Murder at the Well

Debbie Young

Description

A perfect cosy crime for fans of M C Beaton's Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series.

While Sophie and her friends celebrate Valentine's Night in The Bluebird, a dead body plummets to the bottom of the village well - and nobody hears it fall.

In this close-knit community where everyone knows each other's business, is it possible for anyone to get away with murder?

Sophie's about to find out - and to discover some extraordinary secrets about her boyfriend Hector and his family along the way.

Colourful new characters join the regular Wendlebury cast in this cozy village mystery by bestselling author Debbie Young.

Previously published by Debbie Young as Murder by the Book.

Readers LOVE Debbie Young!

"I have just finished Best Murder in Show, and I just could not put it down. A totally enthralling read from cover to cover. Very well written.” – Bryan Stace, South Africa.

“Sophie Sayers is the perfect antidote to these difficult times. A Cotswold version of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.” – Sue Myers

“What a great series of books, funny, interesting characters and good stories. Perfect for a winter’s evening, curled up by the fire.” Mrs Glenda T Barnett via Amazon.

“I just read your Sophie Sayers novels. I loved them. The characters were very likeable and I enjoyed getting to know them. I can’t wait for the next installment.” – Caroline Burston via Facebook

“Thank you for the gift that is Sophie Sayers. These books have been my lifeline to home over the last year especially.” – Laura Bonnici, expat living in Malta

Sujets

• Mashups
• Women Sleuths
• Amateur Sleuth
• Women
• Friendship
• Cozy
• Types of rural communities
• General officer
• Detective
• Woman
• The Women
• Mystery
• General
• Crime
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 14 décembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804830864
• Langue: English

Extrait

MURDER AT THE WELL


DEBBIE YOUNG
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22


Acknowledgments

More from Debbie Young

About the Author

About Boldwood Books

Poison & Pens
1
DING DONG DELL, WHO IS IN THE WELL?



February 14th
In the frosty shadows behind The Bluebird, close to the ancient well, a dark figure stumbled across the cobbles, bumping into the empty aluminium beer kegs awaiting collection by the brewery. Just then, another person emerged purposefully from the pub’s side exit and stalked down the narrow passage that led to the courtyard. A halo of light spilled into the darkness, but didn’t quite reach the low stone wall surrounding the well.
The two figures converged beside the well, conversing with increasing animation, until the second raised strong hands to administer a sturdy thump to the first one’s chest.
Had the pub not been so full this Valentine’s Night, someone inside would surely have heard the shouting and swearing. Had the night not been so chilly, the stay-at-homes might have been walking their dogs nearby, or standing at their back doors to call their cats in, or opening their kitchen windows to admit some fresh spring air.
But as it was, no-one heard the second figure curse as he turned on his heel and march smartly back to the pub door. No-one heard the shout of surprise as the first figure spilled over backwards, legs in the air, to tumble down into the dark round hole in the ground, the low wall sending a shoe flying across the yard. No-one caught the blunt thud as a head struck the side of the well, silencing any further cries of protest or shouts for help. No-one noticed the unusually loud splash, which created a much greater wake than when young Tommy Crowe, for want of anything better to do after school, chucked pebbles and sticks and stones down the well to hear the echo.
There’d be no more sounds in the courtyard until next morning, when the builder’s lorry full of concrete was due to fill and seal the well as the first step in its transformation into a smart new beer garden. It would be the end of an era. The well would echo no more.
2
THE GAME’S AFOOT



