Dead Ringer

By R.R. Shelly

Move over Miss Marple and make way for 30-something Olivia Hazlehurst. When this recent widow hires the handsome and much younger Perry, a slightly, mentally handicapped handyman, the two have no idea murders are about to forever change their lives. After the death of husband Charles, all Olivia wants is to live in the quaint village of Slapton-Under-Wychwood. However, she doesn’t count on there being “quaint” murders there. Neither does she realize the dark-haired, blue-eyed Perry will rekindle once-buried feelings.

Martin Buxley, bell ringer, is found hanging in a church steeple. At first thought to be suicide, Olivia Hazlehurst discovers he had every reason to live. Then Maria Pillcot, owner of the village art gallery, is seen by Perry, Olivia’s mentally handicapped handyman, at Martin’s house. Why is she at a dead man’s home? Olivia is intrigued and so becomes involved. She finds herself facing an odd assortment of suspects. The local vicar behaves oddly. He’s “not his usual self,” as the gossipy owner of the bakeshop, Martha Barker, declares, who is also a suspect. Moreover, there is Henrietta Farnsworth, the victim’s girlfriend, David Pillcot and Norah Dixon, the other two bell ringers. All of these could be suspects, as well.

However, “Hen” is soon crossed off the list when Olivia finds her strangled in her car. At the scene of Hen’s murder, Olivia first meets the prickly detective, Phyllida Vincent. There are other complications as Olivia attempts to solve the murders. She is increasingly attracted to young Perry, despite her best efforts. She must deal with Phyllida Vincent, who seems to resent her. Perry falls under suspicion of murder. A mysterious painting disappears. Always there is the pressing need to find the murderer before the killer decides to find her. Dead Ringer, a cozy murder mystery set in a contemporary bucolic village in the Cotswold area of England.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Shelsky
• Release date: Dec 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310133671

R.R. Shelly

R.R. Shelly is a writer of science fiction, cozy murder mysteries, action books, and thrillers, as well as romance novels, historical, contemporary--well, all sorts.

Book preview

Prologue

The Reverend Josiah Ensley was annoyed—very. He was aggravated not only with his aging body, which every year ran more to fat and so made the steep ascent to the belfry more difficult, but he was also irritated with whoever the idiot was who’d rung the bloody bells. They had pealed out over a village still wrapped in early morning darkness and deep slumber. The few remaining worshippers who still attended Sunday services wouldn’t be happy. Their donations today would reflect this fact. That is, if they bothered to show up at all.

Which of those three drunken ringers did this? the vicar angrily wondered, as he reached the top step.

Sure enough, there was someone in the belfry. He had his back to Josiah, but it looked to be the bell ringer, Martin Buxley. At least it was, judging by the shock of red hair. Just as he was about to call to him, Josiah realized something was wrong. Martin wasn’t hanging onto the cord, as Vicar Ensley had first thought. Instead, the coarse rope clearly wound around his neck, was twisted and knotted tightly there.

Martin? Josiah said, in a wheezing and tentative voice, for he was out of breath. He approached the man. Martin? Are you all right?

When there was no response, Josiah timidly touched him on the back of his right shoulder. Still no response. He tapped a little harder.

Martin? he repeated, with a mounting sense of alarum.

Martin spun slowly about, arms hanging limply, feet dangling over empty space. He hadn’t been standing on the edge of the platform as the vicar had thought, but just hung suspended there.

His face now rotated into full view. Martin's skin was purple bordering on black. His eyes bulged. He had a blank stare. His swollen and darkened tongue lolled out of one side of his gaping mouth. The rough woven rope dug deeply into the flesh of his neck.

Martin Buxley was very dead and looked it.

Oh, my dear God! the vicar shouted, stumbling back and away from the awful sight. So upset was he, he almost tumbled down the stairwell. Only one wild, but successful grab at the railing saved him from losing his balance and pitching headfirst down the steps.

