Murder at the Chase

by Eric Brown

Overview

Crime writer sleuth Donald Langham is faced with the classic locked-room conundrum in this engaging historical mystery
July, 1955. Donald Langham has interrupted his romantic break in rural Suffolk with the delectable Maria Dupre to assist a fellow writer. Alastair Endicott has requested Langham’s help in discovering what’s happened to his father, Edward, who seems to have disappeared without trace from inside his locked study.

Before he vanished, the elder Endicott had been researching a book on the notorious Satanist Vivian Stafford. Could the proposed biography have something to do with his disappearance? Does local resident Stafford really possess supernatural powers, as some believe?

As Langham and Dupre question those around them, it becomes clear that there have been strange goings-on in the sleepy village of Humble Barton. But is the village really haunted – or does someone merely want it to look that way? With a further shocking discovery, the case takes a disturbing new twist.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781847515339
Publisher:	Severn House Publishers
Publication date:	05/01/2015
Series:	A Langham and Dupre Mystery , #2
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	224
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.75(h) x (d)

About the Author

Twice winner of the British Science Fiction Award, Eric Brown is the author of more than twenty SF novels and several short story collections. Murder by the Book marks his crime writing debut. Born in Haworth, West Yorkshire, he now lives in Scotland.

Read an Excerpt

Murder at the Chase

A Langham and Dupré mystery

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By Eric Brown

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2014 Eric Brown
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-533-9

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CHAPTER 1

'Do you believe in ghosts, Donald?'

'What an odd question. No, of course not. Do you?'

Maria stood on the lawn with her legs crossed at the ankles, nursing a glass of Pimm's. She wore a jade-green summer dress which complemented her tanned skin, and a tiny lace hat that clung to the side of her head – and she looked, Langham thought, the very personification of elegance and beauty. Despite the gunshot wound to his chest that restricted his movements, he considered himself the luckiest man alive. What did a little scar tissue matter when he basked in the love and devotion of Maria Dupré?

The garden of his agent's Pimlico townhouse was thronged with the great and the good of the London literary world. Earlier Langham had spotted, like a bird-watcher, a Nobel laureate, an old poet of the Georgian school, three bestselling novelists and a recipient of the Hawthornden Prize. A dozen or so lesser species of novelist, like himself, were interspersed among the gathering like hedge sparrows. His agent, Charles Elder, moved from group to group, dispensing wit and charm in equal measure. His annual garden party for clients and friends was the highpoint of his social calendar, and Langham wouldn't have missed it for the world.

He smiled up at Maria. 'Well, girl – do you believe in spooks, or not?'

She twisted her lips into a contemplative moue. 'I am not so sure, Donald. I think I sit upon the fence on this matter. I am agnostic.'

He squinted at her. 'You are strange. How can you be agnostic about ghosts? You either believe or disbelieve.'

'Ah, Donald – there you go with your certainties. Things are always black and white with you, no? There are no grey areas.'

He hoisted his empty glass. 'Guilty as charged. Makes life easier.'

'When I was a little girl,' she said, sitting down beside him on the garden seat and laying an elegant hand on his arm, 'living in Paris with my father, I thought I saw something.'

He stared at her, in thrall to her beauty and the cadence of her accent. He could listen to her all day. 'Go on. What was it?'

'We lived in a big penthouse suite in the centre of the city. My father was a minister in the newly formed government and we had just moved to a luxury apartment.' She gave a wonderfully theatrical shiver. 'I should have liked the suite perhaps, but it gave me the jeebie-heebies. What are you smiling at?' she said.

'The heebie-jeebies,' he said.

