Kith and Kill: Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mysteries, #15

By Geraldine Evans

When Sophia Egerton, matriarch of a family of fashion designers, is murdered on her ninetieth birthday, British Detective Joe Rafferty wonders if one of her family thought she'd lived too long. Because most of the suspects just happen to be the wealthy Sophia's ever-loving relatives.
*
Rafferty's murder investigation is thwarted by his own parish priest, Father Roberto Kelly. The priest, so frequently Rafferty's bête-noire, has turned up to offer succour to one of his lady parishioners. And Rafferty realises that it is only by getting the wilful priest on-side that he will ever get to solve this murder mystery and get a conviction.
*
But can he ever persuade the wilfully self-righteous priest that helping to solve a murder is more worthy of a nod from God, than protecting the secrets of the confessional?
*

RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN MYSTERY SERIES

Dead Before Morning #1
Down Among the Dead Men #2
Death Line #3
The Hanging Tree #4
Absolute Poison #5
Dying For You #6
Bad Blood #7
Love Lies Bleeding #8
Blood on the Bones #9
A Thrust to the Vitals #10
Death Dues #11
All the Lonely People #12
Death Dance #13
Deadly Reunion #14
Kith and Kill #15
Asking For It # 16
The Spanish Connection #17
Game of Bones #18

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geraldine Evans
• Release date: Jan 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386725640

Geraldine Evans

A Little Laughter. A Little Mayhem. A Little MURDER... British mystery author Geraldine Evans is a traditionally published author (Macmillan, St Martin's Press, Hale, Severn House) who turned indie in 2010. Her mysteries include the soon-to-be 18-strong Rafferty & Llewellyn series of British Mysteries, whose protagonist, DI Joe Rafferty, comes from a family who think -- if he must be a copper -- he might at least have the decency to be a bent one. Her second is the 2-strong Casey & Catt British Mysteries, with protagonist DCI 'Will' Casey, whose drugged-up 'the Sixties never died', hippie parents, also pose the occasional little difficulty. She has also published The Egg Factory, a standalone mystery/thriller set in the infertility industry, Reluctant Queen, a biographical historical, about the little sister of Henry VIII, romance (under the pseudonym of Maria Meredith), and non-fiction (some under the pseudonym of Genniffer Dooley-Hart). Geraldine is a Londoner, who moved to a Norfolk (UK) market town in 2000. Her interests include photography, getting to grips with photo manipulation software, learning keyboards and painting portraits with a good likeness, but little else to recommend them. Why not sign up to her (irregular) newsletter for news of new releases, bargain buys and free offers? You can unsubscribe at any time and your email address will be kept private. Here's the newsletter link: http://eepurl.com/AKjSj WEBSITE: http://geraldineevansbooks.wordpress.com

Book preview

Kith and Kill

A Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mystery

Geraldine Evans

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Copyright Page

KITH AND KILL

Blurb and Reviews

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Book’s Review Pages

Asking For It #16

Blurb & Reviews

Asking For It

Chapter One

Link to Retailer Pages

Author’s Bio

Connect with the author:

Website: https://geraldineevansbooks.com

Newsletter Sign-Up, for occasional freebies, bargain books, and news of new books:

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RAFFERTY & LLEWELLYN BRITISH MYSTERIES

OTHER WORKS

BRITISH ENGLISH USAGE AND SPELLING

Copyright Page

Kith and Kill

Geraldine Evans

©Copyright 2011 by Geraldine Evans

Except for text references by reviewers, the reproduction of this work in any form is forbidden without permission from the publisher. Published by Solo Books

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Nicole at covershotcreations

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

All rights reserved

KITH AND KILL

Rafferty & Llewellyn British Mystery Series

Geraldine Evans

Blurb and Reviews

A Little Laughter. A Little Mayhem. A Little MURDER...

For readers who enjoy Detective Fiction with a few laughs

When Sophia Egerton , matriarch of a family of fashion designers, is murdered on her ninetieth birthday, British Detective Joe Rafferty wonders if one of her family thought she'd lived too long. Because most of the suspects just happen to be the wealthy Sophia's ever-loving relatives.

Rafferty's murder investigation is thwarted by his own parish priest, Father Roberto Kelly. The priest, so frequently Rafferty’s bête-noire, has turned up to offer comfort to one of his lady parishioners. And Rafferty realises that it is only by getting the willful priest on-side that he will ever get to solve this murder mystery and get a conviction.

