Dark Deed on a Dark Moor: The McLaren Mysteries

By Jo A Hiestand

Under usual circumstances, being a beneficiary in a person's will is heart-warming and perceived as an honor. However, this circumstance is not usual, for the bequest is a two-ton granite millstone. And the beneficiary of this gift wants former police detective Michael McLaren to find out who the gift-giver is and why she received it.

McLaren reluctantly agrees to delve into the questionable gift and soon becomes enmeshed in the larger mystery of a bride left at the altar and two murders--one old and one contemporary. Both of which send him on a chase for a killer in a rain-soaked night and threaten his very life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201210830

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

DARK DEED ON A DARK MOOR

ALSO BY JO A. HIESTAND

The McLaren Mysteries

Cold Revenge

Last Seen

Shadow in the Smoke

The Wall

An Unfolding Trap

No Known Address

An Unwilling Suspect

Arrested Flight

Photo Shoot

Empty Handed

Black Moon

Hide and Seek

Related By Murder

Haunted Water

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The Peak District Mysteries

A Staged Murder

A Recipe For Murder

In A Wintry Wood

A Touch of Murder

The Stone Hex

Searching Shadows

An Old Remedy

Shrouded in Yew

Ancestral Whispers

Fire Trap

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The Cookies & Kilts Mysteries

Shortbread and Dead

A Trifling Murder

The Linn House Mysteries

The House on Devil’s Bar

A Hasty Grave

Last Act

Death By Gingerbread Drops (novella e-book)

Stand-Alone Books

Cider, Swords & Straw: Celebrating British Customs (cookbook with customs information and Peak District Mystery book synopses)

Carols for Groundhog’s Day

Tea in a Tin Cup: Travel and Culinary Adventures of a Writer

Dark Deed

on a

Dark Moor

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Jo A. Hiestand

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Cousins House

St. Louis, Missouri

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Cover and Interior Design by Cousins House

Copyright © 2022 Jo A. Hiestand. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

This is a work of fiction and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

Cover photo by Phil Ellard at istockphoto

Visit us on the web at: www.johiestand.com

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Published by Cousins House

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

First of all, my thanks to Detective Sergeant Paul Gibbons, Derbyshire Constabulary (ret) for information about the years mobile phones came into general use in Britain and the circumstances in which calls can be traced. Also, thanks to Marvin Allen for the information about mobile phones and towers in general. I’m glad someone understands them and can impart the information in simple English. 

Second, thank you to my Street Team, for always being ready and willing to get the word out about the books. Help like this is important.

And certainly not last on my thank-you list is N.N. Light Editing Services for their eagle eyes on my manuscript.  Much thanks to the Service for helping me make this book much better.

As always, any mistakes in the book are mine.

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Author’s note: With the exception of Somerley, Raven Dale and Lowerfield, the villages and towns in Dark Deed on a Dark Moor actually exist, though I have added non-existing roads, physical features, and businesses, and used them all in a fictional way.

Jo A. Hiestand

April 2022

St Louis, Missouri

Diagram Description automatically generated with low confidence

Cast of Characters

Michael McLaren: Former police detective, Staffordshire Constabulary

Jamie Kydd: McLaren’s friend, police detective, Derbyshire Constabulary

Paula Kydd: Jamie’s wife

Richard Spencer: Paula's brother

Oliver Gaunt: realtor

Barbara O'Brien: realtor

Carl Upton: car mechanic

Gary Flanagan: car mechanic

Aaron Ault: owner of lawncare service

Zoe Ault: Aaron's wife and graphic designer

Martha Nightingale: solicitor

Lorraine Buchanan: owner of guest house

Stuart Buchanan: Lorraine's brother and owner of home remodeling business

Dean Knott: vicar

Chloe Dallman: church secretary

Hayley Llewellyn: owner of gift basket business

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Grandmother

Chapter 1

Tell me again how you got this...this... Michael McLaren, having arrived not five minutes before at his friends’ home, tapped the base of the gritstone slab with the toe of his boot. The action had no effect on the gigantic stone chunk; it didn’t budge from where it slanted against the back wall of the garden. He took a breath, confused and curious about the item and the reason for its sudden appearance, and looked at his friend, as though the answers were etched on his face. ...how you got this...

