Murders at the Black Abbey Towers, page 1
MURDERS AT THE BLACK ABBEY TOWERS
A PRUNELLA PEARCE MYSTERY
BOOK FIVE
GINA KIRKHAM
Copyright © 2025 Gina Kirkham
The right of Gina Kirkham to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2025 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN: 978-1917705431
For my mentor & friend
Tara Lyons
‘No beauty shines brighter than that of a good heart’
CONTENTS
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Prologue
1. The Last Trimester
2. William
3. Extras
4. Murders, Myths And Mysteries
5. The Vicar
6. Bell, Book And Scandal
7. Now You See Me, Now You Don’t
8. Missing In Action
9. The Spectator
10. Curiosity Killed The Maid
11. Que Sera, Sera
12. The First Seventy-Two Hours
13. A Close Shave
14. An Introduction
15. That Sinking Feeling
16. The Miniature Manor
17. Dana
18. First Day
19. Dorothy May Barker
20. Summary Justice
21. Corpsing
22. Fallow Falls
23. One For All
24. The Chosen One
25. And Then There Were Four
26. The Vigilant Vigilante
27. A Job Well Done
28. Salad Days
29. Fancy That!
30. You’re Fired!
31. The Figure
32. Coming Out
33. The Confrontation
34. The Meaning Of The Word
35. Old Friends
36. A Loose Canon
37. Win Some, Lose Some
38. Trailer Trash
39. Fair Warning
40. The Story
41. The Helper
42. Warts And All
43. The Preparation
44. Gwilym
45. In The Clear
46. Taking The Rook
47. Caught In The Act
48. Hocus Pocus
49. A Drop In Faith
50. Poetic Justice
51. Five Things
52. Two Go Hunting
53. Sacrificial Lamb
54. Memories
55. Fancy Nancy’s
56. Aftermath
57. Up In Flames
58. Hedging It
59. Best Before
60. Pointing The Finger
61. Stuck On You
62. Thank You Very Much!
63. Forbidden Rites
64. The Hitman’s Code
65. The Arrival
66. The Swan Song
67. All Hallows Eve
68. Geneviève
69. The Gathering
70. Seeing Double
71. The Return
72. Be Prepared
73. Dutch Courage
74. Final Cast Call
75. Eureka!
76. Unleashed
77. Four Choices
78. Trust In Me
79. The Search Party
80. A Perfect Shot
81. The Rescue
82. Hole In One
83. The Discovery
84. A Job Well Done
85. The Murder Board
86. The Ceremony
Epilogue
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Acknowledgements
A note from the publisher
PROLOGUE
31 OCTOBER 1899
The house stood bleak and brooding against the last rays of the weak October sun as it set behind the imposing bell tower. The red stock brick, crumbling mortar and aerial roots of weathered ivy that gnarled its fingers into every crevice, combined their presence to give credence to the village tales of dark deeds and malevolent spirits that dwelt within. The formidable arched entrance doors, adorned by heavy black hinges, held their place upon the aged wood with large square studs. Each narrow window, arranged in groups of three or four, dug deep into the façade and produced what appeared at first sight, to be an orange glow of welcome from within.
The girl stood before the doors and marvelled at their majesty. Even with the warm velvet cloak wrapped tightly around her, she shivered, unsure if it was in anticipation of a night that promised joviality, high jinks and good food, or because of the sudden and unexpected tingle that crept along her spine. Her fingers traced the deeply etched letters on the wall-mounted sandstone nameplate.
Black Abbey Towers
She gave a wry smile. A perfect venue for a perfect All Hallows Eve.
Before she had chance to announce her arrival, the doors suddenly parted company, silently opening inwards. She did not enter but waited with bated breath, mesmerised by the vast expanse of marble flooring that stretched across the grand entrance hall to eagerly join with the rich oak of a bifurcated staircase that swept east and west, showcasing the elaborately stitched red velvet curtains that framed the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window at the top. A gasp of wonderment caught in her throat as she unfurled the letter held tight between her fingers. She checked again that she had the correct time for the gathering and once she was sure all was in order, she hesitantly placed one foot over the threshold, and then, just as quickly, snatched it back. Tentacles of apprehension had suddenly crept over her, clawing at her, making her hesitate in her desire to enter Black Abbey Towers.
How odd that there was no butler, no maid, no invitation giver or occupant to greet her.
A sudden chill came from within the walls of Black Abbey Towers, flowing towards her through the opening. It swirled around her, picking up dry autumn leaves and debris, turning them into a tiny maelstrom of energy prior to scattering them across the floor. She watched mesmerised as they created an almost perfect pattern. She tilted her head and listened, but before she could consider her position, or her intention to step inside, the energy reformed and encircled her, pushing her from behind like an invisible hand against her back. She half stumbled, half fell, over the worn threshold stone, and throwing her hands out to save herself, she tumbled forwards into his arms.
