Thirty Pieces of Silver

By Ruth Parry

It's 1949, post-war Britain and Colonel Longley Walsh lies sprawled at the foot of his staircase.

A dagger protrudes from his chest, and thirty pieces of silver are by his side.

Newly appointed Constable Septimus Plant is called to the scene, igniting a macabre curiosity about the case.

But Septimus has secrets of his own—a brutal mother and a timid father who took his own life. Yet, from an early age, Septimus understands there is power within his silence, complementing his ability to observe and listen—great attributes for any budding detective.

As Septimus studies the art of body language, improving his powers of deduction and combining that with his dogged determination, he sets his wits against a network of perilous suspects.

No one is above suspicion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Parry
• Release date: Jun 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223606024

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Murder, murder, there’s been a murder!

I hear the blood-curdling screams escape Ethel Caulsters’s ruby-red lips. I’m running an errand, you see, for Sergeant Horsham because nothing ever happens in Lowchester—certainly not murder.

Cycling aimlessly along the narrow country lane en route to the Manor House, reading books tucked neatly inside my saddlebag, I had hoped to catch half an hour under the oak tree before returning to the police station.

What…whatever’s the matter? I stutter, feeling rather awkward because I’m sweet on Ethel Caulsters. Any male with a pulse is sweet on Ethel; she’s an exquisite flower in full bloom, although not today, as she gulps frantically for air and looks rather dishevelled. Ethel releases her iron-like grip from my forearm.

He…he’s in there. She gestures with an outstretched finger, pointing towards the Manor House.

Dropping my bicycle onto the gravel path, it clatters to the ground as I sprint towards the magnificent Lowchester Manor. I falter outside, giving myself time to locate my waning courage. Hesitantly, I step over the threshold through a pair of robust double doors. Although I don’t challenge it, fear is the next emotion to flood my senses because this scene represents a real threat to me or, indeed, a third party.

As I inhale deeply, my nostrils are infused with mustiness while the place holds a sense of gloom and years gone by.

Pull yourself together, Septimus, I scold myself under my breath before crossing the entrance hall and locating Colonel Longley-Walsh, motionless at the foot of the stairs, his body twisted. Even in death, he depicts arrogance. His head lolls to one side with glazed eyes that seem to follow me everywhere, and even in this half-light, his mean little mouth mimics a sardonic grin or maybe a grimace, I can’t be sure. The light in the room is hindered further by a pair of heavy velvet curtains. But there’s no mistaking the dagger protruding from the colonel’s chest. Deliberating the kill, I notice a slow trickle of blood ebb away from the colonel, spilling out onto the parquet flooring, and at that moment, I must confess to feeling intensely excited.

Longley-Walsh was a colonel in the British Army, a pretty odious chap, barking orders while strutting around the village of Lowchester, even though the war ended four and a half years ago. He was a bit of a drinker; gin and tonic was his tipple of choice, although rumour hinted he’d quaff anything these days.

Standing there gawking at the colonel’s body sprawled at my feet should have provoked a reaction of sheer horror. But in that moment, I couldn’t help but feel fascination mixed with morbid curiosity. Police work, amongst these high rural farms, woodlands and pastures, only allows a slight descent into life’s complexities—at my level, anyhow. When secretly, I have been dreaming of a good kill and how to get away with it. Surely solving the perfect crime is every sleuth’s primary objective.

Murder mysteries seem to fascinate most people, and that includes me. I’m halfway through a good book and think I have already solved the plot. I need something to occupy my inquisitive mind. However, being the newest recruit to the Lowchester constabulary, I keep those thoughts to myself for fear of ridicule.

I am a bit of an amateur sleuth on the side, writing for the local radio station under the pseudonym, Rex Howard. He’s also my main character—an elusive private detective who has learned to think like his adversary. Fortunately, the local radio station invites the curious mind to produce a whodunit-style narrative for Murder Hour. My first work of fiction involved pushing the victim down a steep flight of stairs. It was a rather satisfactory and spectacular way to dispose of the victim, watching their terrified reaction, free-falling to that split second before death. Only now, the comparison is slightly alarming, with the colonel sprawled at my feet. What of the repercussions? Say the victim survived the fall?

However, I must confess to being a bibliophile; I love to read, murder being my favourite subject. So one may say I’m a self-taught investigator.

