Blackett Hill: Part two of - Author a murder with a twist

By Richard I Myerscough

Starting where "Author - A murder with a twist" ended, "Blackett Hill" delves deeper into the secrets held by the people living in Blackett Hill. In a place where everyone has a criminal record for crimes they claim they never committed, no one trusts any type of authority. The police along with the entire justice system, the fire department,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard I Myerscough
• Release date: Jan 1, 2026
• ISBN: 9781999078072

Richard I Myerscough

Richard Myerscough was born in Brantford, Ontario, Canada and is currently enjoying a quiet life in Cape Breton Island. Despite his passion for writing the lure of the outdoors draws him to the water and the great Canadian Outdoors. Having written and made up stories for numerous teachers, his children and himself throughout his life, in 2013 he decided to finally share his talent with the rest of the world www.richardmyerscough.com

Book preview

Blackett

Hill

part two of

Author - A murder with a twist

by

Richard Myerscough

Previous Works

Bat Blood - The Devil's Claw

Bat Blood - Unshackled Demons

Bat Blood - Resurgence

The Gilded Harvest

Author - A murder with a twist

copyright © Richard Myerscough 2025

published by Richard Myerscough

Fighting Roosters Press

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, scanning, recording or any information browsing, storage, or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher

Dedicated to Laurie

Blackett Hill

Prolog

Detective Douglas sat on the edge of the bed in his dark hotel room, staring at the unopened bottle of whiskey on the bedside table.  Fragments of sunlight shone through the narrow cracks, along the edges of the room's wide window.  The thick overlapping curtains darkened the hotel room, making it almost as gloomy, and miserable, as he felt.  As he stared at the bottle, a ray of light glistened off if it.  He shook his head, then grabbed the bottle, cracked it open, and took a large swig.

Its harsh, unfamiliar taste made him shake his head, and squinch his face.  As the alcohol began to dull his senses, the lingering taste of the cheap whiskey became a bit more palatable.  The bar brand whiskey had been formulated for mixed drinks, not to drink straight.  It was far from the smooth, well aged, sipping whiskey, that he preferred.  However, after discovering at the gas station, that his wife had emptied their joint bank accounts, he wasn't sure how much credit he had.  He just hoped that his personal credit card was untouched.  He used it to keep track of his work related, reimbursable spending.   He looked at the bottle, and told himself, This is stupid.  It's my money.  I have to go the bank, and get things straightened out.

His next sip of whiskey went down much easier, and tasted, slightly better.  One sip led to another.  As the numbing effects of the alcohol increased, he released a sigh of relief.  Reaching behind him, he grabbed the cold-cut sandwich he bought at the gas station.   After taking half of it out of the plastic container, he used the bottom of the bottle to push the container to the far side of the bed, next to a bag of ketchup flavoured chips.  While laying on his side, his thoughts flipped back and forth, from the way his wife callously, and somewhat jubilantly kicking him out of their house, to the abrupt, bittersweet conclusion of the Simon Black's murder case.

With his clothes crammed into the clear garbage bags, in the corner of the room, along with a few shopping bags of his belongings, he felt betrayed, and humiliated.  While trying to deal with the tragic auto accident, that had concluded the internationally followed, murder case that he was working on, he found himself homeless.  His wife had installed new locks on the doors, and men were painting the house's exterior pink.  All of his things were piled on the front lawn next to the driveway, for everyone to see.  His wife won't even let him go inside the house, to see how much of his stuff was still there, or if she simply got rid of the rest of his belongings.

As he started to enjoy the whiskey's numbing effect, his thoughts began to wander towards what he was about to face next.  Apart from his domestic problems, he knew that repercussions from the abrupt, tragic way that the high profile murder case had ended, would need to be addressed.  Looking up at the ceiling, he slowly rocked his head back and forth, as he muttered, not tonight.  Tomorrow, it will just have to wait until tomorrow.

Unaccustomed to anything more then a couple, stretched-out drinks in a single night, the excess alcohol began to make his mind swirl, and his muddled thoughts turned a bit strange, and uncharacteristically absurd.  He barely shut his eyes before his cell phone chirped.  Wildly swinging his arm toward the night stand, he tipped over the uncapped bottle of whiskey.  As it splashed unto the floor, he almost fell out of bed while trying to turn on the light.  Righting the bottle with his left hand, he grabbed his phone with the right.  It was only ten minutes to nine.  After rubbing his eyes, he slowly read the text message.

