A Recipe For Murder: The Peak District Mysteries, #2

By Jo A Hiestand

December bullies its way into the village in a swirl of snow and biting wind, threatening to cancel the annual St. Nicholas festival.  But winter's slap pales when a body is discovered in the candlelit church.  Someone is notliving up to the seasonal wish of 'peace on earth, good will towards man.'

But the village harbors more than Christmas gifts, DS Brenna Taylor discovers as she and her colleagues from the Derbyshire Constabulary begin working the case. There is the feud between two rival authors; a wife's open disdain of her husband and his secret comfort in the arms of another woman; the pent-up emotions of a vicar's wife forced to conform to idealistic conceptions; the tacit threat of a troubled teenager and his delinquent girlfriend.

Brenna also discovers emotions she didn't know shehad when DS Mark Salt, her harassing macho cohort, makes overtures of genuine friendship.  Now Brenna must not only examine her love for her boss, DCI Geoffrey Graham, but also consider the likelihood of its ever being returned.

As if sorting through the affairs of the heart and the tangle of motive and suspects in the case weren't hard enough, a series of arsons threatens the very village itself.  And Brenna wonders if they are looking for two felons or just one very disturbed individual.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781548417185

Jo A Hiestand

A month-long trip to England during her college years introduced Jo to the joys of Things British.  Since then, she has been lured back nearly a dozen times, and lived there during her professional folk singing stint.  This intimate knowledge of Britain forms the backbone of both the Peak District mysteries and the McLaren cold case mystery series.  Jo’s insistence for accuracy, from police methods and location layout to the general feel of the area, has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire for research.  These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English.  She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.

Book preview

1

Ihad never believed in ghosts. They seemed more the stuff of fiction and ancient castles than of churches. But as the massive door closed behind me with all the heaviness of a coffin lid settling into place, I considered there might be some basis for the stories after all.

It was the hinges that first startled me—great, metal things groaning into the stillness like an atmospheric prerequisite of a gothic novel. The disturbance echoed against cold stone and hard wood; it multiplied into a dozen voices that tumbled down the aisles or rolled up the tower steps, dying as they nudged a bell into song. A deep tone, soft as an angel’s voice, sighed from the tower and cajoled sympathetic ripples from neighboring bells. In the ringing chamber below, their ropes swayed as if pulled by invisible hands, the sallies dancing ghost-like in the dark.

I could relegate these phantoms to their nether lands by flipping on the lights. But I wanted to experience it as it probably had happened. So I sank against the wooden slab, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom, letting my mind reason through my sensations.

Scents of pine, hot candle wax and wood polish floated over to me, and I breathed deeply of the fragrances that stirred a thousand Christmas memories—the pine tree decorated with gingerbread men and orange pomanders, the bayberry candles gleaming against frosted window panes, the tins of homemade chocolates and spiced tea, Uncle Ernie’s after shave lotion that clung to me after his bear-hug greeting. Yet, just as quickly as the images rose before me, they dissolved. A window rattled and the candle flames cringed. An organ pipe droned with no mortal hand upon the keys. And a whisper—as though from a great distance—moaned somewhere beyond the pinprick of light. A sighing of wintry wind buffeting the windows, or a lamenting banshee?

I had no real desire to find out, to leave the relative security of the door, however cold it was, and cross the vast expanse of darkened floor. But a path of water droplets taunted me, cajoling me to follow them into the darkness. Remnants of an innocent visitor, or the reason I was there? I tapped the snow from my boots, and pulled on my paper shoe covers and latex gloves. Flicking on my torch, I stretched out my arm and felt my way forward as though blind or sleepwalking.

Even through my half-frozen boots I could feel the texture of the flagstone floor, the rough and smooth stones, the grade of the rocky slabs that had tilted during the centuries, asserting their individuality among a sea of apparent flatness.

A rectangle of brass gleamed among the sober tones, repelling the surrounding stone, sanctifying this body-sized space. I detoured from my path and shone the light on it. The monumental brass depicted an armored knight. The wording, as were parts of the tablet’s edging, showed slight wear from the thousands of feet that had walked across it. The knight, however, still stared distinct and unmarked into the future. Between the raised lettering above his head small drops of water had accumulated. I bent down to sniff them but could detect nothing odd. Snow from a recent visitor? If so, how fast had it melted in the mid-50 degree temperature of the chancel?