I hear the grandfather clock in the far corner chiming eleven o’clock. Its tone and pitch are shrill, and my thoughts jolt back to the here and now. Alas, the annoying racket seems to go on forever. So I abandon my daydreams and focus on the colonel’s wife, Imelda, who has joined the gathering. She’s shaking violently and looks the queerest shade of grey. Imelda Longley-Walsh is the second wife to the colonel, not to mention half his age. She’s not a local, and little is known about her background apart from having American roots. She likes keeping things private.

Come on, Septimus. Let’s go and fetch Sergeant Horsham.

On hearing Ethel’s reassuring voice, I look at her speculatively. She seems in fine fettle, having regained her composure but mistakes my muted silence for shock. Nevertheless, I am powered by an unquenchable curiosity, which at times has led me in life and, at others, held me back. Why? Because a quick brain and sharp senses demand answers usually found in the detail.

Ethel ushers Mrs Longley-Walsh, who is groaning and plonks the mistress down heavily on an occasional chair opposite the stairwell.

Half-crouching, Ethel states practically, If you start to feel queasy, put your head between your knees.

I take the opportunity to examine the supine corpse. Feeling a little self-conscious, I stoop over the body, careful not to step in the colonel’s fresh blood—a rich, plummy colour resembling a good claret. As I feel for a pulse, I note the skin already carries a grey-blue tinge. Whilst executing this procedure, my leg brushes against the colonel’s pocket, and I hear the jingle of loose change. Curiosity aroused, I have already noticed a few silver coins that have tumbled from his pocket, presumably during the fall. With a sleight of hand, I slide my fingers inside the pocket, being quick to count the coinage.

Finally, Imelda locates her self-control. Ethel, go fetch Harris. Instruct him to take Constable…. She wags her finger.

Plant, Constable Plant, I reply.

…to the station and bring Bob Horsham back with you. There’s a wobble in Imelda’s voice, and her complexion remains ashen, although I sense something amiss, slightly off-kilter.

What about my bicycle? I gripe whilst exiting the Manor House, although I’m sure my protest is futile. It’s not the mode of transport that is bothersome, but rather the contents of my satchel, in particular my books, one of which I was hoping to finish today before returning it to the public library. There is also a treasured gift from my sister Hilary, Know Your Forensics by Rosemary Royal, an independent American author, said to be ahead of her time.

Ethel stares at me with enquiring eyes. Are you quite all right, Septimus?

I smile meekly. She then approaches me to hug me to her bosom. Desperate to maintain an ounce of professionalism, I peer self-consciously over her shoulder and stare back at the Manor House in all its glory and a little envy creeps into my soul.

That’s when I notice Master Gordon Longley-Walsh hovering at an upstairs window. He’s a scrawny lad, about fifteen, but he could be mistaken for younger. His eyes appear sunken, and his hair is lacklustre. He’s the only child of the colonel and his late wife, Rachel.

It’s all right, Septimus. Sergeant Horsham will know what to do.

I’m so close to Ethel I can smell her talcum powder; a light flowery scent mixed with the heat from her body that makes me go all weak at the knees, and I begin to tremble. Her skin is soft, and her hips are plump. At this precise moment, Ethel Caulsters is as close to perfection as it gets.

Finally, I squeak, I’m fine, thank you, Ethel. Instantly, she severs our embrace, and my heart plummets through to my shiny new boots.

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I sit rigid, feeling somewhat awkward in the back of the chauffeur-driven car as we proceed along the tree-lined path. Under normal circumstances, Ethel Caulsters by my side, smelling sweet like violets, would have been splendid, yet sadly pleasure eludes me today.

You see, everything that happens in Lowchester has probably happened a million times before. But then there’s the odd little anomaly like Ethel turning up after the war, another relative newcomer from down south somewhere. I believe she answered an advertisement for the housekeeper position at Lowchester Manor House, bringing a ray of sunshine into this dull little village and many a bachelor’s life.

How are you feeling? I drown in her tawny eyes, which have a habit of changing colour to suit her mood, and at the moment, they’re leaning towards green.

Just making a mental appraisal, I state in an austere manner because my normal amiability has deserted me, and shyness has resurfaced. I feel my heart going like the clappers as Ethel leans a little closer, invading my personal space. This simple gesture prompts a funny tingling sensation that floods my tummy, like an electric shock—pleasant, yet arousing.

It can be quite unnerving seeing your first corpse, Ethel states earnestly. That’s when I recall she volunteered as an ambulance driver during the war, spending most of her time in London throughout the Blitz. So I suppose the sight of death was inevitable.

Ethel takes my hand and pats it gently as life resumes its normal pace. Nearly there, she whispers in her friendly manner while my face flushes crimson.

