by Faith Martin
THE VICARAGE
MURDER
An addictive crime mystery full of twists
(Monica Noble Detective Book 1)
THIS IS A REVISED EDITION OF A BOOK FIRST PUBLISHED AS “AN UNHOLY MESS” BY JOYCE CATO.
FAITH MARTIN
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
First published 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
FIRST PUBLISHED BY ROBERT HALE IN 2015 AS “AN UNHOLY MESS.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Faith Martin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]
We’ll get them fixed ASAP. We’re very grateful to eagle-eyed readers who take the time to contact us.
©Faith Martin
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
PROLOGUE
The Bridge and Wagon, as the police were later to discover to their cost, was just the sort of dozy country pub where a shotgun could go missing without being the cause of too much fuss.
Not that it was an establishment set in an area rife with crime and thick with malefactors — in fact, just the opposite. Nestled amongst picturesque thatched cottages overlooking a peaceful village square, the possibility of theft and murder being committed on their back doorstep was something that would never even cross the minds of the people who regularly drank there.
A tradition-loving landlady owned the freehouse, so it was not that most soul-destroying of all things — themed — and only a token gambling machine lurked in one particularly dark corner where it remained virtually unmolested. Nor was loud modern pop music ever allowed to darken its hidden speakers. And since the village itself was situated at the end of a no-through road, hardly any strangers came passing through the peaceful Cotswold village of Heyford Bassett to cause any trouble.
There was not even the diversion of a nervous company executive sneaking out for a quick drink with a pretty secretary to break the monotony.
On that particular Saturday lunchtime, as on most other days, there was only a handful of Heyford Bassett’s oldest regulars to be found in the pub, but many more of the newcomers to the village.
June Cowdey, the attractive owner and barmaid, watched the amiably noisy crowd in the far corner with a tolerant glint in her dark green eyes. The eight or so men all looked exactly like what they were — gentlemen farmers — and were busy acting like men who’d just had a successful morning’s pigeon shoot. Moreover, most of the members of the older generation had shown their usual touch of class by leaving their weapons propped up in the dusty and dark boot room, along with their walking sticks and muddy spaniels.
Clem Jarvis, the owner of one of the biggest farms around, and one of those gentlemen who’d thoughtfully left his pigeon-potter outside, was now happily well into his third pint of real ale, and reliving that morning’s glories.
‘Of course, poor old Bill there couldn’t hit a bird if it flew down and landed two feet in front of him and waggled its tail feathers in his face,’ he chortled loudly, catching June’s eye and winking at her admiringly.
June, with her naturally red hair, pale skin, hourglass figure and mysterious reputation, was undoubtedly one of the most popular women in the village. Well, with the male contingent, anyway. Rumour had it that there was a Mr Cowdey lurking about somewhere, but June neither confirmed nor denied this sad state of affairs.
Now she smiled back automatically at Clem and carried on polishing glasses, her eyes settling briefly on a couple of newcomers in the little window seat.
The village’s huge old Georgian vicarage had just recently been converted into a set of twelve luxury flats, and June, for one, was glad to see some new blood coming into the village — and her pub. Most of the locals, however, had bemoaned the loss of the vicarage to flats as just the latest assault upon their national heritage.
Back in the nineties, mock-Tudor houses had been erected on the other side of the river, and the resulting cul-de-sac had been coyly named Church Court. The village had grumbled about it for years of course, but inevitably two other paddocks had gone the same way. Valley Dene had been built a little further down Ford Street, and finally, only last year, River View had been constructed.
People living in homes that had once had pretty views over the river were particularly resentful about this blight on their bucolic idyll, and bad feelings about developers still tended to simmer just below the surface.
As the lunch hour progressed, however, the pub began to fill more quickly. Yet more strangers from the vicarage began to trickle in, and Sally, a cheerful part-timer, came to take over at the bar, apologizing for being late.
‘Sorry, June, I got caught by that Muriel Larner. I swear she deliberately lies in ambush by that gate of hers.’ She rolled her eyes expressively. ‘I just couldn’t get away from her. If nattering were an Olympic sport, she’d be up there with that cyclist fella.’
June, who knew the garrulous Muriel well, told her not to worry and retired to the kitchen, whilst the pigeon-shooting party became ever more boisterous, not to mention downright drunk.
But the newcomers to the village didn’t seem to mind. After all, talk of pigeons, barley blight and the state of Clem’s silage was just the kind of authentic rural atmosphere they’d come to the countryside to find. Or so they repeatedly told themselves.
* * *
By three o’clock the pub began to quieten down as, in dribs and drabs, it slowly emptied, with the pigeon-shooting party being the last to stagger collectively to the door.
