Murder in the Cotswolds (The Sheriff Chick Charleston Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  “It’s pretty. Yellow stone and slate roof and all. And it’s big enough without being too big.”

  “Twenty rooms, maybe, and some cottages in back. Let’s go in and see.”

  A small woman stood behind the registration desk.

  “We have a reservation,” Charleston told her. “We’re the Charlestons.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling. “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Charleston. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Helen Vaughn.”

  “Owner and proprietor, it says in the guidebook.” Charleston returned her smile.

  “Also maid of all work, it seems sometimes. How long will you be staying?” She had put the registration book in front of Charleston.

  “About a week,” he answered. “Allow a day or two either way. Long enough to learn something of the Cotswolds.”

  “I hope you’ll be pleased. Our season is just about to open. Our special chef who comes in the summer will arrive soon. You’ll like his dishes. Dinner tonight in about half an hour.” She rang for a bellman.

  Turning away from the desk, Charleston saw that the small lobby was empty save for a man who sat holding a cane. The man nodded and smiled.

  The bellman, a scrawny youngster, arrived and wheeled out a truck, and Charleston led him to the car and helped him load. “Car be all right here?” he asked.

  “For now ’twill be. Until the season opens.”

  Geeta was investigating their quarters when Charleston and the bellman arrived with the bags. “It’s nice,” she said. “Plenty good enough.”

  The bellman left with thanks and his tip.

  “Cream and brown,” she went on. “I like these quiet, faded colors, so different from what we see at home.”

  “Did that woman, Mrs. Vaughn, seem a little flustered to you?”

  “You notice things like that. I seldom do. Now we’d best hurry, Chick, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

  They were about to sit down at the table to which a young and rather pretty waitress had directed them when she appeared again, now with the Edinburgh party of five.

  “Why,” Mrs. Witt said, coming forward, “hello, again. I was about to think you had changed your minds about coming here. This is our third night.”

  “We loafed through the Lake District,” Charleston explained.

  “And made several side trips,” Geeta added.

  “But here,” Mrs. Witt said, beckoning, and went on to introduce her companions—Mr. and Mrs. Post, Oliver Smith, and last of all, her husband.

  Mr. Witt asked, his eyes friendly behind the rims of his glasses, “Are you going to stay a while?”

  “About a week, we think,” Charleston answered. “What about you?”

  “A few days. We’re not quite sure yet.”

  Geeta said, “You must be finding plenty to do then?”

  Mrs. Witt answered, “Oh, my, yes. Seeing the sights of the Cotswolds. Shopping. Antique hunting.”

  “Mostly antiquing,” Mr. Witt said with a smile.

  “Don’t you go on about that,” Mrs. Witt said pleasantly. “How about that fishing you and Ben have been doing?”

  Mr. Post put in, “On the worst stretch of water ever rented.”

  “We’ll do better the next time,” Mr. Witt assured him.

  “I doubt we’ll have time for a next time,” Mr. Post said. “I hope not.”

  “Take it easy, Ben,” Mr. Witt told him. “It’s not every day I get to visit my brother.”

  Mr. Post turned away, his back half to them, as if tired of the company. Mrs. Post hadn’t said a word. She stood silent, grimly imposing. She might, Charleston thought, have been the heroic representation of stoic womanhood after a hard day.

  Nor had Mr. Smith spoken, beyond a syllable of greeting. Geeta asked him, “Don’t you like to fish, Mr. Smith?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Post took time from his contemplation of the far wall to say unpleasantly, “The lone wolf likes lone-wolfing.”

  At last Mrs. Post spoke. She put a hand on her husband’s arm and said, “Now, Ben.”

  The group separated then and took different tables. Seated, Geeta said, half-whispering, “That man, Smith, he undressed me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “His eyes did.”

  “No harm done.” He smiled. “Can’t say I blame him.”

  Several other people were entering the room, welcomed by another waitress. The first waitress came back to the Charleston table, saying, “Good evening, my name is Rose. May I take your order?”

