Death of a Cozy Writer Read online

  Death of a Cozy Writer

  G M Malliet

  "The traditional British cozy is alive and well. Delicious. I was hooked from the first paragraph.” – Rhys Bowen, award-winning author of Her Royal Spyness

  “Death of a Cozy Writer, G. M. Malliet’s hilarious first mystery, is a must-read for fans of Robert Barnard and P. G. Wodehouse. I'm looking forward eagerly to Inspector St. Just’s next case!” – Donna Andrews, award-winning author of The Penguin Who Knew Too Much

  “A house party in a Cambridgeshire mansion with the usual suspects, er, guests-a sly patriarch, grasping relatives, a butler, and a victim named Ruthven (what else?)-I haven’t had so much fun since Anderson’s ‘Affair of the Bloodstained Egg Cosy.’ Pass the tea and scones, break out the sherry, settle down in the library by the fire and enjoy Malliet’s delightful tribute to the time-honored tradition of the English country house mystery.” – Marcia Talley, Agatha and Anthony award-winning author of Dead Man Dancing and six previous mysteries

  “Death of a Cozy Writer is a romp, a classic tale of family dysfunction in a moody and often humourous English country house setting. A worthy addition to the classic mystery tradition and the perfect companion to a cup of tea and a roaring fire, or a sunny deck chair. Relax and let G. M. Malliet introduce you to the redoubtable Detective Chief Inspector St. Just of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary. I’m sure we’ll be hearing much more from him!” – Louise Penny, author of the award-winning Armand Gamache series of murder mysteries

  ***

  From deep in the heart of his eighteenth century English manor, millionaire Sir Adrian Beauclerk-Fisk writes mystery novels and torments his four spoiled children with threats of disinheritance. Tiring of this device, the portly patriarch decides to weave a malicious twist into his well-worn plot. Gathering them all together for a family dinner, he announces his latest blow – a secret elopement with the beautiful Violet… who was once suspected of murdering her husband.

  Within hours, eldest son and appointed heir Ruthven is found cleaved to death by a medieval mace. Since Ruthven is generally hated, no one seems too surprised or upset – least of all his cold-blooded wife Lillian. When Detective Chief Inspector St. Just is brought in to investigate, he meets with a deadly calm that goes beyond the usual English reserve. And soon Sir Adrian himself is found slumped over his writing desk – an ornate knife thrust into his heart. Trapped amid leering gargoyles and concrete walls, every member of the family is a likely suspect. Using a little Cornish brusqueness and brawn, can St. Just find the killer before the next-in-line to the family fortune ends up dead?

  G M Malliet

  Death of a Cozy Writer

  The first book in the St. Just Mystery series, 2008

  For my husband.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people helped this book into existence, but it might not have made it at all but for the early encouragement of playwright Terryl Paiste.

  My sincerest thanks also to the tireless volunteers of the Malice Domestic conference, who further midwifed this novel via their generous award of the Malice Domestic Grant (now renamed in memory of the beloved William F. Deeck).

  The members of Sisters in Crime, particularly those of the Chesapeake Chapter, were there when I needed them, which was often.

  I would also like to offer heartfelt thanks to the staff of Midnight Ink, beginning with Barbara Moore.

  Many thanks also to Muir Ainsley, who patiently and correctly answered all my questions about British arcana without once asking me to please leave him alone. Any mistakes in the novel are entirely mine.

  And as always, thanks to my husband, for his patience, love, and support through what must have seemed to him an endless and everlasting process.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  While the city and University of Cambridge, England, are of course real, as are Scotland and Cornwall, I have entirely invented the characters in this book who act out their imagined lives against these beautiful backdrops.

  Peterhouse likewise exists, but DCI Arthur St. Just is not a real-life alumnus of that hallowed seat of learning.

  In some cases, I have invented a village or manor house, such as Newton Coombe and Waverley Court, and placed them somewhat randomly in Cambridgeshire.

