Murder by Request: Agnes Merryweather Mysteries, #1

By Lynda Wilcox

Meet Agnes Merryweather, the cat-rescuing, crime solving vicar of St Octavia's church in the heart of the English Cotswolds. She has a lot on her plate, trying to organise the annual fête and keep all the participants happy ­- yet the ladies of the Women's Institute are in a jangle over jam, the local dancing teacher demands to perform in the church, and all is far from sweetness and light.

Add in an absconder from the nearby open prison, and a murdered car salesman, and Agnes is up to her neck in trouble.

Can she solve all her problems and catch a killer before coming face to face with the bishop at the fête's opening ceremony?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynda Wilcox
• Release date: Mar 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386641513

Lynda Wilcox

Lynda Wilcox's first piece of published writing was a poem in the school magazine. In her twenties she wrote Pantomime scripts for Amateur Dramatic groups and was a founder member of The Facts of Life, a foursome who wrote and performed comedy sketches for radio. Now she concocts fantasy stories for older children (10-13) and writes funny whodunits for adults. Lynda lives in a small town in England, in an untidy house with four ageing computers and her (equally ageing but very supportive) husband. She enjoys pottering in the garden where she grow brambles, bindweed and nettles along with roses and lilies. Oh! And slugs!  Slugs that feed well on everything but the brambles and weeds. Most of all, she loves to write —  it gets her out of doing the housework. She also reads a lot and enjoys good food and wine.

Book preview

Chapter 1

YE GODS! I COULD MURDER a gin and tonic, said Lady Lacey-Partington, in the tones of one who had just crossed the Sahara on a single canteen of water. What about you, Agnes?

As someone who rarely drank more than the occasional glass of sherry or white wine, the diminutive dark-haired vicar of St Octavia’s church suppressed a smile.

Perhaps our hostess isn’t serving any, Maud she said.

"Nonsense. Noblesse oblige and all that. Besides, this is supposed to be a drinks party."

Her Ladyship scanned the crowded room. She was tall enough to see over most people’s heads and could spot a tray of drinks at twenty paces.

Ah, there’s the Brigadier. He’s bound to have found the bar by now. Come on.

Gazing around in frank appraisal of the opulent surroundings, Reverend Merryweather followed her friend as she forged her way through the crowded rooms of Sheffield House. The Georgian mansion, built in the eighteenth century at the behest of George Sheffield, a fabulously wealthy wool merchant, contained many fine works of art and, at this precise moment, it also contained most of the population of the five villages that made up the vicar’s parish.

Saw you coming, ladies. If you’re after a drink, then you'll find one through there in the morning room. The brigadier pointed to his left. Bit of a crush, but the barmen are speedy.

He raised his glass. Her Ladyship took it from him.

Reggie, be a dear and fetch me a gin and tonic and a sherry for Agnes, will you. Barmen always ignore me. She smiled winsomely at him. I’ll look after your glass.

She put up a hand to the small net and ribbon fascinator on her grey hair. Maud loved hats of all description and was rarely seen without one. Some of the less respectful villagers called her Maud Lazy-Partyhat as a consequence — though never to her face.

With a suppressed sigh, the brigadier obeyed Maud's orders, striding off to the morning room.

Really, Maud, Agnes protested. You shouldn’t take advantage of the brigadier’s sense of chivalry. It wouldn’t have hurt you to fetch your own drink.

No, of course it wouldn’t, but Reggie needs a purpose in life and as his friend, I like to see he has one. Anyway, while we wait for our drinks, tell me what you think of the place. You weren’t here in its heyday, were you?

No, no I wasn’t.

A shame. We had such fun, and Audrey was a lovely woman.

Agnes reflected that the possession of a large fortune did not make one immune to the slings and arrows of life, for the story of Robert Sheffield, the last of his line, had been a tragic one. When his first wife had died in a riding accident leaving him alone, childless, and racked with grief, he had shut up the house and gone first to his town house in London, then travelled abroad.

He remained on the continent for many years, and the parish had heard little of him in that time. The house remained shuttered, its fine furniture covered in dust sheets, the staff dismissed, except for a caretaker.

Lord Robert had met his second wife, Sophie, in Paris, and — if the tabloids were to be believed — had fallen head over heels in love. Despite the fact that she was thirty years his junior, they had married a month later.

The news of his second marriage had come as something of a surprise to the villagers in Overhill. It had spread around the parish with the wings of Hermes, together with the more welcome news of his intention to return home and renovate Sheffield House and make it fit for his new bride. The couple had stayed in London while they waited for the work to be completed and it was there, six months previously, that Robert had died.

Have you met the new Lady Sheffield? asked Agnes.

Yes, I called on her a week ago, the day after she arrived. I thought it only polite to welcome her.

What is she like?

Lady Lacey-Partington sniffed. Pretty much what you’d expect.

Agnes, who had no expectations of the new owner of Sheffield House, raised an eyebrow at her friend’s tone. Heavens, Maud. What does that mean?

