by Shéa MacLeod
The Remains in the Rectory
Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery
Book Six
Shéa MacLeod
The Remains in the Rectory
Viola Roberts Cozy Mystery Book 6
Text copyright © 2017/2020 Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover design by Mariah Sinclair/
www.mariahsinclair.com
Editing by Yvette Keller
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Also by Shéa MacLeod
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The Stiff in the Study (Coming Soon)
The Poison in the Pudding (Coming Soon)
The Body in the Bathtub (Coming Soon)
The Venom in the Valentine (Coming Soon)
The Remains in the Rectory (Coming Soon)
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Watch for more at Shéa MacLeod’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Remains in the Rectory (Viola Roberts Cozy Mysteries, #6)
Chapter 1 | Lost in Translation
Chapter 2 | The Ghosts of Chipping Poggs
Chapter 3 | Is The Truth Insulting?
Chapter 4 | Bump in the Night
Chapter 5 | Ghost Hunting
Chapter 6 | The Colonel Takes Charge
Chapter 7 | The Case of the Missing Curate
Chapter 8 | No Such Thing As Coincidence
Chapter 9 | The Beast and Bauble
Chapter 10 | Pigs in Blankets
Chapter 11 | The Body At Breakfast
Chapter 12 | Haunted By the Ghost
Chapter 13 | Suddenly A Scream
Chapter 14 | Chocolate and Bacon
Chapter 15 | Poking a Bee Hive
Chapter 16 | The Secret Passage
Chapter 17 | Exploratory Mission
Chapter 18 | Spirits of the Dead
Chapter 19 | Once Upon a Midnight Dreary
Chapter 20 | As Poirot Would Say
Chapter 21 | Return to Chipping Poggs
A Note From Shéa MacLeod
About Shéa MacLeod
Other Cozy Mysteries by Shéa MacLeod
Non-Cozy Mysteries by Shéa MacLeod
Other Books by Shéa MacLeod
DEDICATION
For all my lovely friends in England
who embraced me as one of their own.
Chapter 1
Lost in Translation
DRIVING ON THE WRONG side of the road is not something I’d recommend. Especially if you want to keep both your sanity and your relationship intact.
“Watch the hedgerow, Viola!” Lucas braced himself against the dashboard of the ridiculously small Peugeot, knuckles turning white as I took the curve a little too fast. The hedgerow loomed ominously close.
“Shut up,” I snapped. “I’m trying to drive, here.” I’d been driving nearly thirty years, after all. I should be getting the hang of it by now.
Whose idea was this, anyway? Renting a car in England. Driving out to the picturesque Cotswolds. It had all sounded so great until the realities of driving on the left set in and I nearly sideswiped a lorry. (An American would have said truck, not lorry, but I was trying really hard to get into the spirit of the thing. It wasn’t my fault, really. Left hand driving just doesn’t come naturally to a person.
My boyfriend, Lucas Salvatore, sat hunched in the passenger’s seat of the small rental car, alternately cussing and praying. Lucas was a few years older than me, making him closer to fifty than forty. He was ridiculously handsome with his bronzed skin and dark hair lightly peppered with gray. Usually he was a calm and supportive partner, but frankly, he was getting on my last nerve. I was perfectly capable of figuring this driving thing out without killing us. Probably.
We were somewhere out on what the English refer to as a “B road.” In the States, it would be a country lane: narrow, harrowing. Filled with tractors and the distinct possibility of ending up with a deer in your windshield. Or rather, since this was England, a sheep.
Lucas and I were both writers. He wrote best-selling thrillers which Hollywood eagerly turned into blockbuster movies starring that actor with the big nose. I wrote western historical romances with cowboys and mail order brides. I made an excellent living, but Hollywood wasn’t knocking.
When Lucas had suggested attending the London Book Fair, I’d jumped at the chance to leave my sodden little town of Astoria, Oregon for the wildly exotic (and equally sodden) streets of London. Our plan after the fair was to tour the English countryside by car. Lucas wanted to find some unexplored English village to include in his latest novel. So that’s how we found ourselves on a B road, out in the Cotswolds, with Lucas snippy, me snappy, and lorries trying to murder us.
“How far have we got to go?” I said between gritted teeth. My smartphone wasn’t working even though the carrier had promised it would, and the GPS system had crapped out thirty minutes ago.
Lucas battled with a paper map for a minute. “A couple more miles and we’ll hit the turn off to the Roman Road. Then it’s a straight shot to Moreton-in-Marsh. We can get the A44 to Oxford from there.”
