A Corpse in the Country (An Izzy Palmer Mystery Book 2) Read online

  Copyright

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

  Copyright © 2020 by Benedict Brown

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  First edition May 2020

  Cover design by [email protected]

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

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  About This Book

  Acknowledgements

  About Me

  To my wife Marion,

  my daughter Amelie

  and my accomplice Lucy.

  Chapter One

  I had been summoned.

  There was a voice message left on my phone in the dead of night, a taxi waiting for me by the time I got dressed the next morning and then an hour-long journey, speeding down motorways and country roads, to take me to the imposing black gates of Vomeris Hall.

  “This is as far as I go, love.” The driver didn’t look back at me, but squinted out at the grand driveway which was obscured by morning fog. “Got my orders.”

  I mumbled in acknowledