The Rhythm of Murder: The Asharton Manor Mysteries, #3

By Celina Grace

**Please note, this is a novella-length piece of fiction - about 20 thousand words**

It is 1973. Eve and Janey, two young university students, are en route to a Bristol commune when they take an unexpected detour to the little village of Midford. Seduced by the roguish charms of a young man who picks them up in the village pub, they are astonished to find themselves at Asharton Manor, now the residence of the very wealthy, very famous, very degenerate Blue Turner, lead singer of rock band Dirty Rumours. The golden summer rolls on, full of sex, drugs and rock and roll, but Eve begins to sense that there may be a sinister side to all the hedonism.

And then one day, Janey disappears, seemingly run away… but as Eve begins to question what happened to her friend, she realises that she herself might be in terrible danger…

The Rhythm of Murder is the third in the Asharton Manor Mysteries series: a four part series of novellas spanning the twentieth century. Each standalone story uses Asharton Manor as the backdrop to a devious and twisting crime mystery, from bestselling crime writer Celina Grace, author of The Kate Redman Mysteries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celina Grace
• Release date: Jul 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781498997348

Book preview

It was really weird, the way we ended up at the manor. We weren’t even supposed to have been in Midford. Janey and I had been making our way to Bristol, to a guy we knew there who was part of a commune in the one of the warehouses down by the docks. The driver who’d picked us up on the outskirts of Chippenham said he couldn’t take us any further than Midford. He was an uptight little man with a fussy moustache, the last person you’d have thought would have picked up two hippy hitch-hikers, but perhaps it was because we were both girls that he took pity on us and gave us a ride. He kept glancing at us in the rear view mirror with a half fascinated, half appalled look on his face; his eyes skittering over our hair and our beads and the flower I’d drawn on one cheek in eyeliner, as if we were the most exotic things he’d ever seen before in his life. It started to freak me out a bit, to be honest, and I was relieved when he dropped us off on the outskirts of the village. We clambered out of the Morris Minor and lugged our rucksacks, guitar and bags to the kerb. It was only when I saw the sign for Midford that I remembered something.

Hey, I’ve been here before, I told Janey. My Aunty Viv used to live here. Aunty Viv and Uncle Joe.

No way, said Janey.

Yeah, I said, looking around. I stayed here for a week, one summer. It was cool.

It must be destiny, Eve, said Janey, grinning. She heaved her guitar onto her back with a grunt. You’ve been drawn back here for some purpose yet to be revealed.

Yeah, well, I retorted, pulling my rucksack straps over my shoulders, I’m not going to find out what it is stuck here on this road, am I? Come on. Let’s walk.

We began to walk slowly towards the village, shuffling along the dusty strips of grass that lined the road in our sandals. It was hot; high summer, and the weather had been fantastic for several weeks. It was hard to imagine the winter up ahead, that there would ever be a time when the sun wouldn’t shine but that was what it was like to be young then; the future was one big, rosy blank and all that mattered was the shimmering present. I turned my face up to the sun, shutting my eyes and enjoying the red-tinged dazzle through my closed eyelids. Then I tripped over the hem of my skirt and nearly fell flat on my face, cursing and causing Janey to shriek with laughter.

It didn’t take us long to walk to the centre of Midford. It was just a long street lined with pretty old cottages, a couple of shops and a tiny café with a bleached and faded awning that sheltered a single table and two chairs. Janey and I hesitated for a second outside the café but then we noticed the pub further up ahead and continued our journey. We passed the neatly tended village green next to the church, which was larger than you would have expected in such a little village. I remembered, vaguely, playing on the green with my cousins – there were a couple of battered swings and a rusty climbing frame was situated on one side of the main area of grass. We passed what had once been the police station, now closed up with the windows boarded over, before we got to the pub. Janey looked up at the sign, which depicted a woman with long flowing hair, dressed in what was probably supposed to be a toga but looked like a badly wound bedsheet.

’The Goddess’, Jamie read from the sign. Then she frowned. Weird name for a pub.

They clearly renamed it in my honour when they knew I was coming, I said, and Janey snorted and poked me in the back. Snickering, I pushed open the door of the pub. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimness but then I became aware of a line of people, mostly men, at the bar, giving us disapproving looks.

Ooh, getting looks, I murmured to Janey. She dropped her smile and her eyes; she was always a bit more sensitive to public opinion than I was. Putting my chin up, I sauntered boldly up to the bar and asked for a gin and tonic.

The barmaid was one of those buxom wenches who would have looked better in a seventeenth century off-the-shoulder gown, rather than the strained blouse and mini-skirt that she was actually wearing. She looked at me rather nervously but she did at least serve us. I could feel waves of disapproval buffeting me from either side from the two old men perched on the bar stools next to me. I flashed them a broad smile – not returned, how surprising – and took our drinks back to Janey, who was still standing by the door.

Beer garden, I instructed, indicating with an inclination of my head that she was to follow me.

It was actually a pretty nice beer garden for a small country pub: full of tubs of brightly coloured flowers and a few wooden tables with striped parasols, now rather bleached and faded from the sun. Janey and I took our drinks to a suitable table. Despite the lovely day, we were the only people out in the garden, apart from a young bloke sat right at the back. He had long dark hair, a scrub of beard and wore aviator sunglasses. Despite their disguise, for a moment I thought there was something familiar about him. I looked again more closely, through the cover of lighting my cigarette. The familiarity that I’d noticed wavered and faded. Just coincidence, then.

Janey was saying something about catching the train to Bristol and whether we might still make the commune by the end of the day.

Train? I said, exhaling a long blue ribbon of smoke. No trains here, chick. Doctor Beeching did for the station here a long time ago. I guess we might be able to get a bus – or more likely three buses.

Yeah, that might work, Janey said unenthusiastically. I could tell what she was thinking – hours of travelling on a hot and stinky bus. Not something that I was looking forward to either. I was quite content just to sit here in this sunny little garden, getting slowly tipsy and enjoying the sun on my back.

We stopped talking for a moment. Janey took her novel out of her beaded and fringed leather bag. I unfolded my copy of New Musical Express. Both of us were supposed to be doing some holiday reading for our university