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Overview
Frog End, that most quintessential of English villages, is preparing for its annual Christmas pantomime. This year, it’s Hans Christian Andersen’s dark fairytale The Snow Queen. Local busybody Marjorie Cuthbertson is on the hunt for her leading lady—and who better to play the icy queen than beautiful new resident, ex-model Joan Dryden. But as interested as they are in their new neighbors, the residents of Frog End remain wary of the Dryden family, considering them aloof Londoners.
The townspeople have bigger things to worry about, however. Mystery engulfs the village when a cast member collapses and dies at a Christmas party, having consumed a rogue mince pie. Was the death an accident . . . or was it a malicious revenge strategy masked as an allergic reaction? The Colonel makes it his business to find out.
This is book five in the Village Mysteries.
“As cozy as a mug of hot chocolate and a roaring fire, this one will hold strong appeal for genre fans.” —Booklist
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781780107448 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House Publishers |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2016 |
| Series: | The Village Mysteries , #5 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 160 |
| Sales rank: | 857,759 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Bitter Poison
A Village Mystery
By Margaret Mayhew
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 Margaret MayhewAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-688-6
CHAPTER 1
Major Cuthbertson was in his armchair beside the sitting-room gas fire, reading his newspaper and keeping a close eye on the clock on the mantelpiece. As soon as it chimed six silly pings he could get himself a drink without having to worry about Marjorie coming in and making a big fuss that he'd jumped the gun. She was busy banging pots and pans in the kitchen, trying out some new recipe she'd torn out of a magazine at the hairdresser's, but opening the cocktail cabinet early would still be a risky business. The old girl had ears like a bat.
The regiment had presented the cabinet on his retirement and it played 'Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes' loudly whenever the lid was lifted. He wasn't sure if it had been meant as some kind of joke.
He turned another page and took another look at the clock. Either the big hand had stuck or the damned thing was going slow again. It had belonged to Marjorie's mother, which, in his view, was a pretty poor reason for keeping it. His late mother-in-law could still get at him, even from her grave.
He shook the newspaper hard. Things had come to a pretty pass when a man couldn't have a drink in his own house when he chose to. There was little else to brighten his days. Frog End was a nice enough village but it had to be said that it was a bit of a backwater. Not much of a life for a chap like himself who'd spent his army career in some of the world's hotspots. The highlight of the Frog End year was the summer fête, more than six months away, and now that Marjorie had vetoed him running the bottle stall he'd be reduced to being general dogsbody, heaving tables and chairs around for a pack of bossy women.
Still, thank God he'd managed to dump the job of treasurer on to the Colonel when he'd moved into Pond Cottage on the green. He hadn't seemed to mind. A pretty decent sort of chap, really. Played with a straight bat. He rather envied him, sometimes, for being a widower and having a free playing field, as it were. Not that there was much scope locally. He'd had his own chances, of course. Several women had definitely given him the green light. One of them – the lady of the Manor, no less – had unfortunately got herself bumped off just as things were hotting up. It had put the wind up him for quite a while in case the police had suspected him. Cramped his style no end.
In any case, he had to be careful. Marjorie not only had ears like a bat, she had eyes like a hawk.
He took another squint over the top of the newspaper. Dammit! Still seven minutes to go, according to that useless clock. Well, he was blowed if he was going to sit there and take it lying down any longer. He folded the paper, rose determinedly to his feet and headed towards the cocktail cabinet in the corner of the living room. He was halfway there when the door opened. He altered course smoothly, turning towards the window.
'It's not six o'clock yet, Roger.'
'I know that, dear. I'm just seeing to the curtain. I can feel a draught.'
His wife came into the room and sat down on the sofa. 'There's nothing wrong with the curtain and no draught, but there was something wrong with that recipe. I had to throw it all away. Luckily, I found a tin of corned beef. That'll have to do.'
He was used to having to make do with Marjorie's cooking. It had never been her strong point. In fact, she had seldom, if ever, had to cook until he had retired, or to clean either. On postings abroad there had always been servants to do all the work. Now there were none.
No chance now of a decent stiffener or two in peace.
'Not to worry.'
'I'm not worried, Roger, just annoyed. Magazines should test recipes properly before they inflict them on their readers.'
'I quite agree with you. No consideration these days. No standards. Country's going to the dogs.'
He glanced towards the mantelpiece while Marjorie pounded a cushion, settling herself in. Still five minutes to go.
'By the way, we finally reached a decision at the meeting today. And not a moment too soon. Far too much time has been wasted arguing.'
He had no idea which meeting she was referring to. Some committee, he supposed. She was usually chairman. Or chairperson. Or whatever they called it now.
'What about?'
'About our Christmas show, of course. The Frog End Players do one every year, Roger, in case you've forgotten.'
He had vague memories of last year's performance at the village hall. Puss in Boots, or was it Cinderella? Whichever it was, the principal boy had been played by some callow youth. Principal boys should always be girls, and have very good legs. It was tradition and all that. At least old Toby Jugge had provided a bit of light relief as the Dame. Of course, Marjorie hadn't understood any of his jokes. A bit near the knuckle, some of them, it was true, but that was the whole point. Keep the adults amused as well as the kids. Only fair. And that bedtime striptease Toby had done had brought the house down.