It was then that Clem Jarvis noticed his shotgun was missing. But by then he was, as the locals so quaintly put it, pissed as a newt, and besides, he vaguely remembered — or thought he did — one of his cronies asking if he could borrow it for a rabbit shoot scheduled for the next weekend.
It was either that or some bugger had pinched it.
But Clem didn’t really believe that his shotgun had been stolen since crime was practically unknown in the village. So it was that he merely shrugged and lurched his way home with the help (or hindrance, depending on how you looked at it) of his equally pissed-as-a-newt cowman.
The next morning he had a prize hangover, his wife was in tip-top nagging condition, and he was utterly sure now that it had been Bill who’d asked him if he could borrow the shotgun to get in some practice. The silly sod certainly needed it.
And Clem simply never gave it another thought after that. Until it was far too late, of c
ourse.
And that was how, a little while later, the police were to learn just how easy it was for a killer to steal a shotgun from the Bridge and Wagon.
CHAPTER 1
Monica Noble rubbed her itching nose with the back of her flour-smudged hand and her smoky blue eyes narrowed slightly in worry. Would two apple pies, one peach pie and two black cherry pies be enough? It was hard to judge when she wasn’t sure just how many guests they could expect for the party. If everyone only brought the odd friend or family member it wouldn’t be a problem. But what if everyone turned up with hoards of them?
Then she shrugged. Why worry about it? With Vera Ainsley about, nobody was likely to starve at the garden party scheduled for tomorrow, come what may!
Vera was quickly growing in fame as a minor celebrity cook, and there was even a rumour going around that she might get her own television show if she played her cards right. Well, on one of those small Freeview channels, anyway.
Monica, who wasn’t particularly blessed with culinary professionalism, reached somewhat guiltily for a supermarket tin of cherry pie filling and began spooning the sticky red goo into a pie dish lined with, it had to be said, rather patched and indifferent home-made pastry.
‘What’s that?’ a reedy voice suddenly piped up. ‘It looks absolutely gruesome.’ It was almost as if her conscience had been given a voice, and anyone more sensitive might have given a little yelp of alarm and started to wonder about karma or the way the cosmos actually worked. But Monica, recognizing that only a teenager could reproduce the scorn that had been prevalent in the voice, merely glanced over her shoulder at her fifteen-year-old daughter Carol-Ann and smiled.
‘That’s prime cherry pie gunk, as you’d know if you ever bothered to do any cooking,’ she responded lightly.
Carol-Ann wrinkled her nose. ‘Huh, Vera says those things are all full of E numbers and additives and who knows what else. And she should know — she’s a real cook.’
To which, of course, Monica had no comeback whatsoever. ‘Be a love and pour me a glass of lemonade, will you?’ she said instead. ‘It’s sweltering in here.’
Carol-Ann pouted but obliged, pouring out a glass for herself as well. Monica took a grateful mouthful of the fizzy drink, bought yesterday from the nearest supermarket, and sighed. No doubt Vera would have made the real thing from scratch, complete with floating slices of lemon and lime, with plenty of added ice as well. And probably with a grating of chilli floating in it, or something. From what she’d seen of the myriad cookery programmes on television nowadays, practically everything came with some chilli in it.
But despite feeling sometimes uncomfortable or inadequate in her new and vague role as ‘vicar’s wife,’ Monica Noble didn’t feel particularly threatened by the super-cook living in flat 8 of the newly converted vicarage. She’d always managed to feed her first husband and daughter to their satisfaction, and her second husband wasn’t complaining either.
Likewise, she felt no particular sense of rivalry towards the rather touchy Pauline Weeks, who occupied a top-floor flat, and for some reason took a perverse delight in talking down to her whenever the opportunity arose.
In fact, Monica Noble was far too comfortable with herself and her life to worry about such petty things as social status. Or her skill — or lack thereof — in the kitchen.
At thirty-five, widowed and remarried, with an ex-life in London and an ex-career in advertising behind her, she was reasonably confident that she was as seasoned, wise and competent as the next woman. Whoever she was.
And besides, now she had a whole new and challenging life as a country village vicar’s wife to think about. Which was more than enough for anybody to be getting on with, Monica felt. All in all, she just had no time for unnecessary angst.
‘Do you think I should cut my hair?’ Carol-Ann suddenly asked, making her mother glance around sharply and with real alarm.
Carol-Ann had lovely long, naturally pale blonde hair, inherited from her late father. She opened her mouth to advise strongly against such a drastic action, then stopped herself just in time. Cunning and deviousness were art forms that she’d quickly learned to cultivate, ever since Carol-Ann had first hit puberty.
Instead, she forced herself to relax, and shrugged nonchalantly.
‘If you want to,’ she said blandly, turning out the last of the red sticky ooze into her pie dish and then tossing the can aside with deft flair towards the waiting kitchen bin.
