Murder at Standing Stone Manor Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  The Langham and Dupré mysteries by Eric Brown from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  The Langham and Dupré mysteries by Eric Brown from Severn House

  MURDER BY THE BOOK

  MURDER AT THE CHASE

  MURDER AT THE LOCH

  MURDER TAKE THREE

  MURDER TAKES A TURN

  MURDER SERVED COLD

  MURDER BY NUMBERS

  MURDER AT STANDING STONE MANOR

  Eric Brown

  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 2021

  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 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Eric Brown, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Eric Brown 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: 978-0-7278-5056-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-806-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0544-5 (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

  Dedicated with thanks to Graham Brack

  ONE

  Maria placed the hotpot in the Rayburn, washed her hands at the sink, then moved to the living room and gazed through the French windows.

  She had never been in any doubt about their move to the country, and the past few days had confirmed her conviction that she and Donald were doing the right thing.

  She had taken a fortnight off work to settle into Yew Tree Cottage and begin the laborious task of unpacking. The move from London had gone well, and on entering the property on Monday morning, Maria had not been beset with the second thoughts or despondency that had accompanied other house moves in the past. Mrs Ashton had left the place spick and span, along with a bottle of Bordeaux and a card wishing them well.

  Added to that, over the course of the past few days Maria had greeted a procession of neighbours who introduced themselves and welcomed her and Donald to the village.

  She looked down the length of the snow-covered back garden to the stream glinting beyond a stand of willows and elms. In the distance, she made out the imposing bulk of Standing Stone Manor, smoke rising vertically from one of its many chimneys.

  Hugging herself, she turned and regarded the room. Not for the first time since the move, she felt a certain euphoria, a happiness she could only put down to the thought of her and Donald making their home in Yew Tree Cottage.

  In the past, she had always preferred large, airy rooms, but over the course of the last few evenings, snuggling down on the sofa before the roaring fire, she had come to appreciate the long, low-ceilinged room, with its blackened oak beams and old-fashioned fleur-de-lis wallpaper. What was more, it was proving to be a warm house – dispelling Donald’s prognostication that it would be an ice-box. The Rayburn heated a couple of radiators, one in the kitchen and the other in the room that would be his study, and open fires in the living room and master bedroom provided sufficient warmth if they were lit early enough.

  They had managed to make four rooms habitable – the living room, kitchen, dining room and master bedroom. The others, including the study, were piled high with cardboard boxes and packing crates, many of them containing books.

  From the mantelpiece, she took down a handwritten card that had dropped through the letterbox that morning.

  Wellspring Farm, Crooked Lane

  Dear Neighbours,

  Wonderful to have new blood in the village. We’re having a little dinner do on Friday night at eight. Do come.

  Mr and Mrs Richard Wellbourne

  The telephone bell shrilled, startling her. She plucked up the receiver and settled herself on the sofa before the fire. ‘Ingoldby four-five-two,’ she said. ‘Maria speaking.’

  ‘Darling,’ Donald said. ‘Why is it that, down the phone, your voice sounds so husky and sensual, like melted chocolate?’

  ‘Donald,’ she laughed, ‘you’re drunk!’

  ‘And so would you be if you’d just undergone a liquid lunch with your editor and agent.’

  ‘How is Charles?’

  ‘On top form. Just back from a short break in Paris with Albert and singing its praises.’

  ‘How did the editorial meeting go?’

  ‘Good news in that department, old girl. I don’t know how he did it, but Charles has secured a three-book deal from Worley and Greenwood, with an increased advance and higher royalties.’

  ‘You clever man!’ Maria said, smiling to herself. The previous week, Charles had told her that sales of Donald’s latest thriller had exceeded all expectations, and that better terms were therefore in the offing.

  ‘You’re not working too hard, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve unpacked a few more boxes and made a hotpot for dinner. I hope you haven’t eaten too much for lunch?’

  ‘No fear. The portions at Greenwood’s favourite haunt are minuscule. Look here, take it easy this afternoon. No more unpacking until tomorrow, and we’ll do it together.’

  ‘I think I’ll go out for a walk. The sun is shining and the snow is so beautiful. Oh,’ she went on, glancing up at the Wellbournes’ card, ‘our neighbours, the Wellbournes, have invited us to a do tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Ah, the gentleman farmer. Apparently Richard Wellbourne is a bit of an eccentric. Plays the fiddle to his co
ws at milking time.’

  Maria laughed. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Overheard some locals nattering in the Green Man the other night. Wellbourne swears blind that a bit of Bach increases his herd’s yield.’

