Murder in an English Village

Book 1: Beryl and Edwina Mystery

by Jessica Ellicott

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

As friends, the boisterous and brash American Beryl couldn't be less alike than the prim and proper British Edwina. But as sleuths in an England recovering from the Great War, they're the perfect match.

The year is 1920: Flying in the face of convention, legendary American adventuress Beryl Helliwell never fails to surprise and shock. The last thing her adoring public would expect is that she craves some peace and quiet. The humdrum hamlet of Walmsley Parva in the English countryside seems just the ticket. And, honestly, until America comes to its senses and repeals Prohibition, Beryl has no intention of returning stateside and subjecting herself to bathtub gin.

For over three decades, Edwina Davenport has lived comfortably in Walmsley Parva, but the post-World War I bust has left her in dire financial straits and forced her to advertise for a lodger. When her long-lost school chum Beryl arrives on her doorstep - actually crashes into it in her red motorcar - Edwina welcomes her old friend as her new roommate.

But her idyllic hometown has a hidden sinister side, and when the two friends are drawn in, they decide to set up shop as private inquiry agents, helping Edwina to make ends meet and satisfying Beryl's thirst for adventure. Now this odd couple will need to put their heads together to catch a killer - before this sleepy English village becomes their final resting place.

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Beryl Helliwell read the advertisement for a third time, not quite believing her good fortune.

The sign she’d been seeking stared up at her from the evening edition of the newspaper. Beryl circled the advertisement with her fountain pen and sat back to consider. Winter was fast approaching and she had no desire whatsoever to return to America just in time for the cold and the damp.

To the casual acquaintance Beryl appeared a good ten years younger than her age, an admirable state of affairs she attributed to a love of quality gin and an adamant refusal to bear children to any of her ex-husbands. Despite her appearance, the cold had started to fiddle with her joints. Add to the weather the fact that the recently enacted Prohibition was putting a crimp on the supply of quality gin. No, remaining in England was by far the best choice. And now she knew just where she would like to stay.

Beryl hadn’t felt so alive in weeks. With little fuss and even less time she settled her bill and determined to set out at first light. Her new automobile, won during a feverish night of card playing the week before, sat tucked up in a garage behind the hotel and would likely be itching for a run out to the country. A vehicle like that deserved to be taken out on the open road and run at full tilt.

The next morning the sun was still deciding if it wanted to get out of bed when Beryl tugged her kid driving gloves up over her broad hands and double-checked that the porter did indeed know how to strap a suitcase to the trunk. Miles of road stretched in front of her and Beryl was determined to be amongst the first to respond to the notice in the paper. As the early morning chill seeped into her joints she was even more determined not to return home to the States for the winter.

Edwina Davenport awoke with a vague sense of disquiet. She lay motionless under her chenille bedspread and ran quickly through the list of worries that plagued her of late, the most pressing of which were financial. She mentally checked off the coal bill, the greengrocer’s account, and the disturbing smell of damp issuing from the back hall. All of these worries were faithful and familiar companions. The source of her unease was not amongst them. She opened her eyes and spotted the peeling chunk of wallpaper along the north wall. Which is how she remembered. Honestly, her memory had become shocking of late.

The paper. There had been nothing else for it but to swallow her pride and to place the notice in the newspaper. While America’s economy galloped along at a steady clip, that of England was sharply in decline. The post-war boom had busted and Edwina had found herself amongst the many who had felt the pinch.

Advertising for a lodger was a distressing enough proposition, but the parade of unsuitable people who appeared in front of her and demanded consideration was quite shocking. Why was it so very difficult to attract a tenant with even minimal standards of personal hygiene and a firm grasp of the English language?

Edwina may have been short on funds but her imagination was a rich one. It had taken very little to convince her the majority of the respondents were up to no good. Those applicants who didn’t shed great clods of earth on her carpets looked like they were sizing up the place for a possible break-in at a later date. Each time she answered the door to another unsuitable applicant she envisioned a web of criminal activity wrapping its sticky string round the village, her own beloved home the centre of the operations. It was times like these Edwina longed for a sister with whom to share her concerns.

