Peril in the Parish, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Dorothy Cannell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Cast of Characters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Also by Dorothy Cannell
The Florence Norris mysteries
MURDER AT MULLINGS *
DEATH AT DOVECOTE HATCH *
The Ellie Haskell mysteries
THE THIN WOMAN
DOWN THE GARDEN PATH
THE WIDOW’S CLUB
MUM’S THE WORD
FEMMES FATALE
HOW TO MURDER YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW
HOW TO MURDER THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS
THE SPRING CLEANING MURDERS
THE TROUBLE WITH HARRIET
BRIDESMAIDS REVISITED
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ERNESTINE
WITHERING HEIGHTS
GOODBYE, MS CHIPS
SHE SHOOTS TO CONQUER
Other titles
SEA GLASS SUMMER *
* available from Severn House
PERIL IN THE PARISH
Dorothy Cannell
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2022 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Cannell & Company, 2022
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Cannell & Company to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0863-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0992-4 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0967-2 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To my friend Carole Brocksieck, for all the memories shared, the laughter and recalled wisdom of her mother Vera Barnes.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
With thanks to John Burrows for his interest in the writing.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Florence Norris: Housekeeper at Mullings, soon to marry George Bird.
George Bird: Proprietor of The Dog and Whistle pub, well liked in Dovecote Hatch.
Lord Edward (Ned) Stodmarsh: His family has lived at Mullings for generations. He is devoted to Florence because she had a great deal to do with bringing him up.
His maternal grandmother Mrs Tressler.
The Stranger: Shows up at the pub one foggy night with a tale of grief and evil.
Reverend Pimcrisp: Recently retired vicar of St Peter’s Parrish.
Aiden Fielding: The new incumbent, more approachable than his predecessor.
Maude Fielding: His sister who has for many years kept house for him.
Sophie Dawson: Aged twenty-three, orphaned and brought up by an uncle, she arrives in Dovecote Hatch in hope of connecting with her mother’s female cousin.
Henry Dawson: Sophie’s uncle.
Agnes Younger: Now on her deathbed. For years she could only hobble about with difficulty following an accident.
Sally Barton: Takes a job as Sophie’s maid and becomes her friend and protector.
Mr and Mrs Barton: Sally’s parents. She is their only daughter, surrounded by a bevy of brothers.
Bernard Crawley: Bookkeeper at the estate agency where Sophie worked until coming to Dovecote Hatch.
Mrs Crawley: Views Sophie as a threat to her marriage and large family of young children.
Mrs Blount: Sophie’s landlady prior to her embarking on a fresh start.
Nurse Newsome: Visiting nurse. Currently tending Agnes.
Una Smith: Her recently married daughter. A subject of gossip following her husband’s abrupt departure from the village.
Bill Smith: Regarded by many as a bad lot.
Constable Trout: Usually spends much of his time helping children across the street and rescuing cats from trees.
Elsie Trout: His wife. A valued daily help at Mullings.
Inspector LeCrane: This is not his first professional visit to Dovecote Hatch.
Mrs MacDonald: Cook at Mullings and Florence’s good friend.
Graham Lieland: Private secretary to Major Wainwright. A former airman badly burned in 1914-18 war.
Miss Gillybud: Viewed askance by devotees of Reverend Pimcrisp because of her lack of religious belief.
Mr Quigley: A Churchwarden, he is passionately interested in old rare books.
Lenore Quigley: His wife, a recluse.
Victoria Hobbs: Owns Hobbs Haberdashery with her nephew. She was a great admirer of Reverend Pimcrisp.
Gervaise Kaye: The Nephew. He does not like his aunt any more than she likes him.
Mercy Tenneson, young, beautiful and seeing a good deal of Lord Stodmarsh.
Dr Chester: Local GP
Mrs Chester: His wife. A former nurse.
Dick Saunders: The butcher’s son. Helps out at The Dog and Whistle and is very taken with Sally Barton.
Alf Thatcher: Postman and George’s closest friend.
Major Wainwright: Bluff and hearty, enjoys an evening at The Dog and Whistle.
Miss Milligan: Breeder of boxer dogs.
Lord Asprey: Reverend Pimcrisp’s cousin and benefactor.
Mary Thomas: Worked with Sophie at estate agency.
