Murder at Comfree Abbey: Dodie Fanshaw Mystery

By Marina Oliver

Who shot farmer Harris during a pheasant shoot?
He has built cow sheds and pig pens near the entrance to Comfree Abbey, and Sir Hugo and his new wife Deborah fear the smell will put off their prospective guests when they open the Abbey as a superior private hotel.
Dodie Fanshaw investigates all those at the shoot.
The police, however, seem to suspect Sir Hugo.
But almost anyone could have done it, and a few villagers had their own quarrels with Farmer Harris.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Jul 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781947812260

Marina Oliver

Most writers can't help themselves! It's a compulsion. Getting published, though, is something really special, and having been so fortunate myself I now try to help aspiring writers by handing on tips it took me years to work out. I've published over 60 titles, including four in the How To Books' Successful Writing Series, and Writing Historical Fiction for Studymates.I have judged short story competitions, been a final judge for the Harry Bowling Prize and was an adviser to the 3rd edition of Twentieth Century Romance and Historical Writers 1994. If you want to find out more about your favourite authors, consult this book. I once wrote an article on writing romantic fiction for the BBC's web page, for Valentine's day.I have given talks and workshops for the Arts Council and at most of the major Writing Conferences, and helped establish the Romantic Novelists' Association's annual conference. I was Chairman of the RNA 1991-3, ran their New Writers' Scheme and edited their newsletter. I am now a Vice-President.As well as writing I have edited books for Transita, featuring women 'of a certain age', and for Choc Lit where gorgeous heros are the norm.I was asked to write A Century of Achievement, a 290 page history of my old school, Queen Mary's High School, Walsall, and commissioned to write a book on Castles and Corvedale to accompany a new circular walk in the area.Most of my Regencies written under the pseudonym Sally James are now published in ebook format as well as many others of my out of print novels which my husband is putting into ebook format. Our daughter Debbie is helping with designing the covers. For details of all my books and my many pseudonyms see my website.

Book preview

OLIVER

CHAPTER 1

Deborah, her blonde hair wrapped in a scarf, was struggling with the ancient Aga and swearing fluently when she stopped, cocked her head to one side, and sighed. Footsteps were approaching along the passageway from the stairs, loud on the slate slabs. It might have been supportable when the Abbey had a dozen or more servants and the family rarely ventured into their domains, but now the noise was irritating. Perhaps she could persuade Hugo to wear crepe-soled shoes. Perhaps not. Her husband, despite his years in egalitarian Australia, had very fixed notions on what the squire should wear for any particular occasion. The swing door swung, and Hugo entered, wearing his plus fours and a fair isle golfing sweater. He was singing, and Deborah told herself firmly she must not shut her eyes or wince. She did not appreciate his voice which was more like a squeaky door than the good baritone he imagined it was, but the sight of his tall, slim figure and handsome face still made her innards quiver. Then, they'd only been married a month. She tried a smile.

He came across the kitchen, skirting the big table at the centre, which needed half a dozen strong men to move, picked her up and swung her round before kissing her soundly.

'Morning, Deb, my delight.'

She struggled until he released her. At least she might complain about his dilatory appearance. He never minded that.

'Hugo! At last.'

He grinned, grabbed her round the waist again and waltzed round the kitchen. Bozo, his ancient retriever, scrambled hastily out of the way, yelping as Hugo trod on his tail. Hugo dropped Deborah and bent down to apologise. Bozo, an amiable dog, wagged the offended tail, and Hugo stood up.

'Yes, at last! I've got it at last, the opening solo. Listen.'

He struck a pose and sang, to the tune of 'wandering minstrel'.

'I am a troubadour, in clothes of red and yellow, In stripes of red and yellow – '

'Hugo.'

He glanced at her, a puzzled frown on his face.

'Mm? I'm quite pleased, actually. Do you like it?'

Deborah took a deep breath. 'Yes, darling. So did Gilbert and Sullivan.'

For a moment he looked puzzled, then with a sigh sank into one of the chairs by the table, pushing the plates and cutlery laid for two places aside.

'Gilbert and – oh. I see. You're saying it's a little too derivative, are you?'

At least he wasn't offended, though he looked so downcast she wanted to cuddle him, like a small child whose anticipated treat was being denied him.

'Not just a little. Gilbert's words had a sort of – je ne sais quois – about them. Besides, wasn't it the Court Fool who wore stripes, not the troubadours?'

'That's poetic licence, Deb. Well, I suppose I can think of another tune. If that fellow Lloyd Webber can produce hit after hit there's no reason why I can't.'

Deborah swallowed. She's always been told, by her mother, that it was a wife's duty to speak truthfully to her husband on every occasion. That was why her mother, still saying she did not understand men, now lived in Spain with her second husband, whom she had married only six months ago, while Deborah's father was shacked up in Weybridge with a nubile nymph only a year older than Deborah, who had no intention of ever disagreeing with a rich husband. At least she could change the subject.