Still, there was no use grieving over what was never to be. That was hardly the way to get things done. Edwina slid from beneath the bedspread and tucked her bony feet into her threadbare carpet slippers. Crumpet darted from his basket and appeared at her side ready for a morning outing and a hearty breakfast. Chiding herself for her late start to the day, she almost tripped over her little dog in her hurry to dress. The evening post had brought a whole new slate of candidates requesting appointments to view her spare room today and she couldn’t very well meet them in her dressing gown.

She made due with a dish of gherkins and a slightly stale roll left over from tea the day before. Crumpet seemed to look at her askance as he rose up on his hind legs to beg for a bit of her breakfast. But preparing meals never seemed worth the bother. If Edwina were to be utterly truthful she would have to admit she was not only in dire financial straits but also desperately lonely as well. In the secret little room of small dreams tucked deep in her heart she held out hope that the right person would see her advertisement and be the answer to both her most pressing troubles.

But she didn’t admit such a thing even to herself because that would be greedy. With so many troubles in the world a bit of solitude was nothing to complain about. And while it was bothersome, like the twinge of rheumatism in her left elbow, it was endurable. One simply ignored such things and soldiered on.

Crumpet pranced eagerly next to the door as she plucked her thick wool jumper from the hall tree and slipped it over her head. She grabbed her gardening gloves and the sturdy old basket she used for weeding, then stuffed a brimmed hat on her head to ward off the chill. She could at least get a few minutes in the garden while the dog had a good romp round the grounds. She wrested the door open, thinking as she always did that its difficulty in opening was another source of concern. Crumpet shot through the door and dashed ahead of her down the drive, a black and white flash through the dense greenery.

As she made her way down the drive she paused to view the yews flanking either side. Long gone were the days when a head gardener and two boys for the rough work kept the shrubbery in trim. Now Edwina made due with the halfhearted ministrations of an antiquated jobbing gardener named Simpkins as well as her own passionate but insufficient efforts. Shaggy green growth stuck up above the shrubs and gave the hedge a neglected air. If the shrubs could have clucked their collective tongues at her she was certain they would have done so. And she couldn’t very well blame them.

She pulled her shears from the basket, determined to make amends when she heard the squeal of tires and then a tremendous crash that vibrated up through her feet. She dropped the basket and ran down the drive towards the lane. There, at the end of her driveway sat a dazzling red beauty of a motorcar, its magnificent bonnet crumpled against one of the stone pillars flanking the drive. Her heart lurched as she forced herself to look down at the wheels for signs of black and white fur. Her heart thumped to life again when Crumpet raced towards her from the other side of the road.

Turning her attention to the motorcar once more she felt her fear returning. Hissing clouds of steam issued forth from beneath the motor’s damaged bonnet. A tall figure slumped in the driver’s seat, its forehead pressed against the steering wheel. Edwina stared at the back of the driver’s head of platinum blond hair peeking from beneath a cloche as red as the motorcar. She knew better than to move a patient without being sure it wouldn’t do more damage than good. She just wasn’t sure how one figured that part out without medical training. Should she run back to the house to use the telephone? What if the woman came to her senses all on her own and wandered off into the hedgerows to die of exposure?

Before she could decide how to proceed, the driver stirred and groaned ever so slightly. One hand, clad in an elegant glove, reached up and patted the fashionable hat back into place then straightened back against the seat. The woman turned to Edwina and smiled.

“Hello, Ed. Remember me?”

Beryl Helliwell watched as her friend Edwina Davenport capped her fountain pen and laid it on the desk in front of her. The morning post had yielded several pointed and chiding reminders from local merchants of accounts past due as well as a vexing dearth of alimony checks. Clearly the results of Edwina’s calculations could not be considered good news.

“It’s all here in black and white on the ledger page. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say in red and white.”

“Come on now, Ed, it can’t be as bad as all that, can it?” Beryl asked. “After all, we were tediously careful with the funds all winter long.”

“One can never be careful enough to make not enough go as far as one needs,” Edwina said.

“Just last Sunday your dreary vicar was nattering on about some story or other from the Good Book about miracles and unending supplies of bread and fish or some such a thing. Can’t you make the same thing work with the bookkeeping?” Beryl asked. Beryl noticed her friend looked shocked at the suggestion. But then, Edwina was easily shocked.