Mr and Mrs Euwing: Agency owners.
Grumidge: Butler at Mullings.
Molly: His wife, head housemaid. Plan is for her to take over as housekeeper when Florence leaves to get married.
Winnie: Kitchen maid. Has a habit of interrupting conversations between Florence and Mrs MacDonald.
Dr Maitland: Uncle Henry’s doctor.
Mr Kent: Uncle Henry’s solicitor.
Mr and Mrs North: Verger and wife.
Fred Shilling: Grave digger.
Jeremiah Rudge: His predecessor, husband and father of Tim and Anne.
Rupert Trout: Schoolboy son of Constable and Elsie Trout.
Young Mrs Barton: One of Sally’s sisters-in-law, is a waitress at the Spinning Wheel Café
ONE
‘Twenty years ago, today I buried my sister,’ said the stranger standing at the bar of the Dog and Whistle in the village of Dovecote Hatch.
‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’ The landlord, George Bird, known to his regulars as Birdie, was an affable, balding man of above six foot and expansive girth. He wore his fifty-odd years comfortably in the manner of a pair of well-stretched shoes. Having worked in pubs since he was a lad, several of them in the seedier neighbourhoods of London, he’d been made privy over time to a wide range of personal information. There’d been chilling disclosures from little old ladies you’d think wouldn’t swat a fly and tales of domestic bliss coming from men who looked as though they’d just strangled someone for the amusement of it. All attentively heard out and engaged upon with genuine interest, but taken in his stride. Aware that often times it did to keep a container of salt at hand.
Ridiculous, therefore, the evocation – wrought from the words ‘I buried my sister’ – of a furtive figure hunched over a spade, a mound of earth to the side and a woman’s corpse swathed as if for decency’s sake in the gauze of time. George hoped this lapse hadn
No answer from the stranger. His empty gaze suggested he’d retreated inside himself and closed the door. Was he even aware he’d spoken? George picked up a white cloth and needlessly buffed a glass, waiting as though he had all the time in the world to listen, which was in fact the case that evening.
‘Such anniversaries can be hard. Help to talk about it?’
Still no response. Nothing stirring on that parchment-pale, hollowed-out face.
Could hear dust settle, thought George.
Only the two were present in what the locals still called the taproom despite this being 1933, not back in the seventeenth century when the pub had been a coaching inn. Although a stark way of putting it, George mused, the man’s choice of phrase was common enough in referencing a funeral. Must be his intonation that had stirred up that grim image suggesting he’d spoken literally. The words had been uttered softly, almost in a whisper, accompanied by that blank-eyed stare and the palms of the hands pressed together.
As George polished another already gleaming glass he remembered an evening spent at the pictures a couple of months back with his increasingly successful artist godson Jim. The film they’d seen had included a grainy scene depicting a penitent in a Roman Catholic confessional. A man seeking absolution from the silhouette behind the grill. ‘Father forgive me for my sins. I can’t remember when I made my last confession. I’m the man the police have been searching for in connection with the disappearance of that young woman last seen walking on the heath …’
George refocused on the moment at hand. His offer of a different drink to replace the still untouched whisky brought not so much as a twitch of the stranger’s lips. Well, like was often said, human nature’s a funny old business. George had learned long ago that a customer, whether a regular or one coming through the door for the first time, could embark on a revelation and the next instant regret having spoken and clamp his or her mouth shut. That allowed, it was becoming ever more difficult to persuade himself there was nothing unduly odd about the stranger’s behaviour, or to push back on the thought that here might be a man with something dire on his conscience.
The clock on a shelf behind the bar ticked into the silence. What within the course of ordinary life experience might hold the man in its grip? Embarrassment – warring with the need to confide in someone – anyone – the tender emotions that had come flooding back on this anniversary date? Understandable contrition he’d believed could only be eased by bringing the matter into the open? Remorse at not having dearly loved the departed as nature demanded of a brother? Regret at not having been present at the death? Shame at having rejoiced in receiving an inheritance?
George could readily sympathize with the guilt-ridden in the aftermath of death. He’d blamed himself long and sorrowfully for refusing to acknowledge until close to the end that his late wife wouldn’t pull round from what the doctor had downplayed as woman’s troubles – a difficult change. Aware of the truth as she must have been, but knowing her husband of twenty-five years wasn’t ready to face it with her must have made those final months of her life the loneliest of journeys.
