Death Comes to Bishops Well: The Shires Mysteries 1

Book 1: The Shires Mysteries

by Anna Legat

Genres: Small Town & Rural

Synopsis

BOOK ONE IN THE SHIRES MYSTERIES - A TWISTY NEW WHODUNNIT.

When Sam Dee moves to the beautiful Wiltshire village of Bishops Well, he expects a quiet life of country walks and pub lunches. OK, so his new neighbour, Maggie Kaye, is a little peculiar, but she's very nice - and his old pal Richard Ruta lives just down the road.

But when Richard throws one of his famous parties, things take a sinister turn. Sam, Maggie and the rest of the guests are dumbfounded when Richard falls down dead. A horrible tragedy - or a cunningly planned murder?

With a village full of suspects - and plenty of dark secrets - just who exactly would want to bump off their host? Is there a connection to another mysterious death, nearly twenty years before?

Armed with her local knowledge, Maggie - with Sam's reluctant but indispensable help - is soon on the case. But when the body count starts to rise, will sleepy Bishops Well ever be the same again?

A GRIPPING NEW COSY CRIME MYSTERY, FOR FANS OF BETTY ROWLANDS, FAITH MARTIN AND JOY ELLIS.

What readers are saying about Anna Legat:

'Brilliant. I didn't want to put it down!'

'It's a rare author who can keep me guessing until the end - and the ending was a shocker'

'Plenty of twists and turns'

'A brilliantly complex spaghetti of unrelated sub-plots to challenge any armchair sleuth'

'I thoroughly enjoyed this book, reading it cover to cover in a weekend'

'I shall look out for more from Ms Legat'

Release date: August 26, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, Sam – you need to get out more. Look at me, old man!’ Richard beamed from the height of his stool. His elbow was propped on the edge of the bar, his right foot on the rung of the stool, his left, firm and assertive, planted flat on the floor. He had pulled back his shoulder blades and thrust his chin forward as if he were posing for a portrait. He was several years Sam’s senior. The cheek of calling Sam old!

‘Yes, I’m looking. What am I supposed to be seeing?’

‘My vibrant and unbridled youth.’

‘I see . . .’

‘I’m glad you do!’

The hint of irony bypassed Richard, but Rhys, the barman, exchanged a bemused glance with Sam. He swept past them, casually wiping the counter and collecting a few empty glasses along the way. An ex-full back, he had a boxing-glove textured body, heavily padded with raw muscle. A dense tangle of tendons, veins, and sinews teemed beneath his rolled-up sleeves. He was young and strong. Had it not been for a neck injury, he would still have been on the pitch instead of manning the bar at Bishops Well Rugby Clubhouse. By comparison, Richard came across as an old man, whether he cared to admit it or not: his frame was hollowed and his skin leathery and wrinkled, the hue and texture of tea-soaked parchment. But he knew how to carry himself with bravado.

‘I look youthful,’ he proceeded to expand his point, ‘because I don’t hang on to the past. I catch the moment, here and now! Carpe diem, old man! Carpe diem!’ He slapped Sam on the arm and squeezed it with his bony fingers.

‘Yeah,’ Sam agreed distractedly and took another long and pensive swig from his pint glass. He jolted as he caught his own reflection in the mirror behind the spirit bottles lined up on the shelf. He looked a washout, which was precisely how he felt. Nevertheless, his own face took him by surprise. It was blotchy, unshaven, and swollen from another restless night. His hair, once thick and black, seemed faded and dusty, as if he had scattered ashes over his head.

‘How long has it been now – eighteen months?’

‘Nineteen months.’

‘It’s time to move on, for pity’s sake!’ Richard leaned forward and gripped his arm. ‘You’re bloody well coming - I won’t let you off the hook, not this time! This is my last birthday bash, I have decided, and that is final. Sixty-eight, past your average retirement age, and that’s it. After this one, I’m well and truly retired from birthdays. Last chance!’

‘I really don’t think so. You know I’m not good with people I don’t know. I’ll only feel rotten.’

‘Bring someone you do know.’

Sam emitted a derisive snort. He had left the people he knew behind him, in London.

