A Dangerous Deceit Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Marjorie Eccles

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  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

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Marjorie Eccles

  THE SHAPE OF SAND

  SHADOWS AND LIES

  LAST NOCTURNE

  BROKEN MUSIC

  THE CUCKOO’S CHILD *

  AFTER CLARE *

  A DANGEROUS DECEIT *

  * available from Severn House

  A DANGEROUS DECEIT

  Marjorie Eccles

  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 and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  of 9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2013 by Marjorie Eccles.

  The right of Marjorie Eccles 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

  Eccles, Marjorie author.

  A Dangerous Deceit.

  1. Murder–Investigation–Fiction.

  2. South African War, 1899-1902–Fiction.

  3. Great Britain–History–George V, 1910-1936–Fiction.

  4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9'14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8322-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-457-7 (epub)

  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.

  Prologue

  The earth is at last beginning to stir from its winter sleep, the snowdrops under the laburnum by the gate are just beginning to show their pale green sheaths, but it doesn’t feel like spring yet. It’s the end of February, and it’s been one of the longest and coldest winters Margaret can remember. The wind is keen enough to bring tears to their eyes as they walk up Emscott Hill from Folbury to the cemetery.

  When the snow first came it had been little more than a seasonal inconvenience, and for a brief spell it had given magic to a workaday world. But by now everyone has had more than enough of freezing pipes and the icy draughts that sneak themselves indoors, through the edges of window frames and under doors, no matter what. The snow has turned a depressing grey, speckled with muck and soot blown miles along the valley from the furnaces and factory chimneys of the Black Country conurbation. Coughs and colds are rife, the shops are running out of Snowfire ointment for chilblains, but the thermometer shows no sign of rising and the ground rings hard as iron where the snow has been cleared.

  Only the youngsters are still sliding joyfully on the frozen pond in the park, the children of the well-heeled of Emscott careening down the slope of the hill on proper sledges with runners, their shouts echoing on the frozen air, while the offspring of less affluent parents, lower down the hill, do the same on home-made toboggans or tin trays.

  In the cemetery, Margaret bends over the grave while Symon strides further on and into St Chad’s, a chapel-of-ease to the main parish church, which serves the cemetery and is one of his responsibilities as curate. She gives a last tweak to the flowers in the metal vase sunk into the stone chips within the grave’s surround. They are daffodils shipped in from milder climes and the bitter wind will soon wither them, but she never fails in her weekly duty of bringing fresh flowers to her father’s last resting place. She gathers up the dead ones she has replaced, ready to throw them on the heap in the corner of the cemetery, but for a moment or two stands where she is, her eyes fixed on the grave.

  Why? Why did you keep so silent? How did you bear the pain for all those years without complaint? Was that the reason you were always so hard to understand? And why you wouldn’t allow us to see it, until it was too late? Why?

  On the headstone, the letters are sharp, gilt incisions into the mottled dark grey marble: Major Osbert William Rees-Talbot, DSO 1873–1926.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she tells herself at last. ‘Take a grip on yourself, young lady. Isn’t that what he would have said?’

  Snuggling the fur collar of her coat tighter round her neck, she turns away and walks rapidly to join Symon in the church.

  A few miles away, inside the wild woods that make up the forest at Maxstead, the layers of snow are sparser, partly due to the bare, interlacing branches of the closely growing trees that formed some protection. Even so, birds have dropped frozen from the twig, the badgers, foxes and other denizens of the forest have grown lean and hungry, and the chuckling little streams that run through it have become silent and iced over. That is, inside the forest …

  On its perimeter, with nothing to hinder it, the snow has fallen as thick as everywhere else. Outside a little covert where the trees stop are great drifts blown by the wind, and beneath them lies another grave, this one unmarked, undetected, its occupant safe even from hungry animals, since it is frozen solid under its shallow covering of deep-frozen earth topped by a thick crust of unbroken snow.

  One

  The hinges creaked on the heavy church door as Margaret pushed it open. Batting her gloved hands together, she waited as Symon strode towards her from the chancel where he had been changing the candles on the altar while waiting impatiently for her to join him.

  ‘Your nose is cold,’ he remarked as he kissed her.

  ‘I don’t wonder. We’d better get moving or there’s every chance my circulation might never get going properly again. But you – you look warm as toast.’

  He did, too, a large, forceful young man radiating energy and purpose and looking very dark and dashing in the long, swishing black wool cloak he wore over his cassock. Her own cherry-red wool coat, despite its fur collar and cuffs, didn’t offer anything like the same sort of warmth. Out there by the grave her feet had turned to leaden lumps of ice, though her cheeks were pink with the cold fresh air.