But can he ever persuade the willfully self-righteous priest that helping to solve a murder is worthier of a nod from God, than protecting the secrets of the confessional?

Reviews

‘I have recently read this entire series. these are English mysteries with a returning cast of interesting people. the series is exceptional.’ READER REVIEW

‘Enjoyable story. A good, lighthearted thriller.’ READER REVIEW

‘A good read. I have read a lot of Geraldine Evans’ stories; all are good, and I like both Rafferty and Llewellyn.’ READER REVIEW

‘Agatha Christie re-born.’ READER REVIEW

ʻHer writing, along with red herrings, is usually done in such a clever way that when you leave the roller coaster you have had a thrilling ride.’ READER REVIEW

‘A sympathetic but flawed protagonist, minor and major problems, and sparkling writing; what more could a reader ask for? Keep up the good work. You are consistently wonderful.’ READER REVIEW

‘Have been totally enjoying these. I can't seem to put them down and look forward to the next one I can find. Great reads.’ READER REVIEW

‘It is set in the present day, but without the gratuitous violence

of today's books and movies (and news casts) escapism with a little reality.’ READER REVIEW

‘I heartily recommend it.’ READER REVIEW

Chapter One

This book is written in British English, so if there is a word or phrase you don’t understand, there is a handy list in the back of this book

‘H ow extremely vulgar .’ Sophia Egerton raised her ebony cane and pointed up to the large banner suspended above the upper floor of her detached Georgian house.

The banner proclaimed ‘Happy 90th Birthday, Sophia’, in yellow letters on a peacock-blue background. Balloons of red, blue and yellow hung from the banner and blew in the chilly, but surprisingly light October breeze. ‘Do you think I’m in my second childhood and amused by such infantile contrivances? Get Sullivan to take it down at once!’

‘But Mother, the twins organised it specially. They thought you’d be pleased.’ Penelope’s plump face pinched a little. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Hmph. The twins, you say? All right, leave it, if Adam arranged it. Perhaps it’ll grow on me. Though you can still get Sullivan to take it down first thing tomorrow.’

‘Of course, Mother. Whatever you say.’

‘Of course whatever I say. It’s my birthday, isn’t it? I’m the birthday girl. Now, Penelope, give me your arm. I’m cold and wish to return inside.’

Penelope, used to obeying her mother’s demands, did as she was bid and slowly they made their way back up the short drive with its thick hedge either side and planted-up mini roundabout and through the glossy black front door with its delicate fanlight. Inside, the two women made their way across the expanse of original black and white tiled hallway, Sophia’s cane tap-tapping, to a small, cosy sitting room at the back of the house. It was only recently that Sophie Egerton had insisted on moving in here from the spacious drawing room at the front of the house, complaining that the larger room was too difficult and expensive to adequately heat. Her sister, Alice, whom she had taken in twenty years earlier and whose sitting room this had been until then, had accepted this incursion with a bad grace and had only stopped her muttered complaints when an exasperated Sophia had eventually reminded her that she was a charity case.

‘I feel the cold,’ Sophia had complained at the time. ‘That big room has too many draughts.’

To her daughter’s suggestion that she should wear a cardigan, her reply was a contemptuous: ‘Like you, you mean? I hope I haven’t yet given up a preference for style over comfort.’

And indeed, Sophia Egerton was stylish. She was still slim and erect, but it wasn’t the scraggy skinniness of so many old ladies; she had enough flesh on her bones to ward off that particular danger. She still held herself well, hadn’t developed the so-called dowager’s hump of old age and, apart from the cane, walked straight-backed and unaided. Even the cane leant her a certain style, with its ebony wood and horse’s head handle. The cane had once belonged to her husband, dead now these twenty years, but Sophia had taken to using it when she hit seventy and arthritis had made her limbs stiffen.

Although it was October, she wore a lacy cream top that came to a point, front and back. It was by L’oiseau, The Bird, her own fashion house. She always wore their own creations. She considered herself to be a good advertisement, even now. The top was high-necked in that elegant Edwardian style, and like most of her clothes, had the advantage that it covered up her old lady’s neck.

