The Domino Deaths

By Helen Vanderberg

In a Thames-side village in 1946, its time for retired police surgeon Toby Hunt to make good on his promise to rehabilitate a former criminal. After all, since his retirement, Toby has had nothing but gardening to occupy his time. Despite the strenuous objections of his wife, Sarah, Toby takes on the challenge. But when Ken Livingstone arrives, suspicious deaths beginone after the other, like dominoes toppling.

Harriet Parker, linchpin of good works and Kens half sister, is found dead of an unknown cause. Toby eventually unravels the motives behind Harriets death, but before he can act, a young stockbroker is shot. When the murder weapon is tossed over their garden wall, Sarah and Toby spring into action. The gauntlet has been flung, and they accept the challenge.

Local police call in Scotland Yard and send Inspector Corbett, whom Dr Toby Hunt knows from their work on Londons more infamous murders. Sarah hates that the connection might raise old secrets better left hidden. The quiet life they have known is now at risk.

In pursuit of the killer, the quest for justice runs to London, to the Lake District, and through the marshes of the river Thames. But when peace is finally restored, nothing is as Sarah envisioned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jun 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458209818

Helen Vanderberg

Helen Vanderberg grew up in a village much like Pangbury-on-Thames and spent her adulthood writing technical manuals in Silicon Valley. Her grandfather’s bookshelf led her into his past, in which he had once been a police surgeon for Scotland Yard—hence her fascination with mysteries. She currently lives in California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

PEACE THREATENED

April 27, 1946

The village of Pangbury-on-Thames, a cold spring morning, six-thirty Greenwich Mean Time. Dr. Toby Hunt and wife Sarah have just had a mild discussion which will change their lives and possibly result in at least three deaths. Maybe more if somebody doesn’t adjust their attitude.

Nothing much is moving, except Job’s Dairy electric cart whirring down the High Street hill. Trees drip this morning’s moisture on pavements; the Daily Telegraph and Mirror newspapers are withdrawn from letter-slots in front doors. Bostwick, the baker, is open on the High Street, but he’s the only one. Yeasty aroma drifts nearby. A door slams and reluctant footsteps trudge up to the railway station. Not Toby Hunt’s, not yet. The early train to Waterloo has already left, the next pulls out in half an hour.

Pangbury-on-Thames languishes seven leagues or so upstream from London. The High Street descends to the river, passes a scattering of pubs and small shops on its way. An occasional Victorian mansion lords over small dwellings, and at the bottom of the hill, a curiously assembled edifice, Bridge Cottage, clings to the downward sloping roads and footpaths, across from the war memorial.

Within Bridge Cottage, Toby and Sarah Hunt start their day. Dr. Toby Hunt hears the clip-clop of hooves. There comes the scrape of garden gate as he slips out for the coal merchant’s horse’s manure to feed his roses, his avocation these days.

Toby, now retired, found them Pangbury, and, with nothing but gardening to keep him occupied, he perked up immensely when his earlier ward, Ken Livingstone, erupted back into his life. That was the rub this morning. Toby Hunt, inspired police surgeon (retired), was about to take off on another do-good crusade to establish Ken as a civil person after the fellow’s rocky and criminal past. Never mind what wife Sarah thought about it. Toby wasn’t going to change his mind.

Sarah Hunt stood at Bridge Cottage’s scullery sink, plunged her hands into soapy water, found the nailbrush and began to scrub, going around each finger with meticulous attention. The surgery assistant routine—Lady Macbeth indeed. As if that could distance her.

Morning river mist lifted and a gleam of sunlight pierced the cottage, consoling her that summer would bring back the England of memory: restful, regal, the place one went to lick one’s wounds. Perhaps recover from overstretched ambitions.

Peace at last. Or so she thought.

Resistance was required. Sarah snatched off her apron and prepared for subversive action. She’d warn Harriet Parker what Toby was up to. Since Harriet’s family had introduced them to Pangbury in the first place, Harriet deserved to know that an unheralded relative was on his way, and that Toby was responsible.