  Symon would have liked to wrap his cloak around her, and did so for a moment, drawing her into the warmth of his arms – but he had his position to think of and this wasn’t the time or place for dalliance. As it was he kept as close to her as he could when they left the church, shortening his stride to accommodate hers as they w
alked forward in the teeth of the bitter wind.

  She wore his ring, a twist of three rather fine diamonds, on the same finger upon which, in the fullness of time, he would place a plain gold band. The fullness of time, thought Symon, his dark brows coming together – whatever that might mean. They had met over a year ago, and he had fallen in love immediately with this bright girl with the glancing gleam of laughter in her eyes. Falling in love had not been part of his plans at that moment, and she was nothing like the young woman his mother had had in mind, but Celia Vise had been forgotten in a moment. All the same, the date for their wedding had only recently been decided. This was partly due to the period of mourning after her father died, of course – his unexpected death had thrown everything into disarray and Margaret’s grief for him was natural; she had been as close to that difficult man as anyone could be – but there was no denying she had been ambivalent about leaving him before that. Now, at last, the wedding date had been fixed, though the vexed question of where they were to live still wasn’t decided.

  Symon Scroope, a young man for whom decisions were not a problem, was finding Margaret’s untypical hesitation hard to cope with. Certainly, his own place of lodging would not do for a married man, even for one who didn’t intend to remain a curate for long. And although a house was available, in which his predecessor and his wife had been forced to live, it was disagreeable in the extreme, both in lack of amenities and in its surroundings, situated as it was in a dark and dismal cul-de-sac behind Folgate Street, overshadowed by Holy Trinity.

  On the other hand, there was Laurel Mount up here in Emscott, on the market and ambitiously described as a gentleman’s residence, which they had already seen the previous week and to which they now walked after leaving the churchyard. It was not, unfortunately, in Folbury.

  In many ways unique, to some extent still the same quiet market town it had always been, Folbury was now a buffer between the clamour of industry and the gentle, rolling Worcestershire countryside that lay on its far side; an agreeably haphazard sort of place, with interesting black-and-white timbering, crooked streets and little, time-forgotten courts, snickets and alleys interspersed with newer buildings. It boasted the remains of a medieval moated castle and a few elegant period houses surrounding the ancient church of Holy Trinity, while the spread of the mellow stone buildings of a minor public school, the sounds of its chapel bell, and of cricket on summer evenings, added to its attractiveness. Folbury had so far successfully confined its working parts and its meaner housing to its furthest limits, on the Birmingham road, near the canal and the railway.

  Emscott, perched three miles up the hill, was considered Folbury’s most desirable suburb, although it had only two or three shops and was not yet on a bus route. Tree-lined streets and houses of polite middle-class dignity, of which Laurel Mount was a prime example, now outnumbered the few cottages extant in the village it used to be, and which most of its residents liked to fancy it still was, and would remain.

  The agent had only too willingly handed Symon the keys for another viewing, and this time they were free to roam around the empty rooms unencumbered by his eager exaggerations or his glossing over of the house’s defects. Together, heels ringing on Minton tiles and bare boards, they completed a second tour, commenting as they did so on the changes and redecoration that would need to be done – should they ever take up residence. Greatly in its favour, Laurel Mount already had electricity and a telephone installed. It was the fifth house they had inspected. But it had been empty for weeks and it was almost as cold indoors as it had been outside.

  ‘We’ll have a hot water system put in, of course,’ Symon said expansively, pressing the advantage as Margaret folded her arms across her chest and shivered.

  ‘A hot water system,’ she echoed. She had lived all her life without one so far. ‘I’m used to cold houses.’

  For that matter, the Reverend Symon Scroope was no stranger to them, either. Waking up as a boy in his bedroom at Maxstead Court with the windows frosted up inside, scooting along its draughty corridors, through freezing cavernous rooms, most of them not very warm even in summer – especially the great hall, where the heat from a fire big enough to roast the proverbial ox barely extended more than a few feet away from the hearth. An ancient roaring boiler that grudgingly gave out only faint indications of lukewarm heat in exchange for being fed with tons of fuel had once been installed, but not updated. The Scroopes had never been a family directed towards changing what had been thought good enough for hundreds of years, nor to acknowledging the fact that times had moved on. But Symon – Symon with a ‘y’ because that was the way Scroopes had always spelled it – was of another generation.