'The press has gone crazy.  The Simon Black case needs to be publicly addressed ASAP.  Headquarters is sending a media relation's officer here to deal with the press, before the rumours spread out of control.  He should be arriving within an hour.  An informal press conference has already been set for eleven-thirty tonight, at the station.'

Detective Douglas shut his eyes and counted to ten, before yelling, Why couldn't they just leave it until tomorrow.  While grumbling about how they don't trust him to handle the press, he replied, 'Understood'.  Knowing that he was unfit to drive, or even to walk to the station, he called the station and had a patrol officer pick him up.

The rumours surrounding the tragic automobile accident, that had killed both murder suspects, had made its way to the local press.  The stigmatised, tow-truck driver that hauled the wrecked car out of the ravine, was overheard ranting about the accident in a coffee shop, shortly after he left the impound yard.  He not only graphically described the scene of the tragic accident, and mangled woman's corpse, along with her seemingly, wealthy attire, but also revealed that the car had a New York licence plate on it.  Shortly afterwards, embellished, and outright fraudulent rumours, quickly travelled throughout the small community.

Earlier that afternoon, on his way back to English Lookout, Wanda Montgomery, a local reporter, had made some inquiries about the accident.  She asked about the conflicting rumours circuiting on the internet, that linked the accident to the Simon Black's murder.  Using only his pocket notes, he answered her questions over his phone.  At the time, Detective Douglas felt that he could only confirm that two Americans had died in a single-vehicle accident, and their names would be released after their next of kin has been notified.  Despite her questions, he stubbornly refused to say anything that would link it to the murder case, but the case was still ongoing.  He hoped that would temporarily diffuse the situation.

With the lives of so many people at stake, Detective Douglas wanted to take some time to digest and reevaluate everything about the confusing case, before its twisted conclusion went public.  With the American press still in town, clamouring for information about the Simon Black murder, he knew that more inquiries would be coming.  Since there was nothing concrete for them to go on, he thought he had at least a day, or maybe two, to go over the case, before making an official public statement.  That was before he found himself homeless and just wanted to get drunk, and forget about everything for a while.  The sudden need for a hastened press release, caught him completely off guard.

At the police station, Detective Douglas immediately made a large pot of coffee.  After catching the initial flow of strong coffee in his mug, he placed the pot back on the burner, to catch the rest.  Still fuming about someone being flown in, to do a job that he figured was his, he fumbled through his desk, file cabinet, and computer, for anything that he felt was relevant to the way the case ended.

As Superintendent Ronald Harris was escorted into the room, the tall, media relation's officer gazed at Detective Douglas.  The tired detective's head rested on his folded arms, on top of a pile of file folders, and a messy stack of seemingly loose, coffee stained papers on his desk.

Despite the superintendent's desk job, and a few gray hairs, the formally dressed officer maintained a trim, muscular physique.  With a smirk on his face, he sat at Sergeant Ryan's desk, and quickly made room for his laptop computer.  As it was booting up, he looked at the detective.  He easily recognized him from the files, that he had downloaded after he was given the assignment.

The superintendent saw drool dripping from the corner of the detective's mouth and onto the papers beneath it.  He stood up and walked over to the detective's desk.  As he reached for the detective's shoulder to wake him, he glanced at the stack of coffee stained papers, supporting his left elbow.  He recognised some names on the papers, from the Simon Black files he had downloaded.  Luckily, the coffee mug was almost empty and only stained some of the overhanging edges, making the damage appear worse then it really was.

Smelling a whiff of whiskey in the air, the superintendent picked up the tipped over coffee mug and smelt it.  It was only coffee.  He chuckled, as he held the detective's elbow up with one hand, and wiggled the papers out from under him with the other.  I guess he celebrated a little too much last night.  He should've known, that with a case like this, it isn't over, until everything about the case is completely cleaned up, and put to bed.

An hour later, Detective Douglas woke up to the buzzing sound of numerous alerts being sent to the superintendent's computer.  While yawning, he looked over at the officer, and mumbled, in heavily slurred, barely recognizable words, Sorry, can I be of any assistance.

No, everything is fine.  I had logged into the station's server before I left Toronto, and downloaded most of the relevant files.  The notes and documents you had printed for me helped patch up most of the holes.  All I'm doing now, is softening things up, and sealing the cracks.  Looking at the scruffy physical state the detective was in, he added, Get some coffee, and freshen up.  I just have to adjust the wording a tad more, before I hit the podium.  No pressure, we still have half an hour before the show starts.

