track from the Bowd down towards Harpford.
They crossed the East Devon Way and followed the track down to Knapp’s Lane, branched off to the right and ambled over the stone railway bridge into the village of Harpford past St Gregory the Great. At the Recreation Ground car—park, the couples bid each other farewell and Frank and Ella headed for Otterbury and home.
Parking the car on the gravel drive, Frank heard the phone ringing inside the house. He rushed indoors and picked it up just in time to hear the caller. “Thank heavens you’re there, Elsie. Come quickly, I think Dudley’s out to get me! He sent me a horrible warning…”
“Hello, this is 3511543?” said Frank.
There was a pause.
“Ah, you’re not Elsie? That’s not 3511534, is it?”
The phone went dead.
***
“3511534…3511534…3511534.” Frank repeated the number out loud whilst gesturing to Ella to find him a pencil or pen.
“I’m writing it down. You can relax. The last two digits were accidentally reversed. What was all that about?”
Frank sat down and explained to Ella. “A man said Dudley’s out to get him. He thought he was phoning Elsie. He said that wasn’t 3511534 and then put the phone down.”
“Who’s Elsie?”
“The only Elsie I know is WPC Knowle.”
“I think you should try that number and see if it goes through to this Elsie. Explain to her what happened. Whilst you’re doing that, I’ll put the kettle on!”
Ella went into the kitchen. Before Frank called the number he found out and wrote down the number of the person who had called him. As the caller needed to urgently speak to Elsie, he saw no point in calling back. Frank dialled 3511534.
It rang for about ten seconds and Frank was about to cut off the call when a female voice said: “Hello, how can I help?”
“Hello,” replied Frank. “Is that Elsie?”
“Yes, it is. I recognise that voice. It’s Frank, isn’t it? Frank Raleigh?”
“How did you know?”
“You’re speaking to a policewoman. We’re trained to remember things.”
“Elsie, WPC Knowle,” Frank interrupted.
“Yes, that’s me. It’s good to hear from you again. Is everything all right with Ella? She was such a brave lady.”
“Yes, everything’s great. I’ve just had a strange phone call. I think it was a wrong number. Someone said Dudley was out to get him and you had to come quickly.”
“Ah, that’s not the first time. I bet you’ve had a call from Anthony Buckerell. He’s a solicitor over in Budleigh Salterton. He thinks someone is trying to kill him. He seems to me as somewhat of a lonely old soul. A bit pompous and self—righteous. For a solicitor, he gets very muddle—headed. He needs a friend and he needs to get a life!”
Frank recognised the type. “A loner?”
“I guess he is, as far as his job will allow him to be.”
“We used to have children like that at school. Always sat on their own in the corner of the playground. I used to have to work hard to make them feel part of a suitable social circle.”
“Perhaps you could help here?”
“How?” Frank felt he was digging himself into a hole and he wasn’t sure how to clamber out.
“Come with me and see him. Offer him a sympathetic ear and use your school—masterly listening skills.”
“Hmm,” Frank hesitated.
“I’ll go over there later this afternoon. If you want, I’ll pick you up from Otterbury and we’ll listen to his story and see if we can both help.”
Ella had come back into the room with a tray full of cups of tea and biscuits. She had heard the last part of Frank’s part in the conversation. She nodded encouragingly.
“OK, it can’t do any harm.”
“Excellent, I’ll pick you at about half three.”
Frank said goodbye and put the phone down.
“Who was that?” Ella asked.
“WPC Knowle. I know she’s called Elsie but I can’t bring myself to call her by her first name.”
“It’s her sign of authority.”
“Yes, she’ll always be WPC Knowle!” Frank went on to recount the other half of the conversation to Ella.
“You’ll be good for him. He sounds a bit paranoid. You’ll soon sort him out!”
Frank sipped his tea and wondered what he’d let himself in for.
***
Budleigh Salterton has an undeserved reputation as God’s waiting room. If you took the time to explore its many nooks and crannies, you would be delighted to find individual
istic houses, picturesque back lanes, engaging architecture, a fascinating shopping area and a couple of old—fashioned tea shops gently competing for custom. The High Street appeared to be in a slight valley with all of its side roads leading uphill.