'No, dear. Of course not. In the meantime, Mr Harris is waiting to see you.'

'Harris? Farmer Harris, you mean?'

'How many other Harrises do you know?'

'There's a whole tribe of them round here. They've lived here for centuries.'

'Well, this one's Farmer George Harris. I put him in the study.'

Hugo sighed. 'Do I have to see him? He's probably come about that beastly hedge again. I can't help it if it spreads into his wretched fields. Why can't he chop it down on his side?'

'I don't think it's about the hedge. Do go and see him, Hugo, or we'll never have breakfast. Well, we will if I can get this wretched Aga to work. Or it will be cold water and bread and marmalade again.'

Hugo got up and went to the door. 'Oh, all right. I suppose if I don't see him he'll be back again tomorrow.'

*

Hugo whistled softly as he went towards the front of the house. This time he was trying out words that were not reminiscent of 'I've got a little list', but somehow they refused to come. He pushed open the green baize-lined door and passed onto the parquet floor of the main hall. This was a large, square space hung with hunting trophies. Wide corridors led off to both sides, giving access to several now unused sitting rooms. There were various ancient oak chests and tables and a few chairs with disintegrating tapestry seats scattered round the walls, and a somewhat battered suit of armour at the foot of the wide, shallow stairs. These led up to a landing, before they parted and led left and right to the upper floor. It was lit by a large window depicting some saint's martyrdom by rope and sword. It had given Hugo nightmares when he was a child, and he still averted his gaze when he used these stairs. The study was to the right of the front door, a small room which they now used as a sitting room, when they had time to sit. His father had always wanted to know who was approaching. Mainly, Hugo's mother maintained, so that he could disappear and have the butler, when they had a butler, tell callers he was not at home.

Hugo knocked at the door and then remembered he no longer needed to do that. He opened the door and went in, smiling apologetically at the man standing by the table where he had deposited his shotgun when he came in that morning, stroking the gun lovingly. He should, he knew, have locked it away, but he'd been in a hurry to write down his latest idea for his musical, and the script was in his bedroom where he'd been reading it last night.

'Oh, dear, I still knock on this door. I left here years ago but somehow this room still seems to be his.'

'Do it, Master Yugo?'

Hugo smiled. 'There, you do it too. Do sit down, Mr Harris. How can I help you?'

Farmer Harris sank into a large armchair. He was a huge man, in his fifties, with grey hair and a white, colonel-type moustache, and he filled the chair. He was wearing a tweed coat, the elbows and cuffs trimmed with leather, and in place of a tie had a red handkerchief round his neck, the colour not much brighter than his round cheeks. He was holding a briar pipe in one hand and a lighted match in the other. When the match burned his fingers he swore and dropped it onto the floor. Hugo sprang forward to stamp it out. It was some sort of valuable carpet, he knew, though he could never remember where it had come from. Morocco or India, he thought. Anyway, his father had cherished it despite the moth-eaten patches.

'What do I do?' Mr Harris asked, striking another match and returning his attention to his pipe. Hugo thrust a small table towards him and placed on it a large ashtray.

'Here, you can use this. You call me Master Hugo, like you used to. It just shows. You can't believe my father's gone, any more than I can.'

'Ah, that's as may be, Mast – Sir Yugo. Your poor father'd never 'ave let things get to such a pass, never.'

Hugo waited while several more matches were employed. Finally, Farmer Harris had the pipe drawing satisfactorily, and looked with an air of triumph towards Hugo. At least he'd used the ashtray, Hugo thought with a sigh of relief.

'What pass? I don't understand.'

'Six months, it be.' There was a lugubrious sigh, and a puff of foul-smelling smoke. Hugo forced himself not to wave the smoke away. There was no point in offending the fellow. After all, he was their nearest neighbour.

'What's six months?'

'Never more'n a month, with Sir 'Enry. No, four weeks, on the dot.'

'Look here, Harris, what the devil are you on about?'

'Even when the pesky months 'ad five weeks in 'em.'

Hugo recalled all the other comments of the villagers about his father. They'd hated him when he was alive, but he was now becoming a saint in their eyes, a man with a reputation Hugo could never match.

'I do wish you'd get a move on and tell me what you want. I haven't had my breakfast yet, and I'm dashed hungry.'

Farmer Harris looked astonished. 'Not yet? Nine o'clock, it be. I were up at five sharp, milking them cows.'

Hugo shuddered. He never got up before dawn, and he wasn't at all fond of cows.

'Well, dash it, I was up an hour ago. I've been out trying to bag some rabbits. Got three, too.'

'I 'opes as 'ow you didn't 'it my Buttercup again.'

