Murder at St Alfred's

Book 11: Whitstable Pearl Mysteries

by Julie Wassmer

Genres: Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Mystery

Synopsis

'Clues for a murder are rather like ingredients for a recipe. Put them together in the right way and the results can be very satisfying...'

The brand new book in the Whitstable Pearl crime series, starring restauranteur and detective Pearl Nolan - now a major TV drama, starring Kerry Godliman!

For almost two centuries, St Alfred's Church in Whitstable, Kent, has held special significance in the lives of its parishioners - including for private detective, Pearl Nolan, owner of the Whitstable Pearl restaurant.

Pearl's son, Charlie, was christened in the church and her oyster fisherman father, Tommy Nolan, is buried in the old churchyard. Now, St Alfred's is about to play another part in Pearl's life as the setting for her wedding to Canterbury police detective, DCI Mike McGuire.

But two fateful events are about to threaten this happy occasion - the discovery of a body on hallowed ground and the return of a ghost from Pearl's own past...

Praise for Julie Wassmer's Whitstable Pearl mysteries:

'While Oxford had Morse, Whitstable, famous for its oysters, has Pearl . . . True to the tradition of classic crime, [Julie Wassmer] weaves a strong story into a setting that has more to offer than murder and mayhem' Daily Mail

'As light as a Mary Berry Victoria sponge, this Middle-England romp is packed with vivid characters' Myles McWeeney, Irish Independent

'All of the thrills without any of the gore' The Sun

'My new favourite author in the genre' George Galloway

'Comforting, cosy and entertaining with excellent Agatha Christie-style reveals. I love these books!' Jane Wenham-Jones, author of Mum in the Middle

Release date: June 18, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 65000

Sample

The coastal waters of Whitstable were known to take on disparate shades of colour according to the tides and general weather conditions. In the height of summer, the sea would sometimes appear as turquoise as the Mediterranean or Aegean, while on cloudy days a strong wind might churn the estuary bed to create hues ranging from pewter grey to muddy brown. Today the waves were emerald green as Pearl Nolan trimmed the sail of her dinghy, heading west and away from the narrow spit of shingle known to local people as the Street – an abbreviation of the Street of Stones.

It was an unsolved Whitstable mystery as to how the Street had come into existence. Some believed it to be the remains of a Roman road, built on land that had subsequently been surrendered to the sea, while others said it had originated as an ancient landing stage for vessels. Stretching at least half a mile out from the shoreline, in lowering tides it would slowly emerge above the water like a sharp arrowhead pointing towards the horizon, wavelets shimmering around it – an indication of dangerous currents lying in wait for inexperienced swimmers or sailors unfamiliar with the area. Pearl, however, was neither. A Whitstable native, as the celebrated local oyster was also known, she had sailed the estuary waters as a child with her late fisherman father, Tommy, and played upon the Street, chasing the tide and searching the shingle for buried treasure. But today the bank was masked by high water and as Pearl tacked away in the opposite direction, she observed a dinghy race taking place close to the local yacht club with a fleet of small sloops making good use of a fresh breeze that was also aiding the white blades of the windfarm turbines perched on the horizon.

Pearl took a deep breath of sea air, savouring the sense of freedom she always felt while sailing these waters and taking advantage of an alternative view of her home town from the sea. Today she noted that the Hotel Continental was already busy, cars arriving outside its art deco facade. Beyond this, the harbour soon appeared, its fishing fleet already out on the high tide while groups of people milled on the deeper East Quay where larger vessels docked. At this early hour, the figures on the quay were sure to be sightseeing DFLs – the town’s acronym for Down From Londoners. Whitstable’s proximity to the capital – being only an hour’s drive from south London – had greatly contributed to the quirky little east Kent fishing town becoming an increasingly popular bolthole for day-trippers. In less than an hour’s time, the visitors would be ambling in and out of Whitstable’s art galleries and boutiques, creating a slow but heavy tide of their own against which local people would invariably be pushing at a much brisker pace.

Pearl tacked west against a stiffening breeze and soon the unmistakable silhouette of the Old Neptune came into view: known to locals as the ‘Neppy’, the pub had survived the onslaught of winds and tides for over two centuries to stand resolute on the beach – an iconic landmark immortalised in the work of many local and visiting artists.