  ‘Very odd.’

  ‘We’ve moved to the country, old girl. They do things differently there. Right-ho, I’d better say toodle-pip. Old Greenwood’s gesturing for me to get off the blower and have one for the road. See you tonight, darling.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ she said.

  She replaced the receiver, moved to the hallway and pulled on her overcoat, hat and gloves. There was another envelope lying on the welcome mat. She picked it up and pulled out a small postcard. The black-and-white photograph showed a tall standing stone; she turned it over and read the scrawled handwriting.

  Standing Stone Manor

  Langham,

  Charles told me you’d moved to the village. I need to see you, pick your brains about something fishy going on here.

  Professor Edwin Robertshaw

  She tucked the card into her coat pocket and unlocked the front door.

  ‘Something fishy …’ she said to herself as she stepped out into the freezing late-January afternoon.

  There was not a breath of wind in the air and the sky was bright blue. Sunlight bounced off the snow, dazzling her as she walked carefully down the garden path and turned left along the lane to the village.

  It was on days like these that she realized how much she loved the snow. It transformed the landscape, turning hard angles soft, giving a fleece-like padding to buildings that might otherwise have been ugly. Not that there were any ugly buildings along the lane: a row of thatched cottages extended to her left, and on the right, beyond the hedge, white fields undulated to the horizon.

  Her every footstep compacted the snow, creating a regular succession of squeaks. Not many people had been abroad today, judging by the lack of footprints. Hers were the only ones along the lane until she came to the village green, where she followed a line of dark prints like stunted exclamation marks leading to the row of shops on the far side.

  One of the attractions of the village – other than the public house – was that it was well served with shops: a butcher, a baker and a general store-cum-post office. That morning a neighbour had informed her that the village hall held regular cake sales and that the vicar hosted afternoon teas at the church hall every second Tuesday.

  She bought two threepenny stamps from the young woman behind the post office counter, who said, ‘You must be the lady who’s bought Yew Tree Cottage. How are you settling in?’

  ‘Very well, thank you. I’m Maria. Maria Dupré.’

  ‘Flo Waters,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t think my mum thought about it when she christened me. But I never liked Florence or Florrie. If you need anything, just ask.’

  ‘I was wondering if there was a local coal merchant. Mrs Ashton left a supply, but with this weather we’ll soon be running out.’

  ‘Ah, you need to see old Wicketts Blacker, you do,’ Flo said. ‘He works a couple of days a week for Hurst and Forshaw over at Bury. Wicketts’ll see you right.’

  The bell over the door tinkled and someone whom Maria took to be a schoolgirl breezed in, beaming under her brown beret. ‘Hello, Flo!’ The girl saw Maria and the intensity of her smile increased. ‘Oh, hello, you must be …’

  ‘Maria. My husband and I have just moved into Yew Tree Cottage.’

  ‘Nancy,’ the girl said, offering a mittened hand. Maria shook it. ‘My uncle told me all about you. Your husband is a famous writer, isn’t he? And you work in publishing.’ She gave Maria a mischievous grin.

  ‘Well, word does get around,’ Maria said.

  ‘The professor knows a friend of yours, Mr Elder from Bury way.’

  ‘Would that be Professor Robertshaw of Standing Stone Manor?’

  ‘That’s right. My uncle knows just about everyone in the world,’ the girl said. ‘Can I send this letter to London, Flo?’ she went on, sliding an envelope under the grille.

  Flo licked a stamp and hammered it on to the envelope with her fist. ‘Maria was asking about coal,’ she said. ‘Will you show her where old Wicketts lives, Nancy?’

  The girl paid for the stamp, then turned to Maria. ‘It’s on the way back to the manor.’ She hesitated. ‘I say, would you like to come back for tea and cake? My uncle might be busy with his work, but I could entertain you.’

  Maria smiled. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Wondering about the professor and the fishy goings-on at the manor, she said goodbye to Flo and followed Nancy outside.

  A dog sat patiently beneath the green-and-white striped awning, its lead tied to the railings of the neighbouring house. Nancy praised the dog and untied the lead.

  ‘What a handsome beast,’ Maria said. ‘What kind is he? A long-legged spaniel?’

  The dog, a big red-and-white patched male, nosed Maria’s hand in a friendly fashion.

  Nancy laughed. ‘Everyone asks me that. No, he’s an Irish red-and-white setter. He’s called Bill and he’s very affectionate.’

