Death comes to marlow, p.1
Death Comes to Marlow, page 1
Praise for
ROBERT THOROGOOD
‘I love Robert Thorogood’s writing’
Peter James
‘A hugely enjoyable murder mystery written with wonderful verve, humour and compassion. Utterly delightful’
Robert Webb
‘Thrilling and heartfelt, gripping and wonderfully humorous’
Chris Whitaker, bestselling author of We Begin at the End
‘Agatha Christie with a modern twist’
The Sun
‘Beautifully crafted … a criminal success’
My Weekly
‘A great escapist yarn from start to finish’
Simon Kernick
‘A proper whodunit with clues, suspects, and engaging characters’
Faith Martin
‘An absolute joy to read. Funny, entertaining and beautifully written’
B. A. Paris
‘Assured cosy crime from an ingenious author … Damn right funny and heartwarming’
Crime Time
‘Robert Thorogood has brought the fun back into crime fiction’
Simon Brett
ROBERT THOROGOOD is the creator of the hit BBC One TV series Death in Paradise, and he has written a series of spin-off novels featuring D.I. Richard Poole.
Robert was born in Colchester, Essex. When he was ten years old, he read his first proper novel – Agatha Christie’s Peril at End House – and he’s been in love with the genre ever since.
He now lives in Marlow in Buckinghamshire with his wife, children and two whippets called Wally and Evie.
Also by
ROBERT THOROGOOD
The Marlow Murder Club Mysteries
The Marlow Murder Club
The Death in Paradise Mystery series
A Meditation on Murder
The Killing of Polly Carter
Death Knocks Twice
Murder in the Caribbean
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023
Copyright © Robert Thorogood 2023
Robert Thorogood asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2023 ISBN: 9780008238315
Version 2022-11-24
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008238292
For
Jack Thomas
(1941–2021)
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgements
Extract
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
After the excitement of the previous summer, Mrs Judith Potts spent the winter returning to the more solitary rhythms of life. She woke late, watched a bit of telly, played clock patience, went for walks when the mood took her – which wasn’t in truth all that often – and made sure she set aside time each day to compile her cryptic crosswords for the newspapers.
When the Christmas lights went up in the High Street, she found herself, as she did every year, quietly absenting herself from the festivities. It wasn’t that she was opposed to Christmas. Far from it. It was more that she felt it belonged to other people, mostly parents with young children and families hell-bent on enforced jollity.
But if Christmas was a bit of a chore, and the time between Christmas and New Year’s Day a baffling week of non-existence, Judith knew January belonged to her. It was almost her favourite month. No one asked her to do anything in January. Or go anywhere. She could fully recharge her batteries and take stock.
And go wild swimming, of course.
Judith didn’t let the fact that it was winter deter her from her near-daily dips in the River Thames. At this time of year, her swims were of necessity brief, but she never missed the chance to commune with nature, and she loved the zingy feeling her skin had for the rest of the day. She especially loved to swim when she had a problem to work through, which was why she was in the Thames on this particular January morning.
She was trying to solve a mystery.
It had started that morning, when she’d picked up that week’s copy of the Marlow Free Press. Seeing as it was the beginning of the year, the paper was even more bereft of news than usual – the lead story concerned the shock closure of a local postbox – but it was the cryptic crossword that Judith looked forward to the most. It never took her long to solve, but there was a clarity to the clueing she found hugely satisfying. That morning’s effort had been no different. However, once she’d finished and looked at the completed grid, she’d had an instinct that something was ‘off’ about her answers. There was something her subconscious was trying to tell her, but she couldn’t quite work out what it was. Judith hated loose ends. All puzzles had to be solved as far as she was concerned, which was why she’d decided to have a good think about it on her morning swim.
And it was because she was thinking about the crossword rather than her surroundings that she mistakenly got into a fight with a swan.
She hadn’t meant to, as she’d recount to her two friends Becks and Suzie later that day. It wasn’t even her fault as far as she could tell. It was all the fault of a dead duck she’d found floating upside down in the middle of the river, although it hadn’t initially looked like a duck at all. She’d thought she was swimming towards a couple of orange-coloured twigs that were sticking out of the water. But as Judith got closer, she’d finally seen the white body, neck and head of the duck submerged underwater and she’d splashed in a panic over to the side of the river to get away.
