Long Deathly Christmas: The Verity Long Mysteries, #7

By Lynda Wilcox

Dragged off to spend Christmas in a rambling old house full of her new in-laws, amateur sleuth Verity Long is bored and isolated, but keen to make a good impression.

When Thor, the eight-year-old son of the house, tells her a fantastic tale, Verity thinks he's imagined it. But then, a mysterious woman is seen walking around the house on Christmas Eve, the family heirloom is stolen, and the children's tutor vanishes.

Verity's determination to solve the puzzle leads to a third disappearance. Now she must act fast, before something far more priceless than her relative's good opinion is lost to her - forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynda Wilcox
• Release date: Dec 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540142825

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

I’ve received a summons. My husband of two months waved the letter in his hand.

Surprised, I thumped down in my seat opposite him at the breakfast table.

Good lord, Jerry! What on earth have you done? You’re a Detective Chief Inspector, for heaven’s sake.

Not that sort of summons, my love. He grimaced. It’s worse. This is from Sir Tom Tremayne.

Oh? Who’s he when he’s at home? I reached for a slice of toast and began to butter it.

A highly successful business man, big in electronics. He’s a pompous twerp who loves the sound of his own voice and likes to speak out on subjects he knows nothing about. Unfortunately, he’s also my brother-in-law, married to my eldest sister, Martha.

Golly! He sounds dreadful. What does he want with you?

With us. This is an invitation to spend Christmas with them and the rest of the Farish clan.

I put down my toast and stared at his face, the strong jaw jutting forward, a sure sign of his annoyance. Well, he wasn’t the only one not best pleased.

But, Jerry, this is our first Christmas together. You’ll refuse of course.

He lifted his coffee, staring at me over the rim of the mug. Actually, I’m not sure that I will. Not unless you absolutely hate the idea. I’d rather like to show you off.

You make me sound like a prize heifer, I said. I’m not sure I want to be shown off.

I had a vague recollection of him telling me he came from a large family, though I don’t think he’d said how many Farishes there were. We’d kept our wedding and the reception to a small, quiet affair with no family and only a few friends.

It could be quite a jolly country house party.

Uh huh. I tried to sound non-committal at the appalling thought, and munched my toast.

You’ll probably have to meet them some day, Verity. Why not get it over and done with?

Much to my disgust he appeared to be warming to the idea. It was time to mount a rearguard action.

Because this is our first Christmas as man and wife and the first in our new home. I wanted to spend it here with you.

Jerry drank his coffee and got up to pour more from the jug on the hotplate before he replied.

Well, the first part will still hold wherever we spend the holiday, and I’ll admit that Fernbank is a lot warmer and more cosy since the central heating was installed, but do you really want to cook Christmas lunch on that?

He waved a hand at the ageing gas cooker behind me. He had a point. The kitchen was only one of many rooms needing renovation in the large Victorian vicarage Jerry had inherited from his aunt and cooking anything in here always presented a challenge. I’d still rather face that than a house full of strangers.

We could always go out somewhere, I said. Lots of pubs offer Christmas lunch. The Fox at Sutton Harcourt for instance.

Well, if we go to Thornley Park, we will be going somewhere. He stood up and moved his plate to the draining board.

Thornley Park?

Yes, it’s Tremayne’s country house. Not quite a mansion or a stately home, but a sizeable pad nonetheless. It would have to be to take the Farish clan.

My appetite suddenly gone, I pushed my plate away.

How many of you are there?

Six. So, assuming they’ve all got partners, that will be ten others besides ourselves. Oh! Plus the dowager Lady Tremayne, if she’s still alive, and assorted offspring, of course.

Of course, I muttered. My heart sank. Would we have to buy presents for them all? Cheaper by far to go to a hotel.

Don’t say it like that. My family aren’t so bad. His mouth curved in a lopsided grin.

You aren’t close, though, are you?

No, not particularly. I suppose I’m closest to Sonia, who’s two years older and Liz who’s three years younger, but I have little to do with any of them.

John and Mary Farish had been blessed with three boys and three girls—Peter, Martha, Sonia, Jeremy, Liz and Michael. All had been born within two or three years of each other which might, in other families, have made them a tight knit group. The Farishes, however, had all been fiercely independent, making their own way in life with scant regard, or time for, their fellow siblings. Jerry blamed the relatively early demise of his parents for this state of affairs and without a head of the family it was easy to see how they could have drifted apart.

