Mydworth Mysteries--The Wrong Man Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Mydworth Mysteries

  About the Book

  Main Characters

  The Authors

  Title

  1. Last Rounds

  2. Mabel’s Last Hope

  3. Ben and Ollie

  4. The Case Begins

  5. Ben Carter

  6. An Open-and-Shut Case

  7. Slip-Knot Alley

  8. The Condemned Man

  9. The Station Inn

  10. What Will Saw

  11. The Moments Before a Murder

  12. A Break at Last

  13. A Little More Digging

  14. Secrets

  15. The Long Arm of the Law

  16. The Truth About Blackmead Farm

  17. An Unlikely Exit

  18. A Long Night

  19. The Final Hours

  20. The Valentine’s Day Ball

  Next episode

  Copyright

  Mydworth Mysteries

  Mydworth Mysteries is a series of self-contained novella-length mysteries, published in English and German. The stories are currently available as e-books and will soon be available as audiobooks in both languages.

  About the Book

  When young Ben Carter is found murdered in an alleyway one snowy night in Mydworth, all the evidence points to his best pal, Oliver. And though Oliver swears he is innocent, judge and jury are quick to convict the young man. But at the eleventh hour, Harry and Kat become involved, and aren't convinced. With just days left before Oliver is to hang for the crime, they investigate. With the clock ticking can they find the real culprit in time ... to save a life?

  Main Characters

  Sir Harry Mortimer, 30 – Born into a wealthy English aristocratic family, Harry is smart, funny and adventurous. Ten years in secret government service around the world has given him the perfect training to solve crimes; and though his title allows him access to the highest levels of English society, he’s just as much at home sipping a warm beer in the garden of a Sussex pub with his girl from the wrong side of the tracks – Kat Reilly.

  Kat Reilly – Lady Mortimer, 29 – Kat grew up in the Bronx, right on Broadway. Her mother passed away when she was only eleven and she then helped her father run his small local bar The Lucky Shamrock. But Kat felt the call to adventure and excitement, first as a nurse on the battlefields of France, then working a series of jobs back in New York. After finishing college, she was recruited by the State Department, where she learned skills that would more than make her a match for the dashing Harry. To some, theirs is an unlikely pairing, but to those who know them both well, it’s nothing short of perfect.

  The Authors

  Matthew Costello (US-based) is the author of many successful novels published around the globe, including Vacation (2011, in development for film), Home (2014) and Beneath Still Waters (1989), which was adapted by Lionsgate as a major motion picture. He has written for The Disney Channel, BBC, SyFy and has also designed dozens of bestselling games including the critically acclaimed The 7th Guest, Doom 3, Rage, Pirates of the Caribbean, and, with Neil Richards, Planet of the Apes: Last Frontier.

  Neil Richards (based in the UK) has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film, creating scripts for BBC, Disney, and Channel 4, and earning numerous Bafta nominations along the way. He’s also written script and story for over 30 video games including The Da Vinci Code and Planet of the Apes, and consults around the world on digital storytelling.

  MATTHEW COSTELLO

  NEIL RICHARDS

  The Wrong Man

  1. Last Rounds

  Police Constable Bert Loxley made his way slowly past the locked gates of St Thomas’s Church, down Church Street, past Mydworth Motors, taking his time as he did his nightly rounds. This walk through the village was a regular-as-clockwork duty, to make sure that everything was as peaceful and quiet as could be, checking all the businesses properly shut up, windows closed, shutters down.

  Behind him now, he heard the church clock strike the half hour: he paused for a second, and checked his pocket watch out of habit. Spot on.

  Right now, the streets were empty – his shadow the only movement under the gas lamps.

  Truth was, he’d hardly seen a soul tonight, though that wasn’t surprising: a cold mist lingered in the damp November streets, and he could feel the chill even through his heavy uniform and mackintosh.

  As he turned back and went down the High Street, his footsteps echoed on the pavement.

  Yes, peaceful and quiet.

  Though this night had not started that way. A call to the station about a few patrons down at the Station Inn, fuelled by one too many, who might be heading into a proper fist fight.

  Which would have been the most activity that he had faced so far in the two weeks of his new posting to Mydworth – save for a lone domestic problem that had ended with the couple, blubbering in each other’s arms, all suddenly forgiven. That is, Loxley knew, until the next row.

  Tonight however, when he’d pitched up at the pub, the men involved had genuinely seemed to be on the edge of spilling out into the streets for a bare-knuckle battle.

  But, as it turned out, simply by his walking in the door, the men seemed to freeze, neither of them clearly fancying the idea of a night cooling off in jail.

  All Loxley had to do was ask: “Everything all right, gentlemen?” and the flushed faces had softened, glaring eyes lowered – and suddenly trouble had been averted.

  Loxley had considered taking their names, mostly as an added bit of encouragement to finish their beers and head home quietly.

  But with the grievances apparently fading – and the last round looming anyway – he didn’t think it warranted taking matters further. He’d jotted a couple of names in his notebook, wished the publican a good night, and headed back up Station Road into town.