Millstone, Jamie, his best mate, supplied, his gaze on the circular mass. His frown seemed to hint that he wasn’t too happy about it either.

Millstone. Right. McLaren nodded, the tone of his voice betraying his opinion even if he didn’t vocalize it in a few choice words. He opted for diplomacy over opinion and instead of expressing his judgment, said, How’d you get this reminiscence of Derbyshire’s bygone days? Granted, it’s a lovely bit of Olde England, but it’s so...large...and bulky to give to someone.

Paula Kydd, Jamie’s wife, ran her fingertips over the top section of the stone's curve. Her green eyes appeared nearly black as she stood in the shade of the birch, a whiff of wind disarraying her dark blonde hair. It came two days ago. We very nearly weren’t home for delivery.

But we were. Bloody bad timing. Jamie looked as though he was swallowing something unpleasant.

I mean, it’s a very nice gesture, Paula hurried on, smoothing over her husband’s remark as if the sender were within hearing range. I’m honored someone thinks enough of me to send me something, of course, but...a gift of a millstone? Her voice rose, underscoring the astonishment showing in her eyes.

McLaren shifted his gaze from the perennial border of summer-blooming daylilies and liriope to stare at her, unsure if he had heard her correctly. A gift? It’s not your birthday, and I know it’s not your wedding anniversary, though you might want to forget you’re married to Jamie... He flashed a smile at his friend. Okay, kidding aside. Why’d you get it? And why a millstone, of all things? But maybe more importantly right now, who sent it?

She shrugged and jammed her hands into the pockets of her linen shorts. Evidently, I’m the beneficiary of this—what did you call it?...remembrance of Derbyshire’s bygone days—in some chap’s will.

Well, now you have to be joking. A bit of money, perhaps a favorite rocking chair, a portrait of Uncle Finn, I’d expect, but a...a...

Millstone, Jamie muttered, the exasperation he must be feeling evident in his tone. I tried to stop the delivery Friday, but the bloke was insistent that they unload it. Some legal rigamarole. Bequest to lawful recipient. I don't know. He scratched the back of his head. At least the crew settled it here, where it will most likely stay even after we’re dead and gone. I don't know what we would've done if they had merely dumped it in the front of the house, ridding them of it, and drove off. He glanced at his wife, as though they had discussed their narrow escape on Friday. But what are we supposed to do with this thing? It’s too big and heavy for a bookend.

I suppose you can’t roll it to the street curb and have the trash pick it up.

Are you serious, Mike? This thing must weigh two or three tons. At least, most of them do that are this size. It’s seven inches thick and four feet in diameter. Pick-up-and-tote, it’s not. Granite is made to endure. He kicked the base of the stone, the dull thwack emphasizing his irritation. Unfortunately, I think Paula and I are the ones who have to endure its existence in our garden.

McLaren nodded and thought, not for the first time, that his mate’s slight build held more strength than was evident at a cursory look. As many lawbreakers had discovered to their detriment. But even Jamie couldn’t shift the stone.

I can’t even start it rolling, Jamie added, as if privy to McLaren’s thoughts.

It would take a few lads, yes.

And then how do you stop it, once it’s sailing along?

Smash it into your house or car, unfortunately. And it wouldn’t do your bookshelf any good even if you managed to hoist it up. McLaren stooped to run his fingers along the deep, patterned grooves on the stone’s face. When millstones were set up to grind, stone atop stone, the chiseled trenches channeled the ground flour to the stone’s outer edge so it could be gathered. Maybe you need another three or four. You can stack them horizontally to make a nice picnic table.