  The girl was older than she’d first assumed; closer to twenty than fifteen, Maria saw as they turned left and tramped away from the village green, Bill trotting obediently between them. Nancy wore a brown duffel coat and fur-trimmed boots, and her face beneath the beret was pretty in a fresh-complexioned, innocent way, with wide blue eyes, a snub nose and a spill of golden curls.

  ‘I take it you live with your uncle at the manor?’

  ‘He took me in two years ago when my parents died.’

  ‘Oh – I am sorry.’

  The girl stared down at the snow, her lips set in a determined line as she plodded along. ‘The train crash at Barnes. You must have read about it?’

  ‘Of course. How terrible.’

  ‘But Uncle Edwin and Xandra were bricks. They made me welcome and said I could stay as long as I liked. Wasn’t that nice? I’d finished boarding school in Cambridge that summer, and I was thinking of going into nursing, only …’

  ‘You needed time to think about your future?’

  Nancy turned to her and beamed. ‘That’s exactly it. I needed time. I didn’t want to rush into nursing, and anyway, the thought of hospitals …’ She gave a theatrical shiver. ‘To be perfectly honest, by then I’d had enough of them. My parents were in St Thomas’s for a week after the accident. I visited them every day …’ She trailed off.

  Maria said, filling the silence, ‘Have you thought of alternatives to nursing?’

  Nancy widened her eyes and smiled. She had an expressive face and an innocence that Maria found enchanting. ‘Oh, I’d love to write. I’m considering journalism. At the moment, though … Well, Aunt Xandra is ill, so I’m looking after her. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it, after they let me live at the manor?’

  They walked along the lane in silence for half a minute, until Nancy looked up and pointed to a tumbledown cottage set back amongst an overgrown tangle of hawthorn and blackberry brambles.

  ‘That’s where old Wicketts lives. You’ll see him around, and you won’t mistake him. He’s about four foot high and looks like a goblin. He does a little odd-jobbing up at the manor, so if I see him, I’ll tell him to drop by.’

  They turned along a snow-filled lane, marked by a trail of footprints Maria took to be Nancy’s, along with Bill’s paw prints. They came to the small humpbacked bridge that could be seen from the cottage, and Maria paused at its high point and gazed upriver. A hundred yards away, she made out Yew Tree Cottage, peeping through the trees on the right. Its snow-covered thatch came down to within five feet of the ground at the back, and a patch of snow around the chimney bricks, warmed by the open fire, had melted to reveal the blackened Norfolk reed. Next to the cottage was Wellspring Farm, a long, low house with several honey-coloured stone outbuildings set back from the lane.

  Nancy pointed to the left. ‘Standing Stone Manor,’ she declared as if they were long-
lost explorers in sight of land. ‘We’re almost there. I’ll let Bill off the lead so he can run home. Now, take my hand, because this side of the bridge is beastly treacherous!’

  She released the dog and it shot off, sure-footed, its nose to the ground.

  Maria held the girl’s mittened hand and together, tottering along the iced lane, they made their way to the manor.

  TWO

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Nancy said, kicking the snow from her boots and groaning as she pushed open the great oaken front door. ‘Unc never tidies up after himself – he’s something of a hoarder – and my time’s taken up running after my aunt.’

  Bill squeezed past Maria’s legs as she followed the girl into the hallway. After the combined illumination of sun and snow outside, the interior of the manor was dim with gloomy tones of mahogany and tan. When her vision adjusted, Maria made out what she could only describe as an overstuffed hallway. She goggled at a moth-eaten grizzly bear, half a dozen dilapidated bookcases, hatstands, occasional tables and two grandfather clocks.

  Nancy saw her staring at the latter and explained, ‘Only one of them works. Unc uses this one,’ she went on, marching over to the nearest and opening its door, ‘as a cupboard.’

  The weights and chains had been removed and shelves fitted in the narrow chamber. On these, Maria counted over two dozen pipes of various types.

  ‘He has a rule,’ Nancy said. ‘Cigars in the house, pipes outside. He selects a different one every time he goes for a wander.’ She peered more closely at the array of pipes. ‘There’s one missing – the cherrywood, I think. That means he’s out. We won’t be interrupted. This way – no, don’t take your boots off. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

  Maria wiped her feet extra vigorously and followed the girl along a sepulchral corridor.

  They came to a room at the rear of the house, with French windows overlooking a long, snow-covered lawn. In the distance, on adjacent land beyond the lawn, a lone standing stone rose tall and stark against the winter blue sky.

  ‘Would you prefer tea or coffee?’ Nancy asked.