Oh, my dear God, he repeated between much needed gasps of air, as he plunged on down the stairs. All Josiah could think was how horrible this was, what a truly terrible disaster. There would be all sorts of repercussions. For instance, now he was sure today’s offerings would be just dreadful. That is, if there even could be a service. What rotten luck.

Chapter 1

Will I do, Miss ‘azlehurst?

"It’s MS Hazlehurst, Olivia corrected, stressing the zed sound of the title to make it clear. I’m neither a Miss nor a Mrs anymore. It’s been well over a year since my husband died. I’m tired of being thought of as a widow."

Now Olivia viewed the dark-haired, young man with a certain mental wariness. This was one born of potential problems she could foresee down the road. One of her Women’s Institute friends, Minerva or Min Buford, who lived over Chedworth way, had recommended Perry. She had said he was the perfect handyman…in most respects, as she had delicately put it.

Why was there always a caveat with such things? Olivia wondered, not for the first time.

Min had gone a step further. She had also (rather tastelessly, Olivia had felt), mentioned he would work on the very cheap and probably wouldn’t ask for pay rises. When Olivia had asked why this was so, fearing the man might be a drunkard or drug addict, Min had explained that Perry Picton, although a fine figure of a young man, was a little on the dim side. Min, it seemed, had an unfortunate way with words.

When pressed on this, she told Olivia he was a blue baby. He had lacked oxygen at birth, but exactly why this had been the case remained unclear. His exact parentage was even more indefinite, it seemed.

Please, will I do, MS ‘azlehurst? he asked again. He sounded impatient.

Olivia was silent a moment longer. She wasn’t an impulsive woman by nature. Over a decade of striving to help maintain her husband’s position and reputation as a solid, middle-class businessman, had instilled caution in her. Despite being only thirty-eight, Olivia had long ago conquered the more impulsive side of her nature. When she erred now, it was usually on the side of conformity.

Having such a good-looking creature as Perry take up residence with her was not consistent with her past behaviour. She also knew it wouldn't look good. Olivia liked things to at least appear respectable. However, she was getting desperate. She needed help and had to have it at an affordable price, and soon, very soon.

Olivia reached a decision.

Well, I guess needs must, she said, at last, in what she knew must be a grudging tone of voice. She sighed, perhaps just a shade melodramatically.

When Perry still looked uncertain, she clarified her statement, by saying. I mean, yes, you’ll do...I suppose.

Oh, good. His handsome features relaxed into an expression of sudden and profound relief. And am I ‘aving the bungalow? he asked, indicating with an eager nod of his head, the rather ramshackle structure situated next to her own neat cottage.

She shook her head, feeling her chestnut locks sway gently against her cheeks as she did so. Despite the current general liking for shorter and practical styles, Olivia preferred her hair longer. Besides, Charles had always liked it that way.

No, Perry, she said. The place isn’t fit for anyone yet. Besides doing other chores, you’re going to renovate that bungalow. I want to be able to let it out to tourists, so you’ll have to stay here with me. I hope you don't mind. I have an extra room and it’s quite nice. As Min told you, I can’t afford to pay much, so your room and board are included to help compensate. Is this amenable to you?

Amenable, MS ‘azlehurst? Perry’s face wore a sudden and bewildered expression.

I mean is this all right with you—the conditions of your employment here, being my lodger?

Oi! Yes, MS ‘azlehurst. They’ll do. They will, right enough. I’ll be right glad to work ‘ere.

Maybe, she thought, we can work on his pronunciation while we’re at it. He had the most deplorable northern accent, one so at odds in her considered opinion, with this more genteel region of England. And there seemed to be a trace of Cockney, along with a good deal of Geordie mixed in there, as well. All told, Perry’s English was a mess, a geographically diverse one, perhaps, but still a mess.

Very well, she said to him, adopting a crisp tone of voice. Min said your let was already up on your old place, so I suppose you can move in immediately. You brought some of your clothes and things with you, didn’t you?