“The vicar is not the most prepossessing of men but I would hardly call him dreary. And the parable of the loaves and the fishes is not meant as a lesson in resource husbandry. It certainly isn’t meant to encourage the congregation to tread all over the toes of the Almighty by assuming one can just as easily perform such miracles.” Edwina shook her head at Beryl and delivered a severe look. “The only thing close to a miracle I’ve managed lately by way of stretching the comestibles is to water down your gin.”

“I had wondered about my increased capacity for alcohol recently,” Beryl said. “Rather a shortsighted approach, you know. I’ve only gone and consumed twice as much of it.”

“But I haven’t diluted it by half,” Edwina said. “No wonder we are going behind each and every week.”

“You should have told me and I would have cut down on my cocktail making,” Beryl said.

“I didn’t imagine you would have been willing to listen to reason about it. You’ve said as much in the past.” Edwina gave the bookkeeping ledger another dour look.

Edwina was right, of course. Although Beryl had spent most of her forty-odd years rattling around the globe in an effort to complete one feat of derring-do or another, she had always returned to the States at the end of a journey. That is, until the outrageous passage of Prohibition. She had no intention whatsoever of stepping foot back on American soil until that nonsense had been repealed. Even finally granting women the right to vote had not changed her mind on the subject.

“I said nothing about reducing my consumption. You know quality gin is the reason for my glowing complexion and unflagging vivacity. I’d even go so far as to say it is responsible in large part for my youthful appearance. No, I would not stop imbibing, but would have stopped making cocktails.”

“You aren’t talking sense, Beryl. Not in the least.”

“I mean to say I would have commenced to mooch. I would regale those at the pub with stories of my adventures in exchange for the odd drink or two,” Beryl said. Edwina gasped with a ferocity that put Beryl in mind of one of those newfangled carpet aspirating machines she had seen at a model home in London some months back. It really was extraordinary how well Ed mimicked the noise of the device.

“You mustn’t spend your evenings in the pub. What would people say?” Edwina asked.

“I have never been concerned about what others say about me, Ed. You know that. It is only out of deference to your sense of decorum that I have not already staked out a favorite table at the village watering hole. Besides, I was quite sure you would not be willing to accompany me and I vastly prefer your companionship to that which I could find in the Dove and Duck.”

“Despite my qualms and concerns for your reputation, I suppose if you wish to keep imbibing, it may just come to that,” Edwina said. “There are no two ways about it. Despite my very best efforts, and your own contribution to the coffers, our financial situation could conservatively be pronounced dire.”

“Are you sure you have no piggy banks with a few pounds set aside for a rainy day? No unused silver knickknacks ready to sell floating around the place?” Beryl asked. But she already knew the answer. When she first arrived in Walmsley Parva a few months earlier she had been quick to note that all items of any value which Edwina’s family home, the Beeches, had ever held, had already been discreetly sold off. As things stood, they were barely able to seat six for dinner with matching silverware. The income from Edwina’s shares could generously be called paltry. The Great War had sent the English economy into a steep decline and she knew they weren’t the only ones suffering. In fact, they were better off than many and she made sure to remind herself of that fact regularly.

“You know that there aren’t. Despite all our efforts at economizing, we may yet be forced to take in a lodger.” Edwina pursed her lips. “I just don’t know what else we can do.” Edwina threw her slim hands into the air.

“Something will turn up, Ed,” Beryl said. “In my experience, it always does.” Beryl could not help but notice Edwina did not appear soothed. At least she did not if her exit from her chair and commencement of pacing the long threadbare rug running the length of the Beeches’ library was any indication of her state of mind.

“Your experience runs to reviving stalled engines and surviving crash landings, Beryl. Your knowledge of finance is limited to prying funds from former husbands and outrageous runs of luck at card games,” Edwina said. Beryl did not see the trouble.

“I think that means I stay calm under duress,” Beryl said.

“If we were plunging to our deaths whilst flying over the North Sea your expertise would be very welcome. As it is, I can’t say I hold out much hope that your attitude is the right approach.” Edwina chewed indelicately on the edge of her thumbnail. Her friend must be very worried indeed.

Beryl never did understand the concept of worry. Either something would happen or it wouldn’t. She could see no point whatsoever in spending energy best suited to taking action and to having fun on fretting about possibilities that might never come to pass. But Beryl did recognize that not everyone shared her view of life. While she sometimes admired and even envied Edwina’s rambunctious imagination she realized it came at a price far steeper than she herself would wish to pay. No, she felt quite sorry for Edwina as she watched her dear friend trying to keep her upper lip stiff as she snuck another glance at the bookkeeping ledger. Something would have to be done and soon if Edwina were to keep from worrying herself to death.

