The Mouldwarp Prophecy: A Mick Chandra Mystery

By Rebecca Tobin Yount

Who would want to murder Jo Eccleston – and why? The brilliant BBC reporter was shot in the head as she left her Bloomsbury, London townhouse. During her tenure in both Afghanistan and Iraq, reporting on the ground and frequently under fire, she had earned a loyal audience that tuned in the evening news just to see this beautiful, spirited reporter dodge bullets. While in the Mid-East, did Jo learn things she should not have? Had she become a threat to some mighty and powerful players who might have something to hide?
Detective Chief Inspector Mick Chandra of New Scotland Yard, and his partner, Detective Inspector Elizabeth Chang, are baffled by the case, not because there are no obvious suspects but because there are too many. The more they delve into Jo’s murder the more baffled they become over the number of people who may have wanted her dead. In this particular murder case, neither Mick nor Elizabeth can immediately sort out a prime suspect from a vast field of candidates.
The story also features popular characters from Rebecca Yount’s previous books in the Mick Chandra crime series: Mick’s brilliantly talented wife, Jessica Beaumont, an American expat who has become one of England’s most revered concert pianists; Mick’s best friend and frequent undercover agent, Jamie Geller, also an American expat; Mick’s and Jess’ precocious infant daughter, Sarabeth and her loyal Greek nanny, Ya Ya.
And who is the mysterious young child, Tamara, and what role does she play in the case?
There are enough shady and questionable characters to keep the reader guessing until the very end of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781467580120

Book preview

poem.

Chapter One

Celebrated as one of England’s most exquisite treasures, the village of Gap lay due west of London, nestled in the Thames Valley in a heavenly pocket rimmed by the Chiltern Hills. Having been honored not once, but twice, with the National Heritage Most Beautiful Village award, Gap is home to dogged London commuters and well-to-do retirees. Its beauty is the stuff of Wordsworthian poetry, replete with fragrant, fertile fields that slope down to the River Thames. On the bridges traversing the river, one can stand ad infinitum to observe the locks rising and falling, allowing the boats through to make their way on to Reading and, eventually, the environs of London.

Little wonder that once the ancient Romans arrived here they refused to leave, instead intermarrying with the local women who were beautiful, blond, and busty. Trading a solder’s life for that of a contented farmer posed no dilemmas for these retired, rehabilitated conquerors.

Many who visit Gap never leave. It is not unusual for the local estate office to be inundated on weekends with visitors who decide on the spot to move to the village. Gap has that effect on people.

It certainly had captured the heart of Chief Constable Brad Moody, head of the Thames Valley police force. He adored Gap with a passion other people reserved for a lover or a pet. Having purchased a restored 17th century cottage some years earlier, he worked and lived within his own jurisdiction. For a divorced, middle-aged, borderline-overweight man with two estranged adult children, living in this magical place was pure nirvana. Despite the odds, Chief Constable Moody was a happy man.

Not only was he a much-respected law enforcement official, Moody was also chairman of the local council, a member in good standing of St. Margaret’s church vestry, and volunteer drug counselor to troubled local youths. In temperate weather, he could be found mowing between the headstones of St. Margaret’s cemetery — not that anyone had asked him to. Out of respect for the dead, he simply thought it the right thing to do.

Moody’s territory entailed the county of Oxfordshire, a largely rural outpost dotted with a series of villages laid out like dominos beginning west of London, and ending north-west with the town of Oxford itself, home to the historic university.

But because the village possessed the bucolic quiescence of a Constable painting did not mean it was immune to trouble. In fact, Chief Constable Moody was about to find out just how

vulnerable Gap was.

On a sunny, brisk early September morning, Moody was enjoying a full English breakfast in a small cafe on the village High Street when a TV lodged above the espresso machine announced a name from his past.

Jo Eccleston, the news reader announced, was found dead on the doorstep of her London terrace. It appears that the award-winning BBC news correspondent was killed with one bullet to the head, possibly in broad daylight. No witnesses have come forward. As yet, police have neither suspect nor motive. More later on this shocking development.

Moody nearly dropped his coffee cup. Jo Eccleston. A ghost from his past. A woman with whom he was much in love years earlier, when he was slimmer and relatively handsome. The woman who broke up his marriage, not that the union had ever been a particularly happy one. Still, Jo was the reason Moody never remarried. If he couldn’t have her, no other woman would have sufficed. Jo was the reason his son and daughter no longer spoke to him, because Moody had shifted his affections from their mother to the plucky news correspondent. Although their alienation from him hurt deeply, he could not pretend that his passion for Jo was a thing of the past. Realistically, she was simply not the sort of woman men got over easily.

In short, Jo Eccleston had been the great love of Chief Constable Brad Moody’s life. He cherished the memory of their past love affair the way some regard heirloom lace — fraught with meaning, if threadbare with time.

More coffee, chief? a pretty young server asked him.

He didn’t respond.

Chief Moody?

Oh…no, thanks. I’ll just take the check.

Did you hear that about Ms. Eccleston? the server asked. Can you imagine how our quiet little village will soon be invaded by the press, taking photos of her home here along the river? Her poor, poor elderly mother. I shudder to think how this will affect her.