Embarrassed, I turn away and try to distract myself by staring through the car window to watch the shades and tones of brown and green meadows flash by. I don’t want to, but I pull my hand free, resting it beneath my trembling knees.

As we enter the red-brick police station with its distinctive blue lantern located outside, Sergeant Horsham eagerly greets Ethel.

Good morning, Ethel. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? He purrs, flashing an ambitious grin. Yet when Sarge sets eyes on me skulking in the background, his face darkens, and his smile quickly fades.

There’s been a beastly murder at the Manor House! says Ethel.

Sergeant Horsham blinks rapidly, hearing Ethel’s statement. It’s at that moment my courage fails me.

Who? What? Sarge barks in a deep, commanding voice banging his tea mug down heavily on the countertop.

Muted, I shrink back, focusing on the thick, brown liquid slopping over the rim as Sarge rounds the counter and drapes a muscular arm protectively around Ethel’s shoulder while eyeing me with contempt.

Let’s start at the beginning, Ethel. His words are encouraging as he guides Ethel to a vacant seat. Who’s the victim? Before glancing in my direction, his voice rises an octave. More to the point, who’s with the body? There’s no mistake; Sarge directs his accusation at me!

Don’t be cross with Septimus. Ethel smiles sweetly at Sergeant Horsham, revealing a gap between her front teeth, believed to be a sign of good luck. He was ever so shocked.

But the sergeant’s right. First rule in a murder investigation; secure the scene. Shamefaced, I drop my gaze, frustrated by my stupidity.

The murderer could still be up at the Manor House running amok. He could be destroying no end of evidence! I acknowledge Sarge’s statement.

I’ll head straight back, Sarge.

His eyes flash with anger. You’ll do no such thing, Constable Plant. Bob Horsham seems unconvinced by my ability and points an accusing finger. Stay put and look after Ethel! Sarge tugs at his goatee beard, which displays a reddish tint. I need to telephone the city and get an inspector sent down immediately. Then I will head back to Lowchester Manor. Sergeant Horsham smiles politely in Ethel’s direction before strutting off, slamming the station door behind him.

Would you like a cup of tea, Ethel?

This is perhaps the most exciting event in the history of Lowchester, and I’m stuck at the police station making cups of bloody tea.

CHAPTER TWO

The following evening, whilst eavesdropping outside Sergeant Horsham’s office, I overhear Detective Inspector Granville Oddpenny discussing the preliminary findings of the murder investigation. Fortunately, Sarge had the foresight to telephone the police surgeon, photographer and fingerprint men to preserve evidence to be presented during any forthcoming trial. I have resigned myself to the fact that Inspector Oddpenny will lead the murder enquiry, and if rumours are true, he’s a particularly lazy bugger who seldom follows protocol.

Nothing remarkable, Bob. An intruder most likely entered through the kitchen or outhouse with it being the cook’s rest day. Oddpenny flicks through his pocketbook to confirm the name. I pride myself on a near-perfect recall, unlike the dumb-looking individual thumbing through his notes. Ah, here we are, Maude White, he finally confirms. I believe Ethel Caulsters was covering kitchen duties yesterday. She had prepared a lovely ham salad for lunch; it looked rather delicious.

Through a crack in the door, I watch Oddpenny salivating, focusing on the few stray hairs poking through on his balding spot, I notice his features are rather sallow. I want to shout, Keep your mind on the job, man!

Well, the motive wasn’t burglary. I watch the vulgar individual throw back his head and laugh, revealing a loose set of dentures. The colonel had a pocket full of coins, probably the young master’s pocket money.

They both laugh heartily. I, on the other hand, think, what a pair of bloody fools. Oddpenny is eyeing the last biscuit, a custard cream, which is a particular favourite of mine. His portly hand covers the biscuit, and like magic, it disappears.

However, I have other things on my mind. Tonight, when Sergeant Horsham nips home for supper, I shall take a peek at the inventory list. Maybe I could glean bits of information for my next Rex Howard instalment, Murder at the Manor. But I’m not entirely sold on the title as I don’t want to reveal my identity; no, no, that would never do.

Then, without warning, I hear a loud rapping sound from the sergeant’s office. Disgusted, I watch Oddpenny lower his left buttock, having let rip on the wooden chair.

Do beg your pardon, Bob. Flatulence. Oddpenny grins while Sergeant Horsham wafts the daily newspaper in the air.

You stink, Granville! What the bloody hell have you been eating?

That’s the problem, Bob. I always produce wind when hungry.

