A Lethal Walk in Lakeland

Book 2: Walk Through England Mystery

by Nicholas George

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Fans of Carlene O’Connor’s Irish Village mysteries will love the latest novel in this cozy series set in the beautiful English countryside and featuring San Diego sleuth Rick “Chase” Chasen.

Chase has two compelling reasons for returning to England—a group walk along the famed Coast to Coast trail in the picturesque Lake District, and a chance to further his relationship with Mike, the handsome Devonshire doctor he met on his last trip. The walkers, including Chase’s dear friend and fellow Anglophile Billie Mondreau, assemble at a Whitehaven hotel and begin their adventure with the traditional “baptism of the boots” in St. Bee’s Bay. But they’ve barely begun traveling eastward with their genial guide than the group dynamics turns unexpectedly rocky.

The problem is the Uptons—a wealthy family who have arrived from Texas, and whose squabbling antics continually overshadow the bucolic surroundings. Brock Upton, tall and commanding, is traveling with his pint-sized wife and his three siblings, along with a family friend. Every member of the party cites a different reason for joining the tour, and Chase’s instincts tell him they’re all lying. 

Brock’s heart condition hinders their progress through the Lake District’s hills and dales. But that proves the least of their problems when one of the Uptons is fatally poisoned. Years of secrets and grudges emerge, along with a decades-old family mystery. And only Chase’s investigative expertise can find the answers—and uncover a killer in their midst before tragedy befalls the tour again . . .  
 

Release date: January 21, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Outside the window of the Northern Line train, the northeastern coast of England flashed by in quick bursts—hawthorn and beech trees, power lines, weathered cottages. Beyond lay the North Sea, the sun playing upon its gray waters, filtering down through a wash of clouds.

Some might consider the view sobering—depressing even—but to me it was as welcome as a sunrise. I was back in my favorite country, and about to be reunited with the man I’d met on my last English walk, the man I couldn’t get out of my head.

Before me on my tray were the morning’s London Times and a tall iced coffee. It had been a long day—I’d endured a tedious, ten-hour flight from Los Angeles—but I knew a reward was awaiting me at the train station in Workington that would make it all worthwhile.

That’s when my cell phone chimed. A text message had just come through:

Emergency came up. Won’t be able to join you on walk. So very sorry. Call me when you get a chance. Mike.

Damn!

My spirits sank as quickly as the proverbial lead balloon. As if to underscore my mood, the sun vanished completely behind a cloud, dimming the inside of the train car. I tried calling Mike, but the cell coverage on the train was too spotty.

With no way to discover the type of emergency that had befallen him, the next forty-five minutes were pure hell. When I finally stepped out onto the platform at Workington, I tried calling again. This time Mike answered.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

His frustrated sigh came through loud and clear. “Chase, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. There’s been an unexplained death down here. Some kind of food-borne contagion, it looks like. There’s a fear that it might spread. I just can’t get away.”

Mike was the coroner for North Devon. It wasn’t unusual for urgent matters to come up, but why at that moment, of all times?

Maybe this wasn’t as bad as I feared. “Can you join me tomorrow? Or the day after?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mike responded. “This doesn’t look like it will be resolved that quickly.”

I closed my eyes, cursing my luck. I’d been looking forward to the week’s walk, without question, but spending time with Mike had been my main reason for coming on this trip.

“What if I bail on the walk and come down there?” I suggested. The train ride to Devon would be another four hours, but I would do it if that’s what it took.

“Sorry, but that won’t work either. I’m going to be slammed over the next few days. Even if you were here, we wouldn’t have much time together. No, I insist that you stay there and take your walk. It’s only a week, right? I should have my arms around this situation by then.”

It was me I wanted his arms around. I thought hard for other options, but came up blank.

“I’m as broken down about this as you are, Chase,” Mike said in a tone that convinced me he truly was. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

I watched the train I’d just deboarded pull away. “Of course I’m not angry. Just disappointed.”

“We will be together,” he said. “Just not quite as soon as we’d hoped.”

I felt just as hollow as I did when Carlton Fisk, a popular Boston Red Sox catcher and World Series hero, left Boston to sign with the Chicago White Sox. Even though the news sent me into a weeklong sulk, I recovered, and I would this time, too. To Mike I said, “Okay then. I guess I’ll see you in a week.”