Closing her eyes for a moment, an after-image remained for Pearl; no surprise since she had always been able to conjure up the contours and features of this coastline as well as she could summon the faces of her own family members. In fact, Pearl herself had become an intrinsic part of the town’s landscape, having left it only briefly, some twenty odd years ago, as a young woman intent on a career in the police force – a career she had chosen to forfeit on finding herself with an unplanned pregnancy. Over the past two decades, she had forged instead another life as single mother to her son, Charlie, and restaurateur of the establishment that honoured her own name – The Whitstable Pearl. More recently, a side hustle as a local private eye had begun to satisfy Pearl’s need to revisit old dreams – if only to demonstrate the investigative skills she had always known that she possessed. While it was true that for the most part, Pearl had put her life on hold while bringing up Charlie, eschewing many opportunities, even for romance, the new direction she had taken had introduced fresh challenges as well as a bright new future with Canterbury police officer DCI Mike McGuire, the man she was about to marry.

McGuire’s proposal had come some time ago, only for obstacles to intervene: chiefly in the form of his own police work and the fact that he and Pearl had continued to bump heads in their joint investigation of a series of local crimes. Doubts had also surfaced for Pearl, especially after attending an old friend’s wedding – at which murder had struck, providing another case to be solved and the need for order to be restored. But now, with the passage of time, Pearl felt ready to embrace a life with McGuire as surely as she accepted the changing tides.

Trimming her sails once more, she sat back in the dinghy and reflected on the fact that she had yet to persuade McGuire to come out with her on the boat. Any plans to do so had always been interrupted by other events, but as a Londoner, and former Met Police officer, Mike McGuire had no real affinity with the sea – only with the woman to whom it meant so much. Having arrived initially in Whitstable on a temporary secondment, McGuire had soon taken up a permanent position in Kent – settling into a riverside apartment in Canterbury, just seven miles away from Pearl. From the outset, there had been competition between the two, but a loving relationship, built on mutual respect, a strong degree of physical attraction and a recognition that the pair complemented one another as much as yin and yang had now allowed them to overcome all obstacles in their path.

Ultimately, McGuire still proved to be an irresistible conundrum for Pearl, with the last few weeks providing added frustration, because as Senior Investigating Officer in an important corruption case, he had been stationed in London for a trial at the Old Bailey, leaving Pearl to finalise wedding preparations alone. Undaunted, Pearl had managed, and with almost everything now organised – church booked, guests invited and a wedding ‘breakfast’ menu confirmed with her own chef at The Whitstable Pearl – the only missing component was McGuire himself. Reflecting on this, Pearl lifted her face to the warm summer breeze and consoled herself with the fact that once McGuire finally quit his bachelor flat to live permanently in Pearl’s home at Seaspray Cottage, he might join her in pursuits other than solving crime – perhaps even sailing these waters on a sunny morning …

In the next moment, a gull swooped low, screeching loudly overhead before disappearing into an azure sky. It was only as the bird’s raw cry receded that Pearl was able to hear that her phone was sounding. It was still too early for Charlie to have surfaced, and Pearl half expected the call to be from her mother, Dolly. To her surprise, she found it was someone else.

‘Pearl?’ Reverend Prudence Lawson, known locally as Rev Pru, sounded uncharacteristically unsettled on the line. ‘I’m so sorry to call you at this hour,’ she began.

‘No problem,’ Pearl replied. ‘I’m just enjoying an early-morning sail.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s high tide right now but I don’t expect I’ll have time to enjoy the next one.’

‘Of course,’ said Rev Pru, ‘you’re a very busy lady, Pearl, and I know you also have your hands full with wedding prep but … do you think we could possibly have a chat soon?’

Pearl gave a small sigh, anticipating the reason for this. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she began, ‘I know Mike and I are still to have that meeting with you, but the court case in London has dragged on longer than expected and he’s still needed there—’

‘I’m sure,’ said Rev Pru quickly.

‘But the jury’s now deliberating,’ said Pearl, ‘so there’ll be a verdict very soon—’

‘And let’s hope it’s the right one,’ said Rev Pru, breaking in. ‘That particular meeting can wait,’ she explained. ‘I know you completed all the administrative process while I was away on sabbatical?’

‘That’s right,’ Pearl confirmed, ‘and the banns have now been read and recorded so we just need to decide a date for the rehearsal, and—’

‘Have that meeting with your fiancé. Yes, all in good time,’ said Rev Pru hurriedly. ‘But I’m actually calling about—’ She broke off for a second, her voice suddenly lowering as she went on. ‘A personal matter. I need your advice, Pearl. As soon as possible?’