‘In fact, I can think of someone just perfect for the occasion. That charming little neighbour of yours – she’ll be fun.’

‘Maggie Kaye?’ Sam found the idea preposterous. He hardly knew the woman. Their dealings had been limited to him buying one half of her house, a pleasant enough and straightforward transaction.

‘Yeah, Mystic Maggie! I know her old man, Eugene. Even he doesn’t know what to make of her, but one thing is for certain: you won’t be bored. She’ll have plenty to say – she always does. I have it on good authority that she even talks to the dead – she might get a direct line to Alice and bend her ear. I wouldn’t put it past her!’

Amused by his own joke, Richard slapped Sam again – this time on his thigh – and gave a jolly loud guffaw. Sam didn’t join him. He wasn’t in the mood, especially now that Richard had managed to bring Alice into this. Two years and four months . . . it felt like only yesterday.

Richard sighed. ‘Just do it for me, Samuel. I’ll need you there. You’re my oldest friend here – I don’t have many, old or new, come to think . . . I’m better at making enemies.’ A false note rang in his laughter. ‘Seriously, Sam, I want all of the people I love to be there. You’re one of them. You know you are. You’re sat deep in here, in my soul!’ With his typical Slavic exuberance, Richard thumped his chest. It reverberated with a hollow sound. ‘I want you all together, raising a glass to my good health. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’

Sam sighed in reply.

‘Even the scorned wives are coming.’

‘Mary?’

‘Oh yes! And Dotty, all the way from Florida. I pray to God I recognise her face.’

‘It’s been a good few years . . .’

‘It’s not that. Yes, she may be a few decades older since I last clapped my eyes on her, but it’s what she’s done to herself in all those years.’

‘What has she done?’

‘All the bloody surgeries and implants she’s been through. She’s made of silicone or whatever it is she pumps into herself. A friend of mine said she looked like a puffer fish. At least I’ve got a pool.’ He laughed again, then quickly pulled a supplicatory face. ‘Be a good sport and come . . . Come, for old times’ sake.’

‘I’ll see. I can’t promise –’

‘Good! I’ll take that and I’ll drink to it!’ Richard raised his glass, swivelled the honey-coloured brandy with panache, and downed it. He banged the empty glass down on the bar and gestured to Rhys for another round. His eyes wandered aimlessly around the half-empty bar and halted abruptly. He twisted his lips with dismay. ‘Hell, not him!’

Henry Hopps-Wood was ambling into the bar from the restaurant end of the clubhouse.

‘Richard! Samuel! Good to see you!’ Henry arranged his face into a poor impression of a smile. His face muscles struggled to stretch his small, tight lips. He sailed towards them and shook their hands, Richard’s first. ‘Birthday wishes are in order, I hear. Many happy returns!’

Richard murmured something remotely resembling a grudging thank you.

‘Vera and I are coming to your bash. Wouldn’t miss it for the world . . . Especially Vera!’

‘Who told you?’ Richard’s question sounded like a grievance.

‘Penny, of course. Oh, have I just put my foot in it? It isn’t one of those surprise parties, damn it? You do know you’re having a party?’

‘Yes, I know. I just wish she left the guest list to me. It’s my bloody birthday!’

Henry stared, his nose out of joint, but Richard merely went on steaming with frustration, expelling grunts of discontent.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Henry demanded as soon as he recovered his voice.

‘Do I have to make myself any clearer? I can, you know! I bloody well can, but you won’t like it.’

‘Why don’t you try me?’

The staring competition between the two men was turning nasty. Finding himself between them, Sam felt decisively squeezed. He groaned inwardly and spoke with a put-on joviality, ‘Richard, you devil, I almost took you seriously!’ He slapped the old boy on the back and laughed.

On reflection, Henry laughed too, insincerity rattling in his throat. ‘You got me there, damn it!’ He turned on his heel and hurried away in the direction of the exit, from which he then promptly retreated to finally find his way to the gents’.

‘I wasn’t joking,’ Richard told Sam. ‘He’s a damn snake in the grass, Hopps-blinking-Wood! Hopps . . . Slithers, more like!’