  And there is now a castle in Scotland that exists only in my imagination.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Ruthven Beauclerk-Fisk-eldest son of Sir Adrian, ruthless Ruthven was heir-apparent to his father’s vast fortune, until his father unexpectedly announced plans to remarry.

  Lillian Beauclerk-Fisk-Ruthven’s social-climbing wife, she mostly found murder frightfully inconvenient.

  Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk-fuddled and unhappy, she inherited her father’s gift for penning best-selling books. Did she inherit his mean streak, as well?

  Albert Beauclerk-Fisk-Sir Adrian’s youngest son. A failed actor and designated black sheep of the family, Albert’s one remaining ambition was to protect sister Sarah from suspicion of murder.

  Chloe, Lady Beauclerk-Fisk-Sir Adrian’s former wife, and the mother of his unhappy brood. Did life with Sir Adrian drive her to drink-or to murder?

  Sir Adrian Beauclerk-Fisk-a famous writer of mystery novels in the “cozy” genre, Sir Adrian had a devilish talent for making noirish mischief.

  Jeffrey Spencer-Sir Adrian’s secretary, an earnest American expat in search of his roots. His attentions to Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk enraged his employer.

  Maria Romano-Sir Adrian’s long-time cook, she was the only person at Waverley Court who seemed to have a soft spot for the cantankerous author.

  William Watters-The elderly gardener of Waverley Court saw no evil-until someone tried to frame him for murder.

  Jim Tanner-Proud proprietor of the local Thorn and Crown.

  George Beauclerk-Fisk-Ne’er-do-well son, failed entrepreneur, and playboy, his sibling’s death increased George’s chances in the inheritance sweepstakes.

  Natasha Wellings-George’s latest girlfriend: slim, dark, and beautiful. People wondered: Whatever did she see in George?

  Paulo Romano-Butler to Sir Adrian, Mrs. Romano’s son spent little time butlering and vast amounts skulking about Waverley Court.

  Violet Mildenhall-Notorious in her heyday, her marriage of convenience to Sir Adrian proved less than convenient when it thrust her into the middle of a murder investigation-again.

  Martha-Mrs. Romano’s daily help.

  Constable Porter, Sergeant Garwin Fear, and Dr. Malenfant- Loyal aides-de-camp to Detective Chief Inspector St. Just of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary.

  DCI Arthur St. Just-Crime halted his plans for a ski holiday when Sir Adrian’s devious machinations snowballed into murder.

  Mrs. Ketchen-Elderly maid to Chloe, Lady Beauclerk-Fisk.

  Manda Croom-Ruthven’s efficient business associate and once-besotted paramour, she viewed murder at Waverley Court as a career opportunity.

  Quentin Coffield, Esq.-a supercilious solicitor who played along with Sir Adrian’s dangerous propensity to change his will, at will.

  Mrs. Butter-Sir Adrian’s former secretary. Albert enlisted her help in learning what the secretive Adrian had been plotting.

  Mrs. Mott-a nurse in Cornwall.

  Agnes Grant-a cook who bore witness to a crime long, long ago in Scotland.

  No one reigns innocently

  – SAINT-JUST

  1. INVITATIONTO A WEDDING

  THE INVITATION, THOUGH EMBOSSED on the stiffest 100 percent rag-content paper Gribbley’s, Stationers to Her Majesty, could produce, nonetheless had more than a whiff of the prepackaged Marks & Sparks sales offering about it. Ruthven could not remember ever having seen a missive so entirely festooned with angels, or, given his backgro
und, decorated with anything more festive than black engraving on woven cream.

  Yet here, naked seraphim and cherubim peeked coyly from the pink lining of the envelope, and from every corner of the thick pink card itself, grinning lasciviously as they held aloft a lavender banner announcing what appeared to be an upcoming event, perhaps the end of the world. Their sly expressions duplicated that which normally appeared on Ruthven’s own somewhat round features, which tended to hold a smirk, even in repose. He first scanned the card, then studied it more closely, then groaned aloud.