Don’t know how Mrs Oddpenny puts up with you. Oddpenny’s face reddens somewhat at this comment and is swift to change the subject.

I hear your newest recruit went green at the gills up at the Manor House yesterday. What’s his name?

Septimus Plant, Sarge replies.

Needs a bloody good kick up the arse if you ask me.

While I think I’d like to see him try, I’m peering at Oddpenny through a crack in the door finding his piffle incomprehensible. His heavy-hooded eyes make him hard to read, although I doubt he has much going on up top. But then I get to thinking; this is what happens to nosey parkers who eavesdrop outside doors—they may hear something they don’t like.

He’s actually rather bright, keeps methodical records, think he may have a photographic memory. I watch Oddpenny’s face cloud over while I puff out my chest with pride. I didn’t expect Bob Horsham to be so complimentary.

Constable Plant, Sarge bellows. I wait a moment. PC Plant!

His voice is blunt, a bit like his manner. I retreat a few paces to give the impression that I’m further away, and peer around the door.

Yes, Sergeant Horsham? He beams. I think he may be trying to prove a point. Tell Inspector Oddpenny what you recall of the events yesterday morning when you attended the Manor House. Sarge slides back in his chair, closes his eyes, and then proceeds to wait.

I stare over at Oddpenny, taking in his appearance. Perhaps that shirt was white once, but it is now a dull grey splattered with intermittent stains, food would be my guess, although he is trying to hide them with a relatively wide tie. I ponder the rumours surrounding his wife, Bessie, and her sudden departure. The official line is Mrs Oddpenny is away attending to her ailing mother. However, Mary Gloucester, proprietor of the Post Office and General Store, reported that Bessie’s mother was in fine fettle.

Well? Sarge barks, peering through narrowing eyes, so I clear my throat.

On reaching the gates at Lowchester Manor, I look to Sarge for confirmation, running an errand for you about a spate of break-ins. Irritably, he wafts his hand, an indication to get on with it. "I heard, Murder! Murder! There’s been a murder! Ethel Caulsters came rushing out to meet me. Her hands were shaking, and she gestured for me to go inside. But before I went, I noticed stains on Ethel’s white pinafore."

Hold up! Hold up! Oddpenny raises his hand, stopping me mid-sentence before running his fingertips through a non-existent hairline. No one mentioned blood stains on Ethel Caulsters’s pinafore.

I did, sir. In my notes. My reply is justified as I keep meticulous records.

And where might those be? the boorish oaf demands from his slouched position while I’m sure Sarge stifles a chuckle.

Sitting on your desk, Inspector Oddpenny. I watch his face cloud over while his flabby lower lip gives the impression of a sullen child. I glance back at Sarge, who seems to have regained his composure, nodding for me to continue.

Coincidentally, I don’t appreciate being interrupted mid-flow because I use a system, a sequence of images and thoughts, to retrieve a detailed memory. I replay the events and then encode them before storing in my brain, forming a kind of pattern. Unfortunately, now I have to go back to the beginning with the images. Finally, I am ready to resume.

When I entered the Manor House, the colonel was lying at the foot of the stairs. A pool of blood had formed, and I observed a dagger protruding from his chest. He was wearing a waistcoat, jacket and outdoor shoes. I got the impression he was on his way out. Again, Oddpenny raises his flabby hand to silence me.

You’re not paid to think, lad! he states in a snide manner. He’s probably feeling inadequate because I use logic to explain the colonel’s final behaviour before applying this thesis to the residents of Lowchester. I suspect Oddpenny is the exception to the rule, ingratiating us with his presence, coming from the big city and stating the bloody obvious.

That will be all, Septimus. He glances sideways at Sarge. I must admit to feeling somewhat relieved because I’m afraid of saying what I think to this useless waste of space sitting opposite me—a man blinded by his self-importance.

However, I had noticed things at the Manor House. Fragmented information might not be of particular significance in isolation, but by maintaining a discreet silence, listening to the chatter and chance remarks, I connected all the pieces. A killer’s depiction of murder began to form, making the investigation riveting. With one lingering look at Oddpenny, a distinctly unhealthy individual who displays some irritation of his own, I smile amiably, slowly retreating as I exit Sergeant Horsham’s office.

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Bob Horsham is a creature of habit, although it’s later than usual when he nips home for supper. I’ve been closely monitoring the time, and I am relieved that Oddpenny is accompanying Bob. I can just imagine Mrs Horsham’s face. She likes to serve supper, six-thirty prompt, and is a woman who isn’t particularly sociable. If rumours are true, she definitely isn’t a fan of Oddpenny, either. Still, in fairness, I don’t know anyone who is.

