Returning from their honeymoon, newly-weds Adam and Eve Bailey are immediately plunged into another investigation - one that poses their biggest challenge yet.
After a local art dealer is found stabbed to death behind the local cricket pavilion, another killing swiftly follows.
Meanwhile, Reverend Michael Phillips, vicar of the local church is beset with problems. Since the disappearance of a rare painting that hung there, his parishioners believe the church's Lady Chapel to be haunted. And, adding to his woes, Michael's fiancée has discovered her birth certificate to be forged, forcing them to postpone their wedding.
Adam and Eve must race against time to uncover deadly secrets from the past to reveal the killer - secrets that others will stop at nothing to keep hidden.
The Haunted Lady is the fifth novel in Bill Kitson's chilling and suspenseful Eden House mystery series. Perfect for fans of Peter James's Cold Hill series, Val McDermid and J M Dalgliesh.
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(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd
Release date:
June 30, 2016
Publisher:
Accent Press
Print pages:
261
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The fifth in the Eden House Mysteries from Bill Kitson, featuring ingenious sleuths Adam Bailey and Eve Samuels. When Adam and Eve finally tie the knot, the peace and quiet of married life is soon shattered when Eve makes a strange acquaintance on the train...soon the newlyweds are investigating more tales of murder, mayhem and nefarious deeds.
Dedicated to all members of Studley Royal Cricket Club,
particularly their junior players.
I hope you get as much enjoyment from the game as I have.
Acknowledgements
––––––––
With all plots, the need for character names always arises. Last year I was asked if I could help with fund-raising for two worthwhile events. I offered, as an auction lot, the chance to be named in my next book. The first was at Studley Royal Cricket Club, Summer Ball, where David and Valerie (whose name isn’t Kershaw) deserve grateful thanks for their generous contribution to Junior Cricket, a cause dear to my heart. Likewise, to the real Councillor Tom Fox whose donation through the Scarborough Rainbow Centre’s silent auction, helped provide much needed funds for the homeless and those in need of practical support.
My thanks to all of them for allowing me to take their names in vain.
As always, I have to thank Greg, my meticulous editor at Accent Press for keeping me in order, along with Hazel and the rest of the A Team. And of course, my own in-house editor, critic, proof-reader and typo-hunter, Val.
Chapter One
January 1983
––––––––
It was late January when Eve – or should I say the new Mrs Bailey – and I boarded a train at King’s Cross to return home from our honeymoon. After the wedding ceremony on Christmas Eve, we had spent a month in southern Europe, avoiding the cold January weather and, as Eve put it, avoiding trouble. I’ve no idea why, but between us we have developed a knack of solving other people’s problems and perhaps it’s because of my journalistic background that we succeed. Or maybe it’s just Eve’s nosy nature.
For the latter part of the journey home, there was only one other occupant in our First Class compartment, an elderly woman seated at the far end of the carriage who looked very upset.
‘Adam, I’m going to see if that lady’s all right,’ Eve told me.
She spent a long time talking to the other passenger before returning to her seat. ‘She’s heading for Elmfield, and was going to take a taxi from York, so I offered her a lift. That all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Anyway, you’ll never guess what she told me.’
As usual, Eve was absolutely right. I’d never have guessed – not in a million years.
‘Her name is Marjorie Phillips. She’s going to Elmfield to stay with her son.’ Eve paused, as if awaiting some reaction to the name, but it rang no bells with me – at least, not until Eve continued. ‘He’s vicar of Elmfield, and also of Dinsdale Parish Church, but his mother is worried. Apparently he’s having a lot of problems. Michael Phillips, we met him, a while ago. Do you remember him?’
‘Vaguely. So what’s his problem? Is somebody stealing money from the collection plate?’
I was treated to one of Eve’s withering glances. She’s extremely good at these; she has a whole array of them. This one was a medium velocity version. ‘Don’t be so flippant, he’s having a lot of trouble at Dinsdale Parish Church and, from what little she said, part of it is regarding his love life.’
‘Ah, yes, that can be a real problem.’
I received a hefty blow in the ribs. Have I mentioned what sharp elbows Eve has? I paid more attention as she continued, ‘She said there have been what she referred to as “some very strange goings-on” inside the church. So much so that the locals believe the church might be haunted. As if that wasn’t enough, she said, he’s also concerned about a missing picture. Added to which, he’s in love with a local girl, but it isn’t going smoothly. That’s what seems to be upsetting her the most and was all she would tell me, and I think she regretted saying as much as she had. I tried to get more information from her, but she clammed up, told me her son had specifically asked her not to mention it to anyone. I thought if we wanted to find out more it would be better to wait until we were in the car and then you could interrogate her properly.’