Toby, in his respectable dark city-suit, gold watch-chain draped across his waistcoat, slammed out the front door, sending lawn chaffinches scattering in a whirl of feathers. A slight hesitation as he saluted the war memorial across the way—two fingers to his Homburg’s brim, as always. Nothing got in the way of Toby Hunt doing his considered duty. He’d swing that everlasting silver-tipped Malacca cane, jaunty as you please, heading for the train to London, trailing disaster.

Sarah put on sturdy shoes, wrapped herself in her raincoat, and left Bridge Cottage. Across the western marshes the chimes of St. Stephen’s struck eight, a pearly morning mist sank into eastern gravel pits, and she heard a cuckoo call. No comments from Mother Nature, thank you, crossed her mind. The slight incline of the High Street caused her stop to catch her breath. Hand on ribs, she stood for a moment and tried to frame her warning to Harriet. Have you met your half-brother yet? sounded a bit abrupt.

The iron gates of High Elms barred her way, but the geese were loose, which meant Harriet was home. She pushed a gate open and stepped into a garden where pink horse-chestnut blossoms swept across the path. Beads of moisture clung to the needles of the yew tree, a smell of mushrooms wafted over to her. A rook’s dark shadow swooped between the trees, the silence shattered with its raucous squawk.

At first glimpse of the house she halted, stunned to see the bomb-blasted windows finally being repaired. Four years ago the explosion blew the windows out of the High Elms dining room, shattered every piece of glass, and tore curtains to shreds. The rest of the house remained intact. A German bomber returning from a London raid ditched his load at random. But Harriet Parker and her ailing mother put off calling the glazier to replace the glass until peace had been declared. No point in mending something likely to be smashed again.

A workman’s cart near the entry, a cloth drooped over shrubbery beneath the window, the front door ajar—all signs of work in progress. Sarah pushed open the door and crept inside.

Harriet? she called up the sweeping staircase. Normally she knocked, but there seemed little point with the racket the workmen were making. Besides the rattle of the worker in the dining room, she could hear movement above her head. At the bottom of the stairs a strange smell reached her nostrils. She sniffed, and frowned. Soot.

Harriet? she called again. It’s Sarah.

Gasps of weeping came from one of the bedrooms. As Sarah climbed the stairs, she realized that she was trembling slightly. Perhaps the old lady had taken a turn for the worse. Footsteps sounded along the landing, and Harriet’s pale face appeared, looking even more exhausted than usual. Finding stoic Harriet crying made it seem as if the universe had twisted slightly on its axis. Sarah’s heart took a sudden lurch.

Harriet and her mother formed the backbone of the village. When funds were needed, they put on Fêtes and White Elephant auctions, pioneered the Women’s League, encouraged volunteers to pull together, and fostered efforts during the war years.

She slept all night, on and off, said Harriet, emerging from the shadows, a crumpled handkerchief held to the base of throat as if to dam the flood. I moved her across to the sitting room. She wouldn’t let Mr. Fox sweep her chimney. It’s been smoking so terribly since the bomb. I was afraid it would burn the place down. She flicked a hand to the mess the workmen were making. I don’t know how I’m going to pay for all this, she went on. But I had to get it done. It’s been such a perishing cold spring, and Mother’s been shivering the whole time. Getting the bedroom chimney swept, mending the cracks would have been a major boon. The despair in her voice struck a chill.

Would have been?

Harriet’s face crumpled. It’s too late, Sarah. She died five minutes ago.

Sarah felt the news as if she had run full tilt into a wall. The shock stopped her breath. And Toby off on his dreadful errand adding to the disaster, she thought.

Oh, my dear, Sarah drew Harriet to her, and kept her arm around her as she guided her down the stairs. Come, let’s take care of the living.

Within minutes they were in the kitchen, the kettle on, and the call made to Dr. Swendon, the village’s only practicing physician. Sarah shooed the workman out of the house, and sent him up the ladder to dislodge Mr. Fox, the chimney-sweep. Then, when Harriet, clasping a cup of hot tea, was safely seated at the kitchen table, she climbed the stairs to investigate.