January 3rd
From the other side of the bookshop, Tommy peered at me through his new magnifying glass, his right eye distorted by the lens.
‘My mum bought me this for Christmas, to go with the book that my little sister chose for me, a junior detective’s handbook. My gran gave me a detective board game she used to play when she was little.’
His mother’s thoughtful choice of present sent her up in my estimation. All I’d learned about her in the six months I’d lived in the village was that she was fond of wine, and thought Tommy, in his early teens, too old for Advent calendars. You are never too old for an Advent calendar. Although it was now 3 January, and I’m twenty-five, I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to throw mine away.
‘What have you detected so far?’ I asked with an encouraging smile.
‘It was Miss Scarlett in the library with the candlestick,’ he said.
‘And in the real world?’ Standing behind the tearoom counter, I was struggling to open a fresh jar of jam.
‘Ooh, loads of things.’ He turned his magnifying glass on the old man in wellies who was tucking into a large slice of buttered toast at one of the tearoom tables. ‘Like Billy had eggs for breakfast this morning.’
You didn’t need a magnifying glass to spot the yolk congealed on the lapel of the old man’s sagging jacket. Billy looked down at his chest, peeled the bright yellow lump off the grey tweed, and popped it in his mouth.
‘Yuck,’ said Tommy, crossing over to turn his glass on a spider crawling up the window of the front door. He pulled an empty matchbox from his Parka pocket and gently inserted the spider.
I called across to the trade counter. ‘Hector, could you please open this jar of jam for me? The lid’s stuck.’
I held it up to show him. Although my arm muscles had definitely got stronger since I’d started work at the shop, what with lifting so many boxes of books every day, they weren’t a patch on Hector’s. I had been sorry when the weather turned chilly back in November and he’d swapped his t-shirts for long-sleeved sweaters.
Billy put out a hand to stop me as I went to take the jar to Hector, his grip surprisingly strong for a man of his age. I supposed that was down to his part-time job as village gravedigger. Oh, and jobbing gardener for the vicar. A village the size of Wendlebury Barrow doesn’t need many graves.
‘I’ll take care of that for you, girlie,’ said Billy, popping the top off effortlessly. Previously I’d have thought I’d be favourite to win an arm-wrestling match against him, but now I was not so sure.
Tommy, pocketing his matchbox, returned to the tearoom and jumped up to sit on the counter. So much for health and safety.
‘I also deduce that you’ve just come back from Inverness.’ Considering my travelling bags, with airline labels attached, were in full view behind the counter – Hector had collected me from the airport at 7 a.m. and brought me straight to the shop so we could open on time – Tommy’s observation hardly rated as ace detective work.
‘In a mess?’ said Billy. ‘Who’s in a mess?’
‘Inverness, Billy,’ I said loudly, prompting him to adjust his hearing aids.
Tommy jumped down from the counter and crossed over to the central display table and held the magnifying glass over a pile of books.
‘I could tell you who has touched these books, if you wanted me to. That is, once I’ve fingerprinted the whole village.’
He pulled a black inkpad and a small pocket diary out of his Parka. ‘I had these in my Christmas stocking.’ He opened the diary to show me the first week of January displayed across two pages. ‘I’m using it to collect fingerprints and to note down clues. See, the dates are on there already, so that’ll save time whenever I find new evidence.’
Already the first few pages were covered in scribbled notes. Wanting to encourage Tommy in such a constructive new hobby, I turned to Billy, who was now licking his fingers to pick up the remaining toast crumbs from the table.
‘Like to volunteer to be Tommy’s first victim, Billy? I mean, suspect?’
Billy held up his sticky hands. ‘You don’t need to waste your ink on me, Tom. You can have my fingerprints in raspberry jam.’
Before Tommy could reply, Hector coughed. ‘I’d prefer not to have fingerprints of any kind taken in here, thank you very much. I don’t want grubby marks on my stock.’
Tommy’s head jerked round in Hector’s direction. ‘Why, have you got something to hide?’ He sounded hopeful. Picking up a Hermione Minty novel, he held it up to the light to examine its glossy paper cover for traces of previous browsers.
Hector flashed me a cautious look. Only he and I knew that Hermione Minty was his pseudonym. For years he’d been writing romantic novels under her name to subsidise his income as a bookseller. As I was his girlfriend as well as his employee, he knew his secret was safe with me.
Hector’s answer was truthful while evading the facts. ‘My conscience is clear, thank you very much. If it’s local villains you’re after, I suggest you look elsewhere.’
‘But not at me,’ I said quickly, as Tommy turned his magnifying glass on me. I pointed to myself with both hands. ‘Nothing to see here.’
As if considering whether to disagree, Tommy looked me up and down, his gaze lingering longer than was comfortable for me. Half man, half boy, he was quite unlike the village schoolchildren who came to me for reading lessons in the shop after school.
‘Maybe not, miss. But my mum reckons there are plenty of crimes committed in the village that never get detected. My new year’s resolution is to track them all down and solve them.’
‘What made her say that?’ asked Hector.
Billy put down his teacup with a clatter.
‘You was born and raised here, Hector,’ he said. ‘Do you really have to ask?’
Hector came out from behind the counter to restore the display table to order after Tommy’s inspection.
‘I’d have thought the opposite was true. We’ve had more than our fair share of detected crimes here lately. Are you suggesting we’ve missed a few?’
Billy plunged his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled them out again, an action which I guessed was meant to wipe off the excess jam. ‘I don’t mean just lately. Do you mean to tell me you never got away with any mischief when you was a lad?’
Hector moved over to the window to straighten up a crooked diet book. ‘I hardly ever did anything naughty in the first place, because I knew I wouldn’t get away with it. Not when every grown-up in the village knew who I was, who my parents were, and where we lived.’
I could imagine the orderly, fair-minded Hector as a law-abiding little boy.
‘Ah, but it depends who caught you in the act,’ said Billy. ‘Supposing it was someone who liked you so much they wouldn’t rat on you?’
‘Good point, Billy,’ said Tommy, coming over to join Billy at his tea table. ‘If your mum knew you’d done something naughty, even if she told you off, she wouldn’t shop you to the police. If she loved you, she’d take your side.’
My friend Ella Berry, who works in the village school office, had told me that the teachers’ complaints about Tommy’s behaviour had always rolled off his mum like raindrops off an umbrella.
I laughed. ‘Are you suggesting Hector’s mother doesn’t love him?’ Then, remembering I hadn’t met her yet and hoping I hadn’t made a terrible gaffe, I hurried to change the subject. ‘Covering up for a naughty child is one thing, but the law’s the law.’
Hector gave a lopsided smile. ‘Does this mean you’re going to shop me for breaking the speed limit on the way back from the airport t