‘You make me sound like a member of the KGB. Besides, why would I be interested in a ghost and a missing picture?’
I was still protesting when the train pulled into York station.
As I struggled with the luggage, one of the passengers who alighted from the train caught my attention. It was a middle-aged man who seemed, at a casual glance, to be somewhat out of place in rural North Yorkshire. He was wearing a leather jacket and casual trousers with turn-ups, but his shirt was highly patterned, with a button-down collar, which, along with the hat he wore, was more an American fashion than an English one. His attire made me guess he hadn’t bought it anywhere nearby. Probably a tourist, I guessed. The hat certainly marked him out as not being local. Locally, hats are seldom worn, only if the weather demands, and then the headgear of popular choice is usually the flat cap – among many practical virtues, it’s more resistant to strong winds. The passenger was also carrying a suitcase, which, together with the other aspects of his appearance, convinced me that the tourist theory was correct.
His behaviour also provided a strong clue that he was a stranger to the area. On reaching the platform, he looked around as if to find his bearings, perhaps uncertain which direction to take. Before I could speculate or use my deductive powers further, though, I was commanded to attend to my task as personal baggage attendant, porter and chauffeur to Mrs Bailey.
We arrived outside the rectory in Elmfield as darkness was falling. Although we had introduced ourselves to Mrs Phillips before driving her from the station, it was fairly obvious that she had no idea who we were, apart from being a couple of local residents. She was only enlightened when we met her son. After thanking us for giving his mother a lift, he turned to her and remarked, ‘I bet you didn’t think you’d be riding with celebrities rather than taking a taxi, Mum.’
Seeing her blank expression, he gave us a wry smile, before explaining to her, ‘This is Adam Bailey, and Eve Samuels as was, Mum, the people who solved that mystery I told you about involving the children, and lots more besides. They’re often on TV.’ He turned to us and added, ‘Come to think of it, the way things are going, I might need your help – but I don’t want to spoil your honeymoon by burdening you with my worries.’
Next morning I began tackling the mountain of accumulated mail as Eve was doing battle with the pile of clothing she had assembled to insert into the washing machine. I cannot honestly remember wearing that much on honeymoon. I mean, you don’t, do you?
The doorbell rang and I called out, ‘It’s OK, Mrs Bailey, I’ll answer it.’
She opened the utility room door. ‘You only volunteered so you could call me Mrs Bailey.’
‘I just like the sound of it.’
‘Mmm, so do I. Call me it again.’
‘Just as you wish, Mrs Bailey.’
We really were still on honeymoon. Our village bobby, Johnny Pickersgill, was the visitor. ‘You’re back, then.’
Given that I was standing little more than eighteen inches in front of him, I reckoned that had to be the most obvious statement of all time. ‘You’re wasted in uniform branch. You should have been a detective. However did you guess?’
‘Sorry, I lost that scrap of paper you gave me, with the dates you were away on it. Anyway, I don’t know why you bothered going away, not with the way things have been here.’
He had been asked to keep an eye on Eden House during our absence – not that we anticipated any trouble. That sort of thing just didn’t happen, not in the village of Laithbrigg, or at least very rarely. I reined in my sarcasm and relented. ‘We arrived back yesterday evening. You’ll have to explain what you meant by “the way things have been”, because I’ve no idea what you’re on about.’
‘I’m talking about the weather; we’ve had the mildest January for years, been almost spring-like. Haven’t you seen it in the papers or on TV?’
My sarcasm returned, despite me trying to prevent it.
‘I appreciate that you’ve been married a long time, Johnny, but strange as it may seem to you, we didn’t spend our holiday glued to a TV set or with our noses buried in newspapers. That isn’t what a honeymoon is for.’
‘No, I suppose not. I only stopped by to check on the house but, seeing as you’re home, you may as well have your keys back.’
I opened the door wide. ‘I suppose you’ll be in need of a cuppa then?’
Under normal circumstances, the mention of a cup of tea would bring Johnny indoors. On this occasion, however, it seemed he had other priorities.
‘Thanks all the same but there’ll be a bacon butty waiting at the station by now. Of course, if I’d known you were back, then ... ’ His voice trailed off as he got back into his newly delivered Panda car.
Eve appeared at my side. ‘Was that Johnny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he unwell?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Then why ...?’
‘Never mind.’
Eve and I settled into married life very easily. We had known each other for over three years, lived together for more than two, and already made what was my original cottage into a house by adding an extension. We were content to continue our established daily routines. Every morning we took a walk and the rest of the time I would work on my next novel while Eve, needing something to tax her brain, decided to advance her talents by studying through the Open University.
