Wycliffe and the Cycle of Death

by W.J. Burley

Genres: Mystery; Cozy Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

A respectable bookseller is found bludgeoned and strangled and it's up to Chief Superintendent Wycliffe to find out why . . . When Matthew Glynn is murdered, Wycliffe is mystified. Why would anyone want to kill him? But a look at Glynn's background reveals tension within the family. Alfred Glynn, an eccentric recluse, has born a grudge against his brother for years. The other brother, Maurice, argued bitterly with Matthew over the sale of family land. His sister Sara is caught out in several crucial lies to the police. Add to this a discontented son, the discovery of valuable documents in the bookseller's safe, and the mysterious, still unexplained disappearance of Matthew's wife years earlier, and Wycliffe faces one of his most impenetrable cases yet. And then another Glynn dies . . . Why readers love W.J. Burley: 'First-class, old-time, hyper-ingenious whodunit.' Observer 'You can always count on Wycliffe ... he inevitably guarantees a good story, convincing characters and appealing landscape ' Financial Times 'Wycliffe teases out the truth with delicate skill that leaves the reader intrigued and convinced.' Mail on Sunday 'Gripping.' The Times Fans of Ruth Rendell, Val McDermid and Peter Robinson will love W.J. Burley: 1. Wycliffe and the Three-Toed Pussy 2. Wycliffe and How to Kill a Cat 3. Wycliffe and the Guilt Edged Alibi 4. Wycliffe and Death in a Salubrious Place 5. Wycliffe and Death in Stanley Street 6. Wycliffe and the Pea-Green Boat 7. Wycliffe and the School Bullies 8. Wycliffe and the Scapegoat 9. Wycliffe in Paul's Court 10. Wycliffe's Wild Goose Chase 11. Wycliffe and the Beales 12. Wycliffe and the Four Jacks 13. Wycliffe and the Quiet Virgin 14. Wycliffe and the Winsor Blue 15. Wycliffe and the Tangled Web 16. Wycliffe and the Cycle of Death 17. Wycliffe and the Dead Flautist 18. Wycliffe and the Last Rites 19. Wycliffe and the Dunes Mystery 20. Wycliffe and the House of Fear 21. Wycliffe and the Redhead 22. Wycliffe and the Guild of Nine * Each Inspector Wycliffe novel can be read as part of a series or as a standalone*

Release date: December 16, 2010

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 224

Sample

Saturday

Charles Wycliffe, Detective Chief Superintendent, and Matthew Glynn, bookseller and district councillor, were spending their Saturday eighty miles apart with no idea that their paths would cross; in fact, in ignorance of each other’s existence.

Wycliffe had a free weekend and intended to enjoy it at home with his wife in their house on the Tamar estuary. Matthew Glynn expected to spend most of his day in the shop: Glynn’s of Penzance, one of the most prestigious bookshops in the county.

It was a remarkably warm April morning and the Wycliffes ate their breakfast toast and drank their coffee out of doors on the paved terrace in front of the house. A blackbird asserted its territorial claims from a maple tree; in the pond, three or four goldfish chased a gravid female, churning the water into turmoil; and the Wycliffe cat, pretending that food did not come in tins, stalked invisible mice in the herbaceous border.

At about the same time Matthew Glynn was in the bathroom, shaving; he had not taken to electric razors, preferring the ritual of soaping his face and cleaving a path through to the smooth skin in a minimum number of strokes. But this was becoming more of a challenge as the furrows deepened year by year. Now when he looked in the mirror he saw his father’s face as he most clearly remembered it, lean and gaunt, grey and lined — the Glynn face.

But there was a difference: he carried the mark. He could not have described the mark or explained exactly what he meant, but it was there and sometimes he wondered why others could not see it.

He was fifty-two; not yet old, but over the hill, definitely.

Wycliffe was not brooding upon his age but counting his blessings from a comfortable cane chair. The rhododendrons and azaleas were coming into their own, the magnolias and camellias were at their best, and through a screen of trees at the bottom of the garden he could glimpse the shining waters of the estuary. Altogether, at that moment, there was little to remind him that all is vanity under the sun.

He settled more comfortably in his chair. If he had been a cat he would have purred.

Helen poured a second cup of coffee. ‘It’s going to be a good weekend!’

Matthew Glynn, back in his bedroom, knotted his tie and put on the woolly cardigan he wore in the shop. His father had worn a tailor-made three-piece, summer and winter, and a white shirt with gold cuff-links. ‘Mr Glynn is always immaculate,’ the women used to say.