Beryl took things in hand. She drew a deep breath and decided, yes simply decided, that all would be well. Then she sprang from her chair with as much vigor as her slightly stiff joints would allow and grasped Edwina by the arm, gently but persuasively.

“We shall take a turn about the garden and look at what has come into bloom today. Weren’t you mentioning anticipating the unfurling of some peony buds just last night?” Beryl asked, drawing her agitated friend towards the library door. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if a solution to all our troubles appears before we complete our tour.”

Sure enough, by the time they reached the third garden bed on their walk, the roses were back in Edwina’s cheeks. Beryl congratulated herself as she watched Edwina burying her nose in a fluffy pink peony blossom. While Beryl did not concern herself in the least with the garden, she was amazed at Edwina’s intimate knowledge of all of her plants, their triumphs and their tribulations. Edwina leaned farther into the planting bed and inspected the underside of some glossy green leaves. She pulled a pair of secateurs from the pocket of her skirt and snipped off an offending branch.

Just then, Edwina’s jobbing gardener, Simpkins, rounded the corner of the potting shed. Beryl wasn’t certain but she thought she detected a slight wobble in Simpkins’ gait. She suspected the privacy of the potting shed had provided him with the opportunity for a spot of tippling. Fortunately for Simpkins, Edwina was far less savvy about such things than Beryl was herself. Edwina found fault with her elderly employee’s manner and work as a matter of course. Imbibing on the job would do little to improve her opinion of him. As he approached them, Simpkins slowed his pace and seemed to be having a care about putting one foot neatly in front of the other.

“Morning, ladies,” Simpkins said. “I see you’ve noticed the fine glory of the peonies this day.” He doffed his hat and made a slight bow. That clinched it. Beryl was certain that a cold-sober Simpkins would never bow to anyone. It was one of the things she liked best about him.

“The peonies are in fine form despite an infestation of aphids. I’m not sure how you call yourself a gardener at all,” Edwina said, taking a step towards Simpkins and waving the leaf she had cut right under his nose. Beryl held her breath and wondered if Edwina was finally going to tumble to Simpkins’ vice. Beryl could practically smell the fumes from where she stood several feet away. Perhaps a distraction was in order.

“Have you any news, Bert?” Beryl asked. “Any goings-on in the village we may have missed? Gossip down the pub you may have gleaned in your ramblings?” She winked at Simpkins as she uttered the word pub, hoping he would take the hint and do his best to look less disreputable. When Edwina had worries on her mind, she often was less tolerant of the foibles of others. In Beryl’s opinion Simpkins was often just what Edwina needed and she would hate to see a breach develop between them.

“Indeed there is, miss,” Simpkins said, drawing himself up to his full height. “There’s been a bit of a hullabaloo with the local pigeon racing club. I thought of the two of you at once.”

Edwina fanned herself vigorously with her leaf and scowled.

“The local pigeon racing club made you think of us, Simpkins,” Edwina said. “I hardly dare to imagine how that could be.”

“But there’s been a scandal, miss,” Simpkins said. “It put me in mind of the pair of you right quick like.” Beryl shook her head slowly, wondering how Simpkins had managed to remain employed for as long as he had. Edwina most certainly did not prefer to truck with scandal.

“A scandal made you think of us?” Edwina asked, waving her cutting tool in front of her as she spoke.

“Now don’t go getting yourself all hotted up, Miss Edwina,” Simpkins said with only the slightest of slurs in his speech.

“What sort of a scandal?” Beryl asked before Edwina could say anything else.

“The pigeon club treasurer has gone missing,” Simpkins said. Beryl laid a soothing hand on Edwina’s arm, which had disturbingly reached out towards Simpkins while holding the secateurs.

“A missing person,” Beryl said. “Of course you thought of us. After all, finding lost individuals seems to be something we are quite good at.” Beryl turned towards Edwina and flashed her a brilliant and reassuring smile. She was gratified to see Edwina place the cutting tool back in her pocket.

“I suppose that’s all right then,” Edwina said. Edwina took a step closer to Simpkins, a sure sign her interest had been piqued. Simpkins directed a rheumy glance in Beryl’s direction and cleared his throat. Beryl gave him the slightest of nods in encouragement.

