A Simple Country Murder Read online

  I breathed a sigh of relief. A weight seemed to lift from my chest the further we traveled from the station. Making my way to unknown places, I was leaving behind anything and everything that could remind me of my husband and the life with him that I was robbed of. Soon I would be in a place where I might be able to start over.

  I settled as comfortably as I could against the seat, opening the book once more and allowing myself to focus on it. My gaze, however, fell away from the words and settled on a familiar letter I’d tucked into the front cover.

  I slipped it from between the pages and looked at it. The envelope was wrinkled and creased, and the seal on the back had been ripped in three places. I had read the contents many times already but felt the need to read them yet again to strengthen my purpose. I peeled the opened envelope apart and pulled free the letter, which was even more crumpled than the envelope itself. My eyes skimmed past the greetings and jumped down to the main body.

  I am writing to inform you of an inheritance from a one Miss Vivian Caldwell, who is recently deceased. The following has been transferred to your name as of the signing of this letter, and all of the necessary documents of proof are enclosed in this envelope;

  The letter went on to list a cottage, along with all of its contents, located in the small village of Brookminster. It seemed that the building encompassed both an upstairs living area and a shop that had been run out of the bottom floor.

  I was uncertain why Aunt Vivian, a woman I barely knew or remembered, had chosen to bequeath her home and business to me at her death. According to my father, I had met her once when I was about four years old at a family gathering of some sort, but she had made little impression on me. Perhaps I had made a greater one on her? Or perhaps, she had simply had no one better to leave her worldly goods to. Word within the family was that she hated traveling, and lived alone well away from everyone else.

  It was my father who had encouraged me to make use of this unexpected inheritance. He knew that a small village in the Gloucestershire countryside would be safer for me than continuing to live as a guest in my parents’ home in Plymouth, where I had been since the start of the war, at Roger’s insistence. If Plymouth was a less attractive target for air raids than London, the tiny Brookminster nestled in the middle of nowhere was better still. While my mother despised the idea of me leaving so soon after Roger’s death, Father could see that this opportunity for independence and a sense of purpose was what I needed more than anything.

  “You need distance and time to heal,” he said to me when we had discussed the inheritance. “And if you get there and realize it is not what you hoped it would be, then you know you always have a home here.”

  Those words had been enough to spur me on toward the change. The move gave me something to focus on, something to strive toward. I felt invigorated again for the first time in the weeks since Roger had died, and I really believed this could be the way out of my misery.

  After getting a few more details settled with my aunt’s solicitor, all the remaining paperwork had been signed over to me; the house, the shop, and everything in it.

  It was mine now. Entirely mine.

  I was grateful that I was going to be taking over something in the family. It was something I could call my own.

  I hoped the countryside would be a place where I could heal, just like my father had said.

  I would miss Plymouth. I’d grown up there, and it was where most of my family was. But I needed some time alone. I needed to figure out who I was now, without a future with Roger. With everything having turned completely upside down, I wasn’t sure what the future might even look like.

  I tucked the letter away inside the cover of the book once more, a prickle of nervousness racing down my spine. As much as I had been anticipating this big move and change, it was still completely new, and I had no idea what to expect.

  I forced myself to focus on the book in front of me. I had to give my mind a rest for once. I had spent so much of the last month thinking that I had exhausted myself, and I wasn’t sure I could ever fully recover.

  It wasn’t long before my eyelids began to grow quite heavy, and I was squeezing my eyes shut just to try and keep myself awake.

  When rest became too sweet and tempting, I laid my head against the back of the bench, and allowed myself to close my eyes.

  Just for a few minutes…I said. I just need to rest for a moment is all…

  Those few moments passed away too quickly, and I lost awareness of my surroundings. The ebb and flow of the train rocked me as easily as if I were an infant, and the next thing I knew, I was sound asleep.

  I wasn’t aware that I was asleep, though. As soon as I was aware of myself once again, I was in a familiar place. Not on a train. Not heartbroken.

  I was sitting outside a little café in Paris, a fresh cup of tea and a warm croissant on the table in front of me, tempting me. A group of pigeons cooed somewhere along the ground between the tables.

  But my eyes were not glued to the food, or to the beautiful city.

  I was staring at the man across from me.

  He seemed entirely relaxed, his face turned up toward the sun. His legs were crossed, his foot bouncing to some unknown tune in his mind. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

  Roger. My Roger.

  “What a fine, fine day,” he said. “And the weather could not be more perfect, could it, sweetheart?”

  “No, it couldn’t,” I said.

  “I must say, we will have to make a tradition of this, I think,” he said. “I know it is our honeymoon, and all that…but wouldn’t it be nice to get away like this once in a while?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’m pleased to see you so relaxed, darling. You really shouldn’t work so hard.”

  “I agree. I must learn to take it easier now that I am a married man,” he said, turning himself back around to me, pulling himself up to the table.

  “And what exactly is it that the government has you working so hard at, dear?” I asked, for what felt like the hundredth time since we’d met.

  He grinned at me, and opened his mouth to answer. But I couldn’t quite hear him. It was as if he spoke from the end of a very long tunnel.