Clumps of melting snow lead me past great, white bulks of carved chests, gargoyles and alabaster statues that jumped out of the shadows. A sliver of gold flashed out as the torch discovered two gold candlesticks, then left them as I threaded my way between the low houselling benches and the white nave altar cloth, floating phantom-like in the gloom, the silvers, peacock and cornflower blues, reds and golds of the needlework mesmerizing. Wondering what it would look like at evensong, I snapped off the torch. The satin cloth shimmered like moonlit white sands; glass beads and gold sequins sparkled as if on fire. Its beauty was almost enough to lure me back to a church service.

But I wasn’t there to worship. Shifting shadows thrown by the candlelight gestured toward the murkiest part of the church. On the far side of the wooden pulpit, a black bulk in the gloomy reaches of the chantry screen called to me. Snapping on the torch again, I walked over to the shape.

It revealed itself slowly, bits at a time, as though being pulled from the night—first the good, sturdy boots, then the black slacks still damp from snow, the dark jacket and finally a ghost-white hand. All part of the inert body lying facedown on the floor. All expected but the scattering of holly, a sprig of pine, and the glint of metal above its back. The knife seemed jammed into the flesh, for the victim’s jacket nearly swallowed the knife blade. Yet, I kneeled beside it, reached for the left hand and felt for a pulse. There was nothing I could do. Had he, before joining his ancestors, been my whispering phantom, urging me to capture his killer? I gazed again at the knife blade, and waited in dead silence for Graham’s arrival.

2

‘F lashy’ was not a word to describe Olive Lindbergh. She was younger than I had thought, on learning she was the wife of the vicar. Possibly in her early twenties, she was teenager slim with a baby-smooth complexion and short-cropped blonde hair nearly as light as the snow. Add to that teenager clothes: tight jeans, a baggy yellow sweatshirt with ‘Yellow Submarine’ stamped across the front, and gold ear cuffs. It all conveyed action and energy. But she seemed drained of both, now, for she trembled and looked as though she wished she were anywhere but here as she related her discovery of the corpse.

I’d just finished with the holly, miss, Mrs. Lindbergh said, not knowing whether to look at me or her handiwork. Her voice quivered and her gaze shifted to the church door.

I, too, glanced at it, but I wanted Graham and the police team to pour through it, unlike Olive, who probably wished for escape. I, Detective-Sergeant Brenna Taylor, the first police officer on the scene, called from my warm office in Buxton for preliminary investigation in this snow-wrapped village in England’s upland Derbyshire. Olive had been calm enough when I had met her half an hour ago. But now that the investigation appeared Official, complete with written statements, she was seized with nerves. I let her take a deep breath and smiled encouragingly.

I like holly on the altar on St. Nicholas Day. Though there are some in this village that call it heathen to put Druid greenery there, so close to God. But Trueman explains that we’ve come to embrace other heathen symbols, and I don’t see the church any worse off for the sprigs of holly, do you?

We were inside St. Nicholas Church, a limestone edifice warding off sin and evil with all its stalwart enthusiasm of medieval gargoyles, buttresses and towers. In the half-darkness at the foot of the nave altar, the corpse remained mute, staring with sightless eyes at the ancient gold rood as though seeking divine explanation. Or help. The rood was flanked by two statues that gazed at the crucified Christ. We waited, busy with our thoughts, a tree branch scraping against a window uncommonly loud.

Silently, I agreed with her assessment. Besides, holly seemed made for Christmas—red berries and green foliage.

Perhaps needing to break the quiet. Olive added, I brought it from home. I do it every year. I’m in charge of the hanging of the greens. Which sounds important, but only one other villager helps me.

Committees of two usually accomplish more than larger groups. I smiled and glanced at the door again.

We’ve a sexton, who sees to the main manual labor, but it’s just us two for the other things, like changing altar cloths.

I nodded, recalling the church as I had seen it on my arrival.