It missed, of course, and bounced off onto the floor, leaving a slight cherry-red smear on the shiny kitchen floor in its wake. Monica sighed, but decided to leave it where it was until she had finished baking.
Carol-Ann, who hadn’t even noticed her mother’s misdemeanour, shot her a quick, suspicious look. Monica pretended not to notice the shrewd teenage scrutiny and pulled the pie dish towards her and rolling-pinned a piece of pastry onto the top of it. Lopsidedly, of course. Tugging it into place and hoping it wouldn’t tear, she absently glanced up at the lounging teenage girl.
‘I thought you liked my hair long?’ Carol-Ann challenged, her big blue eyes narrowing ominously.
Monica shrugged. ‘I do. I thought you did too. Didn’t you tell me that all models have long hair?’ she added casually, for her daughter had announced a year ago that she was going to become a supermodel. Either that or a computer games designer. The game design Monica could just about deal with. It only meant spending vast sums of money on the latest hardware and games and girding her loins to pay out for her degree at uni.
Coping with Carol-Ann’s modelling ambitions was something else entirely. But Monica lived in hope that she’d grow out of it.
‘Huh,’ Carol-Ann said.
Monica began to cut out what she hoped looked like cherries from the leftover pastry to decorate the top of her pie. She rather suspected, though, that the end result looked more like the dessert had developed a severe case of measles.
‘Some models have short hair,’ Carol-Ann said, unwilling to let it go. She suspected that her mother was pulling a fast one, but hadn’t learned enough yet about the subtleties of reverse psychology to be absolutely sure.
Monica hid a sigh. She supposed, philosophically, that if Carol-Ann came home one day with a crew cut like an American marine, she’d survive the shock. Whether or not Graham would, though, was another matter.
Monica’s lips twitched as she thought about her mild-mannered husband and the shocks Carol-Ann sometimes imposed on her long-suffering stepfather.
Having criticized her mother’s cooking and dropped her little bombshell, thus feeling that her work here was now done, her daughter wandered away, waif-like, through the door. Already standing at just over 5’9” tall, and with a naturally slender frame, she was very good at doing waif-like.
Monica began to clean up the kitchen, starting with the recalcitrant tin can, and hummed contentedly to herself as she did so. She liked this room, with its windows that opened out onto a wonderful view of the gardens, the fitted pale pine cabinets and cheerful sunny yellow tiles. In fact, she liked the rest of the flat too, and far preferred it to the days when she and Graham had had the whole enormous building to themselves. Not that that had been an issue for long. She’d only been married to her new husband for less than six months before they’d learned from his bishop that the diocese was selling the huge barn of a building to developers.
The Nobles had been given the first choice of the converted flats, however, and naturally they’d picked flat 1. It was the only one with its own private access, being in the front and on the ground floor, and had views of both the large gardens and the river opposite.
Graham Noble, unlike some of the more conservative members of his flock who had been none too pleased to hear that their vicarage was being sold off, had in fact agreed with his bishop on this issue. Living in a huge, three-storey eighteenth-century building was no longer a viable proposition in this brave new millennium, either financially or ethically.
And the m
ore dire predictions that had circulated about it all ending in aesthetic disaster had proved to be somewhat overegged.
The local firm that had been hired to do the renovations had not only installed wooden-panelled lifts that were sympathetic to the decor, but had also managed to separate the rooms into distinct residences without butchering the overall harmony of the interior of the building. Flats 2, 6 and 10, (one on each of the three floors) had been configured to be slightly larger and thus more expensive than the rest, but all the homes on offer were spacious and airy, with their fair share of retained original features. Fireplaces, cornices, ceiling roses and wainscoting had all been meticulously conserved. There were still a few unoccupied flats for them to finish, but it wouldn’t be long before the renovation was complete.
Now, as she rinsed out the dishcloth at the sink, Monica glanced out of one such retained feature — the large elegant sash window — and watched as John Lerwick, who also had a flat on the ground floor, trundled past with a wheelbarrow full of weeds.
Although the large grounds were supposed to be a communal garden, and as such a joint responsibility, only a few of the residents so far had shown any inclination to tackle the undergrowth. But a few of the flats had yet to be sold, so who knew who might buy one of those. Monica wondered if it would be wrong to pray for a couple of green-fingered retirees with plenty of time on their hands to spend on their favourite hobby, and after some thought supposed that it was. When it came down to it, she thought that most of the residents would probably rather chip in and pay for professionals to keep the grounds looking nice.
Regardless, right now the gardens were slowly improving under John’s slow but steady prowess, so perhaps it would be better if they just left him to get on with it as he saw best. After all, if somebody else came in with their own horticultural preferences, it might cause friction. And Monica didn’t particularly want Graham to be drawn in over arguments about topiary or ornamental bedding. As a vicar, her husband was often appealed to as arbitrator in any squabble going.