If we meet at all, it’s for marriages, baptisms, and funerals, he said.

Or Christmas.

The Longs, on the other hand, had no tradition of spending the festive season together. My father had died far too young and was now a faint but much cherished memory. My mother, having borne him two children, carried on with her own life and largely forgot about him and them. My brother, whom I liked, and his wife and two spoilt kids, whom I didn’t, lived in a posh house somewhere on the banks of the Thames. Buckinghamshire, possibly. I had never been.

Recently, I had spent Christmas with my friends the D’Aumbray brothers in the flat above their wine bar and restaurant in the centre of Crofterton. While Jacques and I cooked up a storm in the kitchen, Valentino would set the table for the Nöel Réveillon, decant a couple of bottles of wine, and keep us supplied with nibbles and champagne.

Unlike the French custom of having the main meal late on Christmas Eve, the three of us would eat around midday, sitting down to smoked salmon, roast haunch of venison, and Jacques’ wonderful Bûche de Noël—a sponge cake log smothered in delicious chocolate buttercream. I groaned in pleasure at the memory.

Are you all right? Jerry put an arm around me.

Yes, thanks. I stood up and cleared the rest of the breakfast things, apart from our two mugs, off the table.

Actually, if we do accept Tom and Martha’s invitation then you won’t have to worry about cooking or washing up. They have servants to do that.

Do people still have servants these days?

You do if you live at Thornley, though I think they only employ a cook and a gardener full time.

How often have you been? I turned back to face him.

Only a handful of times—when the children were baptised. The last time I went was for a birthday party shortly before I met you.

Well, I don’t mind helping out if necessary. One cook doesn’t seem much if they are having to cater for twelve-odd Farishes.

I take it you’re not keen on meeting the family?

I ran hot water into the washing-up bowl while I considered my answer. I didn’t want to hurt or offend him, but I didn’t relish the prospect of meeting ten relatives who all knew each other and talked about events and people unknown to me. Plus their children.

Is the invitation just for Christmas lunch?

Oh, no, not at all. He picked up a tea towel. The invitation says from the 23rd to the 27th of December.

What? Five days and four nights of feeling completely out of things, being made to take part in silly parlour games, and having my ancestry probed? Not likely! Besides, I might not have the right sort of clothes, or enough of them to last that long.

I had to get out of it, tell him I didn’t want to go, but how?

I may have to go in to work, and so might you. I thought this a reasonable supposition, but Jerry was having none of it.

Nonsense! I’ve covered Christmas for a long time, allowing those with families to have the time off. Now it’s my turn. I’m sure KD will give you a few days at least. You’ve had precious little time off this year.

I loved my job, working as personal assistant and researcher for the famous crime novelist Kathleen Davenport. Always interesting, always varied, and very well paid, it was a dream way of earning a living and I certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise my job by going away for nearly a week if my boss needed me. The chances of Mrs Davenport, KD as she prefers to be called, actually being so busy that she would require me over Christmas were, frankly, non-existent. That wouldn’t stop me using it as an excuse, though. Hell’s teeth, but I’d sooner spend Christmas with her than at a country house party with a load of strangers.

Knowing that I was being selfish I scrubbed so hard at the plates it’s a wonder the pattern didn’t come off.

You forget I’ve got two jobs, Jerry.

I do no such thing. Besides, I’m the boss of your second job, and I insist you take Christmas off.

He insisted? Nostrils flared, eyes glaring, I turned to face him—and caught the laughter in his eyes and the smile that twisted his mouth. Damn the man! He could always take the wind out of my sails.

His arms went around my waist and he pulled me towards him. I resisted for just long enough to shake the soap suds off my hands and gleefully placed my wet palms on his back.

You beast, he said.

Beast yourself.

He kissed me hard until, breathless, I pulled away. Thank goodness it was Saturday, so there was no work for either of us today.

Seriously, beloved, I would like to accept Tom and Martha’s invitation. Do you really object so much?

Put on the spot, what could I say but, No, not really. If it would please you, then of course we must go.

I’ll give Martha a call and let them know.