“We’ll talk in the meantime. I want to hear how your walk goes.”

Oh, that’s right, the walk. “Of course. But watch out for yourself, will you, please? I don’t want you coming down with whatever disease seems to be going around.”

He laughed. “No worries. In my profession, you learn to take all the necessary precautions.”

As we bid each other a wistful goodbye, I struggled to say the L-word. Why was that so hard? By the time I’d worked up the courage to tell Mike I loved him, he was off the line.

I’d met Mike Tibbets the year before, on another walking trip, along the northern coast of Devon. A man in our group had been killed, and as coroner, Mike was called to certify the cause of death. At the time, I was still wrestling with the recent passing of my long-term partner, Doug, and finding a new romance was the last thing I expected—well, other than murder. But it happened. Mike and I were attracted to each other instantly, and once the killer was identified (thanks, I admit with all modesty, to my efforts, in conjunction with those of the local police), we spent a glorious week together exploring southwest England.

After I returned home to California, Mike and I stayed in contact through texts and video conversations. It became increasingly apparent there was something special going on between us, and we both realized we needed to be together physically, not just virtually. So, despite the budget concerns that usually governed such a decision, I began planning my return to England.

After hearing me repeatedly praise the wonders of country walking, Mike agreed to accompany me on a guided walk. I found Rovers North, a tour organizer in the Lake District (an area I hadn’t yet explored) and signed us up for an abbreviated six-day walk along the Coast to Coast trail. I also checked with my friend Billie and was thrilled she could join us as well. As the day of departure grew nearer, though, I grew anxious. Would Mike still feel the same about me when we were together again, in the flesh?

Standing on the deserted train platform, I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t be learning the answer to that question for another week. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and trudged out of the station toward the waiting taxis. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the small hotel in St. Bees where the walking group was due to assemble that evening.

I trudged into the lobby, and my spirits lifted when I saw Billie perched on a chair, thumbing through a tourist brochure. Her dark gray hair was in its usual frizz, and she wore one of her trademark self-knitted sweaters. She looked up and broke into a smile.

“Chase! You made it!” she said, rising to give me a hug. “So good to see you, you rascal!”

Billie, a Yank like myself, had been a close friend since we met on a walk in Northern Ireland many years before. We’d wanted to tackle the Coast to Coast path ever since. Now we were finally getting around to it.

“It’s great to see you as well,” I said. “When did you get in?”

“Last night. I like being at the meet-up point early, as you know, to get the lay of the land. But wait a minute.” She looked around. “Isn’t Mike supposed to be with you?”

I nodded grimly and told her about the change in plans.

“What a shame! But apart from that, how has the long-distance romance been working out?”

I sat on the chair beside her and shrugged. “How would you expect? We get together over FaceTime, but it’s not the same as being together in person. I was hoping we could work out a better solution over here. I even suggested that he move to the US, but he’s still a couple of years from retirement.”

“Move in together? That’s a pretty big step, Chase.”

Sighing, I said, “I don’t see any other solution.”

“You could move here, you know. You’re already retired. And you love England.”

She was right, of course. Since Doug passed away, I was free to go wherever I pleased. But combining households was, as she pointed out, a big step; and even though Mike meant a lot to me, I wasn’t sure I was ready for that big a change at this point in my life.

“Have any of the others in our group arrived yet?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen any, which is strange. Usually I’m not the only early bird. Anyway, you’re here, and that’s all that matters. We can head out on our own if worse comes to worse.”

“Hello!” a voice rang out. We turned to see a genial white-haired man walking toward us, smiling broadly. “Are you Rovers North folks?”

We said that we were. The man introduced himself as Charlie Cross, our walk leader. I was pleased to see he was a cheerful and exuberant chap. A medium-sized English springer spaniel stood at his side, looking at us with a broad doggie smile.

“Can’t have you sitting out here waiting for the cows to come home,” he said. “Follow me and Ramses to the bar, and we’ll enjoy its libations!”

We went with him and his dog into the hotel bar, a compact, wood-paneled space with small tables and a broad counter lined with beer taps.

Charlie stepped up to the bar and turned to us. “What’s your pleasure? This round is on Rovers North.”