‘What’s brought this on?’ It was common knowledge that Richard, a confirmed Tory, had campaigned for Henry in last year’s election, staking his reputation and fame to unseat the Lib Dem incumbent and successfully getting Henry elected. Penny, Richard’s third and present wife, was still driving Henry’s PR wagon and ghostwriting his speeches, so far as Sam was aware. They were in each other’s pockets – one happy family.

Or were they?

‘Don’t get me started! He is a bastard through and through. I know things . . .’

‘Know what?’

‘Bah! Don’t ask! It’s nothing.’ Richard looked atypically downcast, but only for a few seconds. He downed his brandy, which Rhys had just placed before him, in one go and exhaled. The alcohol seemed to lift his spirits. ‘Who knows,’ he raised his brow thoughtfully, ‘he might yet regret gatecrashing my birthday do. If he insists on coming.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘We’ll see . . . We have to keep our politicians accountable. For all their sins.’ The mischievous spark returned to Richard’s eye. He glanced at his watch and sprung from the stool. ‘Damn it! Have to run! I’m already late.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘Bristol.’

‘Oh?’

Richard turned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Meeting a lady, an old flame of mine. A blast from the past, you could say. So much to catch up on, old man, so much to catch up on!’

At that point, Henry emerged from the gents’ and the two men collided with each other. Neither of them looked too pleased. They eyed each other with thinly veiled hostility. Finally, Henry blinked first and stepped aside to let Richard through.

Sam left the clubhouse a few minutes later. In the car park, he ran into Frank Savage.

‘Richard – is he inside?’

‘You’ve just missed him.’

‘Is he heading back home?’

‘Bristol, I believe.’

‘Bristol?’

‘That’s what he said.’

Frank cursed under his breath. He was a broad-shouldered ex-military man who had been working for Richard in the loose capacity of bodyguard-cum-Man Friday for some fifteen years now. Where exactly Richard had found him was a mystery, but Frank was his most loyal employee and confidant. It came therefore as a surprise to Sam that Frank didn’t know Richard’s precise co-ordinates at this very moment.

‘He said he was picking up a lady. A “blast from the past” is how he put it.’

‘Dorothy – Dotty, his ex?’

‘He didn’t say who.’

‘Only she’s already arrived!’ Frank appeared flustered, his trademark military disposition unable to keep frustration at bay. He ground his teeth, ‘She’s not only arrived, but she’s also full of shit, if you get my meaning – wants an explanation why Richard is avoiding her. The answer is staring her in the face – she’s a cow. She’s always been a pain in the arse apparently but she’s got worse with age. And she’s only just got here. What did she expect – a red carpet and a guard of honour?’

‘Well, yes . . . quite ridiculous . . .’ Sam bumbled just to say something supportive. Frank was in a state.

‘You’ll never guess who brought her from Heathrow.’

‘You?’

‘Tuppence!’ Frank often used Penny’s full name, pronouncing it with a lethal dose of venom. ‘Of all the sad suckers out there, snotty Tuppence drove all the way to Heathrow to chauffeur Dotty about. She was the only one at home when the old bat rang – couldn’t think of an excuse.’

‘That’s decent of her.’

‘She didn’t look decent from where I was standing. Pissed off, more like.’

‘You can’t say no to Dotty –’

‘I would’ve killed to be a fly on the wall in that car with them two driving back to Bishops. Two hours of sheer bloody-mindedness. The moment she let the old bat out of her car, Penny took off without a word – like she had to be somewhere urgent. Left me alone with Dotty. Not an experience I’d like to repeat, not even if they paid me double. The way she spoke to me, I was minded to tell her where to go. The woman’s mad as a hatter, I tell you! But what the hell is she doing here? That’s what I’d like to know!’

‘Richard did mention she was invited to his birthday bash.’ Sam was finding this comedy of errors mildly entertaining. ‘They must’ve got their timings muddled up.’

‘They sure as hell did! The “bash” isn’t for another two weeks.’

‘It looks like you’re stuck with her till then.’

