Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Praise for Hazel Holt’s Mrs. Malory Series

  “The very model of the modern mystery cozy.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Delightful.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Ah, what joy to read Hazel Holt. . . . The book delights at every page. . . . To be treasured.”

  —The Sunday Times (U.K.)

  “This is the kind of mystery to reach for after a day spent battling the hordes at the local mall.”

  —The Washington Post

  “A wonderful heroine—with just the perfect balance of humor, introspection, and vulnerability.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “A soothing, gentle treat. . . . The literate, enjoyable Mrs. Sheila Malory is back.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “Holt’s descriptions and characterizations shine. . . . She invigorates both village and villagers with brisk liveliness.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Finely textured. . . . Sink comfortably with the heroine into a burnished old pub or a cup of tea. . . . Full of elegant shadings of place and character and appealing local color . . . Anglophiles will delight in the authentically British Mrs. Malory.”

  —Booklist

  “A delectable treat for cozy lovers, British style.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A delight. . . . Warm, vivid descriptions.”

  —Time Out (London)

  “The fundamental British cozy . . . first class.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Interesting . . . enjoyable. . . . If you haven’t discovered Mrs. Malory, I highly recommend reading the rest of the series.”

  —Mystery News

  Also by Hazel Holt

  Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder

  Mrs. Malory and the Shortest Journey

  Mrs. Malory: Detective in Residence

  Mrs. Malory Wonders Why

  Mrs. Malory: Death of a Dean

  Mrs. Malory and the Only Good Lawyer

  Mrs. Malory: Death Among Friends

  Mrs. Malory and the Fatal Legacy

  Mrs. Malory and the Lilies That Fester

  Mrs. Malory and the Delay of Execution

  Mrs. Malory and Death by Water

  Mrs. Malory and Death in Practice

  Mrs. Malory and the Silent Killer

  Mrs. Malory and No Cure for Death

  Mrs. Malory and a Death in the Family

  Mrs. Malory and a Time to Die

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, December 2009

  Copyright © Hazel Holt, 2009

  All rights reserved

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-15582-0

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  For Laura

  With love and thanks

  Any man’s death diminishes me,

  because I am involved in Mankind.

  —John Donne

  Chapter One

  “If you ask me,” Anthea said, “I think it’s a great mistake.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said mildly. “They are sisters after all, and they always used to get on well together.”

  “Years ago. Things are very different now. Rachel’s used to having her own home and doing things her own way. And you remember how she always used to want to run everything.”

  This, coming from Anthea, who runs most things in Taviscombe, was pretty rich. “I’m sure they’ll work it out,” I said. “After all, they both live alone, and if Rachel wants to come back here now that Alastair’s dead, it makes a lot of sense.”

  “I can’t think why Phyllis stayed on in that enormous house after her father died. She’d have been much better off in a nice bungalow.”

  “Oh, but it’s been the family home for generations,” I said. “Her grandfather built it before the Great War. It was one of the first new houses to be built in Mere Barton—I remember Mother saying there was quite a bit of excitement about it at the time. I know Phyll couldn’t bear to live anywhere else, and I expect Rachel has many happy memories of it.”

  “Well, it’s still far too big for the two of them,” Anthea persisted. “I thought as much when Dr. Gregory was alive and it was just him and Phyllis.”

  “Oh, he’d never have moved,” I said. “He loved the house and being in the village, especially after he retired; he was so much a part of the place. I must say, I couldn’t imagine the village without him.”

  “Anyway, why does Rachel want to come back after all those years in Scotland? I’d have thought she’d have made her own
life up there.”

  “Inverness was Alastair’s home,” I said, “and when he was offered a practice there, of course he took it. I’m sure she was quite happy while he was alive, but I don’t think she would have wanted to stay there without him.”

  “But what about the son? Where’s he?”

  “Jamie? Oh, he’s gone off to Africa somewhere—Médecins sans Frontières—something like that. So Rachel’s quite on her own.”

  There was a brief silence while Anthea considered and filed away the information she’d acquired.

  “So, when’s this welcome home party, then?” she asked.