  They settled on sole, and until their orders came looked around the room. It was beamed and attractive, in what Geeta observed was a restrained way and to her liking. A bus boy was clearing a table left by earlier diners. He was husky enough to wrestle a steer. A boyish smile brightened his face when the first waitress passed him.

  With a glance at the nearby table where Mr. Witt seemed to be holding forth, Geeta said, her tone low, “I’m glad we’re not members of a party, Chick. I may go shopping or have tea or something with Mrs. Witt—your Mrs. Witt—but it’s better, just the two of us.”

  “My Mrs. Witt or not, it wasn’t in my mind to join forces. We might get tied up.”

  Chapter Three

  “Seen enough of the Cotswolds?” Charleston asked. It was afternoon. He had turned the car more or less in the direction of Upper Beechwood and was just poking along.

  “In only two days?” Geeta answered. “It’s not seeing now so much as just feeling, so I haven’t had enough yet.” She sighed. “But I suppose we must get back to Upper Beechwood. It’s so expensive, paying for rooms at two places. We should have checked out for a day or two at the Ram’s Head.”

  “Now, Geeta, I keep telling you, nobody takes a vacation to save money. The idea is to blow what you’ve saved. So what’s in your mind, ma’am?”

  “Oh, nothing, Chick.”

  “Out with it.”

  “I liked Bourton-on-the-Water so much.”

  “The Old Manse?”

  “And the river running by. What’s it called?”

  “The River Windrush. We’d just say the Windrush River, but the British got a way of their own. Anyhow, you want to spend another night there?”

  “Could we, Chick?”

  “Of course. No need to ask me. What am I? Big Honcho?”

  He turned the car to the right at a roundabout, not caring where the road led. It was enough just to be rolling along in the sunshine. By and by he’d find the way back to Bourton-on-the-Water.

  “I don’t suppose our friends will leave in our absence,” he said just to have something to say.

  “Friends? The assorted five? I would call them acquaintances.”

  “Amendment accepted.”

  “That chesty number. That Oliver Smith. Don’t call him friend. I told you. He tried to eat me with his eyes.”

  “Your fault. You look good enough to eat.”

  She gave his leg a pinch. “Don’t dodge. I tell you he’s up to no good. I don’t like him. I keep wanting to deflate him, say with a hat pin.”

  “You’re such a savage.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt me to say goodbye to the rest, including your Mrs. Witt.”

  “That’s a sly poke. I never staked a claim there.”

  “I’m teasing you.”

  “I know, but you worked up quite a head of steam just the same.”

  “That was when I was talking about the man Smith.”

  He pulled over to the side of the narrow road to let a car pass. Then he reached over and took her hand. She turned to him, smiling. “I like you to be attractive, Chick. So there. You can’t help it, anyhow. But I admit I can get a little jealous. By the way, I’m beginning to like you in that hat.”

  “Cap, not hat. Better than those wide-brimmed things we wear in Montana. Better in the winds.”

  “Cowboy hats do give you shade, though.”

  “If you can keep them on your head. And you can curl the brim up and use it as a cup, that is i
f you happen to find water. And you can fasten it on your head with a drawstring under your chin, and the first blow will cut your throat.”

  “End of discourse?”

  “I won’t bore you by finishing.”

  So, he reflected as they eased along, they talked of this and that, talked of nothing much or fell silent, not feeling the need to talk, and that was as it should be. A lazy, satisfying serenity.

  “Tomorrow or next day,” she said, “I’ll get around to tracing my ancestry, but it’s nice just to get the feel of the country, to enjoy, for his sake in a way, what my grandfather enjoyed. It’s all soft yellow right now, not just the buildings, but the gorse, the forsythia, and the daffodils. And even the stone fences look as if they grew here.”

  Better to look at than barbed wire, he admitted to himself. Gentler. In keeping with the gentle country. Admitting as much, he felt again the bite of Montana suns and the push of Montana winds, felt them again and missed them.

  She went on, “I can feel things, too. The press of old times, I guess I could say the weighted years, but the feeling isn’t unpleasant, just sort of sad, like an old memory.”