Pearl frowned to herself then checked her watch before recognising she was now approaching a shoreline area known as Wave Crest, on which a parade of tall houses, each painted a bright pastel colour and resplendent in the early-morning sun, looked out over a stretch of beach on which Pearl often moored her boat. She made a quick decision.

‘I can be with you in half an hour.’

Rev Pru’s voice betrayed clear relief. ‘Thank you, Pearl. I’ll be at the vicarage.’

St Alfred’s Church on Whitstable’s high street offered traditional Anglican worship and a relaxed and friendly atmosphere – both helped considerably by Rev Pru’s open style. Built in the nineteenth century, the church seated almost five hundred people and was at the heart of the community, not only geographically but also in relation to those it served, not solely for religious purposes and to commemorate births, deaths and marriages but because it offered itself for public meetings on a variety of issues concerning the town. It had also provided a venue for many a classical candlelit concert. While making her way to the vicarage following Rev Pru’s call, Pearl paused on a stone path leading to the church and surveyed a series of stained-glass windows set within St Alfred’s ragstone walls. Images of Christ preaching from a fishing boat on the Sea of Galilee, as though directly to the town’s congregation, always reminded Pearl of her childhood. While she had never been a regular churchgoer, Pearl still held memories of having attended Sunday School with other local children, learning her Scriptures while feeling the presence of St Alfred’s in the fabric of her life. For most local people, the church still held a special place in what had been principally, for so many years, a fishing town, and when parish members had been sadly lost at sea, the ministers of St Alfred’s had offered solace and a suitable memorial service.

Pearl’s son Charlie had been christened here, and although it was true that most people now seemed to spend Sundays worshipping at the altar of consumerism, with visits to superstores whose size matched those of some cathedrals, a parish church like St Alfred’s still held significance in the lives of its community. Pearl had attended the weddings of friends and relatives here – as well as funerals, including those of her father and a fellow oyster fisherman by the name of Vinnie Rowe, whose death had first brought Pearl into contact with Mike McGuire. Time had now moved on, and staring up at the old church tower from which a St George’s flag fluttered in the warm morning breeze, Pearl allowed herself to imagine that soon church bells would be ringing out news of her own wedding.

Rev Pru was waiting in the vicarage. A tiny woman in her early forties, with a peach-like complexion that made her look as though she had been scrubbed, she always seemed to Pearl to possess a compressed form of power – like a battery. Since arriving in the parish a few years ago, the new vicar had fired the community with her enthusiasm – as well as supporting a number of charitable causes with some dynamic fundraising. Rev Pru had also rattled the cages of some of the more conservative members of the community with her radical style and the fact that she wore surprisingly short skirts for her profession. Today she seemed somewhat preoccupied as she welcomed Pearl into the vicarage lounge, where a selection of French Fancy cakes and coconut macaroons were displayed on plates that matched a pretty art deco tea set. Pearl took a seat by the window as Rev Pru indicated the table. ‘I did remember rightly?’ she began. ‘You do prefer tea to coffee?’

Pearl nodded, smiling as Rev Pru began to pour. ‘You have a good memory,’ she commented. The vicar looked up and Pearl explained. ‘It’s a while since we’ve been here together but still you remembered. You’d make a good detective.’

‘Me?’ said Rev Pru innocently. ‘I don’t think so. You need special training for that, as you well know, Pearl.’

‘Not always,’ Pearl replied. ‘A good detective works by instinct. Powers of observation come in very handy,’ she added. ‘An eye for small details.’

Rev Pru looked momentarily flattered. ‘And … being a good judge of character?’ Her smile seemed suddenly to fade at this thought. Something was troubling the vicar and Pearl sensed the reason why.

‘I really am sorry,’ she began, ‘about Mike having been so busy.’

‘With the court case?’ said Rev Pru, handing a cup to Pearl. ‘As I said, there’s still time for that meeting. It’s just part of our usual church process: a chance to discuss the Christian understanding of marriage and to reflect on the vows you’ll be making before God.’ She offered another smile then broke off and sat back in her chair before continuing. ‘But … what I hope to do now, Pearl, is to draw on your professional expertise.’ Before Pearl could respond, the vicar went on while assuming a grave expression. ‘I have a confession to make. I need your help.’

Pearl paused as she picked up a macaroon. ‘Go on,’ she said gently, before taking a bite.

Rev Pru took a deep breath as if to steady herself before admitting: ‘I’ve been rather careless in observing Church rules. I … do hope you can keep this strictly confidential?’