“I’d like the house’s best bitter,” I said. Walking was my passion, but British ale ranked a close second.

“Same for me,” Billie echoed. We found a table, and once I sat, the tension in my shoulders started to ease. There’s nothing like a pub—even a slightly faux one in a hotel—to improve my spirits.

Charlie returned with three glasses topped with foam. He sat and was about to propose a welcoming toast when a voice said, “Excuse me, are you here for the walk?”

We looked up to see a fresh-faced, brown-haired man in his mid-thirties.

“We are indeed,” Charlie said.

“I’m Joe Scarbun. Pleased to meet you.” He already had a beer, and he placed it down on the table as he sat.

“Did you just get here?” Billie asked Joe. I hadn’t noticed him on my train, which was the only means of reaching the small town, outside of driving.

He gave an acknowledging smile. “A few days ago, I flew into Manchester, rented a car, and spent a couple days getting up here. Mostly to acquaint myself with the country. I’m a birder, and I’m dying to see some of the species in this part of the world.” He looked around. “Are the others in our group here, too?”

“Not yet,” Charlie said. “The others are the Uptons, all members of the same family. I received a text telling me they’ve been delayed due to missing their flight from America. They were able to get on a later one, though, and should arrive this evening. They assured me they’ll be alert enough to start off on our walk tomorrow morning.”

This was disappointing. I always look forward to getting to know my fellow walkers over dinner on the first night. That’s harder to do while walking.

“They’re all from Texas, aren’t they?” Joe asked.

Charlie nodded. “Yes, they’re all from the western part of the state, I gather. El Paso and some place called Lubbock.”

This was another disappointment. For this walk, I’d wanted to be among Brits and not be constantly reminded of home. That’s why I selected a small British tour company that catered primarily to locals. I was surprised when the others on this walk all turned out to be Yanks—or Canadian, in Joe’s case.

We chatted for a while and finished our beers. Charlie suggested we get settled in our rooms before reassembling at the hotel restaurant. As Billie and I walked to the front desk, it seemed her enthusiasm at seeing me had decidedly dimmed. She seemed distracted. We checked in, obtained our keys, and headed to our rooms.

My room, a small space at the end of the hallway on the second floor, was what could be called serviceable at best. The décor wasn’t going to win awards, but its basic bed-chair-floor lamp setup would be fine enough for one night. The sole window looked out on the hills to the north, resplendent in their springtime greenery. I changed into fresh clothes and headed downstairs to the restaurant, a warmly lit room where Billie was already seated with Joe and Charlie. Ramses was on the floor at Charlie’s feet. Through the windows I could see night coming on.

A server came in to take our drink orders.

“I’ve already had a beer, but I think I’ll have another,” I said.

“Do you mind if I take a look at the bar?” Joe asked. “I’m about to start my own microbrewery in Toronto and have been looking forward to seeing what they offer over here.”

Charlie offered to accompany him and give recommendations.

As the two walked off, I turned to Billie. “Are you all right? You don’t seem to have the usual verve you do at the start of a walk. And don’t tell me that’s because you feel bad that Mike didn’t come. Where’s your knitting? You usually carry your needles and yarn with you everywhere you go. Even at dinner.”

Billie’s eyes shot to her side. “My God! How did I forget to bring those down?”

I leaned toward her. “What’s up, Billie?”

She chewed on her lip for a moment. “Chase, you know I hate burdening others with my personal problems. But . . .”

“Out with it.”

“To be blunt . . . I might be homeless when I get back to Vermont.”

“Homeless! How on earth could that happen?”

She hesitated again. “Frankly, it’s mortifying. Just before I left, I got a phone message from my bank. They went to make the usual withdrawal for my monthly mortgage payment and found that my retirement account had been completely emptied. I tried calling my investment advisor, and lo and behold, it seems she’s fled the country.”

This didn’t seem possible. Billie was an intelligent woman. How could she not have done the due diligence necessary to secure a trustworthy investment professional?

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “What kind of fool am I, right? But Marie’s a close friend and has been managing my investments for years. She was almost like family! Last month, she told me about a can’t-miss opportunity, something involving investing in certificates of deposit somewhere overseas. . . was it the Mariana Islands? I can’t remember. She said I’d get a minimum annual return of twenty percent.”