  “I know,” he replied, “but now it appears we’re entering Stow-on-the-Wold. Strange name, but seems like a nice little place.”

  “Stop the car, Chick. Park it, please.” She was pointing out the window. “See that store? I have an idea.”

  He found a parking place on a side street. As they reached the main street, Geeta exclaimed, “I love the way the fruits and vegetables are put on display outside. And they look clean, ready to eat.”

  They dodged an old woman with a cane, and another with three little tagalongs, dressed as if for church. They made Charleston remark, “The English sure take care of their kids.”

  “Not so loud, Chick.”

  “They don’t like compliments, huh?”

  “Never mind. Here we are.”

  It was, sure enough, an attractive store. Geeta led the way to the men’s section. “Now we’re going to shop for you.”

  “I have enough.”

  “If you think I’m going home with all the goodies, think again. How many kilt skirts have I bought? How many jackets? How many sweaters?” A clerk had come up smiling. “No, sir, mister. It’s your turn.”

  She spoke to the clerk, a young man with amusement in his eyes. “It’s for my husband,” she said. “I think we know what we want.”

  Charleston shrugged. “She means she knows what she thinks I want.”

  “Be still now.”

  The clerk said, “I’ll be happy to show you.”

  “Fine. Moleskins? Do you have the shirts and coats?”

  “Now why do I want moleskins?” Charleston asked.

  “Warmth.” Then, to the clerk, “Can you fit my husband?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “And what colors do they come in?”

  “Only green, madame.”

  Charleston groaned. “Green. Lead me to Robin Hood.”

  “Now, Chick, not that kind of green. You’ll look fine. And think about Montana winters. Think about being warm.”

  “Sure. Green and cozy.”

  But when he was outfitted, Charleston lagged to a mirror. They didn’t look too bad, those duds, and they were certainly warm. He said, “Thank you, Geeta.”

  She wore a pleased look, one that meant, didn’t I tell you?

  “Now,” he said, back in the car, “I’d better try to find my way back to Bourton-on-the-Water.”

  Chapter Four

  Detective Chief Inspector Fred Perkins of the Gloucestershire C.I.D. felt grumpy. It was just his luck to get this assignment, a case of murder in a moldering little place called Upper Beechwood on the outskirts of the county. Add to the bloody luck the fact that the victim was an American.

  It was early morning on his day off, but here he was, ready to go. No sense in stalling, no matter the outlook. Not quite ready, though. He had to clean up after his lonely breakfast. He got up and went to work on the dishes, recalling that Martha did things like that when she was alive. Ten years ago, that was.

  A good woman, Martha, he thought as he washed and dried, a good woman and an indifferent wife. Secure in her church and her God, she was as passionless as a potato. Neither had she wanted to know about his work. It was as if knowledge of his involvement with sinners would soil her soul. A good thing they couldn’t have children. Papa to some pious little bastard of her rearing!

  He put the last dish away. Even the long years since her death hadn’t cured him of the sore of disappointment in her, hadn’t freed him of the old exasperation at her indifference. Refused as often as he had been, a man festered. What he needed was a woman, he reflected, thinking of the one who came to his flat on occasion.

  He hung up the tea towel and waited. His bag was packed, his briefcase at hand. Sergeant Goodman would pick him up any minute now. A fine young officer, Goodman, though not so young in the service, come to think of it. Almost a son in a sense. He’d have him to help this time. He hitched in his chair, hating the prospect before him. An American with a knife in him. An American among a group of five. More public interest because he was an American. Headlines. And Superintendent Hawley, that meddling bastard, would be sure to stick his nose in.

  Well, who cared? Who the hell cared? Do your work. Keep your temper if you could. Suffer the goddamn years to pass and retire with a pension. Great prospect.

  That would be Goodman at the door now. Perkins called, “All right,” opened the door, and started to pick up his luggage: Goodman beat him to the bag, saying, “I have it,” and they walked together to the car.