She wore her silver hair in a French pleat with an intricately twisted antique silver comb whose provenance said it had belonged to Marie Antoinette. Altogether, she had much more élan than her daughter, who had, on hitting the menopause, abandoned the pursuit of a slimmer figure and embraced the matronly look with relief. She took after her maiden aunt, of course. Alice Pickford had always been on the plump side and, at eighty-seven, was sixteen stone and even plainer than in her youth.

Like the divorced Penelope, Alice lived with Sophia and had since the death of Sophia’s husband, Tom, twenty years earlier. Certainly, Thomas Egerton would never have tolerated the two women residing with him while he had been alive. Neither woman, not even his own daughter, was his sort, being plain and lacking wit, unlike Sophia who still retained both the beautiful bone structure and the biting wit that her good looks had always allowed her to get away with.

Penelope settled her mother in the high-backed armchair by the fire, opposite her Aunt Alice in her identical armchair. Alice scowled at this latest invasion of her privacy. Penelope exhaled on a gentle sigh and said, ‘I’ll go and see how Dahlia is getting along with the food for this evening’s party.’

‘Leave her alone,’ Sophia commanded. ‘Dahlia is perfectly capable of organising a small buffet party without your assistance.’ Sophia’s lips thinned. ‘So where are the twins? Out buying more balloons?’

Penny gave an anxious laugh. ‘No, Mother. I don’t know where they are. They went to the supermarket earlier with Dahlia to get the party makings.’

‘The twins? At the supermarket? I wouldn’t have thought they even knew where it was.’ She gave a tiny chuckle. ‘Particularly not Adam.’

‘They’re both single, Mother, and live on their own. Of course they know where the supermarket is. They both do their own cooking, too.’

‘About time that changed. Three grandchildren in their thirties and not a child between them. When are they going to reproduce is what I’d like to know? Even I can’t live forever, and I’d like a great-grandchild in my arms before I die.’

This was a recurrent theme and Penelope gave her stock response. ‘They’re young yet.’

‘In my day, thirty was middle-aged. And their sister’s thirty-eight, with no sign of a child. Already her fertility must be dangerously reduced. The three of them are going the right way to persuading me to leave all my money to the Cats’ Home.’

‘But you don’t like cats, Mother,’ Penny mildly pointed out.

‘I don’t like childless thirty-something grandchildren, either. I’d had you, your brother, and four miscarriages by the time I was twenty-eight. They’re not gay, are they? God forbid that one of my grandchildren should be gay. They’d inherit nothing from me, that’s for sure. Homosexuality was against the law in my day.’

Sophia’s pronouncements brought a softening of Alice’s facial muscles. They almost relaxed into a smile.

‘Don’t be silly, Mother, of course they’re not gay. Both Eric and Caroline have been married.’

‘And divorced, with no sign of another wedding breakfast.’

From her corner of the fireplace, Alice piped up in a querulous voice, ‘And who knows the real reason why? All these modern divorces cite nothing more than irreconcilable differences and neither of them will tell me anything more than it didn’t work out, Auntie. You’re right, Sophia. Could be because they discovered they preferred their own sex.’

Sophia banged her cane on the floor to silence her sister. ‘Be quiet, Alice.’ She turned back to her daughter. ‘I want my line to continue. Your brother died young, so I have to rely on your family.’ Her tone of voice, if not her choice of words, implied that this was not a state of affairs she relished.

‘Why don’t we forget about it for today, Mother, and decide what you’re going to wear tonight?’

‘I’ve already told you that I’m not yet in my dotage. Don’t treat me like an old dodderer by trying to decide what I’ll wear. I know what I shall wear.’

‘But, Mother, I was only trying to—’

‘I know.’ Sophia sighed. ‘Forgive me. I’m a bit tetchy. I’m feeling my age today. I felt so much younger when I could say I was in my eighties.’

‘It’s much the same when you’re my age.’

‘Oh, sixty-six is nothing these days. By now it’s probably the new thirty, as those ridiculous women’s magazines have it.’

‘I wish my body felt like it was thirty.’

‘Wait till you get to ninety, then you’ll know all about bodies. Now, what’s for lunch?’

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Joseph Rafferty stretched languorously before the living room fire, looked through the upmarket gift catalogue that his sister Maggie had given him and tried to put his mind to coming up with some ideas as to what they could buy his ma for the triple celebration.