East of the town, the pebble beach had formed into a spit and was trying to strangle the mouth of the River Otter. Head westwards back towards the town and you walk below gentle sandstone cliffs before meeting a wide promenade backed by a variety of well maintained seaside houses. Although it was now the middle of winter, there were still plenty of people walking along the level, spacious promenade, enjoying the salty sea air. The promenade, which hosted the South West Coast Path, waved the path on its way as it climbed westwards out of town and up towards the dizzy heights of West Down Beacon.
All along the mile—long seafront were seats and benches facing out across the pebble beach looking out at the wide expanse of Lyme Bay. Each summer, well—populated beach huts stood between the tarmac path and the beach. As the season ended they were taken down and stored safely away from the ravages of any winter storms.
Budleigh Salterton was home to a plethora of clubs and societies. There were markets, walks and dramatic enterprises, sports clubs, even a flourishing Literature Festival. The town was too busy to be a Waiting Room.
***
Anthony worked in an office in the High Street above one of the flourishing gift shops that regularly blossom for a while in seaside towns.
WPC Knowle parked right outside the office and she pushed open a neat wooden door beside the shop—front. They both climbed the stairs before WPC Knowle knocked on another door that had faded gold lettering announcing that they were entering the offices of Anthony Buckerell LLB, LLP.
No—one answered her knock so she turned the door handle. The door was unlocked so they walked in.
A quiet, strained voice mumbled, “Come in.”
“Too late, Anthony. We’re already in!”
“Oh, it’s you. Thank heavens!”
Anthony Buckerell was sat, or rather slumped, in a wooden varnished but padded Bankers Chair behind a large mahogany Executive desk. The desk was clear except for a pristine blotter, an old fashioned telephone and a couple of leather–bound A4 books. The wording appeared to read “Law Society” on the front cover.
“Dudley wants to kill me!”
“Good afternoon, Anthony, may we sit down?”
“Yes, pull up a chair. I see you’ve brought a detective with you. Good afternoon, Chief Inspector, are you from Exeter?”
Frank sat down and smiled.
“Anthony, this is the gentleman you accidentally called earlier today. He’s a sort of consultant. He’s shadowing me and providing valuable feedback. You can rest assured that anything you say to either of us will be treated in a professional manner and in the strictest confidence.
“Good. I need all the help I can get!” Anthony was sweating and repeatedly ran his hand through his receding hair as if brushing it back out of his eyes.
“Where’s Mrs Aylesbeare?”
“She doesn’t work today. She’s part—time now. I don’t want to speak about her. She’s always nagging me.”
WPC Knowle sat down and took out her notebook. “OK, Anthony, how may we help you?”
Anthony looked up at Frank before his eyes travelled around to WPC Knowle. Then he looked down at his desk. “Dudley’s out to get me. He sent me a letter. It said that I would…”
He buried his face in one hand. With the other hand, he pushed a piece of paper across the desk.
Frank picked it up and read aloud the printed words:
“You will die in the seventh hour of the night on the seventh day of the year.”
Frank turned the piece of paper over. Nothing else. Just those seventeen words.
WPC Knowle took out her phone and checked the date. “It’s the sixth of January today. Tuesday, the sixth of January. That must mean tomorrow.”
“I know! You needn’t tell me what the date is. I know. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.” His voice was becoming louder and more uncontrolled. “Tomorrow!” He shouted.
Frank put the note back on the table. “Who’s Dudley?”
“I don’t have any friends called Dudley. I don’t really have people I can call friends.”
“How do you know that Dudley is out to get you?”
“He sent me another note last week.”
“Have you still got it?” Frank asked in a quiet but authoritative voice.
“Of course, I’ve still got it.” The solicitor opened a drawer in the pedestal beside the desk and hauled out a batch of papers. He put them untidily on the desktop and then reached back into the drawer before extracting a single sheet of paper. He pushed that across the desk to Frank.
On an A4 size printed sheet Frank read “Dudley’s gonna get you.”
WPC Knowle was scribbling in her notebook. “That seems pretty clear. Dudley, whoever he or she is, wants to kill you tomorrow, Wednesday, sometime before eight o’clock in the evening.”
Anthony looked up and in a trembling, bewildered voice croaked, “I don’t want to die. I need your help. Keep me alive.”
The policewomen finished writing in her notebook and smiled at the scared man.