‘Florence my dear, I’m delighted you could make it!’
His presence had appeared from nowhere, like the ghosts from the tales that the village mothers would tell their children to keep them in their beds. The tales of missing daughters who had passed by The Towers and had never returned home, becoming lost spectres of the night when darkness fell. The Myths of Fallow Falls were legendary, added to and embellished over many years to become deeply embedded in local lore.
He stood before her, radiating no warmth, no true welcome and no kindness in his eyes. Bewildered, she pulled away from him. ‘Where is everyone?’ she whispered as she turned circles searching around her, her emerald-green cloak undulating with the momentum. ‘Where are the Hobeddy lanterns, the neeps and candles… the lights I saw from outside?’
Calduggan Wraithe grinned, his demeanour suddenly menacing. ‘Who needs them when we have the Devil himself to entertain us?’ He roughly grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly within his own to ensure she could not escape. His laughter was chilling, his movements around the grand hall erratic as he dragged her towards the banqueting room. Florence stumbled and fell to her knees, but that did not stop him in his progress; he continued to drag her by her cloak, pulling her onto her back as he hauled her over the marble flooring she had only moments before admired. Tribal masks hung from the walls either side of a fearsome half-man, half-goat statue that loomed above the great fireplace. She fought him, writhing and screaming for him to release her as her ballet flats squeaked and caught on the polished tiles, her eyes white with terror. The intricate bow cord she had tied and admired at the neck of her cloak only an hour earlier in the tarnished mirror at her cottage, was now acting as a makeshift garrotte. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase at her neck in an attempt to release it, but a surge of blood rushed to her cheeks as the cord tightened with each slithering motion across the expanse of floor. She kicked out, knocking over a tall candelabra. It crashed noisily to the floor, the lit candles scattering and rolling.
He abruptly halted his progression in the middle of the vast room and knelt down beside her, briefly touching her cheek as he allowed her some relief from the tight cord. Florence was unsure if the flickering glow in his eyes was a form of madness or a reflection of something she could not yet see. A wave of fear burned deep in the pit of her stomach as she inhaled a thick, acrid vapour that forced her to cough uncontrollably. She barely knew this man; had only accepted his invitation because he himself was the want of every young girl in Fallow Falls. The dashingly handsome and very rich Calduggan Wraithe would be a fine catch for any one of them, not least for nineteen-year-old Florence. A pairing with the Wraithe name would drag her from the poverty she now endured to a life of affluence and comfort. She had expected to be vying with many others for his interest this very evening, whilst dancing and making merry. Instead, she was alone with him in a room, eerily draped in black gossamer fabrics that were…
… on fire!
This had not been part of the plan; she had failed to heed the warnings and had ignored the ghostly tales, and now the fear was overwhelming her. Had her desire for betterment overshadowed basic common sense? His invitation had promised her simple things associated with the fun and frivolousness of All Hallows Eve, and an introduction to a man who was desired by many. Not what she now knew to be the immorality of black arts and sorcery.
The stories had not been myths or make believe to force children to be good. The Wraithe family madness was real, and she was now very much part of its insanity.
She scrambled to her feet and stumbled backwards, the dense smoke surrounding her as the glow of the flames flickered and ate at the hem of her cloak. Calduggan’s hands found their target and tightened around her neck, his nails digging deep into her pale skin as he spat the foulest of words. She fought him with every ounce of strength that remained, but it was a futile fight.
In her short life, Florence had been gifted very few choices, and now at its end, she was starkly aware that nothing had changed for her.
Two choices were all that remained.
An agonising death by fire or a quicker demise at Calduggan’s hands.
She wished with all her heart that it would be the latter and he would take her last breath before the flames painfully consumed them both. As the seconds passed, her heart ceased to beat and her eyes became hooded and still, playing host to an ethereal haze and otherworldly stars. For once, Florence Rose Clancy had been granted a wish.
A dying wish.
Not the one she had desired, of wealth, status and a contented future, but of a quick and relatively less painful passing.
Black Abbey Towers had awoken.
The flames playfully leapt from windows and roared along corridors, devouring everything in its path, until sated, they slowly returned to their source. As the dying embers glowed, the Abbey bell, rung by an unseen hand, swung backwards and forwards, striking out a sombre beat until finally when the timbers and ropes had become defeated, it crashed down into the void below.
In the silence that followed, the house returned to its slumber.
It would lie empty and dormant for many decades to come before it would be reclaimed and renewed. And when the work was done, it would once again offer false sanctuary to those who would dare to enter and seek it.
‘We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark.
The real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light…’
— Plato
THE LAST TRIMESTER
PRESENT DAY
‘I’m a whale! I’m a wobbly blob of… of…’ Prunella Barnes paused in her sandwich-making chore and swept her free hand over her huge bump. A mix of motherly pride and despair as she desperately sought the right word to describe her rotund condition.