  “Rachel’s due here next week, and I expect she’ll want time to settle in, but Phyll thought she’d just let us know what she’s got planned.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not on a Wednesday,” Anthea said. “I’m never free on Wednesdays.”

  “I’m sure Phyll will remember that,” I said.

  Rachel Craig was an old school friend, part of our special group.

  “It’ll be nice to see her again,” Rosemary said. “It’s ages since she’s been back in Taviscombe.”

  “Well, it’s quite a journey from Inverness, even if you fly. She did come back for her mother’s funeral, though. If you remember, she couldn’t get away for Dr. Gregory’s because Alastair was so ill then. Poor Phyll was very upset about that.”

  “Oh, Phyll always put her father before anyone else,” Rosemary said. “Look at the way she gave up a perfectly good job to come back and look after him when her mother died.”

  “She never seemed to me to be that keen on a career—not like Rachel.”

  “She could have been head of her department if she’d stayed on at that school in Portsmouth.”

  “I suppose so, but she always said she really only liked the teaching—and I can see she’d be a splendid teacher—but she’d be hopeless with a lot of paperwork. Rachel, now, was Alastair’s nurse-practitioner and pretty well ran the whole thing. I only hope she finds enough scope in Mere Barton for all her energies!”

  “Well, if Anthea’s right,” Rosemary said, “and she does intend to run the village, she’ll find pretty stiff opposition from Annie.”

  Annie Roberts used to be the district nurse, and even though she’s retired, she’s still greatly in demand for unofficial consultations. She sees herself—rightly—as the hub of the village, living where she does right in the middle of the main street, next to the village shop. The door of Willow Cottage usually stands open so that Annie can see who’s passing and engage them in conversation. She’s the repository of a great deal of information about what goes on in the village, but she never gossips. “Patient confidentiality,” she always says when asked about anything, pressing her lips tightly together to indicate the degree of her integrity. In addition to all that, she runs most of the village activities—she’s in charge of the village hall, president of the Women’s Institute, treasurer of the parochial church council, and it’s Annie who makes the collection for Poppy Day and other flag days for worthy causes. “Well, I’ve got the time, you see, now that I’m retired,” she says, ignoring the fact that a large proportion of the population of Mere Barton are also retired and longing for something to occupy their newly acquired leisure. Though, of course, she is perfectly happy to enroll them as her lieutenants, carrying out her orders, as it were, and, as yet, no one has had the courage to challenge her leadership. Not that she is a formidable figure—she’s barely five feet. She has, however, the immense energy that small people often seem to have, and to see her about the village on some ploy or another is like watching a purposeful darting insect.

  I laughed. “Oh, I think Rachel knows enough not to take on Annie.”

  “Or Anthea at Brunswick Lodge?” Rosemary suggested. Brunswick Lodge, a large eighteenth-century house, is the social and cultural center of Taviscombe, and Anthea’s own particular fiefdom.

  “Don’t! That’s a terrible thought! But, actually, Rachel is far too tactful to make any sort of overt take-over. If she wanted to, she’d do it so subtly that the person taken over from would actually thank her! Do you remember at school how she always got her own way without seeming to try?”

  “Oh well,” Rosemary said, “it’ll be interesting to see what happens.”

  Phyll rang about ten days later.

  “She’s dying to see you all,” she said, “so could you come next Tuesday? I thought a lunchtime thing would be best—a lot of people don’t really like driving at night. Twelve or twelve thirty. Drinks and a few odds and ends to eat, nothing formal. Not a lot of people, mostly neighbors from the village and you and Rosemary, of course.”

  “That sounds lovely,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Rosemary and I arranged to go together. “If you think it’s going on too long,” she said, “just give me a nod and I’ll say I’ve got to go and collect Alex from school.”

  The road to Mere Barton is very narrow, with virtually no passing places, and any encounter with a lorry or a tractor means having to back up a long way with your head uncomfortably screwed over your shoulder.

  “I must say I’m grateful not to have to drive down this road in the dark,” I said. “And thank goodness for a solid Edwardian house with a proper drive so there’s plenty of space to park!”

