A Novel Way to Die: The Verity Long Mysteries

By Lynda Wilcox

"Fancy a weekend in the country? I can offer you murder, mayhem, poison, and possibly a little sex."
Clearly not an opportunity to be missed. So, when Verity Long's boss invites her to attend a crime writers' workshop, she looks forward to a relaxing stay at a country house hotel, doing nothing more challenging than exploring the Elizabethan manor and changing the slides of a PowerPoint presentation.
But the body in the library is no fiction. And there are plenty of clever writers around, all with motive, all capable of plotting the perfect murder. Soon Verity must call on all her sleuthing skills to solve the case before the police step in and arrest the wrong person.
A Novel Way to Die is a novella (approx 100 paperback pages) in the Verity Long series of funny whodunits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynda Wilcox
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533719164

Lynda Wilcox

Lynda Wilcox's first piece of published writing was a poem in the school magazine. In her twenties she wrote Pantomime scripts for Amateur Dramatic groups and was a founder member of The Facts of Life, a foursome who wrote and performed comedy sketches for radio. Now she concocts fantasy stories for older children (10-13) and writes funny whodunits for adults. Lynda lives in a small town in England, in an untidy house with four ageing computers and her (equally ageing but very supportive) husband. She enjoys pottering in the garden where she grow brambles, bindweed and nettles along with roses and lilies. Oh! And slugs!  Slugs that feed well on everything but the brambles and weeds. Most of all, she loves to write —  it gets her out of doing the housework. She also reads a lot and enjoys good food and wine.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A Weekend Away

Fancy a weekend in the country, Verity? said my boss, without looking up from reading the letter in her hand. I can offer you violent death, murder, mayhem, adultery, poison, and, possibly, a little sex.

My initial reaction was, Blooming heck! Which country? but life was often full of surprises working for KD. Even so, this was clearly an opportunity not to be missed. Fine, I said. When is it, and do I have to take part in them all? In which case, what’s the dress code?

She glanced across at me and flicked her jet black fringe off her forehead with coral-coloured fingernails.

Well, I’ve been invited to give a talk on ‘Plotting the Crime Novel’, at a writers’ workshop in deepest Derbyshire. It’s at Horslea Manor, a country house hotel, on the 3rd–5th September.

Oh, yes. I know the place.

You do? Have you stayed there?

Hardly. It’s way out of my league.

I didn’t tell her that I’d been born in Derbyshire; instead I reached across the desk for the diary to check the dates.

You are free that weekend, I told her.

Are you? she asked. Because, if I go, you’ll have to come with me. I couldn’t possibly face it without you.

Whereas I probably couldn’t face it all. I glanced across to where she sat at the far end of the office, a converted downstairs room at her home, Bishop Lea. Behind her, the bow of the conservatory let in plenty of the late May sunshine, making it a light and airy place to work. A space of about eight to ten feet separated our respective desks; mine being closer to the coffee machine on the table behind the door. I went and refilled my mug while I considered her offer.

It had never been a 9–5 job working for Kathleen Davenport, a famous crime writer, whose stories about amateur sleuth Agnes Merryweather, a Church of England vicar, had made her an international best-seller and very wealthy to boot. As well as my various secretarial duties, she employed me as her personal assistant and researcher. I wondered in which of these capacities KD, as she liked to be called, required me that weekend.

Are you sure you’ll need me?

Absolutely! You can keep me company on the journey. They’ll expect a PowerPoint presentation at the very least, I should think, and you know I’m useless at those.

I nodded. KD wasn’t averse to modern technology — she used a computer for her writing and accepted email as a normal means of communication, though she refused to have anything to do with spreadsheets — and, while she was slowly coming to terms with social media, she struggled with the major arcana that is PowerPoint.

Besides, she went on, I shall need somebody sane to talk to. Somebody whose conversation isn’t all about agents, publishers, contracts, book signing tours, and all the blether of writerly angst.

My heart sank and I supposed that reaction showed on my face, for she quickly added,

But the food on these weekends is good, the wine plentiful, and I’ll cover all your costs, including the bar. Please say you’ll come.

She was beginning to make this an offer I couldn’t refuse and smiled at me in what she probably hoped was a winning fashion. I sighed inwardly.

What’s the actual address of this place?

