by Fay Sampson
Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Fay Sampson from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
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
Recent Titles by Fay Sampson from Severn House
The Suzie Fewings Genealogical Mysteries
IN THE BLOOD
A MALIGNANT HOUSE
THOSE IN PERIL
FATHER UNKNOWN
THE OVERLOOKER
BENEATH THE SOIL
The West Country Mysteries
THE WOUNDED THORN
THE WOUNDED SNAKE
THE WOUNDED SNAKE
Fay Sampson
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 Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Fay Sampson.
The right of Fay Sampson 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
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8930-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-998-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0211-6 (e-book)
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
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Those familiar with this area may notice similarities between Morland Abbey and Dartington Hall outside Totnes. But there are substantial differences too. I have drawn on features of other historic buildings in the south-west of England and added elements from my own imagination.
I have greatly enjoyed the hospitality of those houses, the lively and historic town of Totnes, and the real-life Buckfast Abbey. My apologies for inflicting such violence on the first two. I recommend that you go there and enjoy them in happier circumstances.
The staff of Morland Abbey and the officers of the Devon and Cornwall police portrayed here are, of course, entirely fictitious, as are all the other characters.
My thanks to Joyce Perry for her careful reading of the script and her thoughtful suggestions.
ONE
Hilary forged ahead under the gateway arch to the inner reaches of Morland Abbey, leaving Veronica to pick her way more uncertainly over the cobbles in her wake. She gave a sigh of remembered joy. Ahead lay the green lawn of the cloister garth. On its right, the Tudor house, built from the stone of the medieval abbey, faced a newer block across the grass in the autumn sunshine. Beyond them rose the fractured arches of the once great abbey church. Further to her right, the octagonal Chapter House and the soaring roof of the ancient tithe barn delighted her.
‘Splendid! Shame about the church, but I have to admit Sir George Woodleigh made a splendid job of rebuilding the East Cloister for his private home. Sixteenth century and still going strong.’
‘Hilary, you’re parked on a yellow line.’
‘Only till we find our rooms and move our cases.’
She turned confidently to the door at the side of the arch. Veronica caught up with her.
‘We had instructions to go round to guest reception in the West Cloister. They said we could park there to unload.’
Hilary looked round at her friend. The tall, fair widow’s fine-boned face looked younger than her fifty-eight years. Not, thought Hilary, like me. Older, shorter, dumpier, with short brown hair which still managed to look untidy. Veronica hovered at Hilary’s shoulder like a guardian angel, trying to keep the somewhat older woman out of trouble.
‘Hmmph!’ Hilary tried the closed door in the gatehouse that she had confidently expected to lead to reception. She looked behind her and then at the distance between them and the far end of the cloisters. She wondered for a moment whether she should move the car after all. Then she set off at a determined pace across the lawn, until Veronica pointed out the notice asking them to keep off the grass.
‘People walk all over the lawn in the summer.’
‘It’s October now.’
Reluctantly Hilary obeyed. They followed the path along the side of the West Cloister, where many of the guest bedrooms would be. She looked enthusiastically across to the East Cloister and the roof of the tithe barn on its other side.
‘It was a splendid idea of Sir George’s to make the barn into his great hall. I still get a thrill out of sitting in it and thinking of all the feasts and councils of war and the dancing that have gone on over the years within those same walls.’
‘But probably not a master class in crime writing,’ suggested Veronica, hurrying to keep up with her.
‘Hmm, well. We’ll have to see how that goes. But there must be some advantage in forty years of history teaching. And I’ve seen enough of devious – not to say deviant – teenagers to provide a few ideas for villains. Between them, I should be able to come up with a halfway decent historical crime novel.’
‘I fancy something more modern myself. Perhaps with a romantic lead investigator. And some love interest as a sub-plot.’
‘Don’t tell me. You’re planning a twenty-first-century Lord Peter Wimsey.’
Veronica blushed. ‘Well, actually …’
‘Never mind. Let’s just hope this Gavin Standforth knows what he’s talking about. Now, where did you say reception was?’
An arrow pointed them round the end of the west cloister to an open door from which a couple, whom Hilary assumed from the back of the man’s balding head to be about their own age, were emerging. They unloaded suitcases from their car parked alongside and towed them indoors.
‘Our partners in crime,’ Hilary observed.