  “The old fool’s gone and done it. He’s really gone and done it.” He threw the invitation across the breakfast table in the general direction of his wife. It missed (for it was a very large table), ricocheted off the silver toast rack, and skidded off onto the highly polished wooden floor.

  “Done what, dear?” Lillian, her gaze held by a large display advertisement for precious gemstones, and herself inured, by long years of marriage, to her husband’s tantrums, ignored the card, which now lay face downward on the floor.

  “He’s actually marrying one of his little tarts, that’s what.”

  Lowering the paper, she peered at him over the headlines relating the latest brawl in Parliament. Lillian, skimming the front page on her way to the advertisements, had noted it seemed to have something to do with child care. If they couldn’t take care of the little brats, why did they keep having them, she wondered? The accompanying photo showed the Prime Minister emerging with a preoccupied scowl from 10 Downing Street, in conscious imitation of Churchill during the darkest days of the war.

  She also had taken a glance in passing at the obituaries. She found it interesting that the unimportant people always seemed to die in alphabetical order. She was about to comment on this observable fact when the full import of Ruthven’s words took hold.

  “Marrying?” Her voice caught on the last syllable. “Which one? Not the one with the enormous-”

  “Probably.” Even with his wife, or especially with his wife, Ruthven could not bring himself to use the vulgarities that were the bedrock of his vocabulary in all-male company.

  “-dachshund?” she finished faintly. “Has he lost his mind, do you think?” Her tone, although devoid of pity, suggested she thought it was a real possibility. On the last phrase, her voice rose on an ending squeak of hysteria.

  “Far from it. Cunning and diabolical as ever, I’d say.”

  She roughly folded the paper into a heap on the table, the sale on emeralds forgotten. Lowering her voice conspiratorially, remembering Alice in the kitchen, she stage-whispered.

  “What is he going to do, do you think? To you, I mean?”

  Ruthven was not so blind to his wife’s many faults as not to know what she really meant was, To Me.

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Ruthven. “It could be his way of trying to cut me out of my inheritance entirely. But surely even he-”

  “Try not to upset yourself, dear. Remember your heart…”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Another thought struck her as she bent to retrieve the gaudy missive from the floor. She straightened.

  “Your poor mother.” This time the pity might have been sincere, a woman on the cusp of middle age viewing the fate of one many years past its vicissitudes. She looked at her balding, stout husband, so like his father (who looked more like a greengrocer than a famous author), and so unlike his mother, who was going to seed in a rather determined, yet fatalistic, way.

  A fear seized Lillian, not for the first time in the twenty-odd years of her marriage. Although she had long ago rejected her religious upbringing as being inconveniently at odds with her avaricious nature, a prayer went through her mind: Please don’t let it all have been for nothing.

  “Yes, I had better ring her. Preferably before it gets too late in the day. You know how she-”

  “Yes, I know. Good God, this is a disaster. Quite apart from it making the family the laughingstock of the world. A disaster. Ruthven, we must do something.”

  Meaning: Ruthven, you must do something. He sighed, stalling while he stacked the rest of the now-forgotten mail and put it to one side. One would have said his face held the expression of a man preparing to make a clean conscience of it, except that Ruthven had no conscience.

  “My dear.” He cleared his throat. “My dear, I think it’s time we had a little chat.”

  ***

  There remain rental flats in the greater London area that, were estate agents given to truth in advertising, would be fairly listed as dark, grotty, unwholesome bedsits with living space too small in which to swing a cat. Maida Vale, although having enjoyed huge victories in the ever-escalating real estate price war that had driven the average population farther and farther afield in search of shelter, still at the time of this story retained unsavory pockets that the most visionary of entrepreneurs had rejected as not holding the remotest potential for renovation. These sagging Victorians, too run down after decades of neglect to be resurrected to desirable states of tweeness, had been divided up by landlords in the middle part of the twentieth century into mean little flats designed to extract the maximum rent from the minimum square footage.

