Dead on Cue

Table of Contents

Recent Titles by Deryn Lake from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE MILLS OF GOD

DEAD ON CUE

DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID

DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain 2012 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

First published in the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2012 by Deryn Lake.

The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Lake, Deryn.

Dead on cue.

1. Police–England–Sussex–Fiction. 2. Vicars,

Parochial–England–Sussex–Fiction. 3. Murder–

Investigation–England–Sussex–Fiction. 4. Detective

and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-354-9 (epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8226-4 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-460-8 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

In memory of my little half-sister, Petrea Elizabeth, who
died when she was four hours old.
How different things might have been.

My most profound thanks to my friend and colleague Jean McConnell, who wrote and directed the Son et Lumière at Tonbridge Castle on which my story is based. Both myself and my two children were fortunate enough to act in this wonderful show and I can truly say that it was one of the great experiences of all our lives. I have never been better directed and how one small woman could amass and control that enormous cast is a stupendous feat. Bravo Jean. And may your play,
Deckchairs
, for which you are better known, be acted for evermore.

T
he smell of an early autumn bonfire drifted by his nostrils as Nick Lawrence dozed in a striped deckchair on a Saturday afternoon. It was a pleasant aroma, vaguely reminiscent of marmalade and marijuana. He had eaten the first but never smoked the latter, though he had once sniffed the air at a party and been informed by a giggling girl that that was what the unknown fragrance had been, adding to his somewhat limited knowledge of the subject. Beside him, on a small garden table, stood a portable radio from which the low and somehow comforting voice of a cricket commentator was speaking in a steady monotone. On his lap, perched rather uncomfortably, sat Radetsky, a mass of purring ginger fur. It was a golden early autumn day, it was a Saturday, and the Reverend Nicholas Lawrence was taking his ease. And then inside the vicarage the telephone began to ring. Coming back to full consciousness, Nick uttered a mild curse, removed Radetsky from his resting place, and made his way indoors.

The voice at the other end was extremely flustered. ‘Oh, Father Nick, I do hope I haven't disturbed you.'

‘No, not at all, Mavis. I was in the garden, that's all. What can I do for you?'

‘Well, I've just shown a most interesting man round the church and he says he is extremely anxious to meet you. To cut a long story short –' as if his churchwarden possibly could, Nick thought – ‘he has just moved into the village – only been here a week – and says he wants to take part in every aspect of village life. There's only one snag that I can see – and that would apply to the older folk, of course, not the younger set.' Mavis laughed gaily.

‘And that is?'

‘He's black.'

‘Really, Mavis,' said the vicar severely, ‘you shouldn't say such things. A man is a man, regardless of the colour of his skin.'

‘Oh, I know that, Father Nick, indeed I do. I was just thinking of poor old Mrs Deakin.'

‘Well, she will just have to get on with it. Racial prejudice is a thing of the past and the sooner she gets that through her head the better.'

‘But she's ninety-four,' Mavis protested.

Nick smiled sadly. There were some things to which there was absolutely no answer. He changed the subject.

‘What's the name of the newcomer?'

‘Gerry Harlington. He gave me a card. I think he's an American. He had quite a strong accent.'

‘Is he attending church tomorrow?'

‘Says he wouldn't miss it for the world.'

‘Good. I shall make a point of speaking to him.'

‘Oh please do, Father. I know he'll appreciate it.'

‘I shall be certain to make him welcome. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?'

‘No, Vicar.'

‘Good, then I'll see you in church.'

Nick put down the phone and walked back into the garden. Radetsky had taken his place in the deckchair. Nick shoved him off and resumed his earlier position, turning the radio up a little louder. But this time he remained wide awake, thinking about the extraordinary village of Lakehurst and its strange mixture of inhabitants, many of whom seemed caught in a time warp.

He had come to the parish, newly appointed by Bishop Claude, exactly a year ago, Nick thought to himself as Radetsky whizzed on to his lap once more. And what a time that had been. Almost within days of his arrival a serial killer had struck, killing at random, a diseased and cruel mind apparently, yet all along there had been one intended victim. And by a fluke Nick had actually been able to help the police with the clue that linked the whole ghastly affair into one neat pattern.