***

The weeks sped by. I was no longer looking forward to Christmas, but I spent the time in between making sure I was ready for it by doing the thousand and one tasks that fall to a woman at that time of year—shopping for presents, writing cards, making mince pies, wrapping gifts, and packing suitcases. Jerry filled the car with petrol.

We set off on the 23rd—in teeming rain. Jerry drove the silver Audi along motorways and main roads, until turning off onto a minor road through the Dove valley.

Not far now, he said.

Away in the distance, behind a line of trees whose winter tracery of branches protected it from prying eyes, Thornley Park looked nothing as I expected. Built of brick in a hodgepodge of styles and eras as though the architect, unable to make up his mind, had added a little of everything just to be on the safe side, it proudly proclaimed that it had arrived without ever being too sure of where it’s destination had been.

At the end of the long sweeping drive running through the parkland surrounding the house, Jerry brought the car to a halt in front of the porticoed doorway next to a new-looking SUV and a large sedan. Unless the rest of the family had come by taxi, not everyone was here yet.

Here we are.

A modest little pad, isn’t it? I stared at the front of the house, wondering what sort of reception I’d get and ready to turn and run at the slightest opportunity.

It’s only for a few days, he said, as if divining my thoughts. We’ll manage.

We got out of the car and he took the cases from the boot while I stretched my back and my legs. The journey, in poor weather, had taken nearer to four hours than the three he’d estimated. The shadows were lengthening, soon it would be dark.

Jeremy!

The shout came from the open doorway, where a tall dark-haired woman, whose facial resemblance marked her out as one of his sisters, stood waving. She hastened down the stairs and enveloped Jerry in a bear hug.

Jeremy! It’s lovely to see you.

Hello, Martha. He pecked her on the cheek. You’re looking well.

Thanks, and you. She released him and turned to me, stepping forward. And you must be Verity.

Briefly, her cheek touched mine. She smelled of lavender soap and her smile was welcoming and infectious. I smiled back.

That’s me. Hello, Martha, pleased to meet you.

And I you. Welcome to Thornley Park. She stood back. Well, come in, come in. Don’t stand out here freezing to death. The forecasters say it’s going to snow.

Jerry hefted our two suitcases with ease and we followed her up the steps and into a brightly lit hall, bedecked with paper streamers. Bunches of mistletoe hung from the ceiling and sprigs of holly balanced precariously along the top of a gilt-framed mirror.

Leave your bags there. Martha pointed to a small alcove. I’ll show you up to your room later. I’ve got a pot of fresh tea in the living room and Tom’s lit a fire, so you’ll soon get warm.

Quite how cold she thought we were after the short walk from the car I couldn’t guess, but the smell of burning pine logs added a delicious fragrance to a room the size of an aircraft hangar. I followed Jerry in, trying to appear poised, self-possessed, and confident when in fact, I felt nothing of the sort. My stomach churned and my knees wobbled as I stood beside him and surveyed the occupants of the room.

Martha walked up to a man leaning against the mantelpiece to one side of the fire and I guessed this must be her husband, Sir Tom Tremayne, self-made electronics billionaire and owner of Thornley Park. His sleek good looks and portly frame showed his fondness for the good life, fine food and fine wine.

On a sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace sat an older version of Jerry and a blonde woman aged about forty—Peter and Candice Farish.

Hello there, Jerry, old man. Good to see you again. Sir Tom came forward amidst a hubbub of welcomes.

Hello everyone. May I present my wife, Verity. Jerry’s hand touched mine, as if to give me courage.

I smiled and murmured a greeting.

So, this is her, is it? Candice demanded. Well, don’t wait on ceremony. Come in and let’s have a look at you.

Leave the girl alone, my dear, said her husband, earning my undying affection. She’s only just got here and we Farishes can be an overwhelming bunch.

The remaining couple introduced themselves as Liz, Jerry’s younger sister, and her husband Daniel Hill. As tall as the rest of the clan, but without any strong facial similarity, Liz bounced out of her armchair and came to give me a hug.

I’m delighted to meet you at last, Verity. Welcome to the family.

Thank you. I hope I remember all your names. There are rather a lot of you.

Oh, don’t worry, dear, said Martha. You’ll get to know us all in time—and then you’ll wish you hadn’t.

Laughter rang out at this comment and I leaned in closer to Jerry.

Take a pew, she said. Would you like tea? She pointed to an urn and a tray of tea things on a long trestle table covered in