Mrs. Malory and A Time To Die

Table of Contents

 

“Delightful.”—
The Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Ah, what joy to read Hazel Holt. . . . The book delights at every page. . . . To be treasured.”

—
The Sunday Times
(London)

“This is the kind of mystery to reach for after a day spent battling the hordes at the local mall.”

—
The Washington Post

“A wonderful heroine—with just the perfect balance of humor, introspection, and vulnerability.”

—
St. Petersburg Times

“A soothing, gentle treat. . . . The literate, enjoyable Mrs. Sheila Malory is back.”

—
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“Holt’s descriptions and characterizations shine. . . . She invigorates both village and villagers with brisk liveliness.”—
Romantic Times

“Finely textured. . . . Sink comfortably with the heroine into a burnished old pub or a cup of tea. . . . Full of elegant shadings of place and character and appealing local color. . . . Anglophiles will delight in the authentically British Mrs. Malory.”—
Booklist

“A delectable treat for cozy lovers, British style.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“A delight. . . . Warm, vivid descriptions.”

—
Time Out
(London)

“The fundamental British cozy . . . first class.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“Interesting . . . enjoyable. . . . If you haven’t discovered Mrs. Malory, I highly recommend reading the rest of the series.”—
Mystery News

Also by Hazel Holt

OBSIDIAN
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, December 2008

Copyright © Hazel Holt, 2008

All rights reserved

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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eISBN : 978-1-440-64335-4

—Ecclesiastes 3:1

Chapter One

“Keep his head up, Fiona! Straighten up, Jemma. You’re like a sack of potatoes! Poppy, don’t check him too soon. That’s good, Hannah. Keep him moving!”

I watched, with some affection, the tall woman taking a class of young riders in the ring.

“Jo really is fantastic,” I said to my friend Rosemary. “She must be seventy if she’s a day. She’s so full of energy; she never stops! How does she do it?”

“Oh, metabolism,” Rosemary said, “or whatever they call it. Some people have it and some people haven’t. I haven’t.”

“Oh, nor do I, but I do envy people who have. I mean, just looking at all this”—I gestured towards the stables, the fields with horses grazing and the ring set up with jumps in the field below—“makes me long to go for a ride again. After all, I’m younger than Jo, but I just
know
how much I’d ache and how nervous I’d be about injuring myself. Feeble, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense,” Rosemary replied robustly, “just sensible. Jo’s been riding every day of her life for the last goodness knows how many years. You haven’t. Anyway,” she continued with the candor of an old friend, “you’ve never been much of a one for taking exercise.”

The voice from below went on. “Martha, keep your hands
down.
Don’t pull at his mouth like that! Jemma, lower leg
forwards
!”

Clear and mellifluous, each word audible even at this distance, it was a splendid voice, as well it might be. Josephine Howard, as she was then, was used to making herself heard at the back of the upper circle without a microphone. We tend to forget that Jo was one of the leading actresses of her day. Looking at her now, with her brown, weather-beaten face and untidy, cropped gray hair, it’s difficult to trace the beauty that illuminated her Rosalind, her Viola and her enchanting Beatrice. Just occasionally a graceful movement or gesture brings back memories. And there’s the voice, of course.

“I wonder,” I said, “if she ever regrets giving it up—the stage, I mean.”

“She seems happy enough,” Rosemary said, “and she still adores
him.
”

At the height of her career Jo had abandoned the theater to marry Charlie Hamilton, and embraced with enthusiasm his world of horses. It wasn’t surprising, I suppose; his charm was legendary. In our cynical age, charm is something dubious, almost a pejorative term, but Charlie’s was the real thing. It still is. He’s one of the nicest people I know and the niceness has survived some pretty awful bad luck.

When he married Jo, he was a brilliant show jumper, Olympic standard. He bred his own horses and rode them magnificently. Until, that is, he had a bad fall and his leg never mended properly. He went on breeding horses, but the business didn’t prosper. He was let down badly by some financial backers, and it was Jo who finally called a halt. She persuaded him to come back to Taviscombe, where she’d been born and brought up, and set up the riding school with their remaining capital. Through determination and hard work she’d made it a success, and the quieter life seems to suit them.

Just then we saw Charlie crossing the stable yard. He’d finally and reluctantly taken to a walking stick, which he raised in greeting when he saw us. We waved back, and Rosemary said, “You can see why she does—adore him, I mean.”

We watched him fondly as he went into one of the horse boxes. He doesn’t ride anymore but still gives the occasional lesson and is always busy with the horses in one way or another.

“When you think,” Rosemary went on, “about the sort of life he’s had and how unlucky he’s been, it’s amazing that he never seems bitter or resentful—always cheerful and in good spirits.”

“And Jo’s the same,” I agreed. “I suppose they’re content, and how many of us can say that?”

A small group of riders appeared in the distance.

“Oh, good,” Rosemary said, “that’s Delia’s ride coming back. I hoped they’d be back on time because I’ve got to collect Alex from his piano lesson at half past.”

Rosemary’s daughter, Jilly (my goddaughter), has a sprained ankle and can’t drive, so Rosemary has taken on the task of ferrying her grandchildren to and from the many social and leisure activities that the young seem to need to engage in nowadays.

“
We
were never driven about everywhere,” I said. “We went by bus or on our bikes.”

“Goodness, yes,” Rosemary said, laughing. “Do you remember that time we cycled to the Valley of Rocks and you got a puncture? It started to get dark and our parents were frantic—no phones anywhere, of course, and certainly no mobiles!”

“But it was practically the only time they
did
get frantic,” I said. “We had so much more freedom then. And, actually, Michael and your two got about quite a bit on their own.”

“I think,” Rosemary said thoughtfully, “that was just about the end of the age of innocence. Before all the dreadful tabloid stories and the horrors on television. And there was less traffic even then. I know Jilly gets really anxious when Alex insists on cycling to school.” She sighed. “Sad, but I don’t think we’ll ever get back to the way things were.”

The riders had now dismounted, and I saw Delia leading her horse back into the yard.

“Oh dear,” Rosemary said, “I hope she’s not going to hang around there. I do want to get back for Alex, and once she gets into those stables . . .”

But Delia emerged quite soon.

“Hello, Gran,” she said, taking off all the impediments that safety regulations seem to require (I know they’re sensible, but I’m always delighted to see the Queen out riding, wearing a head scarf).

Delia acknowledged my presence in the casual way the young do.

“Did you have a nice ride, darling?” Rosemary asked.

“Yes, I had Tsar. I love him; he’s very lively.”

“That gray one looks nice too,” Rosemary said. “He looks just like the old rocking horse I had when I was a child.”

Delia looked at her grandmother in horror. “Gran, how could you! Someone might have heard you—
so
embarrassing!”