Pearl nodded once more. ‘Of course.’

The vicar took a sip of tea then leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well, you’ll be aware that most members of the core congregation of St A’s are … what I would describe as … more traditional worshippers? For the most part, they are senior members of our community who have been coming to services for many years, so … well, it’s always refreshing to see a new face in our pews.’ She gave another smile – wistful this time. ‘Especially a young face.’ Setting down her teacup, she continued: ‘On at least two occasions, I happened to notice that a young man had joined us for morning worship. He was in his early twenties – probably no older than your Charlie. A handsome young chap. Tall with very dark hair and a nice honest face.’

‘“Honest”?’ echoed Pearl, picking up on the word.

Rev Pru’s smile faded once more. ‘I … didn’t get a chance to talk to him on either occasion, but it wasn’t long before our paths crossed once more. One evening, straight after service, I happened to notice that he was still in church – in the upper gallery, to be precise. Asleep – on a pew.’

Pearl frowned. ‘Asleep?’

Rev Pru nodded. ‘He looked very peaceful. His head was resting on his rucksack, like a pillow …’ She looked distracted, as though seeing this image again in her mind’s eye.

‘And … I take it, you woke him?’

‘Gently, of course,’ the vicar replied. ‘He looked most embarrassed but I explained that he wouldn’t be the first to nod off in one of my sermons. After apologising, he headed off into the night but the next evening he was back again – with his rucksack.’ She gave a shrug. ‘It seemed he had nowhere else to go.’

‘Nowhere but St Alfred’s?’

Rev Pru heaved a sad sigh. ‘I gather he’d been sleeping on the streets.’

Pearl set down her cup as she took this in. ‘Well, there are two good charities in Canterbury who help those who are homeless or rough sleeping—’

‘I know,’ Rev Pru replied quickly. ‘And I explained, but … he said he didn’t want to go to Canterbury. He wanted to stay in Whitstable. It’s why he was here but … since arriving, he hadn’t been able to find any work and he’d gone through all his funds. He said he’d been sleeping down at the harbour, on the bench on the East Quay – the one with the inscription from that old poem.’ She thought for a moment, then recited, ‘What is this life if, full of care …’

‘… We have no time to stand and stare,’ said Pearl, completing the opening lines. ‘W. H. Davies,’ she said, ‘known as … the “tramp poet”?’

‘Yes,’ said Rev Pru, pausing for a moment to reflect on this. ‘Sadly apt, in the circumstances.’ She looked pained as she went on: ‘The weather had suddenly turned. Remember those dreadful storms a few weeks ago? I just … felt the need to help. It was so wet that night …’

‘So you took him in?’

Rev Pru gave a nod. ‘It was late – with a cold wind blowing … but I … couldn’t let him stay here in the vicarage. My cleaner, Beryl, was coming early next morning, ahead of a visit from Bishop Stoate, so I made up a bed for the young man in our small chapel – the one that leads into the church extension where we have a kitchen and some toilets?’

‘I see,’ said Pearl, warily. ‘And … he was still there next day?’

Rev Pru shook her head. ‘Nowhere to be found. It was as though he’d disappeared.’ She paused. ‘As I say, I had to meet with the bishop, but after seeing him off in the car park, I happened to catch sight of the young man in the area outside in which we’ve been building our prayer garden. He was sweeping up, “pulling his weight”, he said.’ She smiled. ‘He really is a very nice young man. His name’s Ryan Stacey and he says he’s from Essex, but for some reason, he … seems keen to leave his past behind.’

‘And … did you learn anything else about him?’

Rev Pru shook her head. ‘I know what you’re thinking: perhaps I was a little too trusting? Maybe so, but if a vicar can’t take on the role of a Good Samaritan on life’s roadside, then who can? In any case, things worked out because Ryan has continued to be extremely helpful with the new prayer garden. It’s practically finished now.’

‘Really?’ asked Pearl, surprised.

‘Oh yes. Didn’t Dolly tell you?’

‘Mum?’ asked Pearl, even more surprised.

Rev Pru nodded. ‘She dropped by to see how things were progressing and met Ryan herself. Saw how hard he’s been working alongside our volunteers. Everyone closely connected to St A’s has been helping and … well, through our little volunteer network, I managed to find Ryan some accommodation.’ She paused, then: ‘With Judith Beckett.’

‘The artist?’

‘That’s right. Did you know Judith has a cabin at the foot of her lovely garden? Ryan’s been staying there for the past few wee. . .