A Simple Country Murder

  A Simple Country Murder

  Blythe Baker

  Contents

  Description

  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

  Excerpt

  About the Author

  Murder. Spies. Treason. Shadowy secrets lurk beneath the surface of an idyllic country village...

  When Helen Lightholder’s world is shattered by the death of her husband during the London Blitz, she escapes to the countryside, hoping to leave the war behind her. But managing an inherited property in a quaint Gloucestershire village turns out to be more perilous than she expects.

  Cozy little Brookminster isn’t the peaceful haven Helen dreamed of, and it isn’t long before she discovers that, even here, dark threats and dangerous secrets await. As family duty compels her to meddle in a police investigation into the suspicious death of a relative, she finds herself at odds with the local inspector.

  Can Helen bring justice to her little corner of the country, while war rages on in the greater world outside? Or will her investigation make her the next target of a fiendish killer who has everything to lose?

  1

  Thunder rumbled over my head, somewhere high above the thick, dark clouds. I clutched the umbrella in my hand more tightly, as if it might help my feet to remain on the ground, as if I could squeeze some of the pain that tore through my heart into it. But relief would not come, no matter how white my knuckles became.

  The rain splattered against the black plastic above my head, sharp and fast like a hail of gunfire. Droplets collected along the rim, before gravity pulled them down to the ground, where they rejoined the others in the puddles at my feet.

  The polished stone erected in the ground in front of me was difficult to see through my bleary eyes. I blinked the tears away, and read the words carved in the granite before me.

  Roger Lightholder

  1910 – 1941

  “Be strong and courageous, and do the work.”

  “You were strong…and courageous,” I said, barely above a whisper. No one would have been able to hear me, even if they had been standing right beside me. But it didn’t matter. The one who needed to hear it would never hear it, anyway.

  The words chosen for his headstone were words he had said often in his life. Ever since meeting him, I’d noticed it was his mantra, of sorts. He would say it before heading out the door for work, often to begin a project that would take him away from me for weeks on end. When the funeral director had asked me what he would have wanted inscribed on his grave, I had been only vaguely aware of the question. All I could think was…my husband’s grave? No, that can’t be right. It must be someone else’s.

  This was only the second time I had come up to London to visit Highgate Cemetery. The first had been for Roger’s funeral some weeks ago. I couldn’t even be sure exactly when that had been. The days had seemingly melted together into one, long, terrible blur.

  The last time I stood here, I’d been wearing black. Something my sister picked out for me. I couldn’t even remember if it was hers or mine. People around me had cried. I met members of his family that I should have met at a Christmas dinner, or perhaps someone’s birthday, but not over Roger’s grave.

  And yet now, on this evening when I stood all alone in the pouring rain, the only living person in the cemetery, I found myself feeling that pain I’d been too numb to feel during the funeral. My heart ached, my breath caught in my chest… I wanted to run from it all, but it was impossible to run from one’s own thoughts and emotions…

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be back to Plymouth before spring for a visit,” Roger had said the very last time I’d seen him. He smiled that crooked smile at me, his deep blue eyes holding no fear or regret.

  “But how can you be sure about that?” I’d asked. “This war has been going on for two years now. Can’t I just come with you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not a good idea with London being such a target. It’s much safer if you stay here with your parents. They’re happy to have you and I can sleep well at night knowing that you’re out of harm’s way.”

  “And what about me?” I asked. “What about all of my sleepless nights, not knowing if I will ever again see the husband I have barely seen since our wedding day?”

  He laid his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “Helen, I promise that I will always come home to you. And when this war is finally over, we can get that little cottage by the sea and start our life together the right way.”

  I didn’t know why that memory kept flooding my mind every time I thought about him. Maybe it was because it was the last pleasant one I had.

  “You were right, you know,” I murmured to the headstone, the surface of the smooth granite slick with rain. “You did come home to me, in the end.”

  Just not in the way that any woman wants… I thought bitterly.

  I stared out over the graves, my heart aching inside my chest. How terrible cemeteries were. They were filled with the memories of people living out the worst moments of their lives, grieving over those who had been lost, over those who had passed on. It didn’t matter if it had been their time, or if it had happened suddenly. Death was a horrible price for a loved one to pay, a pain they would carry with them for the rest of their days…until it was their turn to join the others buried six feet beneath the ground.

  “I wish I had known you better,” I said to the rain, since it was the only thing remotely lifelike around. “Married for two years, and I don’t know if I should be more angry with the world for going to war, or with you for agreeing to leave me behind to go help deal with it.”