He gave a casual shrug of his broad shoulders, before saying, I’ve got all me stuff and work shoes besides these. Here, he glanced down at his red trainers. And I’ve a couple o’ changes of clothes in me kit over there, as well. He indicated with a jerk of his head, the khaki-coloured knapsack lying on the nearby garden table.

That’s it? If anyone could really be said to be nonplussed, then Olivia was now. You have no other belongings? Nothing at all?

He shook his head and then gave her the most disarming, if slightly lopsided smile she’d seen in many a year. Yes, he was very good looking. Again, Olivia’s mental warning flags started waving.

That be all of it, he told her in that low, almost husky voice of his. I travels light.

Indeed…very well, was all Olivia could think to say.

As she started for the house, she added, Why don’t you bring your bag with you and I’ll show you to your room. You’ll have your own toilet, too. Oh and as I said, I’ll want you to do a variety of duties for me, not just act as a handyman. The bungalow has to be our main priority. The sooner we get it fixed up, the better for all concerned. You may have Sundays and Mondays off, but if you want to work any of those for me, I’ll pay you extra.

I’d like that, he said, as he grabbed his kit and then trailed after her.

Olivia headed toward the neat-looking, stone cottage.

I’m a bit low on dosh, he added.

Olivia mentally cringed at the use of this particular bit of slang, but she said nothing. Her mind was already working on the repercussions of her decision.

Although she was not on very familiar terms with any of the villagers of Slapton-Under-Wychwood, hadn’t spoken often with them, except on matters concerning her shopping, or to politely greet them in passing, she had no doubt they would have a lot to say about her new living arrangements with Perry Picton. The gossip, innuendoes and insinuations would fly. Olivia understood human nature all too well to have any doubts about that part of things.

Well, so be it, she thought. The good citizens will just have to deal with the situation.

Unfortunately, Olivia strongly suspected she, too, would have to do the same. Having a younger and slightly mentally backward man living with her wasn't going to be easy. The thought was not a pleasing one. Then, anything disrupting her calm and well-ordered existence never was. Again, she sighed, and this time it was definitely a melodramatic one.

# # #

Is it suicide, do you think? Detective Chief Inspector Phyllida Vincent asked this of her partner, Detective Inspector Daryl Andrews.

Could well be, the gangly man said, or more specifically, muttered. If Daryl had one real drawback besides his almost Ichabod Crane appearance, it was his tendency to mumble. For Phyllida, it was an annoying habit, especially since she wasn’t getting any younger. Her hearing was beginning to suffer or so she suspected. Either that, or Daryl was muttering ever more softly, which just didn't seem too likely a thing.

Could you elaborate a bit? she asked, a shade tartly, she knew.

Now he looked up at her, his gaze diverted from the gruesome corpse lying on the stretcher.

It seems most likely, he told her, but I have to say, he sure went about it the hard way. Those knots and that twist to the rope—looks like he'd have struggled to get it on right. Much easier ways of doing the job, I should think.

Yes, that’s what I thought… Phyllida didn’t bother to continue. Her mind was on what Daryl had just said, trying to work through all of it.

After several moments, she said, Perhaps, this was about his not wanting to be hanged. Maybe it was a messy job, because he was fighting someone.

No marks, bruises, or scratches on him to indicate such, Daryl countered. Could be he was just really pissed. Judging by the smell of liquor, either he was drunk, or someone wanted it to appear that way.

The toxicology report will let us know for sure soon enough.

Daryl nodded, his thinning brown locks flopping over his high forehead as he did so.

Well, if we’re done here, he said, as he rose from his squatting position by the body, best to get out of the way and let forensics finish their work. Bit of a job to get him down from up here." He pulled off his latex gloves.