But why now, and at this time of night?

A wide grin spread across the officer's face, as he answered, To give the media what they want, without giving them any time to prepare for it.  That way, we can catch them off guard, and take control of the situation.  We don't want them to get the upper hand, now do we?

Detective Douglas briefly shut his eyes, before slowly replying, I guess not.

The superintendent released a long yawn, and shook his head, before looking away from his laptop computer.  He had finally compiled, reconfigured, and polished, enough relevant information about both the accident, and Simon Black's murder case, to issue a brief, but masterfully tailored press release.  While exhaling a long, audible sigh, he slid his chair away from the desk, and stood up.  With the aid of a mirror, he put on his wide brimmed hat, and adjusted his formal, red uniform.

Superintendent Harris had spent the entire flight from Toronto, to English Lookout, plus two more hours at the police station, figuring out what he can, and can't say.  With most of the hearsay, and distorted rumours, linking the bazaar single-vehicle accident, to the Simon Black's murder, his orders were to harness them, before they spiralled out of control.  To complicate matters, he was also given a list of sensitive issues and people, that they want him to steer the media completely away from.

The nervous, quick-witted superintendent released a gentle sigh, as he turned and looked out the window.  With dark clouds blocking the moon and stars, the night sky was much darker than normal.  The sharply dressed superintendent looked above the street lights, and mumbled, Even the moon is afraid to show its face.  Maybe the press will take the hint and not bother showing up.

While staring at the dark sky, Superintendent Harris took a deep breath as he recalled the memo from his commanding officer that contained his orders.  The stern memo made it clear, that the repercussions could extend far beyond the brutal murder of one unfortunate man.  Releasing some facts about the world renown author's murder case could destroy the entire community of Blackett Hill, and the ripple effects would cast a huge net.  If that happened, it could tarnish the international reputation of the RCMP.  However, the memo didn't state why, or how it would also ruin the reputation of numerous, high level officials.  Not knowing the actual level of havoc that could be released if he failed, he naively felt the fallout damage was grossly exaggerated in order to motivate him.

What he did know for certain, was that the dead murder suspect and his accomplice were both American, making things quite volatile.  With no public trail to help squash Simon Black's avid fans unvented anger, his murder would have little, if any, closure.  Unhinged mudrakers, and unscrupulous, conspiracy theory motivated journalists could overwhelm the local communities.  From Detective Douglas's notes, he also added Doctor Susan Deathridge's seemingly far reaching influence, that somehow made his superiors quake.  Her name was mentioned in the memo, near the top of the list of subjects to avoid, with no reason given, only several asterisks.

Down the hall, a group of local, national, and foreign reporters made their way into the police station's small, quickly converted conference room.  Despite the remote location of the press release, and the timing of the announcement, the area in front of the podium was almost full.  Their chatter quickly ceased as an officer entered, and announced that the press release would commence in ten minutes.  Immediately afterwards, the room exploded in activity as microphones, cameras, cables were double-checked, and news crews jostled to obtain the best spots in front of the podium.

Superintendent Ronald Harris confidently stepped into the packed room, and walked towards the podium.  As he scanned the room, he recognized a reporter from Toronto, plus two local newspaper reporters from the photos he had downloaded, along with Wanda Montgomery from the only multi-media news station in the immediate region.

In addition to them, there were seven more diehard news crews and several Simon Black internet followers, that had been staying at various local hotels, bed and breakfasts, rentals, and camp grounds, for the duration of the investigation.  The veteran American and foreign reporters, along with their seasoned camera crews, had skilfully managed to muscle, shove, and elbow their way to the front of the room, allocating the domestic press, and smaller media outlets, to the back.

Superintendent Ronald Harris kept the news briefing short.  After introducing himself, he started his speech by revealing that the police investigation has identified two Americans, Patrick Swayze and Cindy MacDonald, as Simon Black's suspected killer, and willing accomplice.  A brief, point-form, time-line of the suspects' movements on the day of the killing followed, along with a somewhat obscure, simplified version of the couple's financial motive.

He did not lie, but like any good accountant, he carefully arranged the facts and figures, to deflect any scrutinization.  Doctor Deathridge and Roger Blackett's names were never mentioned, along with the actual reason Simon Black was in Blackett Hill.  The superintendent didn't want to give his audience any reason to question the authorship of the novels that Simon Black had publicly taken credit for.