A path had been shoveled from the lych gate to the church porch, yet even now nature was reclaiming this land, for snow continued to settle into the faint depressions scattered along the walkway. A red bow, starched from icy wind, stood crisply on the south door. A sprig of holly, already defeated by Nature’s blast, sagged in the bow’s knot. Below it, as though shaken by the force of the door’s closing, several berries dotted the snow, blood-red drops on white.

Anyway, Olive said, tugging her well-worn cardigan over her hips, I got a good armful, then took up the basket with the boughs of yew, pine and boxwood, and came over to the church.

You must’ve brought quite a lot.

She frowned and opened her mouth, but I added, There’s quite a lot of holly strewn over the victim’s back. I just wondered how much you carried over, if there’s any missing from another area of the church, for example.

She glanced around the sanctuary as though comparing what she saw with how she’d left it decorated. Only the basket by the altar, miss. I’d filled that on my arrival, then got some more cuttings from home.

The basket held several berries and a broken leaf. What’s the meaning of the…holly and pine on the body? Has it something to do with St. Nicholas?

I don’t think so. She looked like she wanted to say it was in the realms of police investigation, but instead said, I was tying up the greenery on the chantry screen. That’s when I noticed the basket empty and the holly on the…the body. Her bravado wavered under the retelling of the event. She grabbed the hand of the man standing behind her, pulling him to her side, and lowered her head.

A terrible shock. I eyed the man now that the light better illuminated him. It’s a good thing you were nearby, sir.

The vicar, a mid-30s pillar of strength with a take-charge voice, must have thought I needed more elucidation, for he said, I had just finished with the last of the St. Nicolas gifts when I heard my wife’s scream. At first I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It echoes rather badly in these all-stone edifices, the hard walls, lofty ceilings.

I nodded, thinking it a blessing and a curse. One solo voice echoing in a cappella song sounded as near to angelic music as I could imagine, but sermonic speech was rather difficult to understand at times. Taking my nod as a sign of understanding, he said, I entered the sanctuary and I found Olive by the nave altar. That’s here, just behind us.

We turned as if one body, I imagining the shaken woman over the body, Olive reiterating her scare, and the vicar acting as guide as he pointed to the spot. I asked, Was the body there? Is that why you crouched there, Mrs. Lindbergh, trying to comfort the dying man, perhaps?

I touched him once, miss, on his neck artery, to see if he was breathing. I couldn’t detect a pulse. I think I stood up and screamed then.

The man’s arm encircled her shoulders and he kissed the top of her head.

Such a stupid thing to do, but I’ve never encountered a dead person like that. I thought maybe he’d had an accident or illness and had fallen from that, but then I saw the blood… She squeezed her husband’s hand and she murmured she wished she’d found him earlier. I started to call for Trueman, but my throat had tightened. I could hardly move or think. I kept staring at the body, wondering how it’d happened, trying to think if I’d heard him fall. I wish I had. I might’ve been able to help him. He had that great wound and knife in his back— She clamped her hand over her mouth, as though speaking the word would inflict more painful memories.

A shake of her head induced me to ask, Did either of you move the body to the screen, then?

The vicar blanched at my question, uttering an emphatic assertion that the body was exactly where and how they had seen it. I tended to agree, for there was no accusing trail of blood that suggested the attack had been other than the place of his death. And the vicar wouldn’t lie, for he was a man of God. But he was also a man of the world, so he had pulled his frightened wife from the altar, given her a cup of tea, locked the south door, and phoned the police. Nothing, he swore, had been touched. Not the melting snow on the floor, the knife in the victim’s back, or the burlap bag that enveloped his head and shoulders.

Murder, isn’t it? Olive said, finally breaking the silence.

What makes you say that, Mrs. Lindbergh?

The gash on his head and the pool of blood. There’s nothing he could’ve hit that would cause that wound. Someone assaulted him.

I replied that the Home Office pathologist would determine everything, but right now the Murder Team from Buxton would do the preliminary investigation.

I doubt there was much of a struggle, or Trueman or I would’ve heard it. Things would’ve been disturbed. Though I didn’t hear the killer enter or leave…

We turned quickly as a window rattled under a buffeting of wind.