'What did you decide?'
'We're going for The Snow Queen.'
'The what?'
'The Hans Christian Andersen story, Roger. Rather an inspired choice, I thought. Quite different from the usual pantomime. We're going to re-tell it in a very simple form for the village children. It's a charming story of good triumphing over evil. We'll be doing three performances.'
'Never heard of it.'
'That doesn't surprise me.'
'Well, I hope the principal boy's going to be a girl this time.'
'I'm sorry to disappoint you, Roger, but there's no principal boy.'
'No principal boy?'
'That's what I just said.'
No long legs in fishnet tights and high leather boots. No striding up and down. No slapping the thigh. What was he supposed to look at?
'What about a Dame?'
'Certainly no Dame.'
No outrageous frocks. No striptease. No blue jokes. Nothing to laugh at at all.
'Will Toby get a part?'
'There will be nothing suitable for Mr Jugge – I'm glad to say.'
It was going to be even worse than he'd thought.
'What's it about, then?'
'A wicked Snow Queen with a heart of ice steals a boy called Kai and carries him off to live in her palace at the North Pole.'
'Damned odd name for a boy.'
'He's foreign, of course. Danish, I imagine. A glass splinter from an evil sorcerer's broken mirror has pierced his eye and another his heart, making him see ugliness in everything and behave cruelly to everyone. When the Snow Queen kisses him the splinters turn to ice and he falls under her spell.'
'Bad show.'
'But Kai's best friend, a girl named Gerda, sets out on a long and perilous journey to save him, even though he's treated her badly.'
The Major rustled his newspaper. 'Doesn't sound much fun.'
'It's not meant to be fun, Roger. It's a fairy tale, not some vulgar pantomime. And there are lots of other jolly good parts: a kindly old grandmother, a witch with an enchanted garden, a prince and princess, two wise women, a band of robbers, a raven and a reindeer, hobgoblins, talking flowers, dancing snowflakes, guardian angels ... plenty of roles for extras, you see. Gerda encounters them all on her brave quest to find and rescue Kai.'
The Major wondered if he could get away with a convenient bout of flu, carefully timed to stretch over the three performances, but doubted it. Marjorie was never sympathetic to illness, even if it was real.
'Happy ending, I hope?'
'Of course. Gerda battles her way through blizzards to the Snow Queen's palace and finds Kai at last. Her hot tears melt the icy slivers in his eye and heart. He is freed from the Snow Queen's spell and becomes his true kind self again.'
'Thank God for that!'
'Now that Patrick is no longer with us, I'm to take on the job of director. Everyone insisted.'
Patrick, he remembered, was the long-haired actor fellow who had bit-parts in TV soaps. He'd been directing the Frog End Players for years, throwing his weight around as though he were Laurence Olivier. 'What happened to him?'
'He moved to London.'
'Good thing too, if you ask me.'
'I don't, Roger, but as it happens, I agree with you. It's time for a fresh approach and I think I can provide that.'
The Major's mind went back to the amateur dramatics they'd taken part in at various army postings abroad. The image of Marjorie in the Lagos production of Charley's Aunt, playing Donna Lucia D'Alvarez, the aunt from Brazil where the nuts come from, was still seared on his brain after more than twenty years.
'Well, I'm sure you'll do a very good job, dear.'
'I wondered if you might like to be one of the robbers, Roger, but then I decided you'd be much happier behind the scenes.'
Shifting them around, presumably. Like last year.
'So, who's going to be the wicked Snow Queen?'
'That has yet to be decided.'
'How about Mrs Pudsey? She'd frighten everyone all right.' Mrs Pudsey, he remembered, had once been a disastrous Fairy Godmother – hissed and booed by mistake.
'Mrs Pudsey will be offered a different role. The Snow Queen is intended to be very beautiful as well as evil.'
In that case, they're going to have a real problem casting her, he thought to himself. Very beautiful females were thin on the ground in Frog End, as he well knew.
'Well, what about that woman who's just moved into Hassels with her husband?'
'I haven't met her.'
Nor had the Major, but he had seen her briefly from a distance as he had driven by the house. She had been coming out of the front door and he'd slowed the Escort enough to be able to mark her down as rather promising. Not in the first flush perhaps, but definitely a looker. Glamorous was the word. London clothes, if he was not mistaken. London hair, too. You could always tell. Well above the average for Frog End. 'Her husband's in television, so they say.'
'So who says?'
'Some chap at the pub. He makes some sort of travel programmes, apparently.'
'That doesn't mean that his wife knows anything about acting, Roger.'
He shrugged. 'Just a suggestion.'
At long last, his late mother-in-law's clock started its chimes. Like an obedient old dog still commanded to 'stay', Major Cuthbertson waited until the sixth one had died away before he stood up.
'Sun's over the yardarm. What'll you have, dear?'
'A very small sherry, Roger.'
'Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes' began as he opened the lid. If only he could find out how to disconnect the bloody thing. He measured Marjorie's syrupy Bristol Cream into a glass and handed it to her. The trick now was to position himself so that her view of the cabinet was blocked and he could pour himself a hefty slug of Teachers, plus the merest drop of soda for a fizzy effect. He returned to his armchair with a jaunty step and raised his glass with a flourish.
'To the Snow Queen. And all who sail with her.'
CHAPTER 2The grandfather clock in the Colonel's sitting room at Pond Cottage had finished striking the hour and he stoked up the log fire in readiness for his neighbour's arrival.
Naomi Grimshaw was seldom late for things and almost never late for their customary evening drink. On the day that he had moved into the cottage a year and a half ago she had called on him and accepted his polite invitation to join him in a glass of Chivas Regal with alacrity. The habit had continued. As she had told him frankly on that first occasion, she could rarely afford to buy a decent brand of whisky and he had sometimes wondered whether it was the Chivas rather than himself that had motivated her.
Whatever it had been, she had proved to be a wonderful neighbour. Widowed, like himself, and about the same age, she was helpful, no-nonsense and full of practical advice on cooking, gardening and coping with domestic affairs of which he knew nothing. Under her expert guidance, the Pond Cottage jungle had been cleared and the long-lost pond rediscovered and dredged, and with the aid of her simple recipes he had learned to cook basic dishes. She had also taught him how to work a washing machine and a vacuum cleaner, neither of which he had ever touched before. In addition, she was an entertaining purveyor of tittle-tattle and gossip. Frog End, reduced to a single pub and no shop, might appear to be the sort of boring place where nothing much happened but, as he had discovered, this was far from the case. Beneath the placid surface swirled a positive maelstrom of intrigue, scandal and misbehaviour, with a surveillance network to rival the Russian KGB in its ruthless efficiency, not to mention the fact that two murders had taken place in the village since his arrival. In both cases, he had unwittingly become involved in the investigations leading to the identities of the murderers.
He gave the fire another prod with the poker so that the flames flared up brightly and crackled. There was something immensely satisfying and companionable about a real wood fire. No substitute would do, in his opinion. It was well worth all the log-carrying and sweeping out to have it there in the cold, dark evenings, blazing away cheerily in the inglenook that had been discovered behind a hideous tiled fireplace when the cottage was being renovated.
Thursday, the torn-eared, black and tan stray moggy, named after the day of the week when he had first turned up, evidently agreed with him. He was, as usual, in his favourite winter place, curled up at the fire end of the sofa, and there he would stay until it suited him to go into the kitchen and sit in front of his bowl, waiting for a gourmet dinner to be served. The bowl was marked DOG but fortunately Thursday, for all his native savvy, was unable to read.
As the Colonel went to sit down in his wing-back chair, the old cat opened one eye, stretched out a paw to claw at the sofa cushion and then went back to untroubled sleep again. His days of worrying about where the next meal was coming from were over since he had decided to make Pond Cottage his permanent home.
The grandfather clock had struck half past six before Naomi finally hammered at the front door. It was raining hard and she was wearing a waxed cotton coat reaching to her ankles and fitted with a long front zip and a number of flaps and pockets secured by leather straps and brass buckles. It came, he knew, from Australia, and had been brought over as a present for her by her daughter-in-law on a visit to England last year. Apparently it was intended for riding a horse in the Outback during the Wet. Helping Naomi out of it, once in, was a complicated business, but they accomplished it successfully from past experience. Underneath, she was wearing one of her tracksuits – this one in an eye-watering shade of neon pink – with her white moon-boot trainers on her feet. Her thatch of short grey hair was beaded with raindrops and when she shook her head they flew about the hall.
'Sorry I'm late, Hugh. The bloody pantomime meeting dragged on forever, all arguing about what it should be this year. In the end they had to agree on something – we're two weeks late starting rehearsals as it is. Then I had to feed the dogs when I got home. I'd just finished doing that when the phone went. Some woman I knew a hundred years ago, phoning for a chat. Couldn't get rid of her.'
He hung the Outback coat on the hall stand. 'The usual?'
She rubbed her hands together. 'Rather!'
He led her into the sitting room, which, naturally, she could have found blindfolded. She scooped up Thursday and deposited him at the other end of the sofa, taking his place close to the log fire. It was a scene that the Colonel had witnessed many times before. In order to save face, the old cat feigned sleep, legs dangling, but the slits of his eyes glinted and gleamed among the black and tan fur. Naomi was not a cat person, as Thursday was well aware. She had two Jack Russell terriers to prove it – not that they had ever been unwise enough to test the sharpness of his claws.
The Colonel poured three fingers of whisky into Naomi's glass and added a splash of water. No ice, which she considered a waste of space. His own measure was the same but without the water. He sat down in his chair and raised his glass to her.
'Good health, Naomi.'
She lifted hers, gripped firmly in her large, square hand. 'Same to you, Hugh.'
'So, what's this year's pantomime to be?'
'It's not a proper panto at all. They've decided to adapt The Snow Queen. The Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.'
'I can't say that I know it.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bitter Poison by Margaret Mayhew. Copyright © 2016 Margaret Mayhew. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
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