She turned the letter over and back again. They’ve not supplied a map, but the address is Horslea Manor, Horslea beyond Haynor, Derbyshire. They describe it as an Elizabethan manor house in the glorious countryside of the Derbyshire Dales. I should think it has all modern amenities, wouldn’t you?

I’d worked for her long enough to know that when KD mentioned modern amenities, she meant an en-suite bathroom.

Let’s have a look.

My fingers flew over the keyboard as I fed the address into the internet search engine.

It certainly appears very attractive, I said, looking at the pictures of a large stone-built house with leaded windows and an arched wooden door framed by roses. And it’s a five star, so all rooms are en-suite and equipped with television, Wi-Fi and mini bar.

Well, that sounds all right. It might even be comfortable. So, are you going to come?

It wasn’t an ultimatum and she did seem keen to have my company, so I gave the idea some serious thought. When, after a moment or two’s deliberation, the only conclusion I’d reached was, well, why not, I gave in with as much grace as I could muster. Yes, of course, I’ll come with you.

Thank you, dear. She put the letter on my desk. I’ll leave you to make the booking in my name.

Having got her own way, she quickly re-established the relationship between employer and underling and left me to do the work. Still, if past experience was anything to go by, she’d be sweetness and light for the rest of the day.

*****

A lot of water had gone under the bridge by the time I drove into Bishop Lea on September 3rd. Between booking our weekend away and the time we came to set off, I’d solved the Star Steps case and had an on-going romance with Jerry Farish, the detective who’d led the investigation. More importantly from the point of view of spending an entire weekend with my employer, a real friendship had developed between us. Despite the difference in our ages (I was 32 years old and KD in her mid-fifties) we had become very fond of each other.

I loaded my suitcase into her Range Rover, surprised to see not one but three other cases already in there.

How long are you going for? I asked.

She laughed. I’m just being prepared. These old houses can be cold and draughty. And the September weather is so changeable.

By the looks of it, she was expecting all four seasons’ climate in one weekend, then, but the forecast was good, predicting dry days with only light winds and plenty of sunshine. I’d packed my walking boots. If the company became too much to bear, I could always tramp the Dales by way of respite.

Traffic was reasonably light, even on the motorway, and KD drove along at a sedate pace. We called in at Leicester Forest East services, (and again at Trowell, where KD sprinted from the car, which served her right for drinking so much coffee on the first stop), and turned off towards Matlock and the Dales a mere three hours after leaving Bishop Lea.

You’re navigating from here, Verity, said KD.

Right you are, I said, reaching for the road atlas on the back seat. Horslea beyond Haynor appeared to be not much more than a cluster and wasn’t that hard to find, though it did involve negotiating the Range Rover down enough narrow country lanes with sharp bends to make me glad KD was the one at the wheel. We meandered through picturesque villages, along thin ribbon roads between high hedgerows, and over stone-built bridges spanning clear, flowing streams that probably burbled in true stream-like fashion as we crossed. Wild angelica interspersed with the red berries of cuckoo-pint flowered in the verges making a brave show in the midst of late blooming dog roses, and green-leaved aspens shivered as we tootled past.

We appear to be miles from anywhere, KD remarked, after a while. Have you got us lost?

I assured her I hadn’t, but her observation that we seemed to have left civilization behind was accurate. We hadn’t seen another vehicle or any sign of human habitation in miles. No one worked the fields or walked the lanes; there were no houses, shops, or pubs. It was as if we were in some alternate universe or the locals had all been abducted by aliens.

Where to now?

We’d come to a fork in the road and I might have answered her question with a greater degree of certainty if there had been a signpost to guide us. As it was, I took a guess.

Go left.

Are you sure?

Trust me. We go left. It’s not too far now.

Well, you’ve got the map.

I had, but I’d been staring out of the window, admiring the countryside and having silly ideas about the absence of any signs of habitation, so it came as something of a relief when my hunch proved right and, a mile or so down the road, we entered Horslea.

We were almost out the other side before a large sign directed us to the Manor along a tarmacked drive bordered on either side by tall poplars.

Wow! That’s some pile, said KD, pointing ahead.

Indeed it was. Surrounded by formal gardens filled with white chrysanthemums, pale pink roses and purple loose-strife, the façade of the manor stretched away to left and right of an arched gatehouse. I counted six square bays along the front elevation, three either side of the gatehouse, their large windows made up by dozens of small leaded panes.

Very nice, said KD, as we approached.

Very stately, certainly.

It was hard not to be overawed by