  I realized I was being unfair, but I knew I would never get a chance to say these words to him, and as the tears resumed, the emotions continued to bubble to the surface. I’d been thinking these things over and over again since I had received the call. That dreaded night, when I was sitting awake with a pit in my stomach for some strange reason, unable to sleep. When the telephone rang just after midnight, it was as if I knew before I had even answered it.

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “I hope you know that. I don’t blame you for the air raid that happened that night. I don’t blame you for the war, and it’s taking you away from me. But I wish I knew more, Roger. I wish I knew why you had to be in London, living day in and day out in danger the way you did. Why didn’t you ever talk about your work? Of course, at the time I didn’t ask, but now I wish we had shared more with each other.”

  The rain began to fall harder on my umbrella, as if the sky itself warned me that I was venturing into dangerous territory. The umbrella handle trembled in my hand, and I gripped it harder.

  There was a blaring honk! behind me that made me jump. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the streaked headlights of a car parked just outside the cemetery, the bright lights piercing the gloomy darkness.

  “It’s time for me to go, Roger,” I said in a low voice. “I…I don’t know when I’ll be back. But I couldn’t begin this new chapter of my life without saying goodbye.”

  I lifted my chin, and wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “Goodbye, Roger. I hope that you can rest in peace,” I said.

  I turned and started out of the cemetery, my shoes already soaked all the way through, the water creeping into my stockings as the puddles splashed against my legs. The
path leading back out to the road was muddy and unstable, and by the time I walked back through the wrought iron gates, I was nearly drenched up to my knees.

  The taxicab driver’s bristling grey moustache twitched as I walked toward the vehicle. He leaned his arm out the window, his jacket sleeve getting sprayed with heavy raindrops. “Everythin’ alright, Miss?” he asked, squinting up at me through the dreariness.

  “Yes, I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” I said.

  “It’s fine, but just so’s you know, I’m still chargin’ you for the time I’m idlin’,” he said. “If you’re ready, you should get in before you catch your death. Don’ want to be joinin’ these poor sods anytime soon.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the cemetery, my eyes all too easily falling upon Roger’s grave. “Yes, you’re right,” I said. “This is no place for the living.”

  “Too right you are,” he said.

  I pulled open the back door and slid inside. Closing my umbrella, I set it down on the floor, realizing how futile it was to attempt to shake it out. As soon as the door shut with a heavy thud, we were on our way.

  The cigarette clamped between the old man’s teeth filled the car with a haze of smoke. He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “So…where you headed?” he asked.

  “Paddington station,” I said, turning to stare out the rain-streaked window. Shapes were indecipherable through the downpour, but lights from headlights and streetlamps were like fireflies scattered around the city.

  “Not a problem,” he said.

  We drove in silence for a few moments, my mind numbly passing from one thought to the next, too tired to focus on anything in particular.

  “If you don’t mind me askin’…who was you visitin’ today?” he asked.

  “My late husband,” I said, not seeing any reason to lie.

  “Oh…” the man said, somewhat sheepishly. “I’m sorry to hear that. I lost my wife a few years back. She’s buried not far from here, actually. Sometimes I like to bring her flowers when the sun’s nice and bright. She loved foxgloves best.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Thank you,” he said with a dip of his head. He sighed heavily, straightening his shoulders. “Things never been the same since she passed. Work is about the only thing I do. Kids all grown up, moved out, families of their own… Well, you’re quite young still, Miss. I’m certain you can find happiness again.”

  “And I’m sure you will, too,” I said. “You’re never too old to still find the good in life.”

  He smiled at me. “Thank you for sayin’ that. I think I needed to hear it today.”

  I smiled in return, but my lips turned downward again as soon as his eyes left mine in the mirror. I wished I truly believed the positive words I spoke to everyone around me. I wished I honestly thought I still had a future ahead of me, but in my heart of hearts I was convinced nothing interesting would ever happen to me again. I had no idea how wrong I was.

  2

  I paid the taxi driver an extra tip for his services. I knew that most would have refused to sit and wait while I went into the cemetery to pay my respects to my husband, but he had been kind enough to allow it. And after finding out about his wife also being deceased, it made me feel a bit of kinship with the man.

  He dropped me off as close to the main entrance as possible, though it seemed to me that every man and woman in London wished to take the train that day. “That’s quite the surprise,” said the driver, seeing all the people walking in and out of the doors, umbrellas in greys and blacks and blues dotting the sidewalk. “It’s not a holiday or nothin’ like that. What’re they all doin’ here?”

  I had no idea, but it didn’t change the fact that I had a train to catch.

  Bumping and dragging my suitcase in through the large doors, I did my best to squeeze past others with their luggage trolleys. “Excuse me – oh, pardon me. I’m sorry, ma’am, I – excuse me.”