Maud looked around and lowered her head and her voice before answering. It means that I was not impressed. Sophie Sheffield struck me as a young woman on the make, and indecently smug for a widow.

She’s been a widow for over six months, Maud. That may be long enough to be past the worst of her grief.

Pfft. I doubt there was any grief at all, quite frankly, and I’m surprised at Robert. She must have seen him coming. Still, there’s no fool like an old fool, as the saying goes.

Agnes made no reply to this harsh assessment. Did Maud really expect to find Lady Sheffield dressed in widow’s weeds and crying copiously into a lace-edged handkerchief? Grief is a very private thing sometimes, and if anything Agnes thought better of Sophie for not making a public display of it.

Here we are, ladies.

Brigadier Mentmore shouldered his way through the crowd and thrust a small sherry into Agnes’s hand, before swapping glasses with Maud.

Thank you Reggie, you’re a life saver. Cheers!

He raised his glass to them both and ran a forefinger over the clipped moustache on his upper lip.

Bottoms up! He took a good swig of his now warm drink. So you have a contender at last, eh, me dear? He smiled roguishly at Maud. Are you going head to head with the delectable Sophie for the title of ‘Supreme Lady of the Manor?

Don’t be ridiculous, Reggie. Lady Sheffield, should she want the epithet, is welcome to it here in Overhill. My home at The Manor House is in Scrapton Lacey. That’s a different kettle of fish altogether.

Oh dear, thought Agnes. I hope this isn’t going to get out of hand.

The two villages Maud had mentioned, together with Ashcombe, Little Riddington, and Mardlake, which was barely more than a hamlet, made up her parish in the Cotswold hills. The parish lay far enough off the beaten track, and away from the more picturesque towns and villages, that they were rarely bothered by tourists and sightseers, except at the very height of the holiday season.

Her small patch, as she thought of it, was by and large a happy place, and Maud was a generous and charitable woman, who considered herself the patron and benefactor to those within it. A shudder ran through Agnes at the mere idea of diva wars between the two ladies.

Hoping she could at least trust Lady Lacey-Partington not to get involved in anything so childish, she took a sip of her sherry and fixed the brigadier with a reproving eye.

Stop teasing, Reggie. Maud isn’t likely to do anything of the sort.

Oh, I know that, Reverend. Maud is too much of a lady to indulge in those shenanigans, though I can’t say the same elsewhere.

Oh? Maud looked around her with interest. I haven’t seen her, yet. I take it she is here?

In the morning room. The brigadier jerked his head in that direction. Sheffield obviously decided to install a bar when he ordered the renovations and her Ladyship is draped over it, sitting on a high stool, instructing the barman how to make a tequila slammer. Or she was when I came away.

There, you see, that just proves my point. I can’t say I’m surprised. She struck me as the sort to chat up barmen, and a tequila slammer is no drink for a lady.

She may not have been going to drink it, Maud. Reggie said she was giving instructions how it was made, not asking for one.

That’s typical of you Agnes. Always trying to see the best in people.

Agnes smiled. Of course. I think of it as part of the job description.

Though it was often the hardest part, she reflected, as she excused herself from her companions and mingled with the throng.

It seemed all the downstairs rooms were open and she ambled through them hoping for a glimpse of the gardens, once renowned for their herbaceous borders and a stepped water cascade and fountain.

Guests ebbed and flowed around her, and with most of them she exchanged a few words; Agnes was a popular member of the community, her ability to empathise whilst at the same time being non-judgemental, had won her many admirers, especially among those who might otherwise have objected to a woman priest.

Good evening, Reverend. Are you enjoying the ‘do’?

Yes, thanks, Ted. And you?

Ted Colshaw was a squat man running to fat in his middle age. He had lived in Overhill all his life and ran the local, and only, taxi service in the village. Agnes, who didn’t drive, had often had to call on him when she needed to get around.

Oh, I’m only here to check things out, Reverend. My eldest started work here at the beginning of the month. I wanted to see what she’d let herself in for.

Ted’s eldest child was the seventeen-year-old Katherine, a pretty, bright, and energetic girl who spent most of her time mooning around on the common trying to stay away from her boisterous and mischievous younger brothers.

What is she doing here, Ted?

He laughed, nearly spilling his drink in the process. She’s being trained to be a parlourmaid, would you believe. She had an interview with the housekeeper, Mrs Henderson, and is well pleased with herself for landing the job. Don’t think she realises that she’ll only be doing housework.

I suppose they will need a fair number of staff for a place this size. Have they held many interviews, do you know?

Agnes approved of the idea of Sheffield House offering work to local people. The nearest large employer was the chicken processing factory a bus ride away on the outskirts of Cheltenham, and she’d heard bad reports of the conditions there — and not just for the chickens. Rural communities might look pretty and bucolic, but they were often desperately poor, simply because of the lack of employment.

Quite a few, I believe, said Ted. I understand, though, that the main positions, the housekeeper and the butler, were hired in London. They’ve been here for a while, getting things ready for her Ladyship.