Hugo was indignant. 'Hit Buttercup? That was years and years ago, when I was about ten! And my father paid you, even though she had only a small pellet wound.'

He had also thrashed Hugo so that he'd not been able to sit down for a week. No wonder he didn't like cows. Mr Harris was looking smug. He waved his pipe towards a display case.

'A nice lot o' guns, your father 'ad. Is that all of 'em, in that case?'

'Yes, apart from a couple I use every day. Most of them are antiques, I doubt if they'd be safe to use now. But what have father's guns got to do with anything?'

'That's to be seen, that be.'

Hugo was getting fed up with this conversation. It was going nowhere, apart from reminding him of childhood things he'd prefer to forget.

'Well, why did you want to see me? What's all this about four weeks and six months?'

Mr Harris sat up straight, puffed hard on his pipe, and spoke with more determination than before.

'I came to ask you when you'd be seeing your way to payin' my milk bill. Sir Yugo.'

'Milk bill? I thought the Common Market paid that? All these quotas and so on. I can never understand them.'

'You tryin' to be funny?'

'Funny? Good Lord, no. I never try to be funny.'

'That's good, 'cause I wouldn't take kindly to no one tryin' to be funny, not when they owes me for six months' milk.'

Hugo gulped. He'd forgotten Deb had mentioned it. 'Oh, Lord! Is that what you've come for?'

'That's it.' More evil-smelling smoke wafted across to him.

'Surely it's not six months? We've only been married and living here for a month.'

'You was livin' 'ere after your father died. When you came back from Australy. Before the weddin'. Six months, one week and three days since I were paid last.'

Hugo gulped. 'But I haven't been here all the last six months. I was in London part of that time, getting married.'

'But you was 'ere six months ago, and then 'er first Ladyship was 'ere for two months – '

'But Dulwich gets so hot in the summer. And Mama doesn't drink a lot of milk. Says it's fattening.'

Farmer Harris ignored him. He was counting on his fingers, and the pipe had been put in the ashtray.

'And you and 'er new Ladyship 'ave been 'ere for a month, since you was wed.'

'We couldn't afford a honeymoon.'

'I 'opes as 'ow you can afford to pay my milk bill.'

Hugo turned out his pockets. Less than a pound, he saw. 'Er, will you take a cheque?'

Mr Harris shook his head. 'I never takes cheques.'

'How about a brace of pheasants, on account, as it were?'

'No, thankee. I got too many on me own land, since the coverts on the Abbey land was left to go wild. I wants cash.'

'Then, I – oh dear, I suppose I'll have to go into the bank. I haven't got much cash here.'

Whether the bank would let him have cash was a problem he would have to face. But it would delay things for a day or so, and perhaps some miracle would come to his aid.

'Tell you what, Master – Sir Yugo. Let me 'ave that shotgun what used to belong to Sir 'Enry, that one at the table there. It's one of a pair, so you could use the other, and I'll forget the milk bill.'

'I couldn't give you one of Father's guns! Mother would have a fit if I gave one away. Besides, they cost a lot more than a year's milk bill. They are Kemens, and they must have cost over ten thousand for the pair.'

Farmer Harris stood up, knocked the pipe on the ashtray, which was glass and cracked ominously.

'Then you could sell 'em. Or cash it'll 'ave to be. As soon as possible, I got me own bills to pay. The Common Market don't pay them for us poor farmers. And I can't deliver no more milk until I'm paid. Good day to you, Master Yugo!'

'Whew!'

*

Deborah heard, in the distance, the slam of the front door. She hoped the hinges would stand the pressure. She was very suspicious of a couple of the bedroom doors that seemed to be hanging on one screw. Then Hugo's footsteps grew louder as he came back along the passage.

'Hugo?'

'Coming.'

He came into the kitchen and slumped into a chair by the table. He drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

'Has he gone?'

'Yes. Beastly man. Do you know, he's actually had the nerve to threaten to stop delivering our milk if we don't pay him straight away!'

Deborah sighed. 'I thought that was what he wanted.'

'You might have warned me. And why did you put him in the study?'

'Isn't that the right place for the squire to see tenants? Where else could I put him? The drawing room's in a mess, I haven't finished trying to make it presentable.'

'I suppose so. It used to be, in Father's day. But he kept looking at Father's guns with a rather wistful expression on his face.'

'Surely he wasn't thinking of shooting you? I know it's all about equality now, but that would be rather extreme.'

'He had the cheek to ask for one instead of the money we owe. I can tell you it made my blood curdle.'

'So he was thinking about it?'

'Well, perhaps not. After all, the Harrises have farmed next to us for generations. It would be lèse majesté or something. The village would lynch him!'

Deborah was smiling. She still found Hugo's occasional feudal attitude amusing, but