I’ll be forty minutes, tops, Sarge states, tapping the side of his nose. I nod my head accordingly. And if anyone asks, Septimus?

You’ve gone to see a man about a dog.

Grinning, Sarge replies, You’ll go far, lad. Praise indeed.

I now have an hour to kill before Sarge returns. He’s a slow eater, chewing everything four times. Probably a habit left over from the war when food was scarce. No doubt Oddpenny will be full of tall tales from the big city. Nevertheless, I set about locating the inventory list from Lowchester Manor. Earlier in the day, I observed Sarge slide a blue folder into the top drawer of his filing cabinet. So after plonking myself down in Bob Horsham’s chair, which I might add is a comfortable fit, limbs outstretched, feet resting on the desktop, peace finally descends. I scan through the documents with a keen eye, absorbing every fragment of information before storing the relevant detail in the recesses of my mind and then encoding it into memory.

Sarge has comprised a thorough list of the household members. Maude, the cook, had the day off on Thursday. However, it was uncharacteristic for her to leave the Manor grounds. Nevertheless, she had an errand to run in town. Ethel Caulsters, whose title is Housekeeper but I think General Dogsbody is more appropriate, was preparing a ham salad in the kitchen. Harris, the chauffeur, was valeting the colonel’s cars while Mr Bates was in the garden pruning fruit trees. I have since learnt Bates was the colonel’s handyman. Elizabeth (Betty) Buttercup, the housemaid, attended to the laundry in the outhouse at the rear of the property. Imelda Longley-Walsh was in the morning room taking tea, and the colonel was planning to go for a walk. The list comprises each household member’s exact location, making things straightforward when summarising the kill.

However, I have found one anomaly; there is no mention of Master Gordon Longley-Walsh, but I don’t suppose Sarge ventured upstairs. Later, I will try and drop this fact into the conversation without making it evident that I have been poking around in the murder file. I’m about to tidy away the paperwork and put everything back in order when I hear someone clearing their throat. Startled, I look up to see a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a long wool coat that looks expensive by the cut and style. As he towers over me, I would term him statuesque and well-proportioned.

Shooting up from my seat, I enquire, Can I help you, sir? while trying desperately to sound professional.

Superintendent Richard Vaast. The gentleman produces a warrant card from his breast pocket. I hesitate briefly while the colour drains from my cheeks, slyly sliding the blue folder behind my back, certain that my features portray guilt.

Sergeant Horsham? Should I lie to Superintendent Vaast and keep Bob Horsham’s confidence? Now, this is a dilemma. Let me help you out, Constable…?

Septimus Plant, I reply eagerly, displaying an imbecilic grin, leaning forward and extending a professional handshake.

Ah, yes, the superintendent comments, accepting my greeting, a symbol of mutual respect. Is Bob at home taking supper with Mrs Horsham?

I’m physically shaking, in quite a quandary, when the station door flies open. Bob Horsham enters, closely followed by Inspector Oddpenny.

Here they are now, sir, I reply as I quickly return the blue folder to the filing cabinet and make a hasty retreat of my own.

No sooner have I replaced the item than Sarge is bellowing.

Constable Plant, bring me the folder on the Lowchester murder investigation. It’s in the top drawer of my filing cabinet. Shamefaced, I return with the folder, but I think I may have gotten away with it.

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At a quarter to bloody ten with persistent drizzle as my only companion and half a mile from Lowchester Manor, I pass by St Bernadette’s churchyard, where a shape looms in the darkness. It lets out a yelp; probably the local drunk taking refuge for the night, I tell myself, but I’d better investigate. I’m already in Sarge’s bad books. His hostile look wasn’t wasted on me earlier. That’s why I’ve been sent out on a fool’s errand with no bicycle at this ungodly hour. He must have known I’d been snooping.

Feeling unsettled, I stop dead in my tracks, scanning the immediate area with a keen pair of eyes. Was that a light inside the church? I proceed with caution until I stumble and fall right over the top of a headstone. My shiny new uniform is now splattered in mud, as I lie sprawled on my back, gazing up at the stars, somewhat bewildered. A wiry fox approaches but halts before retreating a couple of paces, putting a safe distance between us, and then bolts. That is probably what I should do, as it’s rather spooky out here alone with a killer on the loose. The glow from the street lamp doesn’t help either, making the shadows appear colossal while my mind plays