Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death

Table of Contents

 

“The very model of the modern mystery cozy.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Delightful.”

—
The Cleveland Plain Dealer

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

—
The Sunday Times
(U.K.)

“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

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

 

First Printing, December 2009

Copyright © Hazel Holt, 2009

All rights reserved

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-15582-0

—John Donne

 

 

 

“If you ask me,” Anthea said, “I think it’s a
great
mistake.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said mildly. “They are sisters after all, and they always used to get on well together.”

“Years ago. Things are very different now. Rachel’s used to having her own home and doing things her own way. And you remember how she always used to want to run everything.”

This, coming from Anthea, who runs most things in Taviscombe, was pretty rich. “I’m sure they’ll work it out,” I said. “After all, they both live alone, and if Rachel wants to come back here now that Alastair’s dead, it makes a lot of sense.”

“I can’t think why Phyllis stayed on in that enormous house after her father died. She’d have been much better off in a nice bungalow.”

“Oh, but it’s been the family home for generations,” I said. “Her grandfather built it before the Great War. It was one of the first new houses to be built in Mere Barton—I remember Mother saying there was quite a bit of excitement about it at the time. I know Phyll couldn’t bear to live anywhere else, and I expect Rachel has many happy memories of it.”

“Well, it’s still far too big for the two of them,” Anthea persisted. “I thought as much when Dr. Gregory was alive and it was just him and Phyllis.”

“Oh, he’d never have moved,” I said. “He loved the house and being in the village, especially after he retired; he was so much a part of the place. I must say, I couldn’t imagine the village without him.”

“Anyway, why does Rachel want to come back after all those years in Scotland? I’d have thought she’d have made her own life up there.”

“Inverness was Alastair’s home,” I said, “and when he was offered a practice there, of course he took it. I’m sure she was quite happy while he was alive, but I don’t think she would have wanted to stay there without him.”

“But what about the son? Where’s he?”

“Jamie? Oh, he’s gone off to Africa somewhere—Médecins sans Frontières—something like that. So Rachel’s quite on her own.”

There was a brief silence while Anthea considered and filed away the information she’d acquired.

“So, when’s this welcome home party, then?” she asked.

“Rachel’s due here next week, and I expect she’ll want time to settle in, but Phyll thought she’d just let us know what she’s got planned.”

“Well, I hope it’s not on a Wednesday,” Anthea said. “I’m never free on Wednesdays.”

“I’m sure Phyll will remember that,” I said.

Rachel Craig was an old school friend, part of our special group.

“It’ll be nice to see her again,” Rosemary said. “It’s ages since she’s been back in Taviscombe.”

“Well, it’s quite a journey from Inverness, even if you fly. She did come back for her mother’s funeral, though. If you remember, she couldn’t get away for Dr. Gregory’s because Alastair was so ill then. Poor Phyll was very upset about that.”

“Oh, Phyll always put her father before anyone else,” Rosemary said. “Look at the way she gave up a perfectly good job to come back and look after him when her mother died.”

“She never seemed to me to be that keen on a career—not like Rachel.”

“She could have been head of her department if she’d stayed on at that school in Portsmouth.”

“I suppose so, but she always said she really only liked the teaching—and I can see she’d be a splendid teacher—but she’d be hopeless with a lot of paperwork. Rachel, now, was Alastair’s nurse-practitioner and pretty well ran the whole thing. I only hope she finds enough scope in Mere Barton for all her energies!”

“Well, if Anthea’s right,” Rosemary said, “and she does intend to run the village, she’ll find pretty stiff opposition from Annie.”

Annie Roberts used to be the district nurse, and even though she’s retired, she’s still greatly in demand for unofficial consultations. She sees herself—rightly—as the hub of the village, living where she does right in the middle of the main street, next to the village shop. The door of Willow Cottage usually stands open so that Annie can see who’s passing and engage them in conversation. She’s the repository of a great deal of information about what goes on in the village, but she never gossips. “Patient confidentiality,” she always says when asked about anything, pressing her lips tightly together to indicate the degree of her integrity. In addition to all that, she runs most of the village activities—she’s in charge of the village hall, president of the Women’s Institute, treasurer of the parochial church council, and it’s Annie who makes the collection for Poppy Day and other flag days for worthy causes. “Well, I’ve got the time, you see, now that I’m retired,” she says, ignoring the fact that a large proportion of the population of Mere Barton are also retired and longing for something to occupy their newly acquired leisure. Though, of course, she is perfectly happy to enroll them as her lieutenants, carrying out her orders, as it were, and, as yet, no one has had the courage to challenge her leadership. Not that she is a formidable figure—she’s barely five feet. She has, however, the immense energy that small people often seem to have, and to see her about the village on some ploy or another is like watching a purposeful darting insect.

I laughed. “Oh, I think Rachel knows enough not to take on Annie.”

“Or Anthea at Brunswick Lodge?” Rosemary suggested. Brunswick Lodge, a large eighteenth-century house, is the social and cultural center of Taviscombe, and Anthea’s own particular fiefdom.

“Don’t! That’s a terrible thought! But, actually, Rachel is far too tactful to make any sort of overt take-over. If she wanted to, she’d do it so subtly that the person taken over from would actually thank her! Do you remember at school how she always got her own way without seeming to try?”