It continued in this way until Eve announced she wanted a break. Easter was approaching and she wanted to go shopping. But as this was Eve, ‘shopping’ only equates to London. She and her sister, Lady Harriet Rowe, came from a wealthy family and knew how to shop.
We spent a week in London. Eve, it seemed was in training to win gold at the Olympic Games in Los Angeles – should they introduce shopping as a new event.
––––––––
There was no one about. Robert liked it that way. He enjoyed the peace and tranquillity, contrasting with, and acting as an antidote to, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. He drove slowly, taking in the magnificent scenery, knowing he was alone in these beautiful surroundings. The only creatures in sight were four-legged ones; a large herd of fallow deer grazing contentedly on the lush meadows that were bisected by the small, one-track road.
Several of them eyed the intruder with little more than idle curiosity. They were well used to the noisy, smelly contraptions that invaded their living space from time to time, had become accustomed to the odd creatures that emerged from those shells. The permanent residents of the deer park at Studley Royal knew that they presented little by way of a threat, and were nothing more than a passing interference with their daily routine.
Robert was in no hurry. He relished the chance to savour the silence and pulled his car to a halt. With his engine idling and the windows open, he listened, but all he could hear was the gentle cooing of a distant pigeon or dove, and the harsher, quarrelsome cry of a pair of squabbling rooks.
It was a beautiful spring evening, one to enjoy at leisure, but Robert had work to do. Soon, the silence would be broken in grand manner by the mechanical roar of a mower, followed by the deeper bellow of a roller as he prepared the wicket for the following day’s opening cricket match of the season.
Studley Royal Cricket Club had leased the ground in the centre of the deer park from their landlords, the National Trust, since the club’s formation a decade earlier. Their ambitions were for a larger ground, but such was the popularity of the game locally that they might well need two playing areas. As the club’s founder, Robert was well content with the progress they had made over such a short time. The following day’s match was important, but taking the long view, the stature of the club was a greater priority.
He drove on, his pace gentle enough to avoid risking harm to any of the park dwellers. After a few minutes he parked behind a small building, little more than a hut, which served as the cricket pavilion and tackle shed combined. His thoughts were on the tasks ahead, and it was only after rescuing the keys to the shed from his glove compartment and stepping out of the car that Robert noticed something that should not have been there.
He stared at the figure reclining against the rear wall of the building and frowned. The man appeared to be either asleep or drunk – or both. Robert wondered briefly where the recumbent imbiber had got into such a condition. There were no pubs or off-licences for several miles. How had he managed to reach such a remote spot when he was in no fit state to stand up?
He walked across and stared down at the man whose eyes were glazed; his head slumped to one side. The grey pallor of the man’s faced and those eyes, staring into eternity, convinced Robert that this was no drunk. This man was dead.
Robert was no stranger to the sight of dead bodies. He often helped his father-in-law, a local undertaker, and corpses held no fear for him. What had caused this man’s demise, he wondered, and how had he got to this secluded place to die. A heart attack, a stroke – or worse still, suicide?
Then he saw the blood beneath the body, and acting on an impulse he later regretted, he twitched the man’s raincoat to one side. He recoiled and stepped back to avoid the swarm of flies that rose up, disturbed from their feast. ‘Oh, dear Lord,’ he murmured – the closest Robert came to swearing. He looked at the body and felt nausea rising in his throat. Blood had stained the man’s shirt and the top of his trousers. Blood that had pumped through a gaping slit in the shirt, seeping from a single wound directly opposite the victim’s heart. This was no accidental death, no natural causes – this was murder.
The morning after our return home from London, Eve was busy unpacking and refilling the wardrobes with her latest purchases when the phone rang. She answered it. I heard her say, ‘Oh dear, that sounds awful.’ Then, ‘No, that’s not a problem, we should be in most of the day, but we do need to go shopping later. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.’ She put the phone down and turned to me. ‘We’re going to have a visitor. That was Mrs Phillips, you remember? The lady on the train.’
‘That sounds like a Hitchcock title. What did the vicar’s mother want?’
‘She wants us to help her son.’
‘What is it this time? More ghosts? Vampires in the vestry?’
‘I don’t exactly know, she didn’t give any details. All she said is that it’s something to do with a murder and that her son Michael is very upset about it.’
‘Not The Murder at the Vicarage?’
‘Adam, you’re at it again. Can you be serious for one moment?’
I grinned. ‘OK then. As long as it’s only for a moment.’
Shortly after the call, Johnny Pickersgill arrived on our doorstep. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a cup of tea going?’ He sounded despondent, which was uncharacteristic.
‘You look as though you need cheering up. Come on inside and we’ll see what we can do.’