Now it was Phyllida’s turn to nod, but she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t a conversationalist by nature, naturally tended toward reticence, which people often mistook for her being aloof, or even posh. Another reason she seldom spoke much was she chose to let others do the talking, instead.

One learned more that way, in her opinion. The old adage of give people enough rope and they’d hang themselves was an axiom for her. Although in this case, as she glanced one more time down at the body of Martin Buxley, this seemed more a literal interpretation of that guiding principle, rather than just a merely figurative one.

I need to talk to people, she said. You, too, she added, returning her gaze to her lanky sidekick. Let’s find out what state of mind he was in over the last twenty-four hours.

And what his movements were and who might have seen him last, added Daryl, unnecessarily, she felt.

Phyllida just gave a little shrug, before saying, Yes, the whole usual routine. I’ll take the vicar. You scout about the village and see what you can find out.

Daryl nodded again. She knew she was giving him the harder job, the more thankless of the two tasks, and one involving a lot of legwork. Still, Daryl never complained. If he wasn’t brilliant at his job, he was persistent and determined. Dogged, might be the better term.

Really, he was the better of the two for digging up information. Phyllida had to admit this to herself. He just wasn’t so great at making much use of such evidence once he had it. He lacked the knack for putting it all together.

She hesitated, paused just long enough to run a hand through short, bleached-blonde hair. This was to give her time to compose herself after viewing the corpse. Then she left the belfry. With care, Phyllida negotiated her way down the steep stairs, intent now on finding the vicar.

Phyllida emerged from the tower, thankful to be out in the open again. The place had smelled old, mouldy, and damp. The immediate area outside was now cordoned off with police cautionary tape to hold the onlookers back. A quick scan of the crowd and she spotted the reverend standing just a short distance away from her, behind the line. He was in the forefront of a clutch of curious villagers. Even at this distance, she could see his fat face wore a troubled expression.

Whether this was for the victim, or for what might be happening in his church, she couldn’t decide. One never knew with vicars. They could be either devout men, or incredible hypocrites, but there seemed little middle ground between these two extremes when it came to their sort. At least, so she had garnered from her experiences with them over the years.

Reverend, she called to him, as she motioned for him to cross the police line. Is there some place we can talk in private?

Even as the fat vicar lifted the tape to duck under and come to her, he glanced about fretfully. The close proximity of so many of the villagers seemed to unnerve him.

Not afraid of your own flock, are you? she thought, rather unkindly, she knew.

We can use my rectory, he said, as he approached. You haven’t taped that off, as well, have you?

Phyllida shook her head. No reason to, since the death didn’t occur near there. Let’s use that then, shall we?

He gave the slightest of nods, an ambiguous gesture at best.

Follow me, he said, as he ran one hand over his balding pate to smooth what stray strands of grey hair remained there. It’s just over there. He pointed to a squat stone building off to the right side of the church.

The structure wasn’t as charming as the church, whose appeal was so like all the old churches of the Cotswold area, Phyllida felt. One could switch them about and never notice the difference, so many of them and so much alike were they.

With two small and narrow windows that reminded Phyllida of blankly staring eyes, the rectory had a slightly grim appearance about it, as if it glowered with squat resentment at having to sit in the shadows of the grander edifice towering so near to it.

Once inside what passed as the priest’s study, and having settled into an aging and slumping armchair there, Phyllida took advantage of the moment to apprise herself of the vicar. He moved his corpulent form behind a large desk. He sat in a leather-upholstered chair. The thing creaked alarmingly under his weight.

Now then, he began in a somewhat unctuous tone of voice, one seemingly cultivated to appeal to rather stupid parishioners, in Phyllida’s personal opinion, How can I be of help to you, my dear?

By not calling me my dear, you patronizing pillock, she thought.

Aloud, she said, By telling me more about Martin Buxley. What sort of man was he? Was he depressed? What do you know about his movements in the last twenty-four hours? How long have you known him? You know what I mean—all that sort of thing—general background, anything you think might be helpful.