“You shall get our help. First of all, you need to pack a bag. You are going away for a few days.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe. Then you are going to stay with us all through tomorrow. We shall be with you for every minute of the day. No—one will get to you without having to get by us first.”
WPC Knowle’s confident tone brought some much—needed strength to the solicitor.
“I knew I was right to phone you. It’s outrageous that some little nobody would make such threats to such an important man like myself.”
Frank, for the first time, detected a reason why someone would want to kill this man.
“I suggest, Mr Buckerell, that you do what the police—lady says. We’ll go with you to your house. You then will pack a bag with clothes that will last you a couple of days.”
“Is Mrs Aylesbeare working here tomorrow?”
“Yes, I think so.”
WPC Knowle snapped her notebook shut, stood up and faced the solicitor. “Get your coat. Leave a note for Mrs Aylesbeare. Tell her you won’t be in tomorrow and to cancel any appointments. Turn off the lights, lock up and set the alarm. We’re taking you home.”
Anthony Buckerell stood up and dutifully followed her list of commands. Frank picked up the two threatening pieces of paper and put them in an empty envelope he rescued from amongst the untidy pile of papers still scattered on the desk. WPC Knowle saw what he was doing and gave him a paper evidence bag. He slipped the letters into the bag and gave it back to WPC Knowle. “Fingerprints!”
The office was made secure. As Anthony locked the door, he ran his hand over the gold lettering. Like the rest of the office, it needed some attention. The three of them made their way downstairs to the police car.
WPC Knowle put the solicitor into the back seat of the police car and, having ascertained where he lived, drove off down the high street before turning off up past the church.
They soon arrived at the detached house on a very exclusive road in a very exclusive area of Budleigh Salterton. They went inside. WPC Knowle did a quick but thorough search of the house and then, finding it empty, instructed Anthony to sort out some belongings into a bag. Frank was, as usual, impressed by WPC Knowle’s efficient manner. As they waited downstairs in the front room, he was compelled to ask her about her plans.
“Simple. We take him to a safe house tonight. Tomorrow we’ll drive him around until the evening and then…” she faltered at this point in the plan.
“We need a place where nobody can reach him. Where he’s safe and secure.”
“Yes, we need to lock him away somewhere.”
“Is Exeter jail available for the night?”
“No, but I was working the other day in the old unmanned
Otterbury police station. It has a single cell in the middle of the building. There’s no windows and one very secure steel door. There are surveillance cameras dotted all around. Nobody could get in or out without us knowing.”
“Do the cameras work or are they dummies?”
“Actually these ones do work!”
“Right. That seems like a good plan. Put PC Hydon on the front door and lock Mr Buckerell in the cell.”
“He’s got to be safe there!”
Chapter 2 – A Rather Pompous Man
Frank phoned Ella and she drove over from Otterbury to pick him up outside the Public Halls. On the journey home, Frank recounted the visit to Anthony Buckerell’s office and house.
“They’re putting him up somewhere in this area in, what they call, a safe house. Tomorrow WPC Knowle and PC Hydon are going to take him onto Dartmoor and keep moving around. Then, in the evening, we’re going to guard him at Otterbury Police Station.”
“Do you mean you and me?”
“No, WPC Knowle, PC Hydon and yours truly.”
“How?”
“Well, Elsie didn’t exactly tell me. I think the plans are on a need to know basis.”
“Don’t you need to know?”
“Not until tomorrow!”
***
Frank and Ella spent a quiet relaxing evening at home. Ella was certain that Anthony Buckerell was not sharing their restfulness. He’d be sitting there, wondering if this was to be his last night on earth. It was too horrific to contemplate so she turned on the TV and watched back to back episodes of Dad’s Army.
Frank was sat in front of his computer screen researching Anthony Buckerell. He appeared to be single and well qualified. He had been working in Budleigh Salterton for eight years. He went to university at Oxford. He wasn’t on any social media channels but his name appeared on Facebook and Twitter quite regularly. Hardly any of the posts were complimentary. A few of them were downright rude. Both libel and slander laws appeared to be being broken in a few of the comments. Frank wondered whether Anthony Buckerell would be appealing to the full force of the law if he ever decided to peruse social media.
The main theme of the social media posts and the newspaper reports was that of a self—righteous, rather pompous man. That tallied with Frank’s experience after their recent, brief meeting.