The Newcomer

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE (#u68b2c4e0-1ab1-559d-9e35-f3749b316f39)

The evening before Mamie Buchanan’s corpse was found had been an enjoyable one. Her niece, the Revd Angela Whitehorn, had thrown a gossipy dinner party for her new parish friends, where it was agreed that her aunt was the most entertaining newcomer Pendruggan had ever had.

This may have been due to her rackety stories and her genuine interest in the lives of others, or, more likely, it could have been her inability to pour anything less than very large measures of alcohol.

‘Your aunt is an admirable woman,’ said a squiffy Geoffrey Tipton, the last guest to say his goodbyes on the chilly, moonlit doorstep of Pendruggan vicarage. ‘My God, they don’t make women like that any more.’

Angela nodded in agreement. ‘They certainly don’t.’

‘GEOFFREY!’The voice of Mrs Tipton came from beyond the gate, making both Angela and Geoffrey jump. He turned giddily. ‘Yes, my love. Just coming.’ He steadied himself with a gnarled hand on the doorframe. ‘Was thanking the vicar for a splendid party.’

‘You can do that in a letter. COME,’ commanded Audrey. She may as well have asked him to heel.

Geoffrey pushed himself from the doorframe and gave Angela a wobbly wave before staggering towards his wife.

Angela gratefully closed the door and walked to the kitchen where Mamie, the belle of the ball, was gaily polishing off a bottle of champagne.

‘Good God,’ she said theatrically, ‘I thought they’d never leave. Last glass before bed?’ She pointed the bottle towards Angela.

Angela shook her head and started to load the dishwasher. ‘I’ve already had too much.’ Over her shoulder she said, ‘You know Mike Bates is in love with you, don’t you?’

Mamie sank her glass in one. ‘Yes. He told me. And who can blame him, darling!’ Her eyes twinkled with laughter. ‘I’m very fond of him.’

Robert Whitehorn, Angela’s husband, entered with the last of the pudding plates balanced in his hands. ‘Mamie, you were outrageous. You mercilessly flirted with the dreadful Tipton man.’

Mamie became her usual heartless self again and leant out of her kitchen chair to drop her empty bottle into the recycling crate by the back door. ‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘Poor dear Geoff. A frightful old bore but such a sweetheart. That gorgon of a wife of his is hard work.’ Mamie looked to the ceiling and raised her immaculate eyebrows.

Angela, taking the plates Robert was offering, gave her aunt a fond but exasperated look. ‘You are a heartbreaker and you got everyone drunk.’

‘And there was I thinking I was brightening the dull and unsullied lives of your flock,’ Mamie smiled impishly.

Angela’s tired grin shifted into a yawn.

‘And you are exhausted,’ Mamie said kindly. ‘You two go up to bed and I’ll clear the last bits up.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Robert.

Mamie picked up a tea towel and flapped it at the pair of them. ‘You’ve got early church tomorrow. I can lie in.’ She kissed her niece and nephew-in-law affectionately. ‘Off you go. Bed. Now.’

‘Where does she get her energy from?’ Robert plumped the pillow under his head, his eyes already closing.

‘She’s always been the same.’ Angela lifted her legs onto her side of the mattress and pulled the duvet up. ‘Always.’

It was Angela who found Mamie’s body. She had woken at 3.20 with a post-alcohol thirst that needed at least a pint of water. In the dark, she had padded, barefoot and silent, to the top of the stairs and noted a line of light under her aunt’s bedroom door. She thought vaguely that Mamie was probably engaged in her usual nightly routine of make-up removal and meditation, so she decided not to disturb her.

Her fingers carefully held the smoothly worn stair rail as she counted the sixteen treads down to the hallway. She and Robert had been in the vicarage only six months but Angela knew by now most of its foibles and peculiarities: the sticky window in her office, the back door that needed an encouraging kick after rain, and the creaking third and fifth treads.

At this hour all was still and silent. The now-familiar warmth of the house wrapped itself around her.

The smell of garlic roast lamb and sherry still hung in the air, and something else. She stopped for a moment and sniffed. Ah, yes. Mamie’s perfume. Shalimar. Angela was surprised that it could override even last night’s cooking smells, but there it was. The very essence of her aunt.

She reached the bottom step and her naked toes felt the familiar texture of the Indian rug covering the oak floor of the hall.

Confidently, she let go of the wooden sphere on the end of the newel post, and turned left in the darkness, heading towards the kitchen.

It was then that her foot felt something unusual.

Soft.