Vicar Josiah Ensley gave a great shrug of his shoulders, as if in despair of fulfilling such a monumental undertaking as describing the dead Martin.

Where do I begin? he asked, sounding almost plaintive. I’ve known the man ever since I came here, some eighteen years ago. When I say ‘know,’ I don’t mean intimately, you understand, but just as a parishioner and a bell ringer here. He’s never married, although he seems to like women well enough, and one in particular.

Who is that? Phyllida was curious.

Her name is Henrietta, Henrietta Farnsworth, or just ‘Hen’ to most who know her.

Do you know her? she asked, as she tapped in the information on her tablet.

Indeed, I do, but certainly not as Martin did. She was with him a lot, as well as with other men.

I beg your pardon? Phyllida paused in her typing to look up at him.

The vicar chewed his fleshy lower lip a moment, before saying, Well, there’s no way to put it delicately, I suppose. She had quite a reputation of being the ‘village well,’ as they say here. Everyone, and by this I mean the local men, were said to have dipped from her waters at times, as it were."

I see. Phyllida couldn’t help frowning at his statement. It was the age-old, double standard, she knew. Women were sluts if they were sexually active, but men were studs. Some things never changed, not even in the Twenty-First Century.

And where does Henrietta live? she asked.

Again, the vicar shrugged. Over Bibury way, but I can’t give you an exact address. She does sometimes work here at the Swan & Cygnet, though, as a part-time barmaid. You might get her address or even catch her there, if she happens to be on duty when you go.

And Martin, Phyllida persisted, as she also made a note of this information. What about him?

Well, you already know he was one of our three bell ringers. He seldom attended actual services, though. Martin worked at the local dairy during the week and was quite the drinker on weekends, or so I’m told. He passed most of his time at the pubs in the area, including our local. I’ve heard it said that the three of them were real pub crawlers, but certainly not always together.

Who are the other two? Phyllida felt there might be a lead there.

"One is David Pillcot. He and his wife have an art gallery on the High Street. The other is the daughter of the Dixons. They own the old Barnsley manor house now. Nouveau riche, I guess would be how one would describe them. You know the sort of thing, fast cars, overly dressed, and always on the go. The husband made his millions from the stock market, I’ve heard. Then he moved here from London along with his wife and daughter. After he finished playing with the stock exchange, I guess he decided to play at being the country squire."

Phyllida thought she detected a note of envy in his tone, but she said nothing.

Oh, he added as a seeming afterthought, I guess I should mention the place belonged to the Pillcots before that, but they lost a good deal of their money in the last market collapse and had to sell.

And the full name of the third bell ringer? Phyllida prompted.

Did I forget to mention that? Well, it was Norah, Norah Dixon.

A woman ringer? Isn’t that a bit unusual?

The vicar looked smug, as he said, The times are changing, as you of all people should probably know, Detective Chief Inspector.

But not so much that a woman who has a lot of sex is still sneeringly referred to as the town pump, while the men are still just good lads, wink-wink, eh? Phyllida just couldn’t help asking this.

Josiah Ensley’s grey eyebrows knit together into a v-shaped frown. His face reddened slightly.

The term I said local people used here is the ‘village well’ and not the ‘town pump,’ he corrected her. And some things take longer to change than others.

So it would seem, she replied, knowing she sounded bitter. And did Martin seem depressed to you of late? Did he have a history of trouble with that sort of thing, mental illness, I mean?

I’m not his doctor, Josiah said in a haughty tone of voice. So not being qualified, I couldn’t really say anything about his mental history. He was a withdrawn sort of person; I’d have to say, except for his bell ringer friends and Henrietta, of course.

Of course, Phyllida dryly repeated. But you don’t think he was lately prone to taking his own life?

The vicar spread his hands wide in a gesture of futility. "I wouldn’t have thought so, but who can really say about such things? He didn’t appear to be any different from usual, but not being