It would have been his late and favourite gran’s ninetieth birthday and was the thirtieth anniversary of his father’s death as well as what would have been his seventieth birthday. Strange to die on your birthday.

His father had died because he’d celebrated too well the night before his birthday and had got careless on the scaffolding on the actual day. But at least he was in good company. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who had died on his birthday? Llewellyn would know.

He lifted his glass and took a contemplative sip of his Jameson’s whiskey. He still wasn’t sure they should even be buying Ma anything for this triple whammy occasion. He thought it morbid. It seemed strange to be celebrating their long-dead father’s birth and death day and even stranger to be buying Ma a present for it. It was his sisters’ idea of course, and one he’d been reluctantly talked into.

Rafferty’s father had died when he was twelve. At least he’d thought he was twelve when his Da had died, but his sister, Maggie had gainsaid him. ‘It can’t be the thirtieth anniversary of Dad’s death,’ he’d protested. ‘Because I was twelve when he died.’

‘No, you weren’t. You were eleven. Just turned eleven, at that. I remember,’ said Maggie, ‘you had this desire to be twelve when you’d just turned eleven. You thought twelve was the golden age to be. Ma encouraged you, always saying you were in your twelfth year. Do you not remember?’

‘All I remember is wanting to be older. Old enough to be the man of the house after Dad died and twelve had a nice ring to it.’

‘Well, you weren’t twelve, you were eleven. And Dad’s been dead thirty years this November.’

Rafferty sighed, and his gaze returned to the catalogue. He couldn’t recall noting the anniversary in the past; not the tenth one or the twentieth. What was so special about the thirtieth one, anyway? It struck him as an odd thing to celebrate. And he wasn’t exactly one for doing the ‘done’ thing, but he secretly rather wondered if this wasn’t a bit infra-dig, as his sergeant, Dafyd Llewellyn, might say.

And what the hell were they supposed to give her? A fishing rod? A silver beer tankard? Part shares in a fancy woman? Was he supposed to buy her gold jewellery for herself? Or perhaps a gold bricklayer’s trowel? God knew she had everything else she wanted. Was there even a precedent for this sort of thing that they could follow?

Rafferty leaned back against the settee and stared into the fire for inspiration. Not finding any, he turned to his wife, Abra, beside him on the still good-looking leather settee that they’d bought shortly before their June wedding, and mentioned his difficulty.

‘A gold trowel? Are you mad?’ Abra looked at him in astonishment. ‘What on earth would your mother want with a gold trowel? Never mind the likely cost, with gold being the price it is.’

She stretched a hand out and said, ‘Let me have a look at that catalogue.’

Rafferty handed it to her with the hope that she would soon be taking charge of the present-buying in its entirety. The family had decided to club together to get Ma’s present; that way, they could buy her something decent. His sister, Maggie, had passed the upmarket catalogue to him, presumably in the hope that he would take over the gift choosing. If Abra didn’t take it up, the baton would be passed back to his sister with expedition.

Soon the room echoed to squeals of ‘Ooh. I like that’ and ‘That would suit me’ and ‘Wow, that is so me’, that Rafferty, keen to preserve what remained of his financial probity, snatched the book back.

‘This isn’t supposed to be about you, my sweet.’

‘I know. More’s the pity.’ Abra had turned down the corners of several pages and she drew his attention to them. ‘You might bear these in mind for my Christmas presents.’

‘What? All of them?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Get your hand off my wallet, woman, and take another look through. For Ma this time.’

Abra sighed and reached for the catalogue. She riffled swiftly through the pages and stabbed various articles with her nail. ‘Your ma would like this,’ a chunky gold necklace with a matching, chunky price tag. Another chunky ditto and a diamond ring the equal of anything Burton had given Elizabeth Taylor. ‘She likes her jewellery heavy.’

‘She does?’

‘God, Joe, for a policeman, you’re terribly unobservant. I don’t know how you managed to get to the rank of Inspector.’

Neither did Rafferty. He lacked the academic intelligence that seemed to be all the rage in the modern police service. Luckily, he seemed to have other talents just as useful to a cop–like actually being able to nick villains. But mad extravagance wasn’t one of his attributes. ‘I’m sure Ma would be just as happy with something less ostentatious. I thought you women were supposed to dress more discreetly as you got older.’