He ended his relatively short, well-prepared speech by saying that more information would be released after all the relevant facts had been thoroughly reviewed.  After informing the media that the case is considered closed, the sly officer stated that he would not be taking any questions at that time.

The crowd irrupted, with everyone yelling over the person next to them.  The composed officer glanced over them and added, Their sudden deaths have complicated the final closing of the case.  That means that we need to cross check, and triple check everything we have uncovered.  We need to be careful not to release information that could unduly harm innocent people, that have nothing to do with Simon Black's murder.

The crowd grumbled as he told them, As I have stated, we have little doubt about who the actual killers were, along with their financial motives.  When I've reviewed all the facts surrounding this case to my satisfaction, I will be announcing another press conference, and hopefully, at that time, all your questions will be answered.

He hoped that would help prevent any undue harassment of the local population, and appease the general public, along with Simon Black's fans.  When it was over, transcripts of the press release were quickly distributed and shared electronically through multiple media platforms.  After getting the news, numerous camera crews stuffed their gear into cars, vans, planes and helicopters.  Simon Black's avid fans shared their feelings, dissected the information they had just heard, and tried to contain their disbelief.  Before dawn, a crowd migrated to the small, Northern Ontario town of Blackett Hill, and began to gather in front of the small bookstore where Simon Black had been murdered.

Chapter One

As the sun began to rise, more and more news vehicles inundated the small, semi-isolated community of Blackett Hill.  With no large, 'welcome to' sign to use as a backdrop, everyone congregated in front of the closed, 'Blackett Hill Bookstore'.  Its name was boldly printed above its awning, in narrow, black outlined, red letters, that spanned the entire width of the store.  The placard advertising Simon Black's last novel was still in the front window, along with numerous copies of his books.

An American news crew dominated the area directly in front of the unlit store's windows and locked doors.  Four large, unyielding men used their arms to block the other news crews from getting too close.  Behind them, the other news crews were readjusting to the situation.  Each of them had to figure out how to get their own news segments on air as fast as possible.

Beneath the store's awning, a tall, slim, well endowed American reporter tugged, and pulled her tight, red, low-cut sweater into place.  While members of her camera crew did their best to keep the other media at bay, the reporter's young assistant picked up a couple fallen, red maple leaves off the sidewalk, and tried to carefully place them in her hair.  The irritated reporter turned, glared at her, and swatted her hand. Don't mess up my hair.

With a quick smile, the assistant leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, they will add a little seasonal effect, plus it will give you a reason to wave around your gorgeous, blonde locks.  Your fans will absolutely love it.

Wanda Montgomery tried to push her way past an American crew member’s extended arms.  She tried to duck under it, but he had anticipated her feeble ploy.  Despite her adamant determination, the large, but nimble man, anticipated her every move.  She turned from being frustrated to furious, as his armpit rubbed against her hair.

Alex Riker, Wanda’s cameraman, grabbed her right shoulder, pulled her back, and sternly told her, let it be.  They beat us here, fair and square.  They must've driven here right after the press release, scouted around for the best location, and most likely camped out in front of the book store to claim their spot.  They were probably setting up for the shoot before you had even poured your morning coffee.

Wanda whipped her head around and crossly spat out, but this is our territory.  Simon Black was killed in our backyard, not theirs.  I should be the one standing in front of the camera, not some American bimbo.

Alex smiled as Wanda used her fingers to brush some loose strains of her wavy, auburn, shoulder length hair away from her face.  After glancing at all the people around them, he leaned forward and whispered into her ear, I think I know how to get even with them.

Wanda glared at him, and spewed out, how?

Alex looked at the mesmerizing reporter, then back at Wanda, and smiled.  He loved the way her semi-wild, cascading hair spread out and almost melted into her shoulders.  She didn't need a personal makeup artist, or eye popping cleavage that only an expensive plastic surgeon could achieve to look gorgeous.  Dressed in her conservative, mauve bouse, navy blue jacket and slacks, he thought Wanda looked absolutely stunning.

Alex grabbed Wanda's hand and led her away from the small crowd in front of the store.  First, we have to get away from this circus.

In the background, the American reporter read a prepared script off a prompter.  Hi, I’m Kimberly Kent.  While using her fingers to brush the leaves from her hair, she smiled and gently shook her head, before saying, on this chilly autumn morning, I am standing in front of this bookstore in Blackett Hill, Ontario, Canada, where the world renowned author Simon Black was brutally murdered.  In a news release, the local RCMP, Canada's federal police force, stated that they had uncovered enough evidence to close the case.  However, the man they believe to have killed the famous Canadian author is not in police custody.  That's because both the suspect and his suspected accomplice were tragically killed in an automobile accident.  Without knowing the extent, or depth of their relatively short investigation, I find it odd that the Canadian police were so quick to blame two dead Americans for the murder.

