Bunburry-- a Taste of Murder Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Contents

  Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series

  About the Book

  Cast

  The Author

  Title

  Copyright

  1. The Parcel

  2. Sunday Lunch

  3. The Next Morning

  4. Vivian

  5. The Police Station

  6. The Lawyer

  7. Bovinophobia

  8. Murder Inquiry

  9. Oxford University

  10. The Squeak

  Epilogue

  Next episode

  Bunburry – A Cosy Mystery Series

  Miss Marple meets Oscar Wilde in this new series of cosy mysteries set in the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry. In “Murderous Ride,” the second Bunburry book, Alfie discovers that he has not only inherited a cottage from his late Aunt Augusta but also a 1950s Jaguar. He is dismayed: for reasons of his own, he no longer drives. Aunt Augusta’s best friends, Liz and Marge, persuade him to get behind the wheel again – but that’s just the start of his troubles.

  About the Book

  A local beef farmer is found dead and Betty Thorndike, vegetarian and Bunburry’s only Green Party member, is in the frame. Alfie knows what it’s like to be wrongly accused, and enlists the help of his fellow amateur detectives, Liz and Marge, to find out who’s responsible. There’s just one problem about a farm-based investigation – Alfie’s scared of cows …

  Cast

  Alfie McAlister flees the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of the Cotswolds. Unfortunately, the “heart of England” turns out to be deadlier than expected …

  Margaret “Marge” Redwood and Clarissa “Liz” Hopkins have lived in Bunburry their entire lives, where they are famous for their exceptional fudge-making skills. Between Afternoon Tea and Gin o’clock they relish a bit of sleuthing…

  Emma Hollis loves her job as policewoman, the only thing she is tired of are her aunt Liz’s constant attempts at matchmaking.

  Betty Thorndike is a fighter. Mostly for animal rights. She’s the sole member of Bunburry’s Green Party.

  Oscar de Linnet lives in London and is Alfie’s best friend. He tries luring Alfie back to the City because: “anybody can be good in the country. There are no temptations there.”

  Augusta Lytton is Alfie’s aunt. She’s dead. But still full of surprises…

  Harold Wilson loves a pint (or two) more than his job as local police sergeant.

  BUNBURRY is a picturesque Cotswolds village, where sinister secrets lurk beneath the perfect façade…

  The Author

  Helena Marchmont is a pseudonym of Olga Wojtas, who was born and brought up in Edinburgh. She was encouraged to write by an inspirational English teacher, Iona M. Cameron. Olga won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2015, has had more than 30 short stories published in magazines and anthologies and recently published her first mystery Miss Blaine’s Prefect and the Golden Samovar.

  HELENA MARCHMONT

  A Taste of Murder

  »be« by BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

  Digital original edition

  »be« by Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is written in British English.

  Copyright © 2019 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

  Written by Olga Wojtas as Helena Marchmont

  Edited by Allan Guthrie

  Idea and series concept: Kathrin Kummer & Rebecca Schaarschmidt

  Project editor: Kathrin Kummer

  Cover design: Kirstin Osenau

  Cover illustrations © shutterstock: schankz | Sk_Advance studio | ivangal | Ola-la | Patryk Kosmider | WDG Photo

  E-book production: Dörlemann Satz, Lemförde

  ISBN 978-3-7325-5523-9

  www.be-ebooks.com

  Twitter: @be_ebooks_com

  Follow the author on Twitter: @OlgaWojtas

  I can’t stand people who do not take food seriously.

  Oscar Wilde

  1. The Parcel

  Alfie was sitting over a coffee in the brightly tiled kitchen when the Hallelujah Chorus broke out. Undoubtedly the most unusual doorbell in the Cotswolds, it startled him every time it rang, but he had no plans for something more commonplace. Aunt Augusta had chosen it, and he still thought of the cottage as hers.

  He went to the front door, which was still painted in Aunt Augusta’s trademark purple for the same reason, and was greeted by the postwoman.

  “Another parcel from your friend Oscar in London,” she said. “He’s very good to you, isn’t he? We’re not sure what it is, but a good shake makes it sound a bit like maracas.” She held up the package and shook it next to his ear to prove her point. “The wrong shape for maracas, though. Pop in and let us know what it is, won’t you? Oh, and tell Oscar we always have a good laugh at the address. Bye.”

  “Bye,” said Alfie faintly as she headed back down the lane. He still found village life disconcerting compared to the anonymity of the capital. In Bunburry, everybody seemed to know everybody else’s business, and what they didn’t know, they just made up.

  Since Oscar had discovered that as Bunburry was so small, anything with Alfie’s name on it would be correctly delivered, he had been creating increasingly outrageous addresses. He had accurately written his own name, Oscar de Linnet, and his Belgravia postcode, in his careful copperplate script on the back of the package, but the front read Alfie McAlister Esq, The Ramshackle Hovel, Back of Beyond, followed by the genuine postcode. Theirs was an unlikely friendship: Oscar, the languid Old Etonian, born to a life of privilege, and Alfie, brought up by a single mother, educated in the local comprehensive, a self-made man. They had met through a mutual love of theatre in an amateur dramatics group, and found themselves as the two male leads in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. Alfie was cast as the gentleman of leisure, Algernon Moncrieff, while Oscar played Jack Worthing, the rogue with a double life. It was Oscar who had played matchmaker between Alfie and Vivian. That was two years ago. And now Vivian was dead, Alfie had decamped to Bunburry, and Oscar was doing everything in his power to lure him back to London.