  No one else around me seemed to notice, though, as they were all lost in their own worlds. The only people who seemed to give me any thought were those that I bumped into, or backed up against without seeing them. “I’m sorry,” I said, over and over, my face growing hot, my stockings still soaked through, and my shoes slipping on the muddy, wet floor.

  I managed to drag myself up to the ticket counter, where the tired looking man behind it blinked unenthusiastically at me. “Where are you headed?”

  “Gloucestershire,” I said as the woman beside me with a baby in her arms elbowed me in the shoulder. “The eight o’clock train.”

  The man turned rather slowly to his right to glance at a list of trains and their departure times. “You’re in luck. I only have a few tickets left for the eight o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” I said, pulling the money from my purse and passing it through the small gap in the window.

  He handed me the ticket, and I turned to face the crowds again, steeling myself.

  It took me nearly twice as long as it should have to push my way through the groups of people, the crying children, and the station attendants helping older couples with their bags before I stepped out onto the platform where the train awaited.

  I dragged my suitcases toward the doors near the front of the train, and was greeted by a tall, thin, smiling man with a conductor’s uniform on. “Good evening, Miss. May I help you with your bags?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” I said, my shoulders sagging with the weight of my things. “I realize now I should have found a trolley, but I am quite certain they must all be gone by now.”

  The conductor smiled pleasantly, and easily swooped both of my suitcases up off the ground and turned toward the open door he’d been standing inside. “Which cabin is yours?”

  I glanced at my ticket. “Seven B, sir.”

  “Right this way,” he said, disappearing inside the narrow halls of the train car.

  I stepped up inside, and at once the hustle and bustle of the train station seemed to die away. Softer murmurs replaced the yelling and the carrying on of those passengers outside, and as I wandered past compartments, I saw many had already been occupied.

  The conductor was whistling up ahead, which lifted my spirits somewhat.

  “Here we are,” the conductor said to me, ducking inside a compartment near the back of the train car.

  I followed him in and stepped into a small compartment, with two comfortable sized benches situated on either side of a large, picture window overlooking the station beyond.

  “Is there anything else I can get you? Perhaps the dinner trolley?” the conductor asked.

  “No, that is quite alright,” I said.

  “May I see your ticket?” he asked.

  I passed it to him, and he clipped it with a smile. “Thank you, Miss. I hope you enjoy your trip to Gloucestershire.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He tipped his hat to me before hurrying off, no doubt to go and help more passengers.

  With a heavy sigh, I slid the compartment doors closed before sinking down onto the bench, peering outside.

  I watched as a mother ushered her seven young children up toward the train, her husband looking as worn out as I felt, tagging along behind. I watched a group of men in sharp suits and sashes make their way along the platform toward the back of the train, one of them carrying a bag with the word CIRCUS inscribed across the front of it.

  My heart ached as I watched a young man, no older than eighteen or nineteen and dressed in military garb, embracing a sobbing woman, the older man standing beside her looking rather somber.

  Off to war, it seemed. Another young man putting his life on the line for his country…

  I turned away from the window. After squaring my suitcases away on the luggage rack beside the door, I pulled a book from my bag and sat beside the window again, my back to the glass, and my knees curled up underneath me.

  It was only a two hour trip, but I was already dreadi
ng the time I was going to have to spend all by myself, without anyone to talk to or distract me. Alone with my own thoughts, as nice and quiet as it was in the compartment. In a way, I would almost rather deal with London and all of its hectic ways, if it meant I didn’t have to spend any time reflecting on my life, and all that it was, for the moment.

  Not that I had to think, of course. But I knew myself well enough to know that as good as a book could be, it was never enough to fully blot out the reality that pressed itself in against my mind every waking moment of the day. I was alone, and that was not going to change, no matter how far away I ran.

  The shriek of the train whistle echoed around the station, making me look up. Was it time to leave, already? I glanced out the window and saw some of the station attendants pushing people back away from the platform, including that couple who had brought their son to go off to war. The woman was still dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, and the husband resting his hand on her shoulder, his eyes downcast.

  I turned away. I understood how they felt far too much to wish to linger on it. In my heart of hearts, though, I hoped they would not have to experience a fulfillment of their fears like I had. I hoped their son would come home, alive and well, without the horrors of war still preying on his mind.

  The train headed out of the station, the heavy frame chugging along slowly at first, the sound of the wheels on the tracks somewhat soothing and rhythmic. As we came out from underneath the glass and iron overhang of the station, the train was pelted with the heavy rain. It obscured the view of the city as we wound our way along through it, the darkness growing and soon drawing many passengers to sleep.