Leaving Frank with that thought, Sam departed. Home was within walking distance of the clubhouse and he enjoyed strolling down the steep cobbled streets of Bishops Well.

Bishops was a quaint market town. Sam had once made the mistake of calling it a village in front of a few deeply patriotic locals. He had narrowly escaped a lynching. He’d had to endure a long lecture about Bishops Well’s proud past. None other than King John himself had granted Bishops Well (then known as Westonbury) town privileges in 1211. These included a Thursday Market (which continued to this day), as well as ‘quittance from tallage, stallage, lastage, and payage’. The town’s propitious location halfway between Bath to the north and Salisbury to the south had made it an attractive pit stop for travelling merchants and pilgrims. In its heyday Bishops had boasted four inns and six taverns, now reduced to a mere two public houses, the Rook’s Nest and the Watering Hole. In the neighbouring village of Parson’s Combe stood Parson’s Combe Inn, the only local establishment offering overnight accommodation. It wasn’t bursting at the seams, due to the fact that only a handful of visitors passed through the area nowadays, and even fewer took respite within the town’s walls. There was a puritan faction of Bishopians who didn’t regard the humble hamlet of Parson’s Combe as part of Bishops; they offered their exclusive patronage to the Rook’s Nest.

Sam would always remember his first encounter with Bishops Well’s eccentricities when he had visited and fallen in love with the place. He had been forced to leave his car in a muddy country lane on the periphery of town, since the High Street had been taken over by revellers. Driven by curiosity, he had joined the crowd of bizarrely dressed druids and faeries. Beating drums, shaking giant rattles, and chanting in an eerie combination of menace and drunken rapture, they had flooded the streets from all directions and headed towards the Market Square. There they had set up an enormous bonfire and begun tossing straw effigies and spitting mouthfuls of ale into the flames. This ritual was accompanied by unrepeatable cursing and beseeching the Devil to return to hell his Saxon spawn. When the raging flames started to lick the arms of the stone cross, the mob broke into a frantic dance and its now jubilant chants reached their crescendo. At that point, Bishops’ only fire engine had emerged and put an end to the spectacle.

The revellers had retreated to the Rook’s Nest for more celebrations. Sam had followed, keen to establish the meaning of the madness he had just witnessed. Over a pint, or two, of the home-brewed ale, he had discovered that the good people of Bishops Well who considered themselves the direct descendants of Ancient Britons had just celebrated the demise of their Saxon oppressors. When he had pointed out that the Saxon oppressors had simply been replaced by the Normans, he had been advised that patience was a virtue. The Normans would get their comeuppance soon enough.

‘One thing at a time,’ Terrence Truelove, the publican, had said, offering Sam his next pint on the house. Sam had become instantly besotted with the place. The more he had found out about it, the greater was his infatuation.

A valiant attempt had been made after the Great War to revive the town by linking it by rail to the rest of the world. Today the derelict train station stood forlorn and drowning in weeds at the end of a defunct line. A local farmer used the buildings for grain storage in harvest season. There was an operational bus service, however. The parish activists fought tooth and nail to keep it subsidised for the benefit of Bishops’ citizens. Bishops’ postie, John Erwin (who also drove the fire engine!) had taken over the bus driver’s role on a part-time basis ten years ago. Ever since, he had enjoyed the status of national treasure, even though he never kept to any particular schedule and would frequently misappropriate the bus in order to deliver post in bad weather.

Architecturally, Bishops Well was steeped in history and quite averse to change. The wheels of time seemed to have become derailed en route there and progress had never made it to town. Bishopians resolutely rejected all attempts at modernisation and stuck to maintaining their thatched roofs, inglenooks, and chimney stacks in their original condition. The Market Square boasted Bishops’ very own circle of stones – three still standing and the fourth laid across like a sacrificial altar – apparently predating Stonehenge. This ancient Celtic relic housed at its centre a blackened, ten-foot-high stone cross – blackened undoubtedly by centuries of Saxon-cursing fires. Inadvertently, Bishops Well managed to project an image of diversity and tolerance in this perfect blend of its pagan and Christian leanings. Local lore had it that beneath the cross was a spring well. A splash of water from that well could heal leprosy, as it had done in the early fourteenth century, miraculously restoring Bishop Anselm’s health after he had contracted the disease on his pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It was then that the town had been renamed Bishops Well. However, no one had been able to verify the presence of the well, never mind its healing properties, as the considerable bulk of the stone cross could not be shifted or in any way tampered with.