'Those too, Donald. Anyway, one room in particular frightened me, and I wouldn't go into it. It was the library, at the back of the apartment. It was always in shadow, and the atmosphere was ... terr-eeble. One day, when I was hurrying past the open door, I glanced in and saw a figure. An old man with grey hair, sitting by the window and looking out ... Only,' she went on, staring at him with wide eyes, 'there was no one else in the apartment other than me and my father. Now, Donald, I went screaming to my father and told him about the mysterious figure, but of course when he investigated it was not there. But,' she said, squeezing his arm, 'a week later I overheard two of my father's guests talking one evening about the library ... and they let it slip that fifty years earlier the owner of the apartment had been shot dead in that very room! Now, Donald, what do you think of that?'

He regarded her, trying not to smile. 'I think,' he said, 'that perhaps you heard the guests talking about the murder before you thought you saw the figure, and your overactive little girl's mind fabricated the apparition.'

She gave a genteel snort and slapped his forearm. 'You are a terrible man, Donald Langham! Anyway, I did not say that I defin-itely believe in ghosts, merely that I sit upon the fence. I certainly saw something that day, but I have never seen anything like it since.'

He just stared at her. While recuperating in hospital he'd decided that, at the first opportune moment, he would ask Maria Dupré to marry him. To that end he had suggested a break away in the country. Maria had agreed with alacrity, and Langham had found a small hotel tucked away in the depths of the countryside. They were to motor up to Suffolk on Monday, and later in the week he'd get down on bended knee – wound permitting – and pop the question.

She waved a hand before his eyes. 'Donald! Attention, please! You are miles away.'

'Sorry, just smitten by your beauty, Maria. Anyway, why all the talk of ghosts and ghouls?'

'I saw Alasdair Endicott over there, talking to Dame Amelia, and I was reminded of ghosts.'

Langham peered across the lawn at the willowy, rather effete young man paying polite attention to the dowager novelist. 'Yes, he does look rather pale and ghost-like, doesn't he?'

'Silly! He's just written a rather good novel about a haunting. I read it a while ago. I'm sure I told you at the time.'

'You read so much,' he said, 'and so fast.'

'And you were daydreaming about your next masterpiece, Donald. Do you know, you get that strange dreamy look in your eyes when you're plotting, and I can say any number of things and you don't hear a word.'

'I'm sorry, but I find that hard to believe. I hang on your every word.'

Someone stepped between Langham and the intense July sunlight, and he looked up to see Charles Elder. 'Donald!' Charles boomed. 'How remiss of me! Your glass is empty and here I am, putting the world to rights with Sir Peregrine and neglecting my guests!' He crossed to a nearby table and came back with a Pimm's.

'Now, what were you little lovebirds chattering about, if I might be so tactless as to enquire?'

'I was asking Donald if he believed in ghosts, Charles. Of course, being very English and very rational, he doesn't.'

Charles said, '"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio ..."'

Charles was looking good, Langham thought, despite being released from hospital just a week ago – having suffered at the hands of the same gunman who was responsible for putting a hole through his own torso. His agent had lost a little weight, but was still gargantuan, and his porcine face was bright red in the afternoon heat. His luxuriant head of hair, snow white, stood up like whipped cream.

'But my dear Maria,' Charles continued, 'Donald is a materialist, and believes in nothing that he cannot grasp in his own two hands.'

'You do me a disservice, Charles,' Langham protested.

'I was telling Donald about Alasdair's novel, The Haunting,' Maria said.

'Aha!' Charles cried. 'Now if the experiences of young Alasdair aren't enough to convince the most hardened sceptic of life beyond, then I don't know what is.'

'I thought you said it was a novel, Maria?' Langham said.

'Oh, it is,' Charles said, 'but a novel based on his own experiences, apparently. I'll introduce you, and he can tell you all about it. A word of warning, though. Alasdair is a nice boy, but painfully shy.'

Charles sallied forth, waving the shooting stick he'd taken to using since leaving hospital, and buttonholed the young man.

Langham glanced at Maria. 'Have you met Alasdair Endicott?' he asked.

She nodded. 'And he's very strange. But here they come.'