  ‘Well, I see no virtue in deliberately seeking discomfort.’ When he used it, he had a smile of tremendous charm that quite transformed his features.

  Margaret smiled back and refrained from mentioning the expense attached to the fixing of pipes, radiators and boilers. Neither Symon’s theological studies nor his family background had given him that sort of insight into the lives of ordinary folk. It probably wouldn’t occur to him for some time that central heating was far beyond all but the favoured – unless it were pointed out to him, when he would, to do him justice, be extremely mortified.

  Accepting his proposal of marriage, Margaret had also accepted that it was going to be her duty to instruct him on such matters. Coming from a family such as his, and possessed of a private income, he had an uneasy relationship with his conscience when it came to being able to acquire something no ill-paid curate could afford. He had put temptation behind him over the acquisition of a small car, and went around on a push-bike or walked like every other curate – and even his vicar – did, but had succumbed over her engagement ring and had now convinced himself that buying a house would not be going against his principles.

  When Margaret thought of the alternative – that horrid little clergy house crouching in the shadow of the parish church – she could not find a reason to disagree. Indeed, it made even more sense to give some consideration to Laurel Mount. True, the dining room was gloomy, but perhaps it was nothing that couldn’t be dealt with by fresh, light wallpaper and paint – and after all, how much time out of one’s life was spent in the dining room? In any case, they were unlikely to be living here forever, perhaps not for very long. She cast another look around the drawing room. Although it announced the date of its origins in the shape of a simply hideous black marble fireplace and some dun-coloured wallpaper featuring maroon plums, it was well proportioned and had a south-westerly aspect. The garden had a mulberry tree and might be quite pretty in spring.

  The French windows were locked when she tried them, but Symon found the key in the bunch which had been handed over and they descended three slippery wrought iron steps to the flagstones outside, his hand protectively under her elbow. The steps had been cleared of snow, no doubt on the instructions of the agent, but bore a thick rime of hoar frost. They turned in unison and looked in silence at the unpromising red-brick facade. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  Margaret avoided an immediate answer by bending to pick a small, somewhat withered slip of rosemary, grey-green and tough, the last surviving sprig of a frost-bitten shrub poking through a snow-covered flowerbed. It gave off its pungent, peppery smell as she held it to her nose but the leaves fell to the ground, dead, after all.

  ‘Well?’ Symon prompted to her bent head, her profile just visible under the modishly close-fitting cloche hat, a matching red to her coat. The question came out sharper than he had intended, but she didn’t look up.

  He put his finger under her chin and raised it so that she had to look at him. Tendrils of soft brown hair escaped charmingly from under the hat’s tiny brim. Her eyes were a clear, golden hazel, thickly lashed. A little frown creased her brow. He looked, and suppressed a sigh. He couldn’t dismiss the unnerving feeling of – could it be uncertainty that he had sensed in her lately? In Margaret, strong-minded, even wilful at times? Whatever
it was, it was something he couldn’t get past. At that moment, he felt an almost irresistible desire to crush her in his arms, along with another, almost equally irresistible one, to shake her and tell her she was nearly driving him mad with this uncharacteristic dithering about which house they were to have, that by now he was entitled to expect her to have been getting over her father’s death. A forceful personality like his was not accustomed to being gainsaid. He almost lunged forward to grab her, but then controlled himself. ‘Margaret,’ he said, breathing deep, ‘think carefully before you answer … do you really want to marry me?’

  Had he actually said that?

  She stood for a moment in shocked silence. She almost started to say something, then stopped herself. Finally she answered, a smile beginning in her eyes. ‘If there’s one thing I hate above all things, it’s women who keep men dangling on the end of a string – and now I’m one of them, aren’t I, poor Symon?’

  He looked affronted. ‘Don’t laugh, Margaret.’

  ‘Dearest Symon, I’m not laughing, I’m teasing.’ She looked contrite. ‘And that’s not very nice of me, either. I’m afraid I’ve been infuriating lately, haven’t I? How do you put up with me?’

  Relief surged through him. She did tease him, that was true, but she could also make him laugh, which helped him feel less weighed down with the seriousness he felt was expected of him as a man of the cloth. ‘Does that mean yes?’

  ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t make something of this house.’ And indeed, a few minutes ago she had been envisaging her mother’s Victorian cranberry glass collection, placed where it could catch the light, and some nice pictures against pale walls. Tradesmen would deliver, and she was a good walker.

  It was scarcely the reply he had hoped for but it reassured him. He was sorry he’d doubted her, even for a moment; he should have known by now that once she had committed herself to something, she would never break faith. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’