Nothing was guaranteed to brighten Johnny’s day more than that, and it worked. He gave me a broad smile, one that got even wider once he heard the exchange between Eve and me. ‘Johnny’s here, darling,’ I called out.
‘I know, I’ve put the kettle on. I’ll be back in a minute.’
We went through to the kitchen and, as we waited for the kettle to boil, he said, ‘You’ve missed all the fun and games. We’ve got a murder on our hands.’
Eve entered and I told her, ‘Johnny seems to think we missed out on all the excitement. I did try and explain to him that as far as you were concerned shopping was thrilling enough, but he says there’s been a murder while we’ve been away.’
‘Where?’
‘In the deer park at Studley Royal.’
‘What was it, something to do with poachers?’
Johnny shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, at least we don’t think so.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘His body was found on Friday evening and only then because the groundsman went to prepare the pitch for the start of the season. It was lucky there was a home game scheduled for that Saturday, because if they’d been playing away it could have been another week before he was found.’
Eve and I looked at one another in bewilderment. I shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘Don’t ask me what he’s talking about. It certainly sounded like English, even if none of it made any sense.’
‘I’m talking about the cricket club.’
‘What cricket club is that?’
‘The one where the body was found. In the deer park.’
I had a mental image of a fallow deer strapping on pads and batting gloves, collecting his bat and striding out to face a stag that was bowling right hoof over the wicket. ‘Tell me, Johnny, how do they manage to put one of those batting helmets on over their antlers?’
Eve began to giggle. This was a bad sign. Hysterical laughter was in the offing, so I had to quell it fast. ‘So far, Johnny, very little has made any sense whatsoever. What on earth has the game of cricket got to do with a deer park?’
‘Part of the deer park is a cricket ground, the base for Studley Royal Cricket Club,’ he explained. ‘The dead man was found by the cricket pavilion.’
Discarding the idea of various cricketing puns such as ‘how was he out,’ ‘it was over for him’, or even ‘his innings was closed,’ I asked, ‘Who was the victim, and how come you’re involved when Studley Royal is more than fifteen miles away?’
‘His name is – or was – Mark Bennett. He used to be curator of Dinsdale Museum and Art Gallery.’
‘I thought that place was closed,’ Eve interjected.
‘The place was closed two years ago while they build an extension to house the collection of sculptures and paintings; Bennett took early retirement. The rumour is that Bennett wasn’t too happy about the way the plans were pushed through, which is why he took his bat home. Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Because he was discovered at the cricket ground, I mean.’
Eve looked at him severely. ‘I should warn you that Adam is in charge of the bad jokes round here.’
I ignored the insult, concentrating instead on what Johnny had revealed thus far. Something still didn’t add up. Dinsdale was much nearer than Studley Royal, but it still wasn’t on Johnny’s patch, so why was he involved in what must surely be a criminal investigation, and therefore a matter for CID. No way was an out of area murder part of Johnny’s terms of reference. I asked him point blank, and noticed his hesitation before replying, and the care with which he chose his words.
‘As you know, Detective Inspector Hardy is still on sick leave after that car crash, and so the chief constable has asked me to lend Detective Sergeant Holmes a hand. Probably because we’ve worked together before, and he’s still a bit wet behind the ears – that, plus I know the area better than most, and the people involved. Without the DI, he’s floundering a bit.’
Mention of Hardy caused me to ask, ‘How is the DI, have you heard?’
Johnny smiled. ‘He’s been out of hospital a while and hobbling around at home on crutches. My missus bumped into his wife when she was shopping in town the other day. Mrs Hardy told her that she hadn’t really needed anything, she’d only gone into Dinsdale to get out of his way. Apparently he’s like a bear with a sore head, and she told my wife that if he doesn’t go back to work soon the police will have another murder to investigate – because she’ll kill him.’
‘Oh dear, poor woman,’ Eve said sympathetically. ‘That does sound bad, I can understand how she feels. I think men are often like that when they are ill – or imagine they are. They either become bad-tempered or very sorry for themselves, as if nobody had suffered as much as that before.’ She glared at me as if defying me to argue. I didn’t.
What Johnny had said about knowing the area was probably true, but I felt sure there was more to it than that, and I couldn’t at that stage work out what he meant by ‘the people involved’. My thoughts returned to Eve’s phone conversation with Mrs Phillips. Given that North Yorkshire was nothing like Chicago during Prohibition, I couldn’t imagine there having been too many murders during our week’s absence. ‘If you’re closely involved in the inquiry, Johnny, would you care to tell us how the Reverend Phillips fits into the picture. Is he a suspect?’
Johnny’s jaw dropped with astonishment. I’ve neve. . .
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