Alasdair Endicott's face was gaunt and weak-chinned, and his resemblance to a goat was helped by a wispy moustache and feeble beard. Langham would not have been surprised to espy horns emerging from between the strands of his lank brown hair.

The young man bobbed his head as Charles made the introductions, his watery eyes flickering towards Donald and Maria and then away.

He offered a boneless hand to Langham in a limp shake. 'Delighted to meet you, Mr Langham,' he murmured with a flinching diffidence that spoke of a severe nervous disorder.

Charles clapped a meaty hand on Alasdair's shoulder, almost knocking him off his feet. 'Alasdair's novel landed on the doormat a couple of months ago, and if it were not for Maria's diligence in reading everything that passes over the threshold it might still be languishing there. Out later this year, from Gollancz,' he finished.

'Congratulations.' Langham smiled, unable to suppress a quick stab of jealousy.

Maria said, 'We were talking about ghosts, Alasdair. Donald here does not believe in them. But I told him that your novel was based on your own experiences, no?'

A pained look passed across the young man's features. 'That ... that's correct, yes,' he stammered.

Maria shivered. 'I must tell you that I have never read anything more terrifying! Even M.R. James does not compare.'

Alasdair blushed.

'Your own experiences?' Langham prompted.

Charles mopped his face with a large bandana and suggested they beat a retreat from the direct sunlight. They made for the gazebo in the corner of the garden and seated themselves in the shade.

The young man seemed reluctant to speak about his experiences, so Langham pressed, 'If you don't mind enlightening a convinced sceptic ... what exactly did you experience, Alasdair?'

'Ah ... well.' Alasdair stared down at the floorboards of the gazebo and looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'If you are a sceptic, Mr Langham, then I advise you to remain so.'

Maria leaned forward, wide-eyed. 'In the opening of the novel the hero is present when a demon is summoned at a séance ...'

Alasdair laughed nervously and waved a limp hand, like a pale fish that had lost the will to live. 'I had a ... a strange experience while living in America as a child.'

'A séance, my boy?' said Charles. 'Do tell!'

'A séance, yes.' Alasdair swallowed, and his prominent Adam's apple bobbed. 'Before the war I lived with my father in Hollywood. He was a screenwriter, and one evening he ... he hired the services of a medium.'

'What happened?' Maria asked.

Alasdair coloured under her attention and stammered, 'Pretty much what I described in the novel.'

Maria explained. 'In the first scene, our sceptical hero is convinced when the medium manifests the spirit of his dead wife ...'

'And you witnessed this?' Langham asked.

The young man coloured to the roots of his hair and murmured, 'Unfortunately, yes.' He smiled shyly at Langham and, as if unhappy with the topic of conversation, changed the subject. 'But I understand you once knew my father – Edward Endicott, the mystery novelist.'

Langham sat back, surprised. Edward Endicott was a tall, robust man in his sixties, an ex-Hollywood screenwriter who penned mystery thrillers under the byline of E.L. Endicott: a more complete contrast to his diffident son could not be imagined.

'And how is Edward?' Langham asked. 'I haven't seen him for years.'

'Well ... He was working on his mystery novels until a month or so ago.'

'Was?' Langham echoed. 'But no longer?' He always felt uneasy when he heard that fellow writers were suffering from writer's block – as if it were a malady he himself might catch.

'A few weeks ago he became obsessed with a new subject, and decided to write a book about him.'

'Him?' Maria asked.

The young man hesitated under the trio's scrutiny. 'One Vivian Stafford,' he said.

Langham repeated the name. 'I'm sorry, I've never heard of him.'

Charles was massaging his considerable chin. 'Wait a minute! By Jove, I do think the name rings a bell. Just a moment ... Wasn't Stafford some kind of satanist, way back in Victorian times? Contemporary of Crowley, Mathers and all that crowd?'

Alasdair nodded. 'Stafford led his own coven and dabbled in the dark arts. He was, in his own words, a confidant of the Devil himself.'