She found the old lady propped in a chaise longue in the upstairs sitting room, obviously expired. Dr. Swendon would need to write the death certificate.

A faint knocking came from the adjoining bedroom.

Mr. Fox? she called, then went over to look. Drop-cloths covered furniture and an armchair had been pulled away from the fireplace. Spread on newspapers before it were chunks of masonry and a crowbar. The hearth was streaked with soot which Sarah bent to examine closely. Brick grit. Why on earth would Mr. Fox dislodge chimney bricks as well as doing his usual sweeping? She peered up the chimney, saw nothing remarkable, and returned downstairs to wait for Dr. Swendon, who was probably out on his morning rounds.

In the kitchen Harriet sat bundled in a thick Afghan shawl at the table, graying blonde hair escaping to fall across a puffy face. She looked up as Sarah sat across from her.

You know, Father left High Elms unentailed so Mother would always have a place, she said, staring into her cup. We counted on that. After struggling to make ends meet, I can’t believe she’s gone. Everything will have to change.

I know. Sarah reached for her friend’s hand across the table. Remember when your father was alive, the place sparkling, two full-time housemaids…

Life was easier before the war—an old game. Not that it was always that golden, but memories offered some comfort.

I hope Mr. Fox isn’t still on the roof, Harriet said. He was tottering round up there, muttering about something come adrift. He’ll break his neck, and that would be too much.

Sarah got up to fill the kettle and peer down the drive. During the war, the only men left in the village were either old or sick, or both. Mr. Fox’s frail condition wasn’t so rare. But no one had taken on the job of chimney-sweep yet. In a village where coal fires were the usual form of heat, the chimney-sweep’s services were much in demand, however old or sick the sweep might be.

Sarah turned back from the window. I’ll go and see what’s become of Mr. Fox, she said, escaping into the still-fresh garden. A pale sun gleamed, and as she took the gravel path around the wing of the house, she simultaneously saw the ladder leaning against the brickwork with Mr. Fox descending it, and Dr. Swendon’s jaunty figure striding up the drive, black bag in hand. So focused on Dr. Swendon was Sarah that she barely noticed when Mr. Fox left.

Toby returned late from London and Sarah waited for him, exhausted but pretending to read. The leather-covered carriage clock ticked on the sitting-room mantelpiece, dragging slow time in its wake. A visible comment on wasted years in Pangbury, Sarah thought. Their uninspired cottage concealed itself, turned slightly away from the High Street’s end, an appropriate position for a doctor, thankfully retired in the teeth of the National Health scheme.

Anticipating hard times, Sarah refrained from asking about her husband’s journey, waiting for Toby to offer a morsel of comfort. Finally she could bear it no more.

Old Mrs. Parker died today, she said, more abruptly than she intended.

Not unexpected, he said, and rose to knock out the dottle from his pipe in the grate, as if he’d gone to London precisely because he’d known the old lady’s end was near.

The final link to the past, Toby, she said. It’s all over now. No need to go any further, meaning of course, his involvement in the Parkers’ lives. All those years and all that effort to fulfill a promise.

I can’t understand why you persist, she went on. It’s been years since Frederick died. Remember, we were still abroad. Everything you’ve done for his boy has been a waste of time. Now you’ll bring a convicted felon to our quiet village. Really, your instincts are deplorable.

I gave my word, he said.

She could have throttled him. What she couldn’t say, wouldn’t say, was that she was at the end of her patience, and extremely angry with him.

It makes no sense, she said instead. A man like that. All that time in prison. Whatever he was like as a youngster, he’s bound to have picked up bad habits. If anything goes wrong while he’s down here, it’ll be your fault.

Give the lad a chance, he said, sucking on his empty pipe. Get him out of poverty and bad company. It’ll make an honest man of him, a place like this. Besides, it’s all arranged.

Toby, don’t be so tedious. Harriet doesn’t need to deal with your social experiments. Especially not now. To confront her with an illegitimate half-brother now of all times is sheer betrayal.