Matthew combed the remnants of his hair. In the mirror, behind his own image, he could see his bed — an old-fashioned and massive double bed, made up for one. ‘I’m a lonely man,’ he told himself.

A morning for reflections.

Outside the sun was shining and from the window of his bedroom Matthew could see Mount’s Bay, level and serene. Once he had imagined that middle age might be like that, a plateau, a period of equipoise before the final descent. Instead he found himself, like Alice’s Red Queen, having to run faster and faster to stay where he was.

The Red Queen reminded him of chess, chess reminded him of Ronnie Swayne, and Ronnie Swayne reminded him of money.

A bell rang somewhere in the house and Wycliffe said: ‘The postman.’

Helen got up from her chair. ‘I’ll go.’

She was soon back with a little sheaf of letters and a wad of junk mail by courtesy of reluctant trees.

An air mail envelope received priority notice. ‘It’s from David’ — their son, who was working in Kenya. Helen slit open the envelope with a buttery knife, spread the pages, and scanned her son’s scrawling script. She was excited. ‘They’re coming home! In July …’

‘For good?’

‘Two months, then they expect to go back to Nairobi on a new contract.’

‘They’ll be pleased about that.’

‘Jonathan has two teeth …’

Matthew Glynn went downstairs. He could hear his son’s voice coming from the dining-room. As he pushed open the door it would cease as though a switch had been thrown.

His son, Gerald, and his elder daughter, Gina, were already at table. They acknowledged him as he sat down. Gerald was twenty-seven, a couple of years older than Gina. Gina fished in the muesli packet for extra raisins; Gerald cut a sausage in two, speared one portion on his fork, then popped it in his mouth followed by a piece of toast. Matthew poured himself a cup of coffee.

The Glynn dining-room faced the yard, which caught the morning sun, but the room itself was gloomy: faded wallpaper, brown-painted woodwork, dark oak furniture and drab fabrics. Cobwebs hid in the corners of the dusty cornice.

For the sake of saying something Matthew asked: ‘Where’s Barry?’ Barry was his son-in-law, Gina’s husband.

‘Jogging — it’s Saturday.’

An accountant, Barry did not work on Saturdays.

Gerald cleared his mouth of food and looked at his father, about to speak. Matthew, knowing what was coming, forestalled him: ‘You said your piece yesterday, Gerald. Give it a rest.’

Father and son, out of the same mould, confronted one another. Gerald dropped his gaze and said nothing.

Sara, Matthew’s sister, came in from the kitchen wearing the sombre grey overall she used for work. Every inch a Glynn, Sara was dark, big boned, and gaunt; her clothes hung from her shoulders as though from a coat-hanger. She brought with her a fresh supply of toast and a boiled egg.

‘Oh, you’re down, Matthew. Do you want an egg?’

‘No — no, thank you.’ Matthew buttered some toast. He watched his sister eating, her every movement was precise and economical; she ate without pleasure, as though each mouthful was a self-inflicted penance. She was three or four years younger than he and though they had been brought up together, living in the same house, they had never had any real contact. Yet if ever anyone saw and recognized the mark, it would be Sara.

Years ago, when his wife left, Sara had taken over the running of the house and the bringing up of his children. His parents were alive then but living the life of a retired couple. Nobody had asked Sara to step into the gap, the matter was never discussed. Sara was there, and she did what was necessary without apparent enthusiasm or resentment.

Matthew sighed and three pairs of eyes turned on him.

The long-case clock cleared its throat in preparation for striking. Matthew got up and switched on the radio which stood on the sideboard. The ‘pips’ coincided with the first strokes of the clock and were echoed by the church clock close by. The News.

Wycliffe went into the house through the french window to switch on the News and stayed to listen to the usual litany of disaster, wars, famine, and crime.

‘And now a summary of the weather: a complex area of low pressure is expected to reach the extreme south-west by early evening, bringing with it squally showers, mist and drizzle …’

He refused to be bludgeoned out of his euphoria and rejoined Helen on the terrace. ‘I think I’ll cut the grass.’

‘It’s still wet, we’ve had a heavy dew; you’ll have to wait for it to dry out.’

He stood, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, surveying the garden.

Helen said: ‘That shirt, Charles! It’s filthy; you can’t be seen in that.’

‘I don’t intend to be seen.’ But the pristine brightness of the day was already tarnished.