Buried my sister. Just a turn of phrase as George had acknowledged. Why, despite his efforts to resist the sinister did the words seem to linger dankly in the air as if disinterred after having also lain two decades in the grave? Why did the stranger’s eyes, a dark brown, bring newly turned damp earth back to mind? Why did George feel a shivery pity for an unknown woman? Those who knew him would have been amazed that he was allowing his imagination to lead him down dark alleyways. He didn’t think of himself as the sort to leap to unpleasant conclusions. The fact that his life had fairly recently been impacted by murder did not rear up as an excuse. Present happiness, his upcoming marriage to Florence Norris, housekeeper at Mullings, the great house of the district, the woman he had come to love in a way he’d have thought impossible on becoming a widower, had placed that encounter with evil squarely behind him.
He told himself his continued overreaction to the man’s statement must result from its having been dropped into an otherwise hushed atmosphere. Blame the lack of background conversations, laughter and movement, drifts of cigarette and pipe smoke. for the notion that he might at any moment be made privy to something more dreadful than he’d heard from a dozen degenerates.
TWO
It was now nine o’clock on an evening in mid-March. Dovecote Hatch was set in hilly country and the village street inclined upward to where the Dog and Whistle was set at the top of a rise. Some twenty minutes earlier the cobweb mist that had dimmed the valley below for much of the afternoon had thickened into a rapidly rising fog. This had created a rare occurrence for such an hour at the Dog and Whistle, especially of a Friday when business was always particularly brisk.
The taproom had rapidly emptied of customers. Cut short was the usual talk about local life: Miss Milligan’s new litter of boxer puppies; the progress Major Wainwright was making on the second volume of his memoirs with the invaluable assistance of his secretary; the unlikelihood that Miss Agnes Younger would last much longer following her second stroke in three months.
Even the staunchest of the regulars had not dallied in making for the door when the light from the streetlamp beyond the window blurred to a watery yellow smudge producing the palest of haloes. To a man and woman they’d the country person’s respect for the grey deceiver. Home and hearth beckoned as they would not have done in a torrential storm or even a blizzard. There was something about a world blanketed in damp wool that did things to the inside of your head.
‘Fuddles you up so’s you don’t know whether you be coming or going, or why it matters,’ is how a farm worker had put it.
Even Alf Thatcher, the long-time postman who’d been heard to declare time out of mind, that he could get around the village blindfold, didn’t give a downward glance at the two inches of bitter remaining in his glass.
‘Call me superstitious, Birdie, but it don’t do to thumb your nose at old Mother Nature. It’s nothing for her to shift whole streets around, put trees where they shouldn’t be and make steps that has always gone up go down instead. Show the old girl proper respect and mayhap she’ll clear this one by morning. Doesn’t feel like a stay out to me.’
Alf was George’s closest friend in Dovecote Hatch and an all-round decent bloke. No surprise that he offered to walk a couple of elderly men, somewhat tottery on their feet, to their doors, before proceeding to his own home and wife Doris. Major Wainwright, gruff but courtly, had made a similar offer to two nervous women, leaving his pipe behind in the general haste. Undoubtedly, he would be irritated with himself for this lapse, but he would have a regiment of pipes waiting in formation at home.
Left to himself George had set about the business of clearing up, washing and drying glasses and tankards, emptying ashtrays and wiping off tables. For such a large man he moved lightly. In contrast to the muffled world outside, the taproom seemed even cheerier than usual.
A log fire burned ruby red in the hearth, scattering gleams upon the patina-mellowed plaster walls, the blackened oak ceiling beams and narrow latticed windows, and further burnishing the already bright horse brasses and copper utensils on the mantelpiece.
It was not, however, only his surroundings that warmed George’s heart. At two o’clock the following afternoon he and Florence had an appointment with the vicar to set their wedding date – hopefully for the last Saturday in June. Their acquaintance with Mr Fielding was limited to having spoken with him briefly either going in or out of church on the past four Sundays. This narrow period wasn’t because they’d never darkened the doors of St Peter’s previously; it was because Reverend Fielding had only arrived as the replacement for the seventy-odd, long-time incumbent in mid-February.