After a brief pause, Kimberly shook her head before adding, The police blame Robert Swayze, Simon Black’s loyal, long time literary agent, for the gruesome murder of his close friend and highest paying benefactor.  Unfortunately, his death means that he will be unable to defend himself.  Therefore, there will be no trail.  His legacy will be dubious at best.  The same applies to Cindy MacDonald, a New York ...

As Alex guided Wanda away, the chatter from the other media drowned out the American reporters rant.  After they finally shoved and elbowed their way out of the media circus in front of the bookstore, Wanda asked Alex, so what is your great idea?

Alex looked around at the numerous news crews, then leaned over and told Wanda, not here, someone could overhear us.  He grabbed her hand, led her across the street, then ducked behind a tall hedge, in front of a house.

Wanda stood up, yanked his hand away and frankly asked, so, now can you tell me how we can salvage our reputation?

Alex stood up and glanced at the surrounding houses.  Look around and tell me what you see.

Wanda looked up and down the street.  So what am I suppose to be looking at?

It’s what you are not seeing.  Alex glanced at the crowd in front of the bookstore.  There are media outlets from across Canada, the US and even a few from overseas here.  Where are all the locals?  He shook his head.  This isn't normal.  At every large news event that I've ever been to, there were hoards of curious onlookers, but not here.  These people are scared.  Pointing to the house they were standing in front of, he added, even their curtains are drawn shut.  The people here are more than just camera shy.  I think they are absolutely terrified.

Wanda’s jaw began to drop, as she studied the crowd.  You maybe right.  The only bystanders in the crowd, are all avid Simon Black's fans.  Look at their black arm bands.  The large goons the major news outlets brought for crowd control, are just standing around gabbing.

Alex grinned.  What do we know about Blackett Hill, that they don’t?

Tilting her head to the side, she looked at her young, muscular, dark-haired co-worker, and sharply said, I give up, what?

How about, it doesn’t actually exist.  Alex glanced around.  After waiting for a man that had walked away from the crowd to talk on his phone to get out of ear-shot, he added, like you said, this is our backyard, and we barely know anything about this place.  Who are these people?  What are they doing here?  Look around, it is obvious that no one here wants to be on the evening news.  Nothing about this place is normal.

You are right.  Every news story should have some kind of local angle to it.  Wanda watched as various news reporters began knocking on doors with their camera crews behind them.  She saw the odd window blind move, but nobody would open a door.  You should be filming this.  As Alex mounted his camera on his shoulder, Wanda smiled as she added, aggressive foreign reporters harassing Canadian locals.  Now that’s an angle I can work with.

Alex turned on his camera, and took some sweeping footage of the activity going on along the community's main street.  While looking through his camera lens, he noticed a short, stocky woman peeking around the corner of the book store.  He caught her staring at one of the news crews from Toronto.  The tall, stylish, muscular reporter noticed her, and lowered his microphone while mumbling something to his crew.  The Toronto cameraman quickly swung the camera at the woman.  Seeing the camera facing her, the woman briefly froze, then darted into the alleyway between the bookstore and small closed grocery store.

The handsome reporter ran after her, almost yelling, I just want to talk to you.  Just a couple quick questions.  His camera crew tried to keep up to him, but lagged behind.  As the woman released all of the branches, she had pushed aside to get through the chest high hedge behind the store, they sprang back and snagged the young, agile reporter's jacket.  As he freed himself from the hedge, the woman ran towards the back door of her house.  She had just enough time to duck inside and slam the door shut, before the reporter stepped onto the porch.  Hearing the deadbolt locks and a door chain click and rattle, the reporter scrunched his face, turned away from the door, and mumbled, so close.

Trying to capture the chase, Alex ran behind them into the alley.  As the news team regrouped in front of the back porch, Alex leaned against the back wall of the bookstore and adjusted his camera.  With the hedge and two, large garbage cans standing in front of him, he was mostly hidden from view.  He watched as the Toronto camera crew got into position and the reporter picked debris off his jacket.  Despite the hedge, Alex was tall enough to see almost everything that was going on, and the directional microphone on his camera could pick up what was being said.  Wanda snuck up