That’s not the sort of help we’re looking for. Get serious.

I wasn’t trying to be funny. But a table wouldn’t do. No place to settle your knees. McLaren stood up, rubbing his chin, and stared at the center hole. You could just shove this one onto the ground and use the hole as a bird bath. You’d have to line it with a plastic bag so the water wouldn’t seep out, of course. He spread his fingers and placed them across the hole. Not big enough for a bird bath. What is the hole diameter...half a foot?

Nine inches, and cut the comedy. I repeat. We didn’t ask you over to make wise cracks. Jamie placed his palm against the edge of the stone and pushed, but it remained rock steady. What the hell do we do with this monstrosity?

You’ll think of something. Right now, though, I’m curious about this generous bloke, Paula. Is he some distant relation? I didn’t know you had millers in your family.

She shook her head and picked up a fallen birch leaf and twirled the stem slowly between her thumb and index finger. That’s the daft thing about this, Mike. I know Derbyshire was prime milling country a century or so back, but I don’t have millers in my family. Or stonemasons or antique dealers or practical jokers or anything else I can think of.

Jamie sniffed. Would’ve been easier to deduce the reason for this...thing...if you did.

Paula made a face at him and continued. And the name of this gift giver means nothing to me. Doesn’t even stir up a memory. I opened the family album and looked at all the photos and names. Everyone, people I knew and didn’t know, hoping a face or a name would slap me alongside the head and shout ‘That’s Great Aunt Cheryl. She was a miller’, but no lightbulb clicked on. The gifter doesn’t seem to exist, either in my recollection of old family stories or sitting on any branch of the family tree. She paused, her mouth open, frowning. I hope this doesn’t mean I was a basket case, found on the steps of the church, and my parents—well, they'd be my adopted parents if that were the case—never told me.

You look like your mom, Sweets, so there’s little worry about that. Which leads me to the conclusion that the gift giver must be a black sheep somewhere way back. Some illegitimate child or a bloke who ran off with the family silver and who's now relegated to being mentioned only by whispers behind closed doors.

We don’t have family silver but for the pieces we got for our wedding. And don’t suggest he emigrated to Australia to work the gold fields. Even if he had, his name would still be on the ancestral tree. She gave him a look that underlined her doubt in capital letters.

Unless your family was so embarrassed or angry by his wayward adventure that they ripped up his photos and erased his name.

Paula rolled her eyes, exhaling loudly. Good story, but I doubt it.

McLaren gave the stone a lingering look before turning his attention back to Paula. I assume the giver’s name was on a note or in the will, or even as an explanation via the solicitor. At the very least, a name should’ve been on the delivery receipt. Ancestry aside for the moment, who sent it?

Paula tiled back her head, clearly exasperated. Some chap named Carl Upton.

And you don’t know him.

I don’t know any Carl and I don’t know any Upton. Not from my childhood nor now. It’s rather unnerving.

Jamie flicked a twig off the top of the millstone. When it arrived, I rang up the police. I tried to tell them we didn’t know this bloke and didn’t want the thing and the delivery company wouldn’t take it back and how could we rid ourselves of it. But the officer said there’s no crime in this. Anyone can give anything to anybody as long as it’s not against the law. He tossed the twig onto the lawn. Daft. The whole thing is bonkers. We don’t want it and we don’t know a thing about the sender. He eyed McLaren and took a deep breath. Uh, Mike...

McLaren’s eyebrow shot up to match his rising voice tone. Yes?

You finished that case of the haunted lake last month.

Thanks. I’m so glad you remember. I thought for a while that I’d dreamt the whole thing. And before you tear on, I haven’t finished my stone wall repair jobs. I have a list that’s staring me in the face each time I sit at my desk.

But you could shove some of them back a few days.

Shove them back for...what? What are you suggesting? He asked the questions with hesitation, afraid of the answer.