Have they been hired, or have they just transferred from the house in the capital? I understand that Sir Robert kept the staff on in his London residence whilst he was abroad.

Ted shrugged. I couldn’t rightly tell you, Reverend. The only time I ever met the man, he tanned my hide for scrumping in his orchard. I’m glad this place is open again if it gives work to our Kate, but I don’t hold with landed gentry and I never have done. We Colshaws tip our hat to no one.

The original Sheffield had grown rich off the backs of sheep and the poor men that herded and fleeced them, men like the Colshaws, so it was hardly surprising that Ted felt as he did. Sir Robert had certainly been of the gentry, but what about his second wife?

Ted said goodbye and moved away.

The room felt stiflingly hot and airless. With that and the raucous atmosphere common to all drinks parties, it soon became too much for Agnes. She looked around for a way of escape and spotted an expanse of glass and greenery at the end of a corridor. With relief she wriggled her way through the press of bodies towards the conservatory.

THE GLASS ANNEXE WAS dark and, more importantly for Agnes’s mood, empty. She looked around for a light switch, then decided she didn’t need it. Silvery moonlight illuminated the interior sufficiently for her to see troughs of ferns, tubs of calla lilies, and the rattan screening that separated the space into three cosy alcoves.

Still clutching the half-full glass of sherry, she stepped quietly on the granite slabbed floor and took a seat on a roomy two-seater sofa hidden in the gloom at the far end.

Glad of the peace and quiet after the hubbub in the main rooms, she sat alone with her thoughts. She had much on her mind. July was a busy time of year in her calendar and, never a great one for party-going, she could have done without that night’s distraction.

In two weeks, the festival of St Octavia would be celebrated with a fête and garden party in and around the village. A lot of preparation remained to be done, and Agnes, in her role as co-ordinator, had many people to see, assist, and even pacify. Already the Chairman of the Women’s Institute wasn’t happy and had voiced her complaints loudly and at some length.

This worthy was of the opinion that, as her organisation were serving refreshments — teas, coffees, and soft drinks, that none of the latter should be available in the beer tent, and Agnes had been called on to mediate between the landlord of the Red Lion pub, which supplied and ran the tent, and the voluble lady.

Then there had been arguments with the local music school who wanted to use the church for a concert by the village children. It wasn’t the use of the premises that bothered the vicar, though the selection of music they had chosen hardly befitted the location, more the fact that the building was needed by those setting up floral arrangements for the Sunday and the following week. The flower ladies, as Agnes always thought of them, would be coming and going with their blooms, vases, and water. To expect them to do so while the village children were playing instruments and singing was asking for trouble. Unfortunately, the owner and teacher of the school thought that she should take precedence over the beautifying of the church in celebration of its Saint. She had even arranged for some of the more selfish mothers of her young wannabe rock stars  to badger the vicar into changing her mind.

Oh, Lord, she prayed, quietly, give me the time to accomplish all that I must, and the hands to help me do so.

She remained in silent meditation for a moment, then let go of her worries and turned her attention back to the conversation with Maud and the Brigadier. Was their hostess as dissolute and rude as her friends had painted? The invitation to the drinks party, embossed on good quality card, had intimated that the new Lady Sheffield, having taking up residence in Overhill, was eager to meet the neighbours and get to know them. That being so, Agnes had expected her to be, if not at the door then at least close by, in order to welcome her guests. Instead she had been out of sight in some inner room.

She could make allowances for a modicum of jealousy on the part of Maud, though it was not something her friend was overly prone to, but Reggie Mentmore had not seemed impressed by Sophie Sheffield’s behaviour either. Perhaps it’s our age, Agnes thought. I’m probably twenty-five years older than Sophie and both Maud and Reggie must be more than twice her Ladyship’s age. Other times, other customs, and all that. Agnes shook her head, unconvinced.

If Lady Sophie had lived in Paris and London then she was going to find Overhill, with its slow, rural pace of life, very dull. So why had she moved here, now? Was she running away from unhappy memories and drowning them in drink?

The thought reminded her of the almost forgotten glass of sherry on the small table in front of her. She picked it up and took a sip.

It might be that Lady Sophie had come to Sheffield House in order to fulfil her late husband’s desire to see it reopened and lived in once more, though what sort of life the widow wanted, or expected deep in the countryside, was beyond Agnes’s imagining.

She passed on to thinking of matters of life and death, occasioned by both a forthcoming baptism and a funeral, but her thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps.

Somebody else was taking a break from the heat and noise of the drinks party.

The footsteps stopped, and a moment or two later, she caught the whiff of tobacco smoke. Keeping still and silent, Agnes waited for the smoker to depart. She really ought to rejoin the gathering. Maud would have missed her by now and accuse her of being anti-social, but she did not want to give her presence away to the other, unseen, occupant of the conservatory.

She heard the outer door unlatch.

Hello, Hattie.

What is it you want? A