Matthew Glynn switched off the radio and returned to his place; he poured himself another cup of coffee. He saw Gerald and Gina exchange glances; something had passed between them: a signal? Recently he had become convinced that there was something going on behind his back; he read disturbing meanings into the looks they exchanged; even into their silences. Was it his imagination?

Christine, his younger daughter came in, still in her dressing-gown, her eyes puffed with sleep. She looked very young and vulnerable. Christine was a student nurse in the local hospital and this was her free weekend.

‘Isn’t there any Shredded Wheat?’ No one answered and she stood for a moment, looking over the table. She met her father’s eyes. ‘Anyway, I don’t think I’ll bother with breakfast.’

Sometimes he thought that what went on around him might be entirely comprehensible if only he could crack the code.

He got up from his chair. ‘I shall be in the shop.’

The shop, which adjoined the house, was reached by a communicating door on the ground floor. Glynn and Son: New, Second-hand, and Rare Books: Established 1886. It was a large shop, double fronted, with bays after a fashion that was current in bookshops before shop-lifting became a national sport. Second-hand and rare books were housed on the floor above.

Matthew went to the switchboard and lights flicked on in the bays, then he made his way to the back of the shop where there were two offices, his own, and a smaller one for his typist. His office had a window and a door to the sunlit backyard which it shared with the house.

Gerald came in, tight-lipped, and held out his hand for the keys to open up. Gerald was responsible for the new book trade; Gina would be upstairs with the second-hand and rare books. A family concern. Paula James, his typist, arrived by the back door.

‘Good morning, Mr Glynn!’

‘Good morning, Paula.’

Paula was eighteen and plump; addicted to short, tight skirts and plunging necklines. She disappeared into the toilet.

A day like any other.

Matthew dictated two or three letters about delayed orders and queried accounts; a local author came in, trying to arrange a signing session for his new book but anxious to have it understood that he was conferring a favour.

At half-past ten Paula made coffee.

Hours of idleness vanish like salt in water and by lunchtime Wycliffe had done nothing but moon about the garden, digging out the odd weed. At half-past twelve they had lunch on the terrace and the sun still shone. Afterwards he read the newspaper and dozed in his chair. Helen looked at him with affection.

That Saturday afternoon trade at the bookshop was brisk and Matthew Glynn found himself serving in the shop for most of it. At five-thirty they closed, cashed up, and Gerald went to put the takings in the night safe at the bank.

At six-thirty they sat down to their evening meal, the whole family. For some reason there was more talk than usual. Barry, his son-in-law, was musical and was off to a choir practice; Christine was going to an amateur dramatics thing at St John’s Hall; Gerald was playing in a snooker tournament in St Ives … They talked to each other, even involving Sara, but not to him. When the meal was over he stood up, looked around at his family, and said: ‘I think I shall go over to Ronnie Swayne’s for an hour or two.’ For some odd reason it seemed that he was making a declaration.

Later they would say that this was the last time any of them had seen him alive.

The Wycliffes had their evening meal at a table by the window, enjoying the misty twilight, watching the colours fade and the emergence of twinkling lights in the estuary.

‘Anything on television?’

‘No.’

‘Do you feel like a walk to the village?’

So they walked to the village and had a drink in the pub where the landlord collected ships in bottles and there was a Saturday-night sing-along. Walking home, they could see the distant lights of the city flaring in the night sky.

Wycliffe said: ‘Tomorrow I’ll do something.’

Matthew Glynn held his remaining bishop poised and muttered under his breath: ‘Bishop to R5.’

Ronnie Swayne raised his head in order to see the board through his half-glasses, then the little freckled hand swooped. ‘Rook to Kt7.’

When a game was approaching its climax the two were in the habit of announcing their moves as though to lend them increased significance, and because they were both past middle age they used the old notation.

Glynn pondered, kneading his rather prominent nose between finger and thumb. ‘Knight to R4.’

‘Queen takes pawn.’

‘Queen takes queen.’

With a thin smile Swayne administered the coup de grâce. ‘Bishop takes queen.’

Glynn sat back, meditative and rueful. ‘No point in playing it out. Wasn’t it Bardelebden, in a similar plight, who put on his hat and walked quietly home?’

Swayne chuckled. ‘That’s the story.’