  Once beyond the town, Sergeant Goodman said, “Nice day. I like it out in the country.”

  Perkins answered, “It would be nicer but for this bloody case.”

  “You’ll solve it, sir.”

  “Perhaps. Superintendent Hawley and us.”

  Goodman turned a grin on him. “Don’t worry, sir. I think we can handle his highness.”

  “He’s sure to put his oar in. Might be there already.”

  “No, sir. He was still at headquarters when I left.”

  “Learn anything more about the case there?”

  “I didn’t learn anything about it.”

  “That rustic constable gave a sketchy report. An American stabbed in his bed last night. Name of Oliver Smith. He and four other Americans had been at the Ram’s Head Inn for a week. The maid found him in bed, a knife in his back. No money in his wallet. No other signs of disturbance. There you are. Make the most of it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Goodman whistled a snatch of “Amazing Grace.” When his eye wasn’t on the road, it was on the fields around them. That was a thing about Goodman. No time for low spirits with so much of interest around him. A damn good man, Goodman, even if his cheerfulness seemed out of place, out of keeping with his own feelings.

  Upper Beechwood was more of a village than he remembered—a couple of pubs at least, two shops in sight, a chemist’s, and ahead of them the Ram’s Head. Townspeople stared from entryways as they approached. Not to be wondered at. It wasn’t every day the place had a murder.

  Goodman pulled up in front of the inn. At least the place looked neat and inviting. A thin young man grabbed at his sleeve, saying, “Aren’t you Detective Chief Inspector Perkins?”

  “They call me that.”

  “I’m a reporter. What can you tell me about this case. Murder, isn’t it?”

  Perkins jerked his sleeve free. “Not one bloody thing.”

  He ignored the gazes of half a dozen people in the lobby and went straight to the desk. A small, trim woman, who gave her name as Vaughn, Helen Vaughn, greeted him. She was dressed in brown and had brown hair, a suitable color, it flashed in his mind, for a case that promised no brightness.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Fred Perkins,” he told her and produced his credentials, then introduced Sergeant Goodman.

  “Yes, Inspector,” she replied as if
at the tail end of breath. “It’s so humiliating, a violent death in my hotel.”

  She ran out of steam at the finish, and the lines of pain appeared on her face. She put a hand up to her chest and with the other steadied herself against the counter.

  Perkins said sharply, “Are you all right? All right, ma’am?”

  She took the hand from the counter, opened a drawer, took a pill from a box, and put it on her tongue, her movements unsteady. “Just give me a minute,” she said, and after a pause went on, “This terrible thing. It upsets me so. My heart acts up.”

  “Shouldn’t you lie down?”

  “No. No. I’ll be fine now.”

  “Have other officers been here?”

  “You’re the first.” She added, “Are others coming?” as if she hoped not.

  “I’m afraid so.” He paused, “Constable Doggett is expecting us.”

  “I expect he’s in a cottage outside. I set it apart for your investigation.” Because, he thought, it was better than having officers under foot in the lobby or a mobile crime unit parked next to the inn. “I’ll show you the way.”

  “You stay. That’s one thing we should be able to find.”

  “Go out this door and turn left. It’s the first cottage on the right.”

  Followed by Goodman, he strode to the door, taking little note of the watching eyes and the questioning silence. Outside, the reporter grabbed at him again. “Inspector, please. I’ve talked to Constable Doggett.”

  Perkins walked on, saying over his shoulder, “Then you know more than I do.” He paused after another step. The poor sod was just trying to do his job, as he was himself. “When I learn more, you’ll be informed.”

  “Thank you, sir. Remember my name. Charlie Evans.”

  A uniformed man stood in the cottage doorway, his face wide in a smile. “I’m Constable Doggett, sir.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Perkins.” He gave one shake to the man’s eager hand. “And Detective Sergeant John Goodman.”

  “I’ve tried to fix things up,” Doggett said, showing them in.

  There were four chairs in the room, one of them a high-backed rocker, and a sofa, a desk with two telephones and a sheaf of blank paper on it, and a file drawer.