  Higher Barton, as its name indicates, stands on a slight eminence just outside the village. It is very handsome, its red brick mellowed by time and with a multiplicity of lovingly crafted architectural adornments that would actually justify that house agents’ favorite phrase, “many period features.” There were already several cars there, as some of the local residents had elected to drive the short distance from the village, and I parked beside the shiny new Range Rover that belonged to Diana Parker. Her husband, Toby, is a Member of Parliament with a London constituency, but Diana chooses to live down here on the farm that used to be his family home. Not that it’s a farm now, just a done-over farmhouse, several fields and stabling where Diana keeps her horses.

  “All the usual suspects,” Rosemary murmured as we went into the drawing room.

  “I think you know everybody,” Phyll said, leading us forward. “Rachel, here’s Sheila and Rosemary.”

  Rachel never really seems to change. Obviously she’s grown older, as we all have, but her hair is dark and her face unlined—all, I’m quite sure, without any artificial aids—and she still has the air of relaxed confidence that marked her out even as a schoolgirl.

  “How lovely to see you both again.” She came towards us, her hands outstretched and with that particularly sweet smile I remembered so well, and I felt a wave of affection, as I felt Rosemary did too, as she embraced us. Rachel always was a special person.

  We exchanged a few disjointed remarks and Rachel said, “We can’t chat properly now, and there’s so much I want to catch up on. Shall we have lunch at the Buttery, for old time’s sake? How about Friday?”

  As schoolgirls the three of us always used to go to the Buttery after games (though it wasn’t called the Buttery then—I think it was the Periwinkle) to drink hot chocolate and complain about being forced to participate in athletic activities.

  Rachel went away to talk to the little group who were standing beside a table where Phyllis’s odds and ends to eat were laid out; though, since she is a splendid cook, they were considerably more than that.

  “Come and have some of these gorgeous crostini,” Judith Lamb called out to us. “I don’t know how Phyllis manages to do all these wonderful things. The spread she put on for the village hall Christmas party was fabulous!”

  Judith is the widow of an accountant—they both came here from Birmingham when he retired. He died a few years ago, and Judith lives in the cottage next to Annie’s and is her most enthusiastic helper. She, too, is small and purposeful, but built with fuller lines. She has a round face perched on a round body, and to the fanciful eye resembles an old-fashioned cottage loaf.

  “Here.” William Faber offered a p
late. “Do try some of these excellent miniature pizzas—such a good idea!”

  William Faber is the rector of All Saints, the handsome village church, and has the care of two other parishes. He likes to be called Father William (though I do find my thoughts fly instantly and inappropriately to Lewis Carroll when I hear him addressed in this way) and has, as they say, spiked up the services (in the face of some opposition—appeals having been made to the bishop) in all three parishes. He can quite frequently be heard giving witty, inspirational talks on the radio in the Thought for the Day slot and is, consequently, very popular in the village.

  A group of other people now came into the room: Fred and Ellen Tucker, who have the one remaining farm in the village; Maurice Sanders, who used to be some sort of civil servant but who, with his wife, Margaret, now keeps the village shop; George Prosser, a retired navy captain; Jim and Mary Fletcher (he had been a bank manager and she was a librarian); Lewis and Naomi Chapman (he still works as an anesthetist and she was engaged in some sort of medical research); and, finally, ushering them all through the door like an efficient sheepdog, Annie Roberts.

  “We all walked up from the village,” Annie said. “It’s such a lovely day.”

  The room, large as it was, suddenly seemed very full of people and I retreated, with my plate of food, to one of the window seats where I was joined by Lewis Chapman.

  “I’ll wait for the scrum to subside,” he said, smiling, “before I attack the food.”

  Lewis is a really nice man, a cheerful soul with a jolly outgoing disposition, in contrast to his wife’s austere and withdrawn manner. I never feel entirely at ease with Naomi. I always think of that description of Katisha in The Mikado—“as hard as a bone with a mind of her own”—and there’s something of Katisha’s imperiousness there too. I always feel she’s judging me . . . and usually finding me wanting.