‘I looked our leader up on the internet,’ Veronica said. ‘Gavin Standforth. He’s written quite a lo
t of books. Just one bestseller, a couple of years ago, and a sequel which didn’t do as well. I ordered it for my bookshop, and people bought it on the strength of the previous one, but some of them dropped by afterwards and said it wasn’t a patch on that. Before that he had a publisher I didn’t recognize.’
Hilary snorted. ‘Probably self-published. Couldn’t get a decent publisher to take him on. Then he struck lucky. May never be able to do it again. Still, you never know. It may say “master class”, but in my experience masters of any profession aren’t necessarily the ones who teach best.’
She ducked into the reception office. A young woman in a crisp black suit and white shirt sat behind the desk.
‘Hilary Masters and Veronica Taylor,’ Hilary announced.
The woman ran her finger down the list. ‘That’s right. You asked for singles, I believe. We’ve put you in the East Cloister. Some of the top rooms are a bit more cramped there, and they were built before anyone had thought of en-suites. But you’ll each have your own separate bathroom.’
‘Perfect!’ said Hilary. ‘The old East Cloister is definitely the one with character.’
‘Here’s the programme. We’re thrilled about the opening session. Dinah Halsgrove is just about the biggest name you can get in crime writing.’
‘I must say she was a big part of the attraction. She must be over ninety now. But still turning out quality thrillers.’
‘She’s ninety-two. And as sharp as a button. Marvellous, isn’t it?’
‘I hope I’m that productive in thirty-four years’ time,’ laughed Veronica.
‘Don’t we all?’
‘There’s tea in the private rose garden first, behind the Great Barn. You can meet your fellow enthusiasts. Here are your keys. When you’ve unloaded your luggage, you can move your vehicle across to the main car park.’
Hilary and Veronica emerged into the sunshine. The door the receptionist had indicated lay on the other side of the lawn between bushes of lavender. Hilary kept an injured silence as they had to retrace their steps outside the courtyard to where she had illegally left her car.
They hauled their luggage over the path around the lawn. The delicately needled branches of a tall tree spread over the grass. Its ancient roots knuckled their way up through the cobbles that fringed the path.
‘Metasequoia, otherwise known as the dawn redwood,’ Hilary announced. ‘Rare example of a deciduous conifer.’
‘Hilary! You’re supposed to be retired from teaching, remember?’
Hilary swung round on her friend, dropping her case. ‘Being a teacher isn’t something I did. It’s what I am. I thought you understood that. I like to know things.’
‘Yes, Hilary. Sorry.’
Hilary saw the fondness in Veronica’s smile and was glad of it.
Conversation ceased while they hauled their suitcases up two flights of narrow stairs.
Hilary panted as she reached the top. ‘What sort of people come on a course in crime writing, do you think? Innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-their-mouths types, looking for vicarious thrills? Or more sinister characters, keen to discover devious ways to do the deed themselves?’
‘Hardly the latter,’ Veronica suggested. ‘It would look a bit obvious, wouldn’t it, if someone committed a murder and it was found that they’d recently been to a master class on murder mysteries?’
TWO
Hilary struggled through the glass-paned fire doors to the second-floor landing. She consulted her key tag. ‘Right. It looks as though I’m on this side of the corridor, and you’re over there.’
She opened the door to her room. Her delighted cry brought Veronica across the corridor from her own room.
A massive ancient beam arched over the interior, springing from the whitewashed stone wall. Wooden pegs studded it. Others angled upwards to meet under the highest point of the roof. There was no ceiling. The shape of the room mirrored the slope of the slate roof outside.
The bed was enormous. There was a small fireplace with a chequerboard of decorative tiles. A dormer window looked out over the cloister garth.
‘I seem to have struck the jackpot,’ Hilary cried. ‘They must have run out of single rooms.’ She stroked a loving finger over the deeply pitted timbers. ‘What do you think? Tudor, or recycled beams from the fourteenth-century abbey? I don’t know whether Gavin Standforth’s books are any good, but he certainly knows where to hold a conference.’
‘Lucky you. I don’t suppose my room is anything like as grand.’
Hilary waited a few minutes for Veronica to find her own quarters before she returned to the corridor. She crossed to a door a little further along.
‘Come in,’ called Veronica to her brisk tap.
This room was indeed smaller, and the bed was a single one, but the room’s sloping ceiling showed its own signs of antiquity. Hilary went to the deep-silled window looking out on the other side of the East Cloister, away from the lawn. She found herself looking directly across a path at the magnificent tithe barn.