His hands shoved into the pockets of his uniform’s trousers, Moody strode up the street to his vehicle, reflecting on the server’s sage words. Yes, the press will be crawling all over Gap. And, yes, Jo’s palatial family home just off the Thames Walk will be swarming with paparazzi, reporters, and the curious. The situation would soon become untenable.

Brad Moody was in need of a friend — one like Detective Chief Inspector Michael Mick Chandra, of New Scotland Yard.

Sitting together in the garden of the local pub, Mick and Moody caught up on old times before they tackled the mind-numbing murder of Jo Eccleston.

I have to bring Jess here, Chandra said, referring to his wife, admired American expat concert pianist, Jessica Beaumont. I’ve heard about Gap’s beauty, but I had no idea just how breathtaking this place really is.

Bring her during this wonderful early September weather, before the storms blow down from the North Sea and ruin everything, Moody advised his friend.

Mick and Brad went back to the days when they were Bobbies on the Beat on London’s Metropolitan Police Force, or the Met. Another mutual colleague was Mick’s current partner, Hong Kong- born Detective Inspector Elizabeth Chang, who had been one of the Met’s first WPCs, or Women Police Constables. The two worked well together, thanks to Elizabeth’s Chinese rationality and Mick’s keen Anglo-Indian instincts, which he attributed to his grandmother who had been the local seer in her Kerala village.

Now with the Yard’s CID, the two were rare birds within an organization noted for its institutional racism. With fewer than ten-percent minority professionals, Scotland Yard was well aware of its white-bread image. A few years earlier, the top brass had ordered a major minority recruitment effort, only to have it pretty much fall on its high-profile face.

Ever ambitious, Brad went on to become assistant chief constable, then chief constable, of the Thames Valley constabulary. Despite that, he and Mick made a point of keeping in touch, if only occasionally.

Mick, you have no idea how relieved I am that you and Elizabeth have been assigned to Jo’s murder. I was praying the two of you would be, Brad confessed.

His friend sipped some tea. How are you holding up, mate?

Moody shrugged. Alright, I guess. Jo and I had not spoken for years — six to be exact. But I never stopped loving her.

‘Fool for love, Brad, fool for love, Mick tweaked his friend.

You should bleedin’ talk. You’re so besotted with Jess, you can’t see straight.

"Mea culpa, Mick agreed. Any ideas who may have wanted Jo dead?"

I just can’t fathom it, Brad said, shaking his head.

Her ex…what’s his name…?

"Reeve Winfield…no, Sir Reeve Winfield, the prominent investor. ‘Doubt it. He’s an arse, but that doesn’t make him a murderer."

But a very wealthy arse, Mick offered.

Yes. Jo liked her men rich and powerful. Blokes like me didn’t meet her criteria, at least, not when it came to marriage material.

To your knowledge, was Jo seeing anyone else?

I wasn’t in the habit of prying into her private life, especially after we were history, the chief constable bristled. Once we were finished, I gave Jo a very wide berth.

But not so wide that you didn’t know some details about her doings, right?

Moody’s face flushed. Oh…very well… I did occasionally hear things from the rumor mill.

Such as?

Well… she was seeing an actor for awhile — I don’t know his name, but I was told he was fairly prominent on the telly. Then there was a married Lib Dem MP who’s aspiring to form a break-out party with himself as its leader.

Busy girl, Mick said, polishing off his tea. Names?

‘Don’t remember. I’ll find out, though. More tea?

"Uh…no thanks.

What are you thinking, Mick?

Just this, he said. She was involved with, as you say, ‘an actor and an aspiring political party leader.’ And she may have still been seeing her ex, Reeve Winfield. Did she learn something about one of those blokes she shouldn’t have? Was she blackmailing one of them? Did she have incriminating evidence that may have ended someone’s career? Was Jo about to break an embarrassing story about one or more of those tossers?

Brad shrugged. Beats me.

Well let’s go on a fishing expedition, then, Mick announced, shoving off from the table.

Where?

On the river, of course.

"Where on the river?"

Mick dropped some pound coins on the table for the server. To her family home on the Thames Walk. Where else? Surely Jo’s mother must know something. Mothers always do.

Chapter Two

It was called Hedgerow Manor, and it had been in the Eccleston family since 1835, which is to say the Ecclestons were, by British uppity standards, parvenus. Only a herald bestowed between the 11th to 15th centuries could confer acceptable, dyed-in-the-wool landed gentry or aristocratic status. After that time-span, titles, castles, manor houses, or vast land tracts wouldn’t even cut upper class butter. And heaven help the climber who claimed a blood-line connection to the current Royal family. Those bourgeois Hanoverians? Piffle!

To give themselves more time to talk, Mick and Brad decided to take the Thames Walk along the river to the house, which could be reached through a pasture that led directly to its main entrance.

How long after your affair did Jo marry Winfield? Mick asked.

Brad winced a little. You sure know how to hurt a bloke, Chandra.

Look Brad, if you want my help you’ve got to pony up some information, painful as it may be.