The Grade 1 listed edifice of Bishops’ Tudor Town Hall stood side by side with the recently erected Community Hall. Across the Market Square was a seventeenth-century arcade, affectionately referred to as the Old Stables. It was home to a stylish café-restaurant, a butcher’s shop still run by the descendants of Robert Kane, who had established it in 1701 (if the plaque over the door was to be believed), and a bakery whose owner, appropriately named Angela Cornish, was famous countywide for her pasties.

The Old Stables arcade vied for attention with the Rook’s Nest, the town’s oldest public house. Cobbled streets sprouted from the Market Square like arteries from the town’s beating heart. The High Street served as the main aorta carrying traffic through the village – sorry, the town – and across a charming single-lane bridge over the River Avon. It continued towards the rolling hills of the Commons Green where the Folly stood, and beyond where the rival town of Sexton’s Canning sprawled like an ugly grey toad.

To many Bishopians, Sexton’s Canning’s relentless expansion was a travesty. A place that had begun as a small hamlet of farm workers had over the centuries overtaken Bishops Well in size and significance. It had encroached upon Bishops’ outer confines, gradually absorbing the villages of Little Ogburn, Lower Norton, and even parts of Parson’s Combe. But Bishops Well held its own in the face of adversity and successfully resisted being appended to the south-western outskirts of its bigger neighbour. It had to put up with Sexton’s Canning hogging all of the county’s primary amenities, such as libraries, leisure centres, hospitals, and shopping centres, as well as a busy train station, the County Hall, and the police headquarters. Bishops Well may have defended its sovereignty but it had to yield to Sexton’s supremacy. Bishopians found that fact irritating: since when should a bishop bow to a sexton! Instead of grumbling, though, they resolutely maintained a stiff upper lip and got on with their exciting lives.

And life in Bishops Well was brimming with excitement. Apart from the Thursday Market, summer and winter fetes were held with many noble charities in mind. The list of worthy causes was as long as the High Street. Bishopians were particularly fond of all things old. The past was never far from a Bishopian’s mind. Every important – and unimportant – historical anniversary was noted in the Parish calendar and wholeheartedly commemorated in the residents’ unique way. The most powerful force to reckon with in Bishops Well was the AA – Bishops Well Archaeological Association, that is – and that spoke volumes about the town’s priorities. A large number of other exotic societies with a limited level of usefulness called Bishops Well their home.

And, since last November, so did Samuel Dee.

He had decided to relocate there after a few weeks of intense introspection following the anniversary of his wife’s death. Rather than spending a second painfully lonely Christmas in London, without Alice, he had decided to shut the door on his old life and move somewhere where the memories of Alice could not find him. Their children, Abi and Campbell, were grown up and had left home. There was nothing to keep him rattling around his and Alice’s old London haunts without her by his side, and bumping into people who knew him as Alice’s other half. It would never be the same without her.

That was when he had remembered the mad little town of Bishops Well. It would be a perfect hidey-hole to afford him peace of mind and anonymity, he had decided, and started packing.

Anonymity hadn’t been fully accomplished, as, a couple of months into his brand-new life, he had run into Richard Ruta at the Thursday Market. Sam had totally forgotten that Richard resided in a country estate, ironically named Forget-Me-Not, a couple of miles south of the town. Sam had visited Richard there before, notably swinging by Bishops Well on that one memorable occasion, but had somehow failed to make the connection when placing the offer on his new house. Now, he was glad of that. In the end, having just one old friend around couldn’t be that bad, and in the main, it wasn’t.

Sam’s new home wasn’t that new. It was a subdivided old vicarage called Priest’s Hole. The blackened name plaque hung over the archway of the original front door, and the Roman numerals chiselled into it indicated that it dated back to 1645. According to the property deeds, the vicarage hadn’t. . .