  Oscar began by haranguing him. “You can’t live in an old woman’s cottage in the middle of nowhere.”

  “It’s not in the middle of nowhere, it’s on the edge of Bunburry, which appears on Ordnance Survey maps. And it’s not an old woman’s cottage, it’s my cottage, left to me by my late aunt.”

  Windermere Cottage did have its downside, notably the psychedelic wallpaper and the avocado bathroom suite, but Alfie didn’t feel he had the energy to redecorate and still wasn’t sure whether he would stay in the Cotswolds. Not that he was going to admit that to Oscar, who had moved to more subtle methods of persuasion.

  First came the programmes, from the National Theatre, the Barbican, the Globe, the Royal Opera House, the Albert Hall, accompanied by handwritten letters that described each performance in glowing detail and pronounced it the very best that Oscar had ever seen.

  Now he was employing more tangible enticements. The first package contained achiote paste, and a handwritten Oscar Wilde quote: “I can’t stand people that do not take food seriously.” A week later came lemongrass, then black garlic, Korean gochujang spice, powdered baobab, acai berries.
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  Alfie had sought out all these ingredients when he was in London. He had loved cooking for Vivian, making sure she was properly fed after hours of rehearsals or an exhausting performance. When she wasn’t working, they often wandered round food markets, picking up new ideas.

  Alfie had even experimented with making exotic ice cream, entirely unsuccessfully. Oscar had introduced him to Bellini’s Ice Cream Parlour where the charming Mario Bellini created amazing concoctions using organic superfoods. Alfie was particularly partial to the Chi-Chi Chia Cheesecake but had never managed to replicate it at home. Oscar had included a note with the chia seeds: “I would have sent a tub of the original for you to work from, but like many wines, ice cream doesn’t travel well.”

  Oscar’s underlying message, of course, was that Alfie would have easy access to all these things if he just came back to London. But without Vivian, Alfie was no longer enthused by cooking. It seemed too much effort. Besides, he could walk to The Drunken Horse Inn, which offered superb home cooking using local produce.

  He scoured the new biography of Oscar Wilde that Oscar had given him and found a suitable quote. He wrote it on a postcard featuring Bunburry nestling idyllically among rolling hills: “I should have remembered that when one is going to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals. The local hostelry meets my needs admirably.”

  But Oscar had refused to take the hint. Alfie picked up the latest parcel, the one that sounded faintly like maracas, and carefully opened it. Chia seeds, a kilo of them. He would do what he had done with all of the exotic foods, but he would also ring Oscar and thank him.

  It was one of Oscar’s many eccentricities that while he was happy to text, he would only talk on his landline, and it was Sunday morning before the phone was picked up.

  “So, you were out at another amazing cultural event last night?” Alfie asked.

  “It was sublime. I wish you had been there. You miss so much in the country, and you would have adored it. We went on to the club afterwards.” He yawned. “I’m still in bed.”

  Alfie glanced at his watch: ten thirty. He had been up for a couple of hours, and wasn’t in bed but on top of it. He had got into the habit of ringing Oscar on Aunt Augusta’s landline, which sat on the bedside table. This was his favourite room, decorated in soothing shades of lavender, grey and white. Reclining on the bed, all he could see out of the window was trees, and all he could hear from outside was the gentle twittering of the birds. Right now, he had no desire to return to the hubbub of London.

  “What did you see?”

  “Brecht’s The Caucasian Chalk Circle,” said Oscar. “An absolute triumph. It uplifted the soul. And there you are, stuck in the wilderness.”

  Alfie’s voice was silky. “Oscar, even in the wilderness, I can access information online and through the newsagent. Is this the production that every single critic has panned and warned people not to waste their money on?”

  “Ah,” said Oscar. “Yes, I believe that might be the one. That was why we went to the club afterwards – we needed industrial quantities of alcohol to blot out the experience.”

  “You lied to me, Oscar – I’ll never be able to trust you again.”

  Oscar didn’t seem at all discomfited at being caught out. “It was in your best interest, which I always have at heart. But perhaps the countryside has its attractions. How’s your harem?”

  “You’re better placed than me to answer that, since my harem is a figment of your imagination,” said Alfie drily.

  “Not at all. By my calculation, you’re now up to six. The two Miss Marples, the lady policeman, the tree hugger, Edith the barmaid and the tempestuous Carlotta. Your sophisticated metropolitan charm is catnip for these simple country girls.”

  Alfie lay back on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Oscar, I’m going to explain it again, very slowly, and I want you to concentrate this time. Liz and Marge are fond of me because Aunt Augusta was their best friend. They have no romantic interest in me whatsoever. They think I would make a perfect partner for Liz’s great-niece, Police Constable Hollis, who has no romantic interest in me whatsoever. Edith, who is no ordinary barmaid, but mother of the owner of The Drunken Horse and seventy if she’s a day, has no romantic interest in me whatsoever. Following so far?”