  Now, as Loxley turned to go down the High Street, he looked in through the windows of the Green Man, which he’d been told was the most civilised of the town’s watering holes.

  The landlord wiping down the pumps, just a couple of regulars finishing up at the bar, and a handful of others, coats on, last farewells before dispersing to their homes.

  For a moment he stood there, just taking in the evening: the warm camaraderie of the townsfolk leaving the warm, yellow light of the pub and heading to their cosy homes.

  Mydworth. Such a tidy little town, Loxley thought. More like a village. And he wondered, being honest with himself, how long he would be satisfied with the sleepy ebb and flow of life here.

  Life in the Metropolitan Police in London would be much more to his taste. Plenty of crimes to deal with, and Loxley knew that the Met had to be exploring the very latest methods of solving all sorts of cases.

  But here, Sergeant Timms had been quick to inform the new constable on his first day at the station: “We do things the old-fashioned way, Loxley. Methods that stand the test of time.”

  Except, Loxley guessed, Timms’ “methods” probably didn’t get tested on a regular basis.

  But the world was changing, growing more complex every day. People wanting different things, peacetime life not bringing everyone the peace or prosperity they had expected. Or been promised by the politicians.

  And tonight – brisk, a chilly November night as if winter was in rehearsal, Mydworth remained sleepy and safe.

  *

  Finally – crossing the square, past the Town Hall and the bank, all secure, to Hill Lane – Loxley scanned the quiet side streets, the nearby small shops shuttered, most homes now dark. Early to bed being very much an adage held close by many i
n this little town, even on a Saturday night.

  He’d soon be done. Time to return to the station where that, too, would quickly go dark.

  Any rare late-night summons would be directed to Timms at home, who would – for any significant matter – come and roust Loxley from the single room that he rented above the gentlemen’s outfitters.

  Halfway down Hill Lane, past the shops now, and just at the point where the street lights came to an end, he took his usual left turn into Slip-Knot Alley. This oft-used shortcut led up to the football pitch and a line of tumbledown cottages at the edge of the town which marked the end of his rounds.

  What was it, the locals called these alleyways?

  Ah yes, “twittens”, that was it.

  He unclipped his torch from his belt, turned it on: the pale beam of light catching swirls of mist on the pathway ahead.

  His own steps echoed as he walked down the serpentine lane, a wall of brick on both sides.

  This twitten must, he imagined, be a favoured spot for the young couples of the town, seeking a few minutes hidden away from prying eyes.

  Wouldn’t be surprised if I stumble upon something like that, even on a chilly night like this.

  Then, as if in answer, the narrow lane curved for its final time, revealing a grassy opening, neatly surrounded on the side by thick bushes.

  And Constable Loxley saw something in the cone of light from his torch.

  *

  For a moment he froze, thinking that what was ahead, curled up on the grass, might be the romantic pair he’d been imagining previously.

  But no. Loxley immediately knew what the shape must be.

  Of course. Some fellow heading home from the pub, using this as a shortcut, must have stumbled and decided a few minutes of a chilly snooze was exactly what the doctor ordered.

  Before he got to the person, Loxley cleared his throat, to give the chap some warning.

  “All right then. Having a spot of trouble, are we? Best you try to—”

  Loxley expected the man to stir at the loud voice, giving it the heft that a request from the authorities should bring.

  But this person – nothing.

  Loxley moved closer, now – with the air growing chillier by the moment – even a bit concerned for the fellow.

  “Now c’mon then, my lad. Time you were off home, time to get up.”

  At that, Loxley gave the back of the man’s shoes a little kick. Just a small “tap, tap”, a last manoeuvre before dragging the drunk to a standing position.

  But that did nothing.

  So, Constable Loxley bent down, to see...

  ...something wet near the body glistening, catching the light from the torch.

  Loxley’s stomach tightened. He reached down to hook the man’s arm, to turn him around, so he could see up close what glistened all around him, like a thick muddy pool.

  Something that Loxley had never seen in such quantity, and perhaps never expected to see in the town of Mydworth.

  Blood.

  So much of it.

  For a second, Loxley wasn’t sure what to do. Then he turned the body over so he could see the face and – more importantly – the wound.

  There was no chance that the man would still be alive.

  With so much blood lost, that would be clearly impossible.

  But now, in the dim light from his torch, he saw two things.

  The wound. Or actually, wounds, centred in the man’s mid section.

  Whoever had done this had acted quickly, brutally. The sight of those wounds, intimidating, even – the Constable had to admit – frightening.

  And then he noticed the other thing.

  The man’s face.

  He recognised it.

  It was the face of one of the men from the pub quarrel.

  From the fight that Loxley had interrupted, and – he had thought – extinguished.

  One of those men now dead.

  He stood up, and stepped back from the body, as he ran through what needed to be done now.

  His training – so recently completed – coming instinctively into play. Discovery of suspicious death, constable’s priorities, list in order...

  The body to be cordoned off, Sergeant Timms to be alerted. The alleyway to be sealed at both ends, examined minutely for evidence.

  Loxley ticked off all the steps that would have to be taken.