They were in Ronnie Swayne’s sitting-room. A heavily shaded standard lamp illuminated a small area around the fireplace: the mantelpiece with its marble clock and matching vases, the chessboard on a low table, the two armchairs … On one arm of Swayne’s chair a huge tabby cat lay couchant, paws and tail tucked in. The pool of light failed to reach most of the room but, with the curtains undrawn, a streetlamp cast crooked shadows on the ceiling.

Glynn brooded on the chessboard and the evidence of his defeat. The marble clock chimed and struck nine.

Swayne, a neighbour of the Glynns, lived over his tiny shop where he traded in stamps, coins and medals. Over the years he had carved out for himself a notable place in the strange world of dealers and collectors. He was a fierce-looking little man with strands of red hair combed across the freckled desert of his skull.

‘Don’t take it to heart, Matt; we all have our off-days.’

Glynn grimaced. ‘I don’t mind being beaten but I don’t like being crucified.’

‘Then set ‘em up again and have your revenge; the night is young.’

‘No, Ronnie, I’d like to but not tonight. I’ve work to do in the office. I’ll chalk this one up to experience.’ Glynn was replacing the ivory chessmen in their box where each had its velvet-lined recess.

Swayne picked up a whisky bottle from the floor by his chair. ‘All right, if you won’t stay, just a small one before you go.’ He poured a generous tot and passed over the glass followed by the water jug. ‘You were off form tonight, Matt, and no wonder — other things on your mind.’

Glynn sipped his whisky. ‘You can say that again!’ He went on, very tentative now: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any news for me yet?’

Swayne spread his hands, his manner apologetic. ‘It’s early days, Matt, but my contact tells me he’s been in touch with an interested party.’

‘Any figure mentioned?’

A reluctant smile. ‘You know already we shan’t be talking about value at auction or anything like it. At this stage $50,000 US has been mentioned but that’s only a basis for bargaining.’

Glynn did some mental arithmetic. ‘About £31,000; perhaps a quarter of their true value.’

Swayne stiffened. ‘True value! From your experience in the rare book trade, Matt, you must know there’s no such thing. It’s the same in my business, value depends on the market you sell in.’

Glynn was embarrassed. ‘Yes, yes of course! I’m not being ungrateful, Ronnie, just working things out.’

Swayne leaned forward in his chair. ‘Look, Matt! I shall be in London next week and I’ll have a word — see if I can’t stir up a bit of competition.’

Glynn was doubtful. ‘I can’t afford to risk starting any gossip.’

‘Neither can I, so don’t worry.’

Glynn finished his whisky and stood up. ‘You’re being very good about this, Ron, and I shan’t forget it.’

‘Nonsense!’

The clock chimed the half-hour as Glynn was leaving. Swayne went with him and the cat padded after them down the stairs and out into the yard.

Glynn laughed. ‘Clarence, off on his nightly prowl — he comes in to see me sometimes … Well, good night, Ronnie, and thanks.’

He walked the few steps up the back lane to his own yard and entered by the plank door. He was about to shoot the bolt but changed his mind and left it unsecured. The wind was blowing in gusts bringing flurries of rain, but overhead the cloud was still broken.

In the drawing-room Gina had fallen asleep watching a film on television. Images flickered across the screen and a gas fire burned on the hearth but there was no other light. The drawing-room was in the front of the house, the window overlooking the street where traffic was sporadic.

The front door opened and closed and a moment or two later her sister, Christine, came in looking slightly flushed; raindrops glistened on the collar of her anorak and in her hair.

Gina opened her eyes. ‘Hullo! Is it raining?’

‘Showers.’

Gina yawned. ‘I must have dropped off. What time is it?’

‘Half-past ten. I’m going to make a hot drink. Would you like anything?’

‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of Horlicks or cocoa or something — whatever you’re making. Be a dear! Switch off the TV and put the lights on. I’m not watching whatever it is.’

‘Is everybody else out?’

‘Aunt Sara’s up in her room, Gerald and Barry are still out, and father is next door playing chess with Ronnie Swayne.’

Ths sisters had the dark hair and eyes of the Glynns but their pale, oval faces with a tendency to freckles must have come from their absent mother or they were the outcome of a genetic compromise. Gina was well covered; Christine, an inch or two taller, had the slim, rather bony physique of the Glynns.

Christine took off her anorak and went through to the kitchen. A few minutes later she was back with a tray: milky drinks and biscuits.

‘Father must be in his office, I could see the light from the kitchen.’

‘Where did you go this evening?’

‘I told you; the amateur d. . .