Maria looked at Langham and hugged herself with delicious fright.

'My father met the man a few weeks ago and became interested in him,' Alasdair said. 'Then a week or two ago he ... he experienced some kind of occult evening at which Stafford exhibited his ... powers.'

'How fascinating!' Maria declared.

Langham was about to press the young man for further details when Sir Peregrine Carstairs appeared at the entrance to the gazebo and boomed, 'So this is where you're hiding yourself, Elder! Out with you, man! I have Williams and Frobisher and the rest, wanting all the gory details of the attack. I've never known you pass up the opportunity to tell a good story.' Carstairs nodded to the company. 'Excuse me while I steal the old man!'

Charles put up a vain protest, but allowed himself to be led back across the lawn to where his audience awaited.

'Now, where were we?' Langham said, turning back to Alasdair Endicott – or rather to the seat which, just seconds ago, the young man had occupied.

He appeared to have slipped away – as elusive as one of his ghosts, Langham thought.

'Did you see where he went?' he asked Maria.

She pointed across the garden to the path which led along the side of the house. Langham was just in time to see Endicott junior making good his escape through the gate.

'Well ... what do you make of that?' he asked.

'As Charles said,' Maria said, tucking in her chin and imitating Charles's baritone, '"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio ..."'

Langham laughed. 'Damned odd, if you ask me. I've met Edward Endicott quite a few times. Splendid chap. No nonsense, down-to-earth type. Not the sort who'd get mixed up in all that satanist rubbish.'

Maria shrugged. 'Well, you heard what Alasdair said. His father seems quite obsessed.'

Langham frowned, unsettled at the thought of Edward Endicott wasting his time writing about a sham satanist. He glanced at his wristwatch.

Maria grabbed his arm and whispered into his ear, 'Let's escape! You did say you'd treat me one night to a meal at Le Moulin Bleu.'

'I did, didn't I? Well, seeing as it's you ...'

'And you did get paid by Worley and Greenwood last week.'

'That's the trouble with falling in love with your agent's deputy,' Langham bewailed. 'She knows exactly when and what you've been paid!' He made a swipe for her derrière as she laughed and danced out of the gazebo.

He climbed to his feet, wincing at the sharp pain in his chest, lit his pipe and followed Maria across the lawn to say his goodbyes to Charles and his guests.

CHAPTER 2

Caroline Dequincy bought a pair of sunglasses and three new lipsticks from the cosmetics counter at Harrods, then treated herself to coffee and cake at the café on the third floor. The latter was an indulgence which she succumbed to every time she left the sleepy village of Humble Barton and took the train up to London. Heaven knew, she deserved the occasional treat. Her life since leaving the States after the war and settling in England had been, on the surface, a smooth transition from the hectic and meretricious lifestyle of Hollywood to the quiet peacefulness of English country life. She didn't miss Los Angeles, or the movie business, in the slightest – and her infrequent American visitors just loved her little thatched cottage tucked away down a leafy Suffolk lane. What people failed to discern was the truth that dwelled just beneath the tranquil surface of her existence. We are all prisoners of our past, she was fond of reminding herself; prisoners of our mistakes which we cannot undo and which we must therefore live with. She had lived with her big mistake for over thirty years now, but only in the past few weeks had it returned to haunt her.

And on top of that there was all this business with Edward ...

She watched a couple seated at a table across the café. They were middle-aged, perhaps a few years her junior, and obviously lovers. She imagined that they had snatched time away from their respective spouses to rendezvous like this, and they reminded Caroline of a scene from Brief Encounter – the way they held hands across the table and spoke quickly, confidingly. She lit a cigarette – a Du Maurier, another small indulgence – and snorted a billow of smoke like an angry dragon. That's what I probably look like, she thought: an angry old dragon resentful of the happiness of others.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Murder at the Chase by Eric Brown. Copyright © 2014 Eric Brown. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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