Of course you’re upset. Toby reached over and touched her hand. You’ve had a trying day. Nevertheless nothing changes. And we’ve gone through this discussion before.

Nothing good will come of it, I’m warning you, said Sarah, and took herself off to bed. She had dreadful dreams, and woke feeling miserable, as if she had lost her closest confidant. Which was nonsense. Toby was still there. Misguided, pigheaded, but still there.

DAMAGE ARRIVES

The result of Toby’s efforts arrived two weeks later, when, at Pangbury station the train from London hissed to a halt, the door to a third class compartment thumped back, and a battered suitcase hit the platform. The Livingstones had arrived, courtesy of Toby’s London solicitor and certain arrangements by the good doctor himself.

Anyone could tell nurse Trudi Livingstone didn’t wait for superior male strength. When a suitcase needed heaving, she heaved. Blonde, war-trained and competent, her navy cloth coat showed signs of strain under the arms. She stood astride, dug her hands in her pockets and shrugged.

Looks like we’re on our own, old son, Trudi called back into the compartment. Not a sign of life.

Clearly untrue. A man in railway uniform sauntered out from the back office where he’d been busily raising dust with a moth-eaten broom. The porter was unloading kipper boxes and slamming them on the platform with great lazy thuds.

Come on then, Ken, show a leg, Trudi said, and reached into the train for the large duffel bag.

Where is everyone? Ken Livingstone’s curly dark hair gave him an irrepressible air. With dark-lashed blue eyes, he looked Irish, although he was nothing of the sort. Pale though, and clearly a man who’d spent too long indoors. He wore an ill-fitting suit that once belonged to someone else, and hung out the carriage doorway by his arms, as if expecting the train to go further. Is this it? Can we go home now? he said, as if this had all been a joke.

Trudi’s sigh was a balloon deflating. Come on Ken. Don’t be a twit. You weren’t exactly doing anything useful in the flat, were you? Those bloody experiments of yours never went anywhere.

Stuff it, Ken said, laughing at her.

Anyway, she went on, If it goes wrong, you can blame me. Which you will anyway.

Progress halted as they fiddled with luggage and the bits of paper Trudi pulled from her handbag. The train panted, recovering for the return to London. Ken looked at the dusty compartment.

I dunno, he murmured. I might just go back now. It’s no good saying we’ll start over fresh. Can’t see it happening.

I’m sorry, said Trudi, finally finding the piece of paper she’d been digging for. Go and buy a bloody return if you’re so miserable. You can moan here on the platform, or get back on the train. She gave the duffel bag an angry kick and marched off toward the ticket barrier.

Ken studied the carriage upholstery, the gleaming rails beneath the train, the clear sky. He looked at Trudi’s retreating figure, then with an outrageous groan he grabbed the duffel bag and lugged it after him.

She saw him coming, and took up the strings of complaint as if they had never been interrupted. You can stop all the drama. I was offered the job. I’m going to do the best I can. You can go back to Hornsey and find magical answers to life. You can’t say you’ve got a wife to support. All you’ve got is a pub to support.

A prodigious sigh from Ken, followed by: A man’s entitled to a little relaxation.

And a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, Trudi said in her best Western saddlebags voice, mocking him. Come on, old boy, let’s mosey on down. The offspring of Pangbury await your wife’s tender care.

Ah well, said Ken, knowing he couldn’t win the discussion. Don’t let’s keep them waiting.

It’s Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone, Trudi told the station agent as she dumped both suitcase and duffel on the wooden counter. We’ll be back before five.

She stood on the pavement in front of the railway station and looked around. Across the street, stucco-fronted shops reflected the radiance of afternoon sun, and the news-agent’s red and white awning had been cranked down. In the station-master’s garden, early scarlet geraniums struggled for life. Farther along, near the Southern Railway picket fence, young roses showed green shoots, and marguerites unfolded their daisy-petals to the sunlight.

This is absolutely marvelous, said Trudi, taking a deep lungful of air. You should be able to make anything grow here.

Including weeds, Ken murmured. He caught the look on her face and corrected himself, If my aching back don’t get me first. A marginal improvement.