‘… er, blancmange?’ Andy, her husband, helpfully obliged. He saw the look on her face and quickly ducked as a wholemeal bap hurtled through the air towards him. He observed the bread knife Pru was wielding with gusto as she berated him for his crass remark. He could almost imagine the newspaper headlines.
‘Winterbottom Police Detective Victim of Pregnancy-Related Hormonal Surge in B&Q Budget Kitchen…’
Suitably chastised, he turned on the sympathy. He knew Pru was having a pretty rough time, swollen ankles, backache, sleepless nights and – well, he didn’t like to mention that particular pregnancy-related manifestation, but, safe to say, he now knew the location of every single toilet in Winterbottom, Nettleton Shrub and Fallow Falls. She was also missing her part-time hours as the librarian in the cosy, converted shop in Winterbottom village, and that had also added to her spasmodic crankiness. It had become her sanctuary ever since the local council had shut down the main library, and under her direction Winterbottom village library had become a warm and welcoming social hub for those who loved books and reading. Her best friend, Bree Richards, had kindly offered to step in and cover some hours for Pru when the going got tough, but Bree’s idea of book-filing had left a lot to be desired. Andy shuddered as he remembered the tears and tantrums from Pru when she had discovered Ann Cleeves parked next to Stephen King on the fiction bookshelf.
‘D’you think Bree’s dyslexic?’ He took a slurp of his tea, chuffed that he had quickly managed to steer the conversation away from blancmange and the risk of a second buttered bap coming his way.
‘What?’ Pru emerged from the fridge, her cheeks bulging like a Siberian hamster. She quickly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘No, absolutely not, Bree’s like me; she loves her food.’
Andy was in no doubt of that with Pru’s sudden desire for extra picky bits. Lately she seemed to spend more time with her head in the fridge than standing in front of it. He angled himself behind her and gave her a gentle bear hug, resting his chin on her shoulder so that he could place his hands on her stomach. He waited until a little ripple followed by a kick told him that their baby was acknowledging his presence. ‘That’s anorexic, my little pudding, which judging by the way Bree shovels cheese and onion crisps into her gob, proves she is anything but. I meant her mixing the books up at the library, you know, confusing a “C” and a “K”.’
‘Oh…’ Pru giggled. ‘And I meant that as an exclamation, not as the missing letter!’
‘Prunella Barnes! I do hope you’re not being risqué?’ Andy gave her a cheeky wink. ‘I don’t know what’s come over you lately.’ He budged along the breakfast bar, shifting to make himself comfortable on the stool. Pru frisbeed a plate filled with a bacon batch and two piccolini tomatoes along the counter before heaving herself up onto the stool next to him, offering him his Homer Simpson mug filled to the brim with hot chocolate. She cupped her hands around her own mug and took a welcome slurp. ‘Nothing beats a bacon butty and a hot chocolate before bed.’ She hunched her shoulders up to her ears in pleasure.
Andy was inclined to agree. ‘Yep, definitely beats last week’s craving of pilchards and jam on toast!’ His stomach gave an obligatory heave at the mere memory of that particular delicacy Pru had crammed in her mouth at bedtime for eight solid nights. Pilchard breath in the marital bed was definitely not something he had signed up for in his wedding vows!
‘Have you seen this…’ Pru pushed the Winterbottom News towards him. ‘We’ve got a film crew descending upon Winterbottom and Fallow Falls in the next few weeks. They’ve chosen a couple of locations around here for a blockbuster movie. Could be really good for local business. Can’t wait to see what big names they’ve got lined up.’ She bit into her batch a little too eagerly, failing to catch the drip of ketchup that plopped down the front of her top. ‘Just wait until the WI ladies hear about it; they’ll be organising a road trip!’
Interested, he devoured the article. ‘No doubt there will be some sort of contact with Winterbridge police station and the local council for road closures and the like. If we get the heads up, particularly on security, I’ll let you know who they’ve got. They always have their own for the filming locations, equipment and the bigger stars, but they sometimes ask for a uniform presence if it’s a really busy location.’ He looked pensive, biting his bottom lip. ‘That’s if we’ve got anyone to spare the way the cuts are hitting.’
Pru knew that the reduction in officers was already having an impact on both uniform and CID. Andy’s team had lost two already, taken back from being trainee investigators to uniform. She was pleased that Lucy Harris was still with them. By Andy’s own admission she was a good detective, fun to work with and an enthusiastic influence on the rest of the team. She also kept Andy in line when his own enthusiasm and passion for his job overshadowed everything else. Lucy had a happy knack of reminding her sergeant of the work/life balance theory.
‘The Curious Curator & Co could help you?’ she offered by way of assistance. ‘Me and Bree could step in and be a sort of female only security detail.’ She adjusted her position, trying to make her baby bump look less noticeable to fit with the narrative.