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked.

  He did so, nodding encouragingly.

  I shook my head. “I still couldn’t quite hear you,” I said, leaning forward, cupping my hand over my ear.

  “You will never know,” said our waiter who had suddenly appeared, speaking in his thick, French accent. “He will die before you get the answers you seek.”

  “What?” I asked, fear flooding me. “Roger? Die? No – how could he – ”

  “Miss? Miss?”

  My heart jumped and my eyes flew open.

  The conductor was standing beside me, shaking my shoulder gently.

  The blood raced in my ears as I stared up at him. “Oh, I’m sorry…” I said.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” the conductor said with his pleasant smile. “I believe this is your stop. I wouldn’t want you to wake up and realize you had missed it.”

  “Oh,” I said, sitting up straight and running a hand through my hair. It was sticking up in the back where I’d lain on it. “Thank you very much for alerting me. That was very kind of you.”

  “It was no trouble at all,” the conductor said. “Here, allow me to help you get your things off the train.”

  I packed my book back into one of the suitcases, and the conductor happily took the case from me and carried it back through the door and down the narrow corridor.

  The train station in Gloucestershire was a great deal smaller than Paddington station had been. There were far fewer people, as well, which suited me just fine.

  “Thank you again, very much,” I said as the conductor set my suitcases down onto a luggage trolley for me.

  “It was my pleasure,” he said. “I hope you have a pleasant rest of your evening.” He tipped his hat at me and
smiled once again before hurrying off to the train, and climbing inside.

  As I pushed the trolley toward the exits, the whistle sounded again, and guilt washed over me. They had held the train for me, it seemed.

  My face flushed as I thought back to the dream I’d had. It had started so much like the memory of our honeymoon that I had, that beautiful trip to Paris before the war, but it had taken such a morbid turn. Would there ever be a time in my life when his face didn’t fill my dreams? Would it even matter if I tried to distance myself from him, knowing that he would just be there when I entered my dreams?

  I sighed, and headed out toward the doors.

  I took a cab to an inn at the edge of town. I couldn’t even remember the name of the place, but the cabbie seemed to know it. I had made a reservation some days ago, and thankfully the room was still available.

  Clambering out of the car, I surveyed the low building before me. In the darkness, I could barely make out the details of its honey colored stone and the purple wisteria climbing up to the edges of the slate roof. Moonlit fields stretched beyond. There was no question that I had come a long way from Plymouth and London.

  I collected my room key quickly and dragged myself to my small, quaint room, too tired to admire the timber beams overhead or the view out of the window beside my bed. I fell asleep before I had a chance to undress.

  The next time I woke up, the first golden sunlight of dawn was filtering in through my window. It was the first dreamless night I’d had since Roger had died. Well, not entirely dreamless, as I’d slept on the train, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt better.

  I made it a point to put some effort into getting ready that morning. I spent an extra long time in the bath, and took awhile to brush out my hair before pinning my best hat on.

  I even put on some lipstick that morning before I headed down to pay my tab and enjoy the complimentary breakfast.

  After a proper breakfast with eggs and sausage, I was ready to head out.

  A cab that the innkeeper had called for me pulled up outside. The driver loaded my suitcases into the back, and opened the door for me to slide in.

  “So, where are you headed?” he asked, turning around and looking at me. He was a large framed man with a square jaw and drooping cheeks like a basset hound.

  “Brookminster,” I said. “I hope it’s not too far. I’m not really familiar with these parts.”

  “Not too far, no,” the man said, turning back around. “Just about an hour from the station here. Nice place, Brookminster. My sister lives there. It’s quiet. One of the few places left where it still doesn’t feel like there’s a war on, you know?”

  That was rather pleasant news.

  “I’m glad to hear those places still exist,” I said, hope stirring inside me.

  It seemed like just maybe this little village would be a place where I could put death and darkness behind me…once and for all.

  3

  “We’re just about there, Miss,” said the cabbie from the front seat, pulling me out of my reverie. I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts as we drove down the hedge-lined narrow lanes that I hadn’t realized how quickly the time had slipped by. “Brookminster is just up over this hill, here.”

  I peered through the front windscreen of the car, and saw a faded, wooden sign with the word Brookminster in scrolling script. I wondered how long the sign had been standing there beside the road.

  We crested the hill, and my heart skipped.

  A lovely landscape unrolled before us. The gentle, green hills stretched on forever, interrupted only by occasional low rock walls or hedges. Sheep grazed along in the thick, rich grass. The village itself was tucked away on one of these hillsides, surrounded by trees that were just beginning to bloom in the early spring air. A beautiful stone church stood in the center of it all, its ancient grey steeple peeking up over the roofs and chimney tops of the surrounding cottages. The homes themselves, scattered along the winding roads, were made of a lovely, honey limestone. I noticed overgrown ivy crawling up the walls, and sharp peeked, sun faded shingle roofs.

  “Was there a particular address where you wanted me to drop you off?” the cabbie asked.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, yes, I suppose there is. It’s a haberdashery on High Street.”

  “High Street, not a problem,” he said. “That’s the same street where my sister lives, too.”

  “Really?” I asked. “I wonder if I will someday meet your sister.”

  “I’m certain you probably will,” the cabbie said with a toothy grin. “She’s quite good at making herself known around these parts.”

  High Street was the main thoroughfare for the sleepy little town. We passed by the church I had seen in the distance, with lovely white wild flowers blooming out in front. There was a rather sizable outdoor marketplace, where some vendors were already out selling their fresh produce. We passed by a pub, and I heard some music streaming through the open front door. All of these little shops and homes made the place seem welcoming.

  The driver pulled up outside one of the warm, stone cottages. It was nestled between two other cottages that appeared very similar, but this one had a sizable front garden, and flower boxes hung beneath the windows. Some of the ivy had started to grow over the doorframe, which would certainly need tending to.

  “Everything looks abandoned. You sure we’re at the right place?” the cabbie asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you very much, sir. Especially for taking me all the way out here.”

  “Not a problem at all,” he said as I passed him the money I owed him over the seat. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to have some lunch with my sister and nephew this afternoon.”

  “I hope you can,” I said with a smile.

  He helped me to unload my suitcases from the car, and I waved at him from the front garden as he drove away.

  There were some rose bushes beside the front gate. As I let myself in, the metal squeaked horribly. The hinges would certainly need some oil in the future so as not to alert everyone in the area each time I was arriving home.

  I stared up and down the street. There were people milling about, talking to neighbors who were leaning out of their upper windows. A dog’s bark echoed across the buildings from down the street. A young boy with a stack of newspapers at his feet called out to passersby with the latest headlines, but he was too far away for me to make out what they were, exactly.

  Not that I minded, of course. It was likely about the war, and I was not sure I could stomach any bad news when I was still reeling from my own loss. I realized there were going to be many people all over the world who were grieving the loss of their own loved ones today, many of whom would be completely shocked by the news this very hour, but I just couldn’t bring myself to grieve for them.

  I had enough of my own grieving to do.

  I delved into my bag and found my book, and the envelope, once again. Nestled inside the bottom of the envelope was the key to the front door.

  I pulled it out, the metal cool in my hands. It was an older, iron key that seemed to match the doorknob and knocker on the front of the old, worn, door.

  I slid the key in the lock, twisting it gently…and it gave easily.

  The smell of must and disuse greeted me as soon as I stepped inside. A cloud of dust billowed up from around my feet. I must have been the first person to step inside this place since the solicitor had come to collect the deed and the key. It made me wonder how long ago that had been…

  Hadn’t my aunt died around the same time that Roger had? It wasn’t as if I had been in any state of mind at the time to really care about someone that I barely knew passing away…but somewhere in my memories, I remembered my father telling my mother about Aunt Vivian’s death a few days after returning home from Roger’s funeral.

  The old adage was that deaths came in threes, wasn’t it?

  I shuddered and pushed that thought away. I would very likely lose my mind if anyone else I knew were
to pass away.

  The inside of the shop was rather small, but it seemed bright with all the light coming in through the windows. I gave the glass a quick wipe with the sleeve of my jacket, still somewhat damp from all the rain the night before, and even more light streamed inside.

  There were many little tables gathered around the space, and curved pegs on the wall where empty hangers hung, waiting for clothing. I found boxes of small pins, ivory and mother of pearl buttons, and even several packs of stockings that came in three different colors.

  The place needed a bit of cleaning, but it was a pretty, quaint little shop that I would have liked to have shopped in myself.

  Perhaps my Aunt Vivian was not nearly as crotchety as my father made her out to be.

  I dragged my suitcases across the dirty, moth eaten rugs toward the back of the shop. There was a lovely metal till there that looked as if it had come from the nineteenth century. Behind that was a pretty, yellow doorway.

  Upon opening it, I discovered a hall that contained nothing more than a narrow staircase leading up to another door.

  I flipped on the light switch, just inside the door along the wall. A little lantern near the top of the stairs flickered to life.

  When I opened the door at the top, I discovered an upstairs flat, which must have been where my aunt lived. It had everything I would need; a decent sized bedroom with a view out over High Street, a small but efficient kitchen, complete with a full size oven. The sitting area was cozy and comfortable, and there was plenty of storage space.

  My favorite, though, was the washroom. There was a lovely clawfoot tub beneath a window that overlooked the back garden I hadn’t realized existed until now, and the tile floor was a honeycomb pattern of black and white flowers. It was like something out of a dream.

  Leaning against the doorframe, my arms folded, I nodded appreciatively. “Perhaps you and I were more alike than I realized, dear aunt,” I said, looking around the pretty space that I was having a hard time realizing was actually my own.

  The smell of dust was starting to make me sneeze, so I wasted no time throwing open the windows to the sunny day. After all the rain from yesterday, I was eager to let the fresh air inside to help clear the place out while I could. The sounds of the village came wafting in on the breeze, and instead of finding the noise jarring and overwhelming like I had in London, I found it rather soothing. There was the laughter of children as they chased one another through the streets, the methodic pat, pat of a woman beating out her rug with a broom, the clip clop of a horse’s hooves as it walked past the front garden.