Finally he settled for asking if she had the estate agent’s note. The rental came fully furnished, a marvel in post-war austerity. As a nurse, Trudi was in enough demand to have ousted some poor soul out of their cottage.

They headed downhill toward the village center looking for the estate agent to fetch the key. They walked right past an elderly gentleman who observed them from a bench. Trudi glimpsed the silvery moustache, but didn’t recognize Dr. Toby Hunt confirming their arrival. Her attention was distracted by a battered sports car roaring around the traffic circle at the top of the High Street and changing gears. The whine of the motor split the air, and the car shot off away from them.

Super car for such a tiny village, said Ken, gazing after it with ill-concealed lust. Bit ancient though, like the rest of it, he added.

MORE TROUBLES

While Dr. Toby Hunt’s plans were underway at the railway station, down the High Street hill and overlooking the river, the sherry bar of The Ship had filled rapidly. For a hotel, The Ship occupied an enviable position—close enough to the bungalows along the river to get the summer trade, and still used as a rendezvous by the villagers. Musky dark brown sherry casks stenciled Jerez and Amontillado lined the bar. At one of the rear tables sat Mark Benton, a blond-haired young man sporting a dark blazer with silver buttons. Gin and tonic at his elbow, he sorted through a mass of papers in front of him. Despite good looks, the expression on his face drooped, like a sullen child demanding better things of life.

The doorway darkened. A military gentleman of advanced years, Major Windom, had spotted Mark from the entry and marched over.

You all right? the Major said, his tone anxious. Not under the weather, eh? He glanced around the bar, as if scouting for observers. Unusual to see you here so early. Thought you’d still be in the City. The Major wore sharply pressed grey slacks, and a scarlet carnation in the buttonhole of the navy tailored jacket. The Ship was the highlight of his day. The heartiness and ruddy complexion came from years in the colonies, the paternal attitude from running the local Boy Scouts and acting as Mark’s mentor.

I’ve been contemplating a bit of business for the lady Harriet at High Elms, Mark said, glancing up. Recommendations, that sort of thing, now her mother’s gone. You realize, sir, she’ll be quite well off when she sells that monstrous house.

Major Windom hesitated in the midst of pulling out a chair. He glanced at the other patrons and propped his cane against the table. His movements grew cautious as he murmured. My dear boy, she’d never dream of losing the place. Her father’s pride and joy, his main bequest, if you will. Besides, it’s too soon. He sat down and leaned back to regard his protégé with disappointment.

Mark looked hurt. But he left the old lady pretty well off, I hear. Uncertainty flickered in the cool blue eyes.

Perhaps, but attrition. You know the story. All outgo, no income. Doesn’t do, doesn’t do at all. The Major’s forced humor didn’t reach his eyes.

Precisely my thinking. She needs a solid investment program. I’ve been advising…

The Major scanned the room, leaned forward and whispered. Surely you’ve not been trying to get her into those gold mining shares. Good Lord, Mark, be especially careful. You’d sound like an adventuring young scallywag. Don’t want that at this stage in your career. Gold mining stocks had been the earmark of speculators for decades and serious financial advisors warned against them.

Mark forced a smile. The war made a difference to the investment field, too, sir, he said in a pinched tone of voice. Not that I don’t appreciate your advice, of course. Devil’s advocate sort of thing. My own father couldn’t do more. I feel obliged to make the offer, sir.

The Major regarded Mark with a certain proprietary interest. All his boys loved to hear stories of the Boer War, his stock-in-trade. The role of Boy Scout leader was an unlikely post for an elderly man. But he was a common sight in his shorts, knobby knees blue from the village’s frigid air, leading his boys on hikes through the tussocky grass and marshes around the river. His dogged presence kept several boys on the righteous path, Mark amongst them.

The Major sipped his sherry and harrumphed softly. Always take an interest in my boys. By the way, things any better on the home front? None of my business of course. He looked at Mark with a fond air, his reproof administered and over.