In doing so, she inadvertently swam in between a mother swan and her cygnets. As it was January, the cygnets were almost fully grown, but their mother still reared and hissed, her wingspan now wider than Judith was tall. Judith briefly wondered if she could get in between the span of the wings and grab the swan by the neck to take her down. But, like nearly everyone raised in the UK, she knew that a swan ‘can break your arm’, and she also guessed there’d be something unedifying about a completely naked seventy-eight-year-old woman wrestling with a swan.
Because that was the other problem. As was always the case when she went for a swim from the boathouse at the bottom of her garden, Judith wasn’t wearing a swimming costume. Of course she wasn’t. They were damp, dank things that clung to your body and ruined the true feeling of freedom swimming gave you.
The swan’s head shot forward with a terrifying hiss and Judith realised she’d have to get out of the water, and fast. At least she knew she was at a bend in the river where few people ever stopped.
Unfortunately, it was precisely because it was such a remote location that it held such happy memories for Ian Barnes. Ian had grown up in Marlow, had moved away some years ago, but had wanted to bring his wife Mandie and their two young children back to show them some of his favourite haunts from his childhood. This included the delightful spot on the river where he
It was just as Ian was pointing out the exact tree stump where he’d once seen not one but two kingfishers, that a naked seventy-eight-year-old woman climbed out of the river right in front of him and his family, ran a few paces along the bank – her body oscillating wondrously – before throwing off a flamboyant salute as she jumped back into the river, her legs tucked up under her so she could ‘bomb’ back into the water with a massive splash.
As she resurfaced, Judith let out a joyous ‘Ha!’ She had of course been mortified to find herself naked so near other people, but she’d decided to style it out by waving at the family and jumping back into the river, so they’d really have something to talk about. It was her gift to them.
Judith couldn’t stop grinning as she allowed the current to carry her downstream, all thoughts of the Marlow Free Press crossword long forgotten. She kept replaying the look on the poor family’s face. Their mild-mannered horror would keep her tickled for months.
However, it was because of the incident with the dead duck and the very-much-alive swan that Judith returned to the boathouse at the bottom of her garden far sooner than normal. This meant that once she put on her grey woollen cape and swished back to her Arts and Crafts mansion, she arrived just in time to hear the house phone ringing. She grabbed the handset up and a gruff male voice asked her if she was Mrs Judith Potts.
‘Speaking,’ she said.
‘My name’s Sir Peter Bailey,’ the man said in the sort of voice that told men to go over the top in battle. ‘We’ve not met before, but I’d like to ask a favour. You see, I’m getting married tomorrow.’
‘Congratulations,’ Judith said, noticing that the fire in the grate was still glowing. Her skin was puckered with goosebumps, her feet were cold on the parquet, so she went and sat down in her favourite wingback and let the embers warm her.
‘The thing is, I’m having a drinks party this afternoon as a small celebration, and I’d like you to come.’
Judith was puzzled. Sir Peter was the head of one of the most pre-eminent families in Marlow, why the sudden invitation?
‘Nothing too formal,’ he continued. ‘Lounge suits, dresses, that sort of thing. It’s just a few drinks if I’m honest. Two for two thirty. And wrap up warm. The forecast is for clear skies, but it will still be cold. You know where I live?’
Judith knew where Sir Peter lived. Everyone in Marlow did. But she felt mildly irritated that he presumed she’d drop everything at a moment’s notice. She already had plans for that afternoon. She was going to have toasted crumpets in front of the fire with some blackberry jam she’d bought from the Saturday food market. And perhaps a tot or two of home-made sloe gin she kept under the sink in the kitchen for special occasions. In fact, why on earth would she want to give all that up to go to a party?
‘That’s very kind of you, but why are you inviting me?’
‘It’s quite simple. I thought the day before my wedding would be a chance to thank some of the key people in Marlow. You know, the Rotary, the parish council, that sort of thing. And I was impressed with how you helped the town last summer.’
‘Oh, I see. You know about that?’
‘Everyone knows how you helped the police solve those horrific murders.’
‘I hope you don’t expect anyone to be murdered,’ Judith said with a chortle.
‘What?’ Sir Peter asked. ‘Of course not. Why would you say that?’
Judith was intrigued. She could tell that her comment had rattled Sir Peter for some reason.
‘It was just a joke,’ she said.