Nick smiled to himself as Radetsky turned three times then settled down. The police had been represented on that occasion by Inspector Dominic Tennant, he of the gooseberry-green eyes and pixieish charm. The vicar had the feeling that Tennant must have been quite an innovation in the Sussex force bringing about, no doubt, mixed emotions from his fellow officers. His assistant, Detective Sergeant Potter, had been far more what one imagined a policeman would be like. Young, straightforward, somewhat unimaginative, but fiercely loyal to his superior officer. Nick had liked them both and wished that it had been possible to have kept in more regular contact.

The cricket commentary ended and Nick glanced at his watch. It was six o'clock and time for the evening news. He removed the cat and went into the house to switch the television on. An hour later found him in The Great House downing a pint before going home to cook his supper and have a reasonably early night. It had been a joyfully quiet Saturday with no weddings, no services, no parish duties, nothing but a long glorious day to himself. Yet, despite the presence of the cat and William – Nick's noisy but cheerful resident ghost – he had experienced the occasional pang of solitude and with them had come thoughts of Olivia Beauchamp.

She had not been around in Lakehurst for quite some while, booked for a world tour that would last for months. Nick had received a postcard from China and had imagined her, dark head bent over the violin, her enigmatic beauty smouldering, playing to a strangely quiet audience until the end when they would burst into loud and sustained applause. He could almost see her taking her bow, slim as a reed in her sulky red dress, her black hair tossing back as the conductor kissed her hand.

His reverie was spoilt by a voice saying politely, ‘Good evening, Nick.'

He looked up from his pint to see that Dr Kasper Rudniski had joined him. Tonight the doctor looked dreamy in a pair of jeans made of dark-blue denim that fitted like a second skin. Above these he had a crisp white shirt with ballooning sleeves that made him resemble a Russian doll. It had clearly been purchased in Poland and was of a style that Nick remembered in the sixties. However, everything looked good on the handsome doctor and there was the usual small murmur from the barmaids and various other young females as he walked into the bar.

‘Hello, Kasper,' answered Nick, and wondered if the doctor and Olivia had ever exchanged a passionate kiss. But such thoughts were banished by the sudden sound of Jack Boggis, sitting in his usual place – back turned, facing the wall – chortling loudly at a piece in the
Daily Telegraph
.

Kasper looked at Nick, raised an eyebrow and said, ‘
Plus ça change
.'

It seemed to the vicar that ever since time began Jack Boggis had been sitting in the same chair in the same pub reading the same paper and would continue to do so until at last his corpse was discovered in the same position, stiff as a board, still holding a pint to its purplish lips. He grinned to himself and muttered his thoughts into Kasper's ear. And there they were, giggling like a couple of schoolboys, when the outer door opened and footsteps could be heard approaching the bar. The next second an apparition appeared in the entrance, standing stock still, surveying the scene, and grinning when every eye – with the exception of Boggis's – turned in its direction.

‘Why,' it said in a deep Southern States drawl, ‘if this isn't just the sweetest little public house in the whole wide world.'

The owner of the voice, a short, small and somewhat plain-of-feature black man, wearing the most wonderful cape, fully lined in red, together with a pair of matching trousers and pink handmade shoes, stood posing in the doorway, waiting for every eye to turn in his direction. For some reason Nick was reminded of Sammy Davis Jr whom he had seen in films during his childhood.

‘Can I have your autograph?' shouted one of the rough trade round by the fruit machines.

‘Why most certainly you can,' replied the newcomer, and, with a flourish of his cape, he produced a pen and crossed over to where the other lounged in ancient jeans and a stained T-shirt.

Startled, the youth said, ‘Are you famous then?'

‘Allow me to give you my card,' said the American, producing one and simultaneously writing his name on the back of a beer mat. ‘You see, I am Gerry Harlington.'

‘Who?' whispered Kasper.

Nick looked puzzled. ‘I don't know except that I've heard he's new in the village. Perhaps he is something in films.'