The rough stone walls were pitted at regular intervals by small embrasures to let in the light. But the walls themselves were dwarfed by the soaring height of the slate roof. She sighed with satisfaction. The monks might not have built the tithe barn to serve as a great hall, but it was hard to imagine a more splendid one.
She opened the window and leaned out, squinting along the path between the cloisters and the barn to her left.
‘I was right. My memory hasn’t let me down. This path leads to the Lady Chapel, which is all that’s left intact of the abbey church.’
Veronica came to join her. ‘I wonder if anyone uses it now.’
‘It used to be the Woodleighs’ private chapel. Now it would be people who live on the abbey estate, I suppose. It’s a fair old step to the village church. Or maybe they just keep it for private prayer.’
‘The abbey church is still rather romantic, don’t you think, even though Henry the Eighth pulled it down. I like to imagine all those medieval monks, coming down the dormer stairs to pray in the middle of the night. We must take a look at it some time.’
‘Meanwhile, tea beckons. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.’
Hilary returned to her own bedroom.
‘David would have liked this room,’ she thought, as she dropped the sheaf of papers the receptionist had given her on the dressing table. But her husband had opted not to come with her. And for Veronica, sharing a holiday break with her Andrew was no longer an option. Death had taken him suddenly, two years ago.
Once Hilary and Veronica were settled in to their rooms, they negotiated the narrow stairs again. A few more people were arriving with suitcases, evidently bound for the same crime weekend. Hilary favoured them with a cheery smile. Others, earlier arrivals or casual visitors to the abbey, were strolling along the paths with a more leisurely air. Some were starting to tend more purposefully round the far end of the cloisters to the garden behind the Great Barn.
‘I was going to say that it’s hard to tell the criminal minds from innocent sightseers who’ve just dropped in to enjoy the historic buildings and the gardens. But I imagine those people over there are starting to head for the private rose garden. Tea!’
They entered the back of the barn and passed through a dim corridor out into the sunshine on the far side. This part of the garden was laid out with grassy terraces edged by stone walls and rose bushes, still aflame with crimson blossoms. Ropes across the gaps in the borders barred it from casual visitors. A table had been set out with a crisp white cloth, and tea urns stood beside generous plates of cake.
Hilary accepted a cup of tea from a waiter and helped herself to a slab of rich-looking fruit cake. She looked around with satisfaction. ‘I must say, I rather like this feeling of privilege. In the past, I’ve only ever glimpsed this garden over the wall, or through gaps in the hedge, like ordinary mortals. It’s rather nice to be on the inside for once.’
‘I suppose that’s what this weekend is all about,�
� said Veronica, setting down her slice of lemon gateau. ‘Getting to look at things from another point of view. We may not actually write from the persona of our villain, but we need to have an understanding of what’s going on in his mind, to make sense of what he does in the plot.’
‘Or she does,’ Hilary corrected her.
Swivelling her cup of tea dangerously, she advanced on the couple they had seen arriving at reception just ahead of them. ‘Hello. Are you here to explore the dark side of your nature, or to celebrate the moral victory of good over evil?’
The man turned his stocky head towards her. He had a round, genial face, which now bore a look of incomprehension.
‘Sorry?’ He still attempted a smile.
‘I was asking what brought you here for this weekend.’
‘Oh, well. This is Jo’s thing, really. I’ve just come along for the ride.’
Now that she looked more closely at the sleekly curled blonde by his side, Hilary saw that the woman of the pair, at least, was younger than she had thought. A lively, somewhat babyishly round face was surmounted by unexpectedly dark-framed spectacles, behind which her brown eyes sparkled. It gave her an incongruous mix of innocence and sharp intelligence. Those curls, Hilary decided, must be natural. Nobody under seventy went in for perms these days. She reserved judgement on the colour. The blonde cap seemed out of place with her dark eyes.
‘I rather fancy trying my hand at some Scandinavian crime noir.’ The smile flashed. ‘You know, the sort of thing that’s all over the telly nowadays, with subtitles. Sinister twilight in a marshy forest. A body lying in the mud, gruesomely murdered. A multiple cast of tortured characters and a deeply flawed investigator.’
Hilary raised her eyebrows. There was a childish enthusiasm in the woman’s face that seemed out of step with her words.
‘Hmm, I wouldn’t have guessed. Hilary Masters, by the way, and this is Veronica.’
‘How do you do. Jo Walters, and my husband Harry.’
‘Good fruit cake,’ Hilary commented. ‘You can always rely on Morland Abbey to feed you well.’