Oxford. And civilization! I could hardly wait. Just a little farther and we’d be back on “A roads” with properly definitely lanes. I breathed a sigh of relief.
And then the skies, which had been dark
and ominous all day, suddenly opened up and dumped rain on us. It was like a freaking monsoon. I turned the wiper blades on high, and still I could barely make out the road ahead. My hands ached from gripping the steering wheel so tight.
“There’s a branch in the road up here somewhere,” Lucas said. “Keep right.”
I nodded, but didn’t take my eyes off the road, even though at this point I could barely see it. The only thing keeping me out of the ditch was the hedgerow looming to my left, so close the occasional branch scraped the side of the car. I sure hoped Lucas bought extra insurance to cover the scratches. If not, it would be a good reminder for him not to bother me while driving in a country influenced by Romans. It was thanks to them that the entire country insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road. I suppose one didn’t want to block one’s sword arm. Because I’d seen so many sword-carrying Audi drivers.
We drove three more miles before I said, “Where’s that fork we were supposed to take?”
Lucas shrugged. “We should have found it by now, but maybe it’s further up?”
I kept going, a sick feeling in my stomach. There were no signs indicating where we were or how close the next town was. I could only see a few inches in front of the windshield. I was starting to think we’d be lost out here forever, wandering in the English wilderness.
“Stop being dramatic.”
I slid my gaze toward Lucas who was shaking his head. I frowned. “I didn’t say anything.”
“No. But you were thinking it.” His voice was lightly accented with a rumbly sexiness to it.
I pointedly ignored him. “We’re low on gas.”
“Petrol,” he corrected in an annoying fashion. “Once we get out on the Roman Road we should be okay.”
“If we can find the cursed thing,” I muttered.
The Roman Road was exactly what it sounded like: an ancient road built by the Romans which had been paved over a few decades back and turned into an A road. It was straight as an arrow—more or less—rising up hills and falling down dales. It marched its way across the landscape, much like its builders had, once upon a time. Unfortunately, it was nowhere in sight and I was stuck winding around the narrow backroad feeling lost and claustrophobic with the hedgerows pressing in on either side.
I knew it was dumb, but I was desperate to get off the B road as soon as possible. So, I said the Lord’s Prayer that the tractors were all at home avoiding the rain, and pressed down on the gas pedal. The car lurched as it sped up.
“There!” Lucas shouted, jabbing a finger to the right. Sure enough, an even narrower road led off to the right. I jerked the steering wheel hard and hit the road at full tilt. It bounced and jarred something awful, until I was able to slow down enough to not kill us.
“That wasn’t exactly a fork,” I pointed out.
“True,” he admitted, “but it was the first gap I saw in that abominable hedgerow. This has to be the road. There’s been nothing else.”
I wasn’t so sure. The rain was pouring buckets. Every now and then the tires made a desperate attempt to hydroplane. Fortunately, I’m from a state where it rains more often than not. This was a piece of cake for me. If the cake was full of nuts and lumps of baking soda.
The narrow lane—it could hardly be described as a road—wound its way through a copse of trees, around thickets of brush, across a stone bridge, and past fields of some kind or other. Green shoots stood stubbornly beneath the onslaught of rain. Up ahead I saw a figure swathed in a yellow rain slicker slogging alongside the road. He, or she, wore rubber boots of ordinary green and had the slicker hood up. One hand gripped a gnarled walking stick, though it seemed to be more for effect than out of necessity.
“Pull up alongside,” Lucas urged. “Surely this person can give us directions.”
I did as instructed and Lucas rolled down the window. “Pardon me!” His usually faint accent grew suddenly thicker and sounded more British than it usually did. It didn’t escape my notice that he also used British phrasing instead of American, as he did back home.
The figure in the slicker stopped and turned to face us. Although the face was rough, wrinkled, and devoid of makeup, it was still of the feminine variety.
“What are you two doing way out here?” The accent was thick with the slightly nasal intonations of the Midlands. The voice itself was strong and low, but definitely female. “You get yourselves lost?”
“Something like that,” Lucas said. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was giving the woman his most charming smile. “We’re trying to find the Roman Road.”
“Oh, that’s way back there.” She waved vaguely in the direction we’d come. So we had missed the fork. Darn it. “Some two, three miles.”
“Well, that’s no good. We’re low on petrol, you see. Is there a village ahead?” he asked.