‘Huh. And I bet it was a man who said it. Sod discretion. Grow old disgracefully, that’s what I say and I’m sure your mother would agree with me. Besides, think of the swanking she can do to the neighbours. You only have a seventieth birthday once and seeing as he died on his birthday, it’s a double celebration of his life. And even if your Dad’s not here to celebrate it, if we’re doing it, we should do it in style.’

Rafferty sighed once more, drained his whiskey and leaned over. ‘How much was that necklace again?’

Chapter Two

‘S he dead. My lady’s dead.’ Dahlia Sullivan, Sophia Egerton’s aged housekeeper, stumbled into the kitchen, where the rest of the family sat around the table eating breakfast. Eric Chambers carefully replaced his coffee cup in its saucer before he stood up. ‘Dead? You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ the housekeeper snapped, her tone sharp and only just this side of what was permissible in an old family retainer.

Dahlia had been with Sophia for years, and gradually, over the years, the friendship had strengthened. Both women were failed actresses. Dahlia had come to work for Sophia as a temporary measure between acting jobs. That had been half a century ago. There had been no more acting jobs. Not for Dahlia, anyway, though Sophia’s rich and indulgent husband had been happy to provide the financial backing necessary for vehicles for his wife until she had chosen to turn her energetic attentions to his failing fashion business.

Adam Chambers, Eric’s twin, also stood up. ‘I must go to her.’

‘No, you mustn’t,’ Dahlia contradicted. ‘Besides, I’ve locked her bedroom door.’ Pensively, she added. ‘I think someone should call the police.’

They all stared at her: the twins, their elder sister Caroline Templeton, Sophia’s sister Alice Pickford and Sophia’s daughter Penelope Chambers.

Alice piped up in her querulous voice, its tone a little higher than usual. ‘Call the police? And get all our names in the newspaper? Surely not?’

Eventually, Penelope regained her voice and said what they were all thinking. Or nearly all. ‘Mother’s clearly just died in her sleep. She was ninety. A wonderful age. It’s the most natural thing in the world that she should die now that the excitement of her birthday is over.’ Penelope pulled out her mobile. ‘I’ll ring Mother’s GP and then I’ll go up and see her. After that, I suppose I ought to ring one of the local funeral homes. I wonder if Mother had a preference. She never said.’

‘You’re not listening,’ Dahlia said, her voice strained. ‘I said someone should call the police and the police is what I meant. Your mother didn’t die a natural death.’

Alice let out a shaky laugh. ‘Don’t be absurd, Dahlia. I thought your days of being a drama queen were behind you. When you say to call the police you really can’t have given any thought to what a catastrophe it would be for the family. Do you want us all with our faces in the newspapers?’

‘Auntie’s right,’ said Penelope. ‘Of course Mother died a natural death. You’re being melodramatic. Please stop. You’re upsetting the boys. You know how fond they were of their grandmother.’

The ‘boys’ were all of thirty and neither looked about to burst into tears at the news. In fact, they seemed to be staring into the distance, perhaps already seeing pound signs and wondering how much the old woman had left them.

‘If you won’t ring the police, I will.’ Dahlia turned and marched into the back hall. A few moments later they heard her voice demanding to be put through to the police.

The family just sat and looked at one another, Alice’s fingers occupied in crumbling her toast. The twins no longer seemed to be calculating pound signs. Instead, they stared round the table, as if calculating probable alibis.

Dahlia Sullivan returned some minutes later. ‘They’re coming,’ she said.

Strangely, no one questioned her as to why she was so insistent that Sophia Egerton had been murdered. But then, she knew them all so well...

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Joseph Rafferty, dragged from a sound sleep to take over the investigation on a day he had elected to give himself a late start, had decided to use the study of the Egertons’ late patriarch, Thomas Egerton, for the interviews. Dahlia Sullivan, the housekeeper, had told them it was a room that was seldom used any more, so they could call it theirs for as long as necessary.

Rafferty sat in the high-backed maroon leather chair behind the imposing mahogany desk and surveyed his temporary domain with satisfaction. ‘The family’s clearly not short of a bob or two,’ he said to Sergeant Dafyd Llewellyn. ‘According to the housekeeper, this house belonged to the victim. Reckon one of them bumped the old lady off for her money?’

‘We don’t know yet that she was bumped off, as you so delicately put it,’ Llewellyn, always keen on working from the basis of fact,