  It was in such a flat that Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk received her issue of the invitation to her father’s wedding. Despite the hyphenated name, and despite the fact that the rent was far less than she could have afforded, Sarah had settled into her gloomy surroundings the way an animal will burrow into the smallest available space when it wants to hide from the world in general, and people in particular.

  Everything in the place reflected darkly back on Sarah’s personality: The carelessly chosen second-hand furniture included two overstuffed chairs covered in faded roses that clashed with faded wallpaper that might once have been green but was now an indecipherable muddish gray. While bookshelves lining the walls might have offset the gloom with brightly covered novels, instead the dozens of worn books on the shelves blended into the mud like rocks, their covers, mostly black or gray, announcing obscure religious tracts of long-dead martyrs and other assorted lunatics.

  It was in one of the overstuffed chairs that an overstuffed Sarah, herself upholstered in brown, had subsided to contemplate the pink leers of the cherubs on the unwelcome invitation she clutched now in her pudgy hands. To her eye, there was something faintly sacrilegious about the ostensibly religious figures, apart from their evident delight in their flagrant nakedness. She wondered if her father or-that woman-had picked out the cards. Her father, Sarah recognized, could be a vulgarian at times but this particular choice was-she searched for the word-common. Common. Just, she imagined, like (she scanned the card again; what was the woman’s name?)-Violet Mildenhall. So difficult keeping the names of her father’s girlfriends straight. Violet. An old-fashioned, pretty name-

  The telephone rang. That had to be Albert, if he’d received a card as well. And why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t like her father to play favorites; no, he treated all his children abominably. With an effort she hoisted herself to her feet; the telephone was in the kitchen, where Sarah spent most of her time.

  “Sarah?”

  “You’ve got one as well, then.”

  “Yes. Oh, God, yes. It’s appalling, just appalling. He kept threatening to do it but I didn’t believe him. You know how he just likes to create a fuss. I thought he was just playing with us, hoping for a fight. Bloody old tyrant.”

  “Well, letting him know we’re unhappy about it will only feed his happiness,” she said mechanically. At least he sounds sober, she thought, absentmindedly stirring the simmering pot on the cooker. Her love of food had after many years paid unexpected bonuses in the form of a book of baking recipes just out from her father’s publishers, Gregson’s. The book was called What Jesus Ate, ideas for which she had gleaned from a close reading of the scriptures; most of the instructions seemed to involve fish and olives and assorted desert plant life. Gregson’s had told her they expected it to make pots of money in the New Age market, and inde
ed it had become one of the surprise best sellers of that season’s list. She was currently working on Cooking with the Magdalene.

  Albert sighed audibly, wondering, not for the first time, if his sister, although intelligent in her earnest, pedantic sort of way, was entirely there. He guessed she was just quoting from one of the idiot, platitudinous authors she read, although her apparent philosophical acceptance of the situation was grating. He didn’t want any oil poured on troubled waters; he wanted it poured on the flames.

  Albert knew no one in the world as-he searched for the word-nebulous as Sarah. After joining a convent while still in her late teens, she had left after one year (“The food was inedible,” was her only explanation). She had next studied at one of the red brick universities to become a social worker, a trying period for the local poor on whom she had practiced. It was during this time she had gotten in touch with her true feelings and become self-actualized. Her enthusiasm for pop social and psychological theories now had morphed in some way with her brief flirtation with Catholicism into what Albert gathered was a garbled neo-pagan worship of Mother Earth, Father Sky. Where had she come by this stuff? Years of living with their father had made the rest of them tougher, cannier, albeit in different ways. It had also permanently obliterated whatever traces of the Judeo-Christian tradition he and his brothers had managed to have beaten into them in the medieval public schools to which they had been confined.

  “It makes him happy, all right, knowing he’s screwing his children out of any hope of a decent inheritance and embarrassing them to boot by marrying this silly trollop. Happy? I’m certain he is. I can just see him gloating now.”

  “What makes you say she’s a trollop? Have you met her?”