‘Well, it was in very bad taste.’
‘It’s only bad taste if someone’s killed.’
‘No one’s frightened for their life here. I really don’t understand why you’d suggest they were. Do you want to come to the party or not?’
No one’s frightened for their life? Judith thought to herself. What an odd thing to say. Why was Sir Peter suddenly so flustered? Judith decided that her crumpets and sloe gin would have to wait for another day.
‘I’d be delighted to come to the party,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Sir Peter said gruffly. ‘See you this afternoon.’
Once she’d finished the call, Judith dialled the number for Becks Starling.
‘Judith, hold on,’ Becks said as she answered. ‘Colin, stir the roux, would you? How are you?’ she said back into the phone. ‘Sorry, can’t chat long, we’re out this afternoon.’ Before Judith could explain why she’d rung, Becks was overtaken by events. ‘Sam, why do you want a box of matches – there’s no reason to want matches, what are you doing? Oh God,’ she said back into the phone. ‘I’m sorry, it’s Chloe on call waiting. She spent the night at her boyfriend’s house. I need to take this. Anything could have happened.’
Becks hung up and Judith realised she’d not spoken, not even once. Judith smiled to herself. Becks was married to the vicar of Marlow, a very nice man called Colin – with all the positive and negative connotations of that word, ‘nice’. Despite having made it her life’s work to be the perfect Home Counties housewife and mother, Becks had allowed herself to be pulled into Judith’s orbit the year before when a gunman had started killing people in Marlow. Since then, they’d become firm friends, even if Becks still worried that Judith was exactly the sort of free spirit her mother had always warned her about. As for Judith, she could see how much energy Becks put into servicing the needs of her family and community, and she just wished her friend spent a tenth of her talents on meeting her own needs. But Becks would never change, Judith knew. It was partly why she enjoyed her company so much.
Judith dialled another number. After a couple of rings, Suzie Harris came on the line.
‘Well, if it isn’t the famous Judith Potts,’ Suzie said in what Judith felt was a slightly stagey voice.
Suzie was a solidly comfortable fifty-year-old woman, and the third member of Judith’s gang.
‘Apologies for ringing out of the blue,’ Judith said, ‘but I think I’ve just had a very strange conversation.’
‘Then tell us all about it.’
‘What do you mean, “tell us”?’
‘You’re “on air”, caller. So, you’d better keep it clean,’ Suzie added with a knowing chuckle.
Judith’s blood ran cold.
Following her brush with fame the year before, Suzie had managed to bag herself a mid-morning slot presenting on the community radio station, Marlow FM. Suzie would play records, take phone calls to discuss the burning issues of the day, and use every opportunity to promote her dog-walking and dog-sitting business in a way that broke pretty much all broadcasting rules. But then, as Suzie put it, she was a single mother – even though her daughters had long flown the nest – and she’d always hustled to make ends meet. She wasn’t going to pass up the chance for free advertising.
‘You’re broadcasting this?’ Judith asked.
‘Always happy to take a call from you, Judith.’ There was a slightly possessive tone to Suzie’s words that made Judith pause. Suzie was far too taken with her recently minted celebrity status as far as she was concerned, but that was a matter for another time.
‘Really, Suzie, I shouldn’t have my calls to you broadcast to the whole town, but what time does your show finish?’
‘I’m handing over to Karen Hird and her Lunchtime Boys at one.’
‘Good. When you finish, do you want to go to a party?’
Chapter 2
To the east of Marlow, the River Thames bulges around a small island that has a lock on one side and a frothing weir on the other. In the calm water beyond lie some of the town’s smartest properties.
Sir Peter Bailey’s house, White Lodge, was perhaps the grandest of the lot. It was a three-storey Georgian mansion in cream stucco, a grass tennis court on one side, a white-painted glass orangery on the other with an Elizabethan–style knot garden in front of it. On the riverside, the mown stripes of lawn looked even sharper, even more precise, than anything the neighbours were able to muster. As for Sir Peter’s boat moored at the bottom of the garden, it was a sleek motor launch finished in polished wood that he’d imported from Venice.
Everything about the property oozed money, and Suzie didn’t quite know where to park her clapped-out dog-walking van when she and Judith arrived. Luckily for them, a fresh-faced teenager in a high-viz jacket indicated that they should park in the field next door to the garden.