“Oh, ay. There is that.” She gave him a warm smile, but no further information. I felt like smacking the wheel in frustration, but Lucas remained his calm, charming self. Naturally.
“How far is it? Do you think?”
She squinted off into the rain, the lines around her eyes feathering out. “’Bout a mile, I’d say. Give or take.”
“Well, that’s perfect.” Lucas flashed his pearly whites. “Is there a turn off or anything?”
“Just keep on this road and you’ll come to it. Can’t miss it.”
“Can we give you a ride?” he asked.
I scowled at him, though he couldn’t see. I did not need her dripping water all over the rental car. I could just see trying to explain mildew stains on top of the paint scratches.
“Thank you, no. Got to get my walk in, you see.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
She nodded as Lucas rolled the window up and I put the car back in “drive.” I frowned at the gas gauge. I sure hoped we had enough gas for a mile “or so.” The gas light had been on for some time.
Just as the engine started sputtering, we rolled out of the woods and into a village. A small sign, impossible to read in the downpour, marked the outskirts. Such as they were. Stone buildings stood sentinel on either side of the narrow lane, blurred by rain, leaning against each other as if for support against the storm.
“We’re not getting much further and I don’t see a gas station,” I said.
“Petrol station. It’s fine. There’s a pub. Pull in there.”
Sure enough, there was one of those half-timbered old buildings with a sign swinging out front and lights burning brightly. A small parking lot to the side could hold about three cars. And lucky us, there was a spot empty. I pulled in just as the engine finally died.
Lucas grinned. “Perfect timing.”
I glared at him. “If we hadn’t gotten lost, it would have been fine.”
“And whose fault is it we got lost?”
“Well,” I said with a glare. “You were the navigator.”
“Come on, Viola,” he laughed. “This is an adventure. Let’s see where it takes us.” He climbed out of the car cutting off any reply I might have made.
With a sigh I climbed out, too, ducking my head against the onslaught of wind and rain. Lucas grabbed my hand and we ran to the pub side by side. Lucas stopped to jerk open the door and we hurried out of the cold and into the warm, steamy building.
To my left was an old, stone fireplace where flames danced cheerfully, casting a cozy glow into the room. Ahead and slightly to the right was a scarred wooden bar with the standard liquor bottles and glasses clustered on shelves behind it. The ceiling was low, heavy beams dark with age, and the floor flagstone, worn smooth by hundreds of feet. Around the room clustered comfy chairs, perfect for relaxing with a drink. There were small groupings of proper tables and chairs for more easily eating whatever heavenly smelling delicacy was currently cooking in the kitchen. According to the chalkboard, the daily specials were fish and chips and sausage and mash.
The pub was small, but chock full of ambience. A man who looked about a hundred perched on a sto
ol, his newsboy cap pulled low over his forehead. He hunched over his half-empty pint of beer. Two couples were gathered near the window—not that they could see much in this storm—sharing a meal and talking in low voices. Otherwise the place was empty. No one looked up when we entered which I found very odd.
“Why don’t we sit near the fire,” Lucas suggested. “Warm ourselves up.”
I shrugged. “Sure. I could dry out.”
I sank into one of the twin leather chairs next to the fire. On the small occasional table between them was a menu. The cover carried the name of the pub: Beast and Bauble. They did love their wacky names around here.
“Anything to drink?” Lucas asked as he draped his jacket over the back of the other chair.
“Blackberry bourbon, of course.”
He smiled. “Of course. But I’ve a feeling they might not have it.”
I sighed. “Fine. Baileys and coffee. Heavy on the Baileys.” I might be driving, but I wasn’t going anywhere at the moment and neither was the car.
Lucas collected our drinks from the bartender and settled in. “This is perfect.” A dreamy smile curved his full lips.
I eyed him narrowly. “What’s perfect?”
“This village. This pub. Don’t you feel it? The atmosphere?”
Usually I was the one waxing poetic about things. This turn of events made me uneasy. “You want to research this village for your novel?”
“Why not?” He took a sip of his drink.
“We haven’t even seen the place. It might be awful.”
He grinned, gray eyes twinkling. “Oh, I’ve a good feeling.”
“Great,” I muttered around my coffee. “Now he’s getting feelings.”
Lucas merely chuckled.
The old man turned on his stool and eyeballed us mournfully. “Don’t get many visitors,” he said. “Welcome to Chipping Poggs.” He raised his half-empty pint glass and then slugged back a good swallow.
“Thanks,” Lucas and I chimed before taking more genteel sips of our own drinks.