  The locals would soon become aware of the activity, torches, car lights. More police would need to be summoned from Chichester to assist.

  Did the man have family? They would need to be awakened in the middle of the night, once the constabulary could answer the basic question of – who was he?

  With the larger question pushed aside for now: who wanted to kill this man... and why?

  Loxley gave himself a moment, a deep breath, the air chasing away the metallic smell that had filled his nostrils when he first bent down.

  And before he started to do all that must be done, another thought came to him.

  Perhaps sleepy Mydworth isn’t so sleepy at all.

  2. Mabel’s Last Hope

  Harry raced up the steps of the Town Hall, snow flying from his warm camel trench coat. He wondered how Kat – who’d driven here earlier, all the way from Arundel – had fared with the Alvis in the snow.

  Over breakfast she had laughed as the first flakes had fallen. “You call that snow? You should see what a winter Nor’easter looks like in January in New York. Back where I come from, Sir Harry, we’d label that a ‘dusting’.”

  He had smiled. He did enjoy the way Kat gave his British view of things such a nice American twist. Refreshing!

  Entering the hall, he saw groups of people busy decorating it – some on ladders hanging pink streamers, a few busily attaching large red crepe-paper hearts to the wall.

  Winter might have thrown some weather at them, but in here? Spring looked ready to be sprung.

  And then he saw Kat, with Aunt Lavinia. His wife was at the top of a ladder, stretching up to tack a twisted garland proclaiming “Happy Valentine’s Day!” onto the centuries-old walls of the Town Hall.

  Harry tossed his coat onto a folding chair, hurrying to Kat, whose fingertips appeared to be just a few inches shy of their target.

  “The troops have arrived,” he said, one hand out to steady the ladder.

  Kat turned, ever stunning, even with what looked like her gardening trousers and a grey puffy fisherman’s sweater, hair pulled back. Amazing how she can pull off that look, he thought, as she said: “Well, your aunt and I are in the market for gentlemen with a bit more of a, shall we say, reach?”

  “Knew I was good for something.”

  And he watched as Kat came down the ladder and handed him the pink and white garland.

  When he reached the top step of the ladder, he turned to both his Aunt Lavinia and Kat, saying, “I imagine I cut quite a figure like this, eh?”

  “You remember what traditionally comes after pride, Harry?” said Kat, teasingly wobbling the ladder.

  “Hey, steady now,” said Harry. “Don’t want to damage your Charleston partner for Saturday!”

  *

  Kat was laughing at a story Lavinia told about last year’s Valentine’s Ball – something to do with a man in a tux that no longer came even close to fitting him – when she heard the doors to the hall swing open with a bang.

  She turned to see Nicola, who ran the Women’s Voluntary Service, and alongside her another woman, young, pretty, walking hand in hand with a little girl who clutched a stuffed bear tight.

  Kat worked a couple of days a week for Nicola at the WVS, helping out with legal work and administration: the threadbare charity – such a good cause – supporting Mydworth women with all kinds of problems, no questions asked.

  Kat had mentioned to her yesterday that she was helping decorate the Town Hall for Saturday’s charity ball – she guessed that Nicola was here to see her.

  Kat watched them hurry over – the woman’s eyes showing th
e marks of someone who had recently been crying.

  Or – more to the point – someone who had been crying a lot.

  Harry had turned away from his aunt, and now came beside Kat.

  “What do we have here?” he said, as Nicola closed the distance, the speed and franticness of her arrival an odd contrast to the colourful garlands and crepe-paper hearts that decorated the hall.

  Whatever lay ahead – it was clearly not festive.

  *

  As was Nicola’s style, she got quickly to the point.

  “Kat, Sir Harry,” then to Lavinia, “m’lady.”

  Kat saw Nicola pause to look at the obviously distressed woman beside her. “I wonder, if we could have a word in private? This is Mabel Brown. And little Elsie. It’s about something rather serious.”

  Kat was nodding even before she reached the end of her sentence. Meanwhile, Lavinia, quick to act, took a step forward, and bent down to the towheaded little girl. “You know, I am sure I spied a plate of biscuits somewhere around here.” Kat saw Lavinia shoot a look at the mother and Nicola. “Why don’t you and I see if we can find them?”

  The little girl, one hand holding her well-loved bear, the other her mother’s hand, looked up at her mother, who was quick to nod.

  Then Lavinia, the girl’s hand now held gently in hers, said to Kat: “There’s a small room you can use behind the stage. Nice and private.”

  And with that, as if taking little Elsie on some great adventure, Lavinia walked away with her, elaborating on the array of biscuits that awaited them.

  “Shall we?” Kat said, indicating the side door that led to the back-stage area.

  *

  They pulled four chairs together to make a circle in a room filled with boxes of ancient props and decorations. Kat wished they had some tea at the ready.

  At moments like this, she had learned, the stuff was positively essential.

  Harry, she saw, kept an easy manner, projecting steadiness and reassuring calm.

  “So, what seems to be the problem,” he said, looking at Kat, then adding the vital words, “and how can we help?”