“I’m not sure why the vicar would be so upset about a grown man who’s gone missing, but he is right worked up about it,” Simpkins said.

“Why would the vicar be interested in the comings and goings of someone in the pigeon club?” Beryl asked.

“The vicar is the president of the local pigeon club,” Edwina said to Beryl. “It’s a very popular pastime with many of the local gentlemen.”

“Even though he was right cagey about the details, I told the vicar you’d be happy to give him a hand with his troubles,” Simpkins said, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. “He said he’d be happy for any assistance you might give.”

“You told him what?” Edwina asked, her voice floating shrilly up into the treetops. Simpkins winced. Beryl wondered if this early in the day imbibing was to counteract the effects of a very long night of indulgence. She noticed him placing a gnarled hand over his stomach and decided the man was in fact hung over. She never had such troubles herself—a happy fact that left her feeling slightly superior as well as inordinately sympathetic towards those who did.

“Well, seeing as the two of you were such dab hands at solving the last mystery that came your way, I suggested to the vicar that you might look into this one,” Simpkins said. “I see no reason why the two of you shouldn’t start up your own private enquiry business.”

And there it was. The solution to all their financial problems. Beryl was heartily ashamed she had not thought of it herself. Of course they ought to open their own private investigations agency. Beryl turned expectantly towards Edwina who, characteristically, did not seem to share her enthusiasm.

“Go into business?” Edwina said. “We haven’t any idea whatsoever how to do such a thing.” Beryl noticed Edwina did not cross her arms across her chest but rather began fussing with her collar and the cuffs of her cardigan. Beryl was encouraged to voice support for the suggestion.

“Is he willing to pay for our services?” Beryl asked.

“I’m sure that he would be. He seemed eager to have the problem taken care of quickly and quietly,” Simpkins said. Beryl noticed the way Simpkins stressed the word quietly. “Of course he’s a vicar so I wouldn’t expect him to be a big spender.”

“His willingness to pay does not make us more worthy of receiving payment,” Edwina said. “We know nothing whatsoever about running an enquiry business. Or any other sort of business, for that matter.” Edwina’s arms began to creep towards her chest. “It’s one thing to look into criminal activities as a hobby. It is quite another to charge for one’s services.” This would require persuasion and quickly. Once Edwina had made up her mind she could be very difficult to budge. With an apologetic wink to Simpkins, Beryl took Edwina by the arm and drew her slightly out of his earshot.

“You recall our conversation this morning. I told you something would come up. This is precisely the answer to all our woes,” Beryl said. “We would be foolish not to build upon our previous successes.”

“Solving one mystery does not make us experts,” Edwina said.

“If you recall, it turned out to be two mysteries in the end,” Beryl said. “I would also point out we solved two crimes the local constable had determined were not crimes at all.” Edwina took a deep breath and let out a long, loud exhale. If she had been a different sort of woman, Beryl suspected Edwina would have allowed herself the indulgence of a profanity or two. As it was, Edwina simply sniffed extravagantly, as though she suffered from hay fever.

“But we haven’t any capital even if we do have some measure of experience,” Edwina said. “Surely one needs resources to set up any form of enterprise.”

“We have absolutely everything we need to set up shop,” Beryl said. She lifted her hand and counted off their assets one by one. “In addition to our experience and our gumption we have a telephone, an automobile, and a pistol.”

Edwina gasped.

“A pistol,” Edwina said. “You never mentioned that you have a pistol.”

“I confess, I never thought to do so. I also never happened to mention I have a toothbrush. I find both of them to be absolute necessities.”

“Have you ever fired it?” Edwina asked. Beryl was quite certain Edwina would have been embarrassed to realize her mouth was hanging open slackly like an adenoidal parlour maid finding herself in the presence of a member of the royal family.

“Only when absolutely necessary,” Beryl said. “Unless you would like to be in the position of advertising for an additional lodger, I suggest we visit the vicar posthaste. Besides, I would have thought helping a vicar would be the Christian thing to do.” Two spots of color appeared on Edwina’s cheeks. Beryl felt grubby reminding her friend of her duty, but appealing to her sense of morality was the most expedient way to reach an agreement.

Edwina turned back towards Simpkins, lifted her chin,. . .