Let Sleeping Murder Lie: A cozy mystery Read online

  Let Sleeping Murder Lie

  Carmen Radtke

  Let Sleeping Murder Lie

  By Carmen Radtke

  Copyright © 2021 Carmen Radtke

  The right of Carmen Radtke to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by

  her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Published in 2021 by Adamantine Books, UK

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-9162410-5-3

  In fond memory of all the places I’ve ever called home.

  Contents

  Novels by Carmen Radtke

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Also by Carmen Radtke

  Novels by Carmen Radtke

  The Jack and Frances series:

  A Matter of Love and Death

  Murder at the Races

  Murder Makes Waves

  False Play at the Christmas Party (a Jack Sullivan quick read)

  The Alyssa Chalmers mysteries:

  The Case of the Missing Bride

  Glittering Death

  Walking in the Shadow

  Chapter 1

  Five Years ago

  Donna Dryden watched her husband’s precious golf trophy arc through the air and shatter against the fireplace.

  Glass shards rained onto the stacked bricks Ben used for repairing the wall of the stupid old hearth. If he’d paid half as much attention to her as he did to the crumbling house and the management of the farm land, she might feel bad about leaving him. Instead she felt wildly jubilant. A few days, and she’d be rid of this crumbling manor house with its constant draught and smell of antiquity. She’d be rid of her father-in-law with his silent criticism and his lumbering presence. No more Ben and his indifference to her wishes.

  As for the money he’d have to pay her for the divorce settlement … She’d earned every penny of it, by staying buried in the back of beyond after being promised they’d return to London as soon as Ben’s father had recovered from a mild stroke. That was two years ago.

  At least she’d found happiness, more than she could ever say about her marriage.

  A fierce draught made her shiver. Typical Ben, she thought, leaving a window open to make this icy place even more unbearable. That was her last conscious thought as a brick came down on her skull.

  Present Day

  Eve Holdsworth lined up the books in the in-built shelf. To an uninitiated observer the order must appear senseless. Genres were jumbled together, colours didn’t match, and an alphabetical search would drive an orderly mind demented. Eve sorted her books by a different system, like she approached most of her life. The yardstick was affection. If she loved a book, or a writer, or a place, it automatically went to the top.

  Unfortunately, that also meant she let herself be influenced by people she’d never met. She’d first come to her mother’s birthplace England attracted by fantasies of charming, if slightly eccentric village life, where Miss Marple observed from her rockery or through lead-pane windows, Miss Read dispensed sensible advice, and men played darts in the back rooms of thatched country pubs.

  After ten years she should know better, but in a stubborn display of optimism or, as she admitted in those rare moments of clear-eyed honesty, of disinclination to cut her losses and start all over in another country, she’d rented yet another quaint cottage in yet another quaint village.

  Eve stepped back and admired the room. Her armchair, her mahogany writing desk she’d purchased at an auction a week after her immigration, and her books made this an instant home. She’d developed the knack of travelling light. Apart from her bed and her computer, everything else could be sourced from charity shops and returned there when she moved on.

  The ivy-covered white-washed cottage was peaceful too, bordering on the too quiet and as close to a cliché as Eve could find. What was the point of living in a village straight out of a romance novel if her house didn’t at least look the part?

  Which was why her new bedroom faced a stand of trees that meandered towards miles of woods, and fields lined the roads leading to the nearest market town.

  Her stomach rumbled. She’d promised herself a lunch at one of the three pubs, and then she’d stroll around the village. The real estate agent had shown her around on her first visit, but Eve preferred to explore on her own. Just like she preferred solitude to the company of the wrong people. Luckily her job as a freelance Spanish translator offered her the freedom to indulge herself.

  Eve marched past the welcome-sign that boasted a population of 1870. She wondered if it would be amended thanks to her arrival, or if this figure bore as much connection to facts as the image of good ol’ England bore to present day UK. Although, warts and all, she still liked it. And Puddleby, as she’d dubbed her new home in a nostalgic nod to Doctor Doolittle, gleamed in the sunshine. Lead-paned windows shone, the pastel coloured cottages and terraced houses begged to be put on a picture postcard, and a small brook babbled under a low bridge.

  If the village offered more jobs than at the local dairy cum post office, the rent would have been outrageous. Eve crossed her fingers, hoping this place would stay a quiet backwater ten miles from the nearest main road.

  It was all as quaint and wholesome as a Constable painting, if Eve ignored the two grizzled men with faded tattoos all over their bare calves. One of them even sported one on his scalp. Through the sparse hair Eve spotted a Union flag and the words “Made in Britain”. She shuddered and headed in the opposite direction.