Trueman spoke over the clatter. I only hope your lot aren’t having too much of a struggle getting here, miss. His eyes shifted from me to the south door, as though he expected the whole of the Derbyshire Constabulary B Division to suddenly appear. I wouldn’t fancy the drive from Buxton myself, not through these twisty roads. It’s blowing up a storm worse than any I can recollect.

December was blowing into the village of Bramwell in a swirl of snow and wind laced with North Sea coldness as sharp as village gossip. Snow shrouded rooftop, car top and treetop. It christened the pub sign, a wind-driven splatter flocking the already white swan and masking the pallid letters that read The Snowy Cygnet. Snow lay like a vast winding sheet over the churchyard, camouflaged tombstones, nestled against the building.

The church itself, an expansive pile of medieval architecture with Victorian ‘improvements’, stood dark against this snowy whiteness. Doors and bell louvers closed as much against the elements as against burglary, and the building seemed a carcass silhouetted on the bleak hill. Yet, a glimpse of life called the traveler from the storm, the believer to the play. A whisper slipped from the tower shutters, the faint voice of a bell singing to Aeolus. A lancet window glowed with welcoming candlelight. Like a cat’s eye in the darkness. Watching your journey across the frozen ground, assuring you of a sanctuary. The window danced within the solid black shape. Yellow, purple, blue and red diamonds spilled onto the snow, their jeweled shapes stretching and convulsing as the candlelight behind the windows flickered.

Within the church walls, pine roping looped across choir stall and pews, scenting the cold air with hints of the season. Garlands of tiny silver bells twined amongst the greenery while, hanging from the wooden rafters and suspended from the railing of the west gallery, groups of three golden balls threw back the candlelight. The church’s acknowledgement to its namesake, St. Nicholas.

And you’re decorating already for Christmas? I asked, trying to keep the astonishment from my voice. Isn’t 6 December a bit early?

It’s St. Nicholas Day, Trueman explained. He appeared to be all biceps and chest, able to hold his own in a physical combat. And that same strength emerged in a voice that would probably take no nonsense from anyone. It’s for tonight’s St. Nicholas festivity. Or, rather, it was. I suppose now, with the inquiry into the death, it’s canceled.

St. Nicholas festivity? I asked, looking up from my notebook.

A bit of a mix, actually. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his muscles pressed against his shirtsleeves. We do a bit of reverse role-playing with the stockings. You know, instead of hanging up your stocking with the list of what you want for Christmas, we give out St. Nicholas gifts.

I replied that the people of Bramwell were starting their Christmas season in the right spirit.

We try to, Sergeant. They’re nothing extravagant. The church ledger bleeds every time I open it. So we limit the gifts to just a few trinkets for the children and see that our needy parishioners have a bit of bread.

I gazed at the foot of the altar where the baskets of freshly baked bread rose mountain-high, and tried not to focus on the aroma.

St. Nicholas was real, certainly. More than our cartoon Santa Claus. Martyred in 305 A.D., we believe. He aided the poor, giving money and bread. We, bearing his name, do the same. Little things in their way, but it means so much to those on the receiving end. Especially during the Christmas season, when the rest of the world seems to be wallowing in excess. But, then, that’s what the church is really for, relieving suffering and trying to overcome the blatant commercialism of late.

As long as the jobs are decent and law abiding, his wife said, you shouldn’t judge how others make their bread, dear.

I’m not saying no one can live, he began. Then, as though realizing his statement, he looked in the direction of the victim, and coughed.

I followed his gaze, straining my eyes against the dimness beyond the altar and tubs of wrapped packages. The corpse was no gift from Santa Claus, as most of us call the saint. It had been difficult to see at first, dressed in dark colored clothes and slumped in a shadowy section of the church. The vicar had offered to turn on the overhead lights. But I had restrained him, thinking it better to see the scene as it may have been originally. It was dark, nearly pitch black, by the chantry chapel screen, the rectangular, wooden enclosure that sits in the north aisle. A splendid spot to delay the discovery of a body if one needed time to escape the scene. Or establish an alibi.

Scattered pinpricks of candlelight stood out like spotlights in the gloom. Like the pockets of warmth issuing from the space heaters that slowly chased away the chill. They had been turned on, I had been informed, that lunchtime, so the church would be comfortable for the evening’s St. Nicholas celebration. But for all of the vicar’s foresight, the murder team would still have a cold job processing the scene.