I know, I know. Well…let me see, not too long after she broke up with me — perhaps two months. I’m convinced that Winfield is the reason Jo dumped me.

Sounds like it. Did she ever contact you again after ending your affair?

A few times…she called, perhaps, three times shortly after her marriage, and then…well, nothing.

What did you talk about? Mick asked.

Jo did most of the talking, Moody answered. She claimed she missed me, and even once suggested that we meet — clandestinely, of course.

She was unhappy?

I assumed so, Brad answered. Or, perhaps, Jo was caught up in the throes of sentimentality…you know, for the lost, great love and that sort of drivel.

"But she broke up with you, not the other way around."

Moody stopped to observe some ducks swimming in the river parallel to them. They expect us to throw them some bread, he observed, ignoring Mick’s remark.

Sorry, mates, Mick called out. No bread today.

Sweet, aren’t they? Brad observed. Truly God’s creatures. ‘Wish I were that good looking.

This was typical of the chief constable. Mick was always touched at how tough Brad Moody was on the outside, yet soft on the inside. By nature he was a nice bloke. Yet the chief constable could be merciless in dealing with the perpetrators of crime. Mick once observed him saving an abandoned kitten in a rainstorm just minutes after he had flattened a yob attempting to rob a news agent’s shop.

Still have that moggie? Mick asked.

What moggie…oh, the one I saved? Sadly, no. She died of old age some time ago. But I kept one of her kittens, after giving the others away to good homes, of course. Her name is Catwoman. She’s a love.

Is there a Batman in her life?

Not anymore. Batman has moved on to another cat — Wonder Woman moggie, I suspect.

The two men continued their walk.

Catwoman keeps me company on those cold, lonely nights, Brad continued. Come to think of it, she’s the most loyal female I’ve ever known.

Animals really are special, Mick agreed. Jess and I have a Scottie named Nessie and a moggie named Pickles. We wouldn’t trade them for gold.

You also have a daughter, don’t you, Mick?

Sarabeth. She’s sixteen months now, and a little she-devil. We love her to bits.

Brad shook his head. You of all people. Mick Chandra, former doxie bait, contentedly settled into domesticity, complete with family and pets. I can scarcely believe it. Oh, how I remember those wild Friday nights together at the local.

We even have a nanny, Mick added for effect. Ya Ya. She’s an elderly Greek widow and lives just up the street from us. We’re extremely fortunate to have her in our lives, what with my work schedule and Jess’.

Sounds like I should go to Stoke Newington for a visit one of these days…you know, just to observe how marriage is done right.

Mick clapped Brad’s shoulder. Any time, mate, any time.

They paused at the edge of the pasture leading to Hedgerow Manor.

Well, there it is: Jo’s family home, Brad said, nodding toward the Gothic sandstone pile at the far end of the field. Just watch out for the livestock flops, he added, as they set out.

Looks formidable, Mick observed. Jo’s mother still lives in that mausoleum?

She refuses to leave. ‘Claims she’ll have to be carried out feet first.

Before sounding the entrance’s bell, both men checked the bottom of their shoes. Satisfied they were dunge-free, they rang.

Think we’ll be sent around to the back — you know, like service people? Mick whispered.

Moody chuckled.

Their ring was answered by a cordial middle-aged woman. That she was dressed entirely in black mourning did not detract from her still-attractive features.

Chief Constable Moody, welcome. You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes. And who may this handsome young man be?

Estelle, Detective Chief Inspector Mick Chandra of New Scotland Yard. He and his partner, Detective Inspector Elizabeth Chang, have been assigned to Jo’s case.

Is Inspector Chang with you, as well?

I’m afraid she’s back at the Yard today finishing up some paper work on our previous case, Mick explained.

Estelle extended a thin hand featuring long, tapered fingers. Well then, welcome chief inspector. Come into the reception room and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll fetch Mrs. Eccleston.

From what the two police officers could discern, the interior of Hedgerow Manor, once obviously plush, had now faded into a state of genteel shabbiness.

This place could use a facelift, Mick muttered.

Since Mrs. Eccleston’s stroke five years ago, the old place has gone a bit grotty, Brad admitted. She sees no point in investing in renovation at this juncture. When she dies, the old place will go on the auction block, especially now that Jo isn’t around to inherit it.

Who will receive the proceeds?

Good question, Mick. I don’t know what Mrs. Eccleston’s intentions are as far as her estate is concerned.

Could it be that…? Mick was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Eccleston whirring into the room on an electric wheelchair.

Brad, it’s been much too long, she said, extending her hand to him. "Just because Josephine didn’t have the sense to marry you doesn’t mean you’re persona non grata at Hedgerow Manor."

Bowing slightly, Moody kissed the matron’s hand. It’s lovely to see you again. I only wish the circumstances were happier ones.

Unlike Estelle, Louise Eccleston eschewed black mourning, instead wearing a tweed skirt, twinset, and a string of pearls. Possibly in her 70s — or perhaps older — one could still detect the beauty she had once possessed, even through a mask of wrinkles. Despite her age her deep blue eyes spewed sparks, as if to convey, I may be up in years and stuck in this damned wheelchair, but I’m far from finished.