  Oscar gave a grunt that could have meant anything.

  “Carlotta is happily married to the owner of The Drunken Horse and has no romantic interest in me whatsoever. She is only occasionally tempestuous, generally when her mother-in-law Edith describes her fine Italian cooking as ‘foreign muck’ but gobbles it up all the same.”

  “Ah yes,” said Oscar. “After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations. But you’re suspiciously silent about the tree hugger.”

  Alfie felt vaguely cheered that Oscar was prepared to joke about his love life. He wouldn’t have dreamed of it only a few months ago, when Alfie was helpless with grief. Oscar must think he was better. He wasn’t; he was just better at concealing it. But Oscar’s flippant banter was a welcome distraction.

  “I’m silent because there’s nothing to tell. Edith has unilaterally decided that Betty Thorndike is my girlfriend, purely because I’ve been going to her Green Party meetings. Ms Thorndike, incidentally, hails from Washington DC, has enough metropolitan sophistication for both of us, and has no romantic interest in me whatsoever.”

  “They may not be interested in you, but which of the ladies makes your heart beat faster?”

  “No contest,” said Alfie. “Edith, the finest cook in England. In fact, I must go. You get on with doing whatever it is metropolitan sophisticates do on Sunday – I’m meeting Liz and Marge in The Horse for the best Sunday lunch in five counties.”

  2. Sunday Lunch

  Alfie took the packet of chia seeds with him and handed it over to Liz and Marge who had already commandeered a table in the crowded pub.

  Marge peered at it gloomily. “Oh,” she said. “That’s not what I was hoping for.”

  Alfie sat down opposite her. “They’re a superfood,” he said. “Full of protein, fibre and good fats. You can put them on your cornflakes or in smoothies.”

  “I know what chia seeds are, thank you,” she said tartly. “But we had a bet on at the post office. I thought it was wild rice and Liz thought it was macadamia nuts. That’s 50p I’ll never see again.”

  “I don’t think anybody guessed chia seeds,” said Liz. “The money can go in the charity box.”

  Alfie stared at them. “Sorry, there was a sweepstake on the contents of Oscar’s parcel?”

  “There always is,” said Marge. “Ever since Dorothy said: ‘I bet it’s lemongrass,’ and it was. Tell you what, Alfie, next time get Oscar to tell you in advance what he’s sending, and I’ll split the winnings with you.”

  Liz gave a warning cough. “Marge, dear, remember the rules. Anyone talking to Alfie about the parcels is immediately disqualified.”

  Marge patted Alfie’s hand. “In that case, don’t say a word. Text me,” she said. “And you can tell Oscar to stop being so rude when he writes the address – what was it this time? The Ramshackle Hovel? That’s no way to talk about Windermere Cottage. If you were talking about Betty Thorndike’s place, now …”

  Alfie shot her a searching look, but she seemed the picture of innocence. Edith’s fantasy that Betty was his girlfriend had been doing the rounds of the village. And Alfie had done nothing to contradict this in front of Liz and Marge in the hope that they would stop trying to pair him up with Emma.

  “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

  “Well, with her views, it must be like going back into the 19th century. All fat and tallow candles, no labour-saving devices. I’m surprised we don’t see her down in the river washing her clothes.”

  “Or even better, down in the river washing herself,” murmured Alfie, just loud enough to be h
eard. He added in a normal tone: “I don’t think being a member of the Green Party automatically consigns you to the 19th century. You can get green electricity now. But isn’t there something admirable about someone who’s prepared to sacrifice their comfort for the sake of principle?”

  Marge sniffed. “You say admirable, I say daft. So, you like her cottage, do you?”

  Alfie was happy to mislead but less happy about actually lying.

  “I’ve never seen it,” he confessed, preparing to witness the ladies’ shared look of triumph.

  But Liz’s attention was elsewhere. “Marge, dear,” she whispered, “who’s that sitting over there with Emma’s dreadful sergeant?”

  It always startled Alfie how much Liz, one of the gentlest and kindest people he had ever met, detested the local policeman. Not that he objected; he detested Sergeant Harold Wilson as well, especially after having been arrested by him.

  Marge turned around and stared, on the pretext of studying a painting of hunting dogs on the wall, which she must have seen thousands of times. She turned back, tutting. “Honestly, Liz, don’t you recognise him?”

  “No, dear, I don’t, or I wouldn’t be asking,” said Liz, back to her normal equanimity.

  “It’s Norman Edwards’ boy, Nigel,” said Marge.

  Alfie had a surreptitious glance of his own. The two men were sitting in one of the small wooden-sided booths at the back of the pub, deep in discussion. They each had an empty pint glass in front of them and were well into their second pint. They were two of a kind, Alfie thought – the “boy” Nigel in his fifties like the sergeant, both ruddy-cheeked and thin-haired, with hard expressions. Nigel wasn’t as overweight as the sergeant but definitely wasn’t wasting away.

  Wilson caught Alfie staring at them, and Alfie half-raised his hand in greeting. Wilson ignored this and resumed the conversation.