The reply rushed out nearly before McLaren had finished his sentence. We’d like you to look into this. Jamie grabbed his wife’s hand and squeezed it. We want to know who left it to her. Know besides his name, I mean. Like, what he did for a living and such. More importantly, why he bequeathed her the thing. Why to Paula and why a millstone. Paula—well, neither of us—know this Carl Upton chap. It’s a mystery.

McLaren leaned against the stone. The surface, even at this mid-morning hour, already hinted at the upcoming heat of the July day. He could imagine what it would feel like after a day basking in August's temperatures. About as warm as the stones from the walls he repaired in Derbyshire's sun-drenched fields. He shook his head. His blond hair rubbed the collar of his cotton shirt in the back and he slapped it down. You’re right. It’s a mystery. And if I shove my repair jobs back, as you suggest, I won’t have any clients left, and there won’t be any mystery as to why that happened. He rubbed the side of his neck and flicked off the beats of sweat, exhaling loudly. Was the day getting warmer? Look, Jamie. It’s July. I’d like to enjoy a sporadic day off between the stone wall jobs that dot my calendar and nag at my conscience. I’d like time to talk to Melanie—really talk. A nice long chat. Maybe go up and visit her, or ask her down for a few days. I’d like to lie in a hammock some evening, reading a book and sipping a beer. And I do not want to traipse around the wilds of Derbyshire or Cumbria or Cheshire or some far-flung county, Heaven forbid, to find out about some deceased bloke who had a millstone fetish. Hire a private detective.

Paula dropped Jamie’s hand and touched McLaren’s shoulder. The pressure was gentle, yet he was aware of the warmth of her fingers and the mute message she sent. Mike, I know you’re always stepping in to help friends, and I know you never ask for anything to compensate your talent and time and energy. We try not to take advantage of your generosity, nor do we like taking you away from your wall repair work and your paying clients. We know what it costs you in energy and in loss to your bank account. But the solicitor was not much help when I rang her up. She hesitated, as though unsure if she had said too much or not enough. When McLaren said nothing, she continued, but her tone changed from pleading to a simple request.

He could ascertain no desperation in the voice quality; he could accept or reject her request.

Paula took a nearly imperceptible breath, as though giving her appeal one last chance. I really would appreciate it if you could sort this out, Mike, but I understand if you’d rather not. You’re busy, as you say, and of course we know that. And you have to earn a living. She shifted her gaze to Jamie, as though mutely asking for help with her words, then looked back at McLaren. It’s just that I’d like to know the reason for all this—the choice of gift, who the giver is, and why he gave it to me. If these questions remain a mystery, it’ll be in my mind and haunt me until I learn why.

McLaren took a while to answer. During the pause, two magpies called to each other before flying away, and a dog barked from a neighbor's yard. The yapping faded, as if the dog ran off in pursuit of the birds. McLaren pressed his lips together, frowning and rubbing his forehead. Evidently, her logic worked, for McLaren nodded. What did the solicitor tell you?

Her answer came swiftly, perhaps not wanting him to change his mind and leave before she could respond. Her name is Martha Nightingale. Both her office and home are in Lowerfield. That’s where Carl Upton was also from.

I’ve not been there, but I know approximately where it is. Due south of here, right?

Yes. Lowerfield’s just twelve miles from Castleton. Martha said that several years ago she wrote up the will for Carl and she subsequently saw to its administration, making sure the estate was settled and the gifts were distributed.

So, this Carl Upton bloke is deceased recently, then.

Paula nodded. Which makes it all the more frustrating, getting something from a chap whom I don’t know and who can’t tell me why he chose me. The solicitor said Carl made his will five years ago. He was forty-three years old when he passed. He and his wife died in a car crash two months ago. He was an auto mechanic, and the garage he worked in is also in his home village.

McLaren massaged the back of his neck. If it would be just a matter of finding out why this Carl Upton had bequeathed the millstone, perhaps it wouldn’t take but a day or two to learn. I could be on to the dry stone wall repair job by this time next week at the latest. He squinted at the stone again, as though he could decipher answers from it. Does the car mechanic angle suggest you knew the chap?