Father’s much the same, thank you, sir. Mother pretends to ignore the whole business with a certain grim gaiety. Mark shuffled the papers together, his face suffused with embarrassment. I’m sorry, sir. I’ve said too much.

Mum’s the word, the Major leaned forward. Your confidence will go no further. The old steel trap. By the bye, you didn’t happen to run across dear Mrs. Bostwick lately did you?

Mark rose to his feet, gathering the papers to thrust in his attaché case. He didn’t look at the Major. No, he said. Is there some reason I should?

The Major blinked. Curious woman. Had some strange idea you were paying her daughter court.

Good heavens, the woman’s taken leave of her senses. Can I count on you to set her straight? Mark started out of the bar, barely waiting for the Major to retrieve his cane.

See you at the club on Tuesday, sevenish, the Major called after him.

Mark waved, tucked his scarf inside his blazer, and climbed into the antique Morgan his father let him drive, strictly for tootling around Pangbury. Just the right touch of sophistication for a village at its finest, all spiffed up for the coming Fête and the summer tourist season right behind.

The Union Jack snapped from a flagstaff, tubs in front of The Ship spilled over with pink and yellow flowers. Gleaming skiffs and dinghies bobbed at their moorings, their chains clinking in the river’s ebb and flow. Swans circled near the backwater, their watchfulness held in check, eyes on a child paddling in the shallows.

Mark Benton started the sports car and whizzed along River Road towards the war memorial, turned right past Bridge Cottage, then uphill along the High Street with the Parker estate on his left. He glanced up the graveled drive, and slowed slightly as if to avoid drawing attention to himself. At the top of the rise, he steered left into open country, passing a couple hurrying along Station Approach. Something peculiar about the man struck him briefly—a stranger, but familiar-looking somehow. Mark had only a glimpse, and was traveling too fast to see much. By the time he looked in the rear view mirror, they had turned a corner and were gone. A bit early in the season for newcomers to Pangbury.

CHAPTER 2

A LIGHT EXTINGUISHED

Monday, May 28, 1946

Over the next two months Pangbury villagers found their newly arrived nurse, Trudi Livingstone, to be a cheerful addition to Dr. Swendon’s surgery. Her husband, Ken, began gardening jobs for Fenton’s nursery, and made himself surprisingly useful at Pangbury’s traditional Sunday-at-the-end-of-May village Fête. A Fête that brought matters to a head. Perhaps the Hunts should have seen the catastrophe coming. Certainly someone had.

Monday, the morning after the Fête, Sarah Hunt looked up from the kitchen table to see her granddaughter, Isabel, in the doorway, brown hair falling in clumps across her eyes, hiding a white and troubled face.

Did you brush your hair, dear? Sarah asked, trying to get her to move, to wake up and do something.

Isabel stood silent. The child could be unnerving for a seven-year old, too stoic by far. And everlastingly curious.

Granny, why does Miss Parker leave the lights on all night? she asked.

Does she, dear?

She had them on when I went to bed last night, and they’re still on this morning.

Perhaps a coincidence. Besides, it isn’t nice to spy on your neighbors.

I wasn’t spying, Granny. I just want to know.

I know, dear. Come and eat your breakfast, Sarah said, and reminded herself to stop at Harriet’s with some home-made marmalade. Sarah’s signature recipe was sharp and chunky, Yorkshire style, and she had made enough for friends like Harriet.

At yesterday’s Fête, Toby had promised to be the messenger, and deliver Harriet’s sample over to High Elms last evening. Something evidently interfered, because the two jars were right where she’d left them.

Good thing I got up early, she said. Your Grandpa forgot to take these over. I’ll see what’s going on.

Sarah could pop along with no one the wiser for the delay. She put the jars of marmalade in a string bag, wrapped herself in her Burberry raincoat, and smoothed her hair in the hall mirror. She pulled the garden gate of Bridge Cottage shut behind her before the sun was fully over the trees.

She took the High Street hill slowly at first, then got her stride and began enjoying the walk, swinging the bag with its little weight, just enough to loosen the stiffness in her shoulders. Still, there was no reason to jump as she did, when a great flock of rooks took to