I had taken a step toward the corpse but stopped just outside the shadowy region of the chantry. The vicar stood several yards behind me, his voice low yet echoing in the stillness of the vast interior, hesitant at first to speak, as though unsure if I should be disturbed. When I turned and looked interested, he continued.

It’s not our bread knife, Miss Taylor. I must have looked bewildered that he had read my thoughts, for he added, We don’t keep one on the altar for the St. Nicholas bread. The killer must have brought his own.

3

Premeditated murder, then. I had not given voice to the supposition whispering in my head for, even though murder itself was usually calculated, this one, inside this church at this seasonal time, seemed especially so.

So, you don’t cut the bread.

No, Trueman said. Then, taking up my meaning, added, We give out the entire loaf. That’s why they’re all of the same size and shape. It saves time handing them out whole.

Who supplies the bread? Surely your parishioners have enough to do with wrapping gifts and decorating.

Trueman smiled, as though remembering some emphatic discussion on the subject. Owen Parnell. He’s a professional baker. He works for Magdalina Dent, who owns and runs the village tearoom. Nicest person you’d ever want to meet, He’s busy from early morn till late at night, though never too busy to have a kind word with you.

And Owen Parnell. I jotted furiously in my notebook. He supplies all this bread out of the goodness of his heart or his pocket?

Could do, I suppose. But it’s actually a united effort by several people. Owen, Magdalina, a bit of the church’s Parish Bread fund, David Willet—he’s the local physician, and one or two others. His brown eyes never wavered as I looked up to see if he was one of the contributors. Not that it mattered, but it told me Trueman could hold a well of secrets.

I’m sorry your festival is canceled.

Perhaps it’s just postponed. Olive spoke behind her husband, startling me. I hadn’t heard her approach.

It’s a nice thought, dear, but that would necessitate Owen baking more bread.

And more expense. Yes. Canceled. Her tone dropped and held sadness mixed with defeat.

When did you discover the body, Mrs. Lindbergh? She seemed calmer, and I grabbed the chance to gain further information.

Near enough to half six to call it that. She searched her husband’s eyes for verification. I was here from one-ish on.

Your bookshop is closed today?

I employ help, miss.

And who is that?

As if we were reading from a radio drama script, a pounding on the south door punctuated my question.

The main contingent of Buxton’s Murder Team stood outside, equipment in hand, stamping impatiently in the snow. Hellos mixed with a few muttered complaints about the weather as they shuffled past me. After a preliminary look around, they suited up and got to work. I tried to watch, disengaged and analytical, ignoring the sacrilege I felt over our presence and the death in this place. But I couldn’t. The baskets of bread and the gifts whispered of the disappointment of hundreds of people. They say Christmas is for children, but old age pensioners can tell you that it means as much to them. It brightened lives and filled the cupboards.

The photographer moved a light, startling me back to the scene. His paper jumpsuit crackled as he crouched low to get a close-up photo of the knife, then half stood to lean over the body. The burlap sack seemed a strange item with which to don a corpse. Not big enough to accommodate the entire body, it served to cover only the victim’s head and shoulders. Why was it here? I glanced again at the mound of gifts, the gold and silver church pieces on the altar. Had it been a burglary attempt gone wrong? Had the victim been murdered by an accomplice? Why, then, not finish the looting? Why stuff the man into a sack? The knife must’ve been part of the burglar’s tools. And why strew the holly like that? Shaking my head, I exhaled loudly. For all the knife spoke of murder, the sack shouted of hatred.

---

That had been an hour ago. Now I stood outside, having retraced my path back to the lych gate. The temperature had fallen in those two hours, and the wind had picked up, as though claiming the night hours as its habitation. It carried the clouds of my breath over the church roof and into the night. I pulled my woolen hat down over my ears and tried not to look cold and impatient. Though the snowfall had abated somewhat, the sky showed no rift in its sober mantle. I was glad the murder team had arrived when they had, that the foot-printed path was photographed before the wind swept away any damning evidence, if it existed.

Feeling the