  Several gazes followed her as she entered the faux-Tudor “Green Dragon”. The old-fashioned theme was kept up inside, with burgundy velvet upholstery, oak and gleaming brass. The bartender should have worn a figure-hugging wench’s costume instead of a blue boiler-suit.

  At a corner table dozed an old woman, and two elderly men leant on the counter, leisurely nursing their pints, as Eve joint them.

  “Could I have a menu?” she asked.

  The bartender whom Eve guessed to be in her early to mid-thirties, same as herself, handed her a laminated list. Sandwiches, grilled sandwiches, paninis – there didn’t seem to be much demand for lunches. On a blackboard, the specials of the day were listed. Home-made soup with crusty bread and steak-and-ale pie.

  Eve ordered the soup, aware of unspoken questions. But since she’d rented the cottage for six months and intended to be on friendly, if remote terms with the local population, she decided the make the first step. Also, the menu, while sparse, was without typos or punctuation atrocities, and the
soup hit the mark as well.

  “This is excellent.” She flashed her teeth in a well-practiced ingratiating smile; enough to feel warm and genuine, not so much people would think she was desperate to become one of them. “I’m Eve Holdsworth, by the way. I’ve moved into Ivy Cottage.”

  The bartender returned her smile with the same level of detached friendliness. Eve warmed towards her.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Hayley, and over there in the corner is my nan, Letty Trowbridge. She owns the ‘Green Dragon’. Fifth generation.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “You American?” one of the two old men asked. Eve’s accent must have given her away, since she took great care when it came to her vocabulary.

  “On my father’s side. My mother’s a Londoner.”

  “One of those,” his friend said. Eve wasn’t sure which of her parents he disapproved of, but experience told her the American part of her genes was the likely culprit.

  Hayley gave her a small, apologetic shrug. Eve waved it off and sat down in a cosy corner by an unlit fireplace.

  “Sorry about them,” Hayley said when she cleared Eve’s table. “They’re not used to strangers.”

  “Surely people do move in? It’s a picture-perfect place, at least from the outside.”

  “Yes, but they’re usually old age pensioners, dreaming of growing their own veg or winning prizes for a cottage garden. Not that that’d ever happen around here.” Hayley swiped a few crumbs off the table. “Or it’s folks like me, coming home after a stint away.” She motioned towards her still dozing grandmother. “Granny couldn’t handle the pub any longer.”

  “Must be tough,” Eve said.

  “It has its compensations. Anyway, if you need anything or have any questions, feel free to ask.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “And if you want to meet more of the locals, we do bingo afternoons on Thursdays and pub quizzes on a Monday evening. Some customers are even under forty.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Eve said.

  Hayley noticed with amusement the sly glances that followed Eve out of the door. A young, attractive woman could count on receiving attention, welcome or not.

  Eve followed the brook into the woods. The soft soil under her feet muffled any sound. Birds flew up and settled back down as she strolled past. She’d expected the path to be well-trodden, but the overgrown bits indicated otherwise. Conceivably the country-dwellers had enough of nature in their back yards or toiling in the fields.

  Eve knew her perspective of country-life was simplistic. It suited her that way. She had enough subjects to dive deeply into to do with her work, and keeping everything else refreshingly easy, unencumbered by too much thought, was her idea of relaxation. When she spotted flowers she liked, she could enjoy them as much as any expert without knowing name, preferences and taxonomy.

  Fish darted through the shallow water. Eve suspected that although she could see the occasional pebble, at this stage it could be called a creek, or a stream. It was definitely a lot wider than in the village, where the bridge seemed excessive to cover something about two feet wide. But with an elderly population, health and safety would be a concern too.

  She marched on. The late March sun slanted through the canopy and warmed her enough to tie her jacket around her waist, and she’d picked up a branch to use as a walking-stick. She’d spent the week indoors, cleaning, packing and unpacking. This walk would make up for her recent lack of fresh air.

  The cabin came as a surprise. Eve had ventured from the path because she thought she’d heard a cry coming from somewhere on her left. After a few hundred yards ducking under trees and getting snagged by thorny twigs, she stood in a small clearing. A fence ran along on the outside. The cabin had an unused air, with its grimy windows, but looked to be in good repair.

  A little owl perched on the roof top and cried. Its yellow eyes met Eve’s astonished gaze before it buried its head under a wing. Eve tiptoed away, careful not to disturb the bird.

  She promised herself to buy a pair of binoculars when she went to town. Bird-watching in groups had never appealed to her, despite her British side, but on her own it might be different. And the owl had looked at her, as if sizing her up.

