Literary Murder

Chapter One

Alina Merrycott closed the book carefully and laid it on her lap. She rested her head against the cushion, unsure how she felt about the ending. Was she uplifted or let down? She didn’t know, dissatisfied was probably closer to the mark, she realised. Reaching over to drink the last of her tea, she was disappointed to discover that it was cold. She picked the book up and turned to the front cover. The Doves of Avebury, Lucinda Elmhurst. With eyes closed, she traced her fingertips over the raised lettering of the title, the author’s name and, the two doves on the wing underneath.

‘Was it any good?’

Alina jumped. Unusually she hadn’t heard her teenage daughter thump downstairs and enter the room.

Claire flopped onto the sofa, taking the book from her mother’s hands. ‘It looks nice,’ she said, holding the book up to the light. The embossed French navy words glistened against the pale primrose of the simple book cover.

Alina bit the inside of her lip. Lucinda, her old school friend, was very proud of this book. It was her latest in a string of novels. Received with great reviews, Doves was well on its way to being a bestseller and Lucinda was visiting the following week, taking up residence at Lighthouse Cottage whilst she addressed the crowds at the Eastwold literary festival.

‘It’s okay.’ Alina drew out the words, twisting her hands in her lap.

‘But not brilliant?’

‘I think… yes, I preferred the other one.’

‘That’s going to be fun, having her to stay when you hate her book,’ Claire sniggered. ‘Can I read it?’

Alina narrowed her eyes at Claire. Do I hate it? Aloud she said, ‘Yes, I suppose so. It’ll be interesting to see what you think of it.’

‘I loved The Night Passage,’ Claire replied. ‘How do you know her again?’

‘School,’ said Alina. ‘I thought she’d prefer the Eastwold Hotel but apparently she wants to catch up on old times. I’ve not seen Lucinda since nursing school. We’ve kept in touch. Letters here and there, you know the sort of thing.’

‘You olds are fascinated by letters, aren’t you? I don’t understand why you’ve not caught on to emails.’

‘Handwritten letters are much nicer. More personal, I think,’ said Alina. ‘And I’ve been pleased to watch her literary career progress. I’m thrilled this book is doing well.’

‘Even though you don’t like it. I might give it a try later.’ She placed the book on her mother’s lap and rose. ‘I’m off to see Eloise. Back later.’

‘Don’t be late for dinner.’ But Claire had already left, the front door quivering on its hinges. Alina pushed the book to one side. A fresh cup of tea would be nice, she thought. On the point of rising to go and fill the kettle, she was thrust into her seat as Thalia, her seal point Siamese cat, leaped onto her vacant lap. Thalia purred, kneading her paws on Alina’s thighs.

Alina smiled and stroked the smooth silky head, leaning back against the sofa cushions. Stretching out her legs and wiggling her toes, she beamed, knowing she could have a few more minutes. She had a rare day off from work; a break from her two jobs, district nurse and part time vicar.

She’d taken the day off to straighten up her bedroom for her guest—ensuring it was ready for Lucinda’s visit, but the book had arrived a few days ago and she’d decided to take the rest of this day to finish it.

Closing her eyes, she wondered how long it had been since she’d last seen Lucinda. A wedding? A christening? Something like that. Whilst both had studied nursing, their lives had diverged after university, Lucinda had been called to the wild places, working with Médecins Sans Frontiers or Doctors Without Borders, before writing her first novel, The Night Passage.

Thalia moved higher up Alina’s chest rubbing her head against her mistress’s chin. Eyes still closed, Alina scratched the cat behind her ears. The purring became even louder. A slow rhythm and Alina’s breathing synchronised with that of the cat. She’d loved The Night Passage, all the women in the Eastwold Women’s Guild book group had loved it. Alina wondered what they’d make of this new offering. She was unsure if Lucinda had developed as a writer or not. This new narrative lacked the soaring prose of the first novel, but, Alina decided, she’d wait on the women of the Guild for their literary insights. Then she jumped, opening her eyes suddenly. What would the book group do now? Both Kitty Blenkinsop and Fiona Pomeroy were dead. They’d been the leading lights in the group. Offering literary insights to prose that Alina had neither seen nor understood. Kitty had always been more forceful in her opinions, but then, hadn’t she been over everything? Fiona was more reserved, much more thoughtful. Her views, however, had resonated deeply with Alina. She sighed. She missed them both, and no doubt others in the small town of Eastwold by the Sea missed them too. Fiona definitely, she mused, wondering if people really did miss Kitty. Not many people had been at her funeral so perhaps not. Was Ralph Pomeroy missed by his cronies at the golf club? They’d taken their time electing a new club captain so perhaps they did.

Still, this reminiscing wasn’t getting the bedroom or the rest of the cottage ready for her guest who was arriving at the weekend. Alina picked up her list of things to do from the table by her sofa.

Relieved, she marked a tick against sermon. It was written and sitting on her desk in the attic room she used as her study. Flowers—blast! That was a nuisance. She’d have to drive to the next village to buy those since the recent closure of Flowers by Fifi. The windows of Fiona’s florist shop were covered in newspaper and a For Sale sign hung over the door. Alina hoped that someone would buy it soon. The high street looked so bare, with an empty shop.

Ralph and Fiona’s impressive mock Tudor house overlooking the village green was for sale too, as was Kitty’s thatched cottage. Though “cottage” was hardly the right name for it after the extensions and improvements that Kitty had carried out. Alina imagined inverted commas around the word improvements and then chastised herself for being uncharitable. Kitty had had a certain way of doing things and the changes she’d made to the cottage reflected that part of her abrasive personality.

Poor Kitty. She’d made few friends in the village and there were not many people to mourn her passing.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, Alina. Stop being so maudlin. Snap out of it.

Ignoring Thalia’s protests, Alina picked the cat up and placed her on a sofa cushion.

‘There’s work to be done, Thalia,’ she said. ‘And I’m running out of time in which to do it.’

She placed the book on the coffee table, absentmindedly tapping its cover as she did so. Did it give her an insight into Lucinda’s personality after all this time? What was it going to be like seeing her again? Alina pursed her lips and made her way up the stairs to her bedroom, stripped the bedding and replaced it with fresh sheets, pillows and a duvet from the airing cupboard. The other pillows and the duvet she took to the attic room and made up the sofa bed. Looking up at the Velux windows in the roof, she hoped that the lack of curtains would not let in too much light; she imagined it would be like sleeping under the stars without the inconvenience of cold breezes, bugs, and slugs. Only time would tell.