No. We’ve never had any of our cars serviced in Lowerfield or have even been there on holiday. We’re still at a loss about him and the stone.

You weren’t involved in the Uptons’ car crash, I assume. Nothing such as being a witness or rendering first aid...

Nothing. We never heard of the incident. Well, we wouldn’t, since it happened around Lowerfield.

You’ve no involvement with this Carl Upton socially or professionally, you’re not related through family or marriage, and you’ve never met him or strolled through his village. I repeat...odd. Although he wouldn’t admit it at the moment, he was intrigued. The questions whispered to him, holding much more attraction than heaving stones to repair a wall. And he also wouldn’t confess to Paula that he too would be plagued by the questions already settling in his mind, losing sleep until he learned the why of it all.

Paula winced at his vocal summation of her situation, looking rather confused. She cleared her throat, and said in a rush, All I know...well, Jamie too...is what Martha Nightingale told me Friday, Mike. She said Carl was adamant that the millstone be given to Paula Spencer Kydd of Castleton, Derbyshire.

McLaren frowned, his hand rubbing his jaw. The information was unexpected. The solicitor used your legal name like that? Not just Paula Kydd?

She rattled off my full name, yes. Frankly, I was surprised that this man whom I’d not heard of knew my maiden name. She glanced at Jamie, who slipped his arm around her shoulder. That is quite chilling. I feel as though this chap was stalking me.

Jamie moved slightly, stepping into the sunlight, which brought out the red highlights in his light brown hair. His voice lowered. That’s the other strange thing about this, Mike. How did this Upton bloke know Paula’s full name, especially since we don’t know him?

McLaren watched a robin hop along the perennial bed before replying. That I can’t answer at the moment. I also can’t answer my own question if the millstone is tied to the giver or to Paula. I tend to think it would mean something to Paula, since our generous Carl specified Paula Spencer Kydd, so it wouldn’t be misdirected to a Paula Mahoney Kydd or a Paula Lindauer Kydd, for example. He paused, chewing on his bottom lip as he considered something. A breath of wind scented with roses stirred a lock of his hair, nudging it onto his forehead. Carl’s use of your maiden name really suggests he knew you, Paula. No one from your childhood or before you married Jamie comes to mind? I realize you said that you don’t recall someone like this, but Carl was just five or six years older than you. So, perhaps an older boy in school who could have known you for some reason? Maybe you gave a recitation in front of the assemblage or received an award... He might know your name that way. Perhaps from a church youth group? Or would he know you through someone else, someone from years ago, which explains why that person doesn’t readily come to mind?

Which suggests he was a friend of a friend and we’d met just the once, you’re saying?

The wind shifted direction and the fragrance of roses faded. McLaren shrugged. Could do, though I would think if you're going to leave a gift, you'd know the receiver a bit better than just a one-time introduction. I’m just trying to sort through this.

Paula crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head. I’ve gone through my scrapbook, Mike. No one from school or living in my parent’s neighborhood suggests I knew Carl, either directly or as a friend of a friend. I’m just drawing a blank. But the solicitor did say that the gift is a roundabout thank you for saving his wife’s life. 

Chapter 2

Saving his wife’s life? McLaren repeated the sentence so forcefully it seemed to bounce off the millstone and the trunk of the nearby tree. He shook his head, holding up his hand. Wait a minute. You just told me that he and his wife died in a car crash two months ago. When did the lifesaving bit happen?

Paula exhaled slowly, as if she were tired of thinking. Her fingers twined through her hair before sliding down the length of a lock and pulling it taut. I have no idea, and I think the man was round the twist. I’ve never saved anyone’s life. I’d swear the solicitor got me mixed with someone else, but as I said, she rattled off my full name and the correct address, so it seems I’m the correct Paula Spencer Kydd.

A robin landed on a tree limb several yards