  Eve returned to the proper path, to find that she’d been out for over an hour. Ahead of her, a small figure cast a fishing rod into the water. She hesitated for a few seconds before she turned around to head for home. For one day she’d had enough human interaction, and most anglers disliked interruption anyway.

  Chapter 2

  The next day after lunch and a spontaneous shopping expedition, Eve set out in her newly bought walking shoes and with a backpack containing a thermos of hot tea and a pair of lightweight binoculars recommended for bird-watching. She’d noticed lately a largely sedentary lifestyle made her back ache sooner. Since the nearest gym was ten miles away and the evening classes in yoga and seated exercise sounded as enticing as watching paint dry, an outdoor hobby with a specific goal – to watch the owl – seemed the best solution.

  She crossed her fingers for luck. She’d heard often enough it took a measly twenty-one days to form a habit, but in her case the theory proved wrong. What she could confirm after vigorous self-experimentation was that it took barely twenty-four hours to backslide. Repeatedly.

  Perhaps this would be different. “Please,” she said under her breath. “And please let me stop talking to myself. It’s embarrassing.”

  She should have marked the spot where she’d left the path, Eve thought as she ambled along the creek. The trees all looked the same. There should be two with low-hanging branches where she bumped her shoulder, but that was her only clear recollection. A smarter woman would have tied a piece of fabric to a tree or snapped a photo.

  Her luck was in. The angler was back as well, reeling in the line.

  Eve cleared her throat as she approached, in an effort to politely announce her presence. It failed, although she was barely a metre away.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  The angler spun around at a speed that took her by surprise, because he didn’t look the nervous type. He watched her with wary eyes, another thing that surprised her. She might have disturbed his solitude, but for no more than a minute or two. Nevertheless, Eve felt at a disadvantage.

  “I’m looking for a cabin?” Since when did her pitch change when addressing a stranger, and since when did she end a sentence with a dangling question mark?

  The man righted himself. Eve sensed a subtle change in the atmosphere, from disinterest to annoyance.

  “Why?” he asked. His voice and his appearance were a lot more attractive than his demeanour. She’d not be intimidated by his brusqueness.

  Instead she opted for the same brand of friendliness she’d used with Hayley. She fished the binoculars out of her backpack. “I came across it yesterday, and I saw an owl sitting on the roof.”

  A semblance of relief came into his eyes. He was probably an animal-lover, intent on keeping away anyone who’d disturb the bird, Eve hazarded a guess.

  “I got these field glasses to watch it from afar. I wouldn’t go near it, I promise,” she said.

  He touched the price tag stuck to the body. “Your first field trip?”

  “We all start somewhere.” Eve hung the binoculars around her neck and held out her hand. “Eve Holdsworth. Before you ask, I only just moved to the area, so if I put a foot wrong, blame my ignorance of local affairs.”

  “Ben Dryden.” He leant the rod against a tree. A faint smile crinkled the corners of his dark blue eyes which were set off by a light tan and dark blonde hair. His handshake was firm and lasted long enough to make up for his less than friendly welcome.

  “If you could point me in the right direction, I’ll be out of your hair.” She gave him what she thought came off as a non-committal smile, one that said she could take or leave his acquaintance and was not in the least interested in a flirt. Two years of uninterrupted singledom could do
that to a woman.

  “That cabin is private property.” Ben took the hook off the rod, a wriggling worm still attached to it. A bucket at the side contained water and three fish trying to swim in the confined space.

  “The fish are not dead.” Eve instantly chided herself for her trite remark.

  “I’m not killing them. They’ll go into another pond.”

  “Couldn’t you use a net, so they don’t get hurt? Anyway, the cabin. I’m not going to trespass, I promise.”

  “Because you want to see the owl.”

  She nodded.

  “The place has a bad reputation,” Ben said.

  “Why?”

  “The owner’s notorious. If you stay in the area, you’ll find out soon enough.”

  Eve felt the blood drain from her face. “Is it drugs?” The last thing she wanted was to stumble unwittingly upon a crime lord and his henchmen. She’d taken a few self-defence classes ages ago, and she tended to have a key clenched between her fingers when she walked home alone at night, but she’d be no match for well-trained career gangsters.

  “Heavens, no,” he said, regarding her with faint amusement. “You must have lived in pretty rough places.”

  “Life on the mean streets.” She imitated a heavy drawl, to lighten the situation. To be fair, she had witnessed a mugging during her childhood in Portland, Oregon, and another one in Bristol.