Murder After The Matinee

Lorna Snowden

Description

Lydia Buckley is prompt for the Ashdale Players' current production of Aladdin and becomes embroiled in a web of deceit with Simon Saxby-Jones in the middle. Simon Saxby-Jones almost had it all, good looks, success, charisma and the material possessions that come with a large salary. Simon had always been power hungry and driven, as a brilliant architect he worked for Aztec Developments, married the boss's daughter and secured his future. Local estate agent and Councillor Hugo Marshall and Simon have set up a clandestine partnership which uses underhand and unethical tactics to make lucrative profits. Hugo is about to become Mayor and would like to dissolve the partnership, but Simon refuses. Simon is interested in farm buildings belonging to a local landowner, Jonathan Sturdy and, although Simon is married, he begins a relationship with Jonathan's daughter, Bella.Things get complicated when Simon's duplicity is discovered and he has to exert pressure to keep it secret, then his relationship with Bella takes an unexpected turn. Hugo becomes desperate when all his attempts to extract himself from the partnership fail and it becomes clear that someone knows about how the partnership makes its profit. Add in the discovery of a couple of people from Simon's past, one of whom may have a grudge, the colourful characters who live in Ashdale not to mention her ex-husband Vinnie and his new wife and Lydia has her hands full.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mars 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800469426
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2021 Lorna Snowden

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted,in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1800469 426

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Thank you to:

Peter Snowden (husband)
for providing support
(and advice – which I mostly took!)

Vicki Slater (younger daughter)
for reading the whole thing
(and apparently enjoyed it although she doesn’t read books!)

Louise Abbott (best friend)
for reading the whole thing
(and enjoyed it - yes, she does read books!)

Fiona Snowden (elder daughter)
for not reading any of it
(but promises faithfully that she will – and review it!)


Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19


1
Lydia Buckley
Lydia Buckley was hurled through the door of Lewis Marshall estate agents by the gale-force wind. As she pushed against the door to close it, the wind obligingly dropped and it slammed shut with a loud crash. The venetian blind on the inside of the door slapped noisily against the glass and one or two brochures slid from their rack onto the floor. Lydia spun round and glanced at the woman behind the desk who wore a slight frown at the intrusion.
‘Sorry,’ Lydia gasped, ‘it’s just so…’ she tailed off as the woman, who was on the phone gave a tight smile, picked up a pen and began to write something down. She reminded Lydia of her old headmistress, brown hair flecked with grey pulled back in a severe bun, a slim figure in a black suit with a cream blouse which fastened at the neck with a large, tied bow. A bit ‘no-nonsense’, actually, a lot ‘no-nonsense’ Lydia decided as she picked up the brochures and replaced them in the rack. She straightened up, noticing a beautiful oak chest of drawers, on top of which was an elegant vase filled with what looked like white roses on lush, thorn-free green stems. Behind the receptionist’s desk were two, partitioned offices, one with solid walls and an opaque glass door, the other had clear glass and was currently vacant. It housed a photocopier, a range of filing cabinets and a small desk with a computer screen, a telephone and stationery odds and ends. Lydia ran her fingers through her chocolatey hair in a fruitless effort to tame the wild curls. The warmth of the office had made her too hot, so she opened her coat, removed her scarf, and made her way to the Perspex display stands holding details of properties for sale.
Lydia scanned the properties looking for those in her price bracket, and her eyes were quickly drawn to a rather lovely cottage with two bedrooms. It had a neat garden, roses round the door and a picket fence: Lilac Cottage, although Lydia could not see any lilac trees. I could always plant some lilac… but I don’t have any gardening equipment… or knowledge – actually, do I even want a garden at all?
Vinnie had always tended their garden in Oxford – Lydia had just enjoyed the outside space, and she doubted that Vinnie’s new wife, Vivienne, would risk damaging her false nails doing any gardening.
She sighed and moved on to a fairly modern townhouse, 22 Larch Gardens . This had an open plan lounge/diner/kitchen with stairs from the lounge up to two double bedrooms and a decent-sized bathroom. The outside had a patio and pebbles but no lawn or garden at all. More practical, but I’m not sure about pebbles . She moved on passing larger properties, properties for renovation, terraced houses, and on to apartments.
‘Oh my, that’s gorgeous!’ she exclaimed aloud. Number three Meadow Croft was an ultramodern, newly built apartment with a balcony, patio doors, picture windows with views over the dales, a fabulously appointed kitchen and an en suite master bedroom with dressing area. The apartment was part of the conversion of a beautiful manor house which sat within its own grounds.
‘Would you like any help?’ said a rather imperious voice. Lydia turned to find the woman had silently risen from behind the desk and was standing next to her.
‘Um, well I’m interested in purchasing a property here in Ashdale, but I’m not sure I know quite what I want. I need at least two bedrooms, but I don’t know whether I want a modern apartment, a practical townhouse or a cute cottage,’ Lydia finished rather lamely, waving a hand in the vague direction of the property details.
The woman smiled. ‘Is the property just for yourself?’
‘On the whole, yes,’ replied Lydia. ‘My son is at university so he’ll be home in the holidays, but it will just be me in term time.’
‘Do you have a mortgage arranged or a property to sell?’
Lydia shook her head. ‘No, I’ve nothing to sell and I’m a cash buyer. I’m living with my sister at the moment, as I’ve been waiting for some funds to come through – which they now have, so I’m in a position to purchase immediately.’
The receptionist smiled even more pleasantly. ‘What a good position to be in. Do you have a car?’
‘Yes, but I’ll only need one parking space – Matt doesn’t have a car, he borrows mine when he’s home.’
‘I see, and do you particularly want somewhere here in Ashdale or would you consider Harrogate?’
‘Well, as much as I like Harrogate, I would prefer Ashdale. I mean it’s only five miles from Harrogate, but I do like the market-town atmosphere and I’ve made friends here.’
‘Well in that case, may I suggest you view all three types of property to see which one feels right?’
‘That would be marvellous. Actually, I quite like the look of these three.’
‘That’s a very good start,’ replied the woman, whisking a brochure of each from their respective holders. ‘I could probably arrange all the viewings on one day, if that would be helpful? The cottage and the apartment are currently empty and the owners of Larch Gardens both work, so perhaps a daytime viewing? Do come over to the desk and we’ll look at the diary.’
Lydia followed the receptionist to her desk where a small sign told her that Ms Felicity Reid was the office manager. On gazing around the office, the flowers on the oak chest caught Lydia’s eye once more. ‘What are those beautiful flowers? They look a bit like roses.’
Ms Reid tapped her short but manicured nails on the keyboard. ‘They’re ranunculus,’ she replied, ‘they’re perfect for a vase display and—’ Suddenly the door crashed open and a blast of wind swirled around the office blowing the brochures to the floor once more, as the inner office doors behind the reception desk rattled. Felicity sighed and raised her eyes heavenwards. The outer door was slammed noisily shut against the wind and a man wearing an orange hi-vis jacket and a bag over one shoulder approached the desk.
‘Morning Felicity,’ he said cheerfully, it’s a bit breezy out there.’ He slapped a pile of brown and white envelopes on the desk, carefully placing a neon-pink envelope on the top. ‘Looks like a Valentine card to me, does that.’ He winked at Felicity, who blushed. ‘It’s for the boss though,’ he added.
Felicity frowned.
The postman chuckled. ‘However…’ he paused dramatically and lowered his voice ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was from Mrs M.’
‘I think it’s highly unlikely to be a Valentine card for Councillor Marshall,’ Felicity said haughtily, returning to her screen.
The postman shrugged and winked again. As he turned towards the door, his large postbag caught the edge of the pile of letters on the desk and they all fell to the floor at Lydia’s feet.
‘Oh goodness!’ exclaimed Felicity, standing up to look over her desk.
‘It’s ok, I’ll get them.’ Lydia bent down to retrieve the letters, and as the postman opened the door again on his way out, the wind blew the whole stand over which sent all the brochures sliding across the floor. The neon-pink envelope skittered away from the pack of post. Lydia quickly followed it and managed to retrieve it before it disappeared under the heavy chest of drawers.
The postman had to use both hands to pull the door closed as he fought against the wind. He did this with such force that the blind flapped against the glass and promptly fell to the floor in a heap.
The inner office door was suddenly wrenched open. ‘What on earth is going on out here?’
Lydia jumped up with the neon-pink envelope in her hands and came face to face with a rather portly man wearing round spectacles. She suppressed a giggle, as Billy Bunter came to mind, although she quickly realised that the clearly expensive, dark grey suit, with light grey shirt and a silver-grey tie, was no school uniform.
Ms Reid, looking horrified, turned to face him. ‘Oh! I’m so sorry Councillor Marshall, but every time someone comes in or out, the wind makes it very difficult to shut the door.’
Councillor Marshall surveyed his estate agency, taking in the brochures and the blind on the floor, and Lydia. His gaze fixed on the envelope as Lydia walked to the desk.
‘What’s that?’ he asked waril