“Twenty percent?” I said. “That’s impossible.”

Billie nodded grimly. “So I’ve found out. But I’m terrible with money matters, and I’ve always trusted Marie completely. That’s why I granted her access to my accounts. I can’t believe she’d do this to me!”

“But . . . what about your pension?”

“Oh, I still have that, and Social Security, but it won’t be enough to maintain my current lifestyle. I literally don’t have any other assets. Librarians aren’t exactly known for stashing away piles of money, you know. If I can’t make my mortgage payment, where am I going to live? Things will go from bad to worse. As James Baldwin said, ‘Anyone who has struggled with poverty knows how extremely expensive it is to be poor.’ ”

Her eyes moistened, and her lip trembled. I saw Charlie and Joe head back to our table, holding our pint glasses. “We’ll work something out,” I said to Billie. “Trust me on this.” There was recourse for people who’d fallen victim to financial fraud, but I kept silent, not wanting to raise any hopes.

Despite her news, Billie turned into her usual amiable self as the four of us began chatting, sharing stories of our lives. Charlie told us that he lived locally and was a veteran walk leader, mostly guiding groups through the Lake District. His preferred route was the full Coast to Coast, but he offered the abbreviated version for those pressed for the time, stamina, or cash.

When it came time for me to talk about myself, I glossed over my past career with the San Diego Police (that always provoked a flood of awkward questions) and simply said that I had worked for the city for many years. Billie divulged, also without elaboration, her background as a small-town librarian. Joe confessed he had quit his job a few months before in the hopes of becoming an artisanal brewer. I asked what kind of work he’d been doing. When he responded that he’d been a portfolio manager in an investment management firm, I flashed Billie a raised eyebrow. Could he be of help with her problem? I made a mental note to pursue that later.

Our drinks arrived, and Charlie’s mobile phone gave a chirp. He checked an incoming text message. “It appears that our Texans have finally arrived in London. They’re taking an evening coach up here.”

“Don’t expect them to be too chipper when the walk begins tomorrow,” I said.

“Perhaps they’ll catch some sleep on the bus,” Joe said.

Over a surprisingly tasty dinner—I devoured a juicy Cumberland sausage and chips—we continued discussing our coming walk, the local countryside, and, inevitably, more personal matters, such as our relationship status. Charlie was married, but Joe was single. I mentioned that I was seeing someone but didn’t get into details. Billie made a small joke about enjoying the life of a spinster. Her spirits had improved, perhaps assisted by the wine we were all sharing in large proportions. When we reached the dessert course (dandelion flower parfait), we felt comfortable enough with one another that I decided to pull out my mental note.

“I have a question about investments,” I said to Joe.

“Chase, no,” Billie warned.

“Well, I can’t give any personal advice,” Joe said. “But go right ahead.”

“Canadian laws are probably different than those in the US, but what protections are there for someone who has been swindled by a financial advisor?”

Joe took a sip of wine before responding. “That depends on a lot of things. To begin with, we’d have to know if the advisor was a licensed fiduciary and if the assets were in a protected account. Our two countries have similar laws on the books about this type of thing. Most first-world countries do, given the global nature of investing these days.”

Billie confessed that she didn’t know the answer to Joe’s questions but promised to find out. She didn’t sound hopeful, but his expertise was something to keep in mind, at least.

Noting the time, I announced that I should call it a day. “The first night in England is always the hardest,” I said. “Time change and all that.”

“You come over often?” Joe asked.

“Chase and I have been on several long-distance walks in England together,” Billie said.

“Is that so?” Charlie said. “Which was your favorite?”

“That’s hard to say,” I replied. “Each has had its own special attraction.”

“Except the last,” Billie said. I shot her a warning glance, but she was already into the details of the murder on our Devon walk.

“My word!” Charlie said. “You know, I heard something about that. It seems there was an ex-police detective in the group who helped the police find the killer.”

“That was Chase!” Billie said. So much for keeping my background hidden.

“Wow,” Joe said. “Lucky thing you were there.”

“The CID did most of the heavy lifting,” I said. “Needless to say, Billie and I aren’t looking for that kind of excitement this time.”

“No need to worry about anyone being done in on one of my walks,” Charlie said. “In the unlikely event that they should, however, it’s comforting to know we have a policeman with us.”

He was clearly joking, yet the idea of encountering another murder made me uneasy. What were the odds there’d be one on this walk? Probably astronomic. I trusted the rest of the walking group would prove to be as easygoing and placid as Joe. Who could imagine him as a killer?

The next morning, I was gathered with the others on the beach at St. Bees, tightening the laces on my walking boots and looking out to the dark roiling waters of the Irish Sea. With each crash of the waves, the wooden bench beneath me shook. Gusts of sea-sodden wind blew in from the north, thrashing my face and soaking my beard.

My long-anticipated week’s walk in England’s fabled Lake District was starting off on a decidedly dreary note.

“We’re supposed to walk into that?” Billie, seated beside me, asked as she surveyed the water. She’s always prepared for the weather, and that day was no exception. She wore a waterproof jacket over one of her thick self-knitted sweaters, its bright pattern of squirrels and acorns barely visible beneath the jacket’s folds.

“We just have to stick the toe of our boot in the water,” I said. “If we do it quickly enough, we should be all right.”

Around us our fellow walkers, eight of them, were also preparing their boots and eyeing the sea nervously. Perhaps they were wondering why the British walking tour they’d signed up for was going to begin with a plunge into the ocean. Yet this “christening of the boots” was a time-honored ritual for anyone about to tackle England’s Coast to Coast path, which spans nearly two hundred miles across the north of England to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea.

“Everyone ready?” asked Charlie. We all murmured a reluctant affirmation. Beaming a broad grin, he didn’t seem fazed in the least by heavy surf or wind. “Very good,” he said. “Come on, Ramses!”

His dog, the only one of us eager for a dip in the water, followed him down to the sea. We trailed behind.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” asked the slight, grayish-blond-haired woman in front of me. “It looks dangerous to me.” She then let loose a sneeze that almost sent her into the water. I remembered her as Jenna, the wife of the tall man walking beside her. Even though we’d been introduced only an hour before, though, I’d forgotten his name. Rock? Spock?

We reached the lip of the sea, waves lapping at our feet. How far out did we need to go? Charlie looked at the water’s turbulence as if he were looking at a placid pool. “Nothing to worry about. Just do as I do!”

He marched forward, his trousers rolled up past his ankles, just as a mammoth wave slammed into him, drenching him completely. He remained standing, though, and laughed it off. Ramses was beside him, immersed in the water, and loving every second of it.

“You don’t need to come all the way in,” he shouted to us, his voice barely audible above the roar of the surf. “Just dip the toe of your boot in the water, not the whole boot as I just did. Nothing’s worse than walking in wet socks.” He walked back to the shore, where he bent to pick up a small pebble.

“And don’t forget to collect a stone,” he instructed. “You’ll be carrying it with you, to toss into Robin Hood’s Bay when our walk concludes.”

Despite the demonstration, none of us had yet entered the water.

“Come on, then,” Charlie prompted. “Do you wish to begin, Mr. Chasen? Miss Mondreau?”

Billie and I gave each other a what-the-hell look and walked briskly toward the surf, dipped the toes of our boots in the water, scooped up stones, and hurried back to the sand before any rogue wave attacked us.

One by one, the others timidly did the same, led by Carole, a short, plump dark-haired woman in her late thirties. She wasn’t as lucky as Billie and I; a large wave thundered into her. She let loose an ear-piercing squeal and landed on her bottom in the foam. Her friend Fiona, a striking, young auburn-haired woman, helped her to her feet.

“Hot spit and monkey vomit!” Carole hooted. She bent to pick up a stone and scurried out of the surf, her hair hanging in wet strands. “My butt hasn’t been that cold since the commode froze in our outhouse!”

Parker and Pratt, lanky men in their forties (and identical twins), went forward next, in tandem, barely letting the water lap at their boots before picking up pebbles and returning.

The tall man—Brock, that was his name!—grasped his wife’s hand and proceeded a couple of feet into the surf just as another giant wave threatened to smash into them. They rushed back to shore, not bothering to gather pebbles.

“We didn’t pick up stones!” his wife said. “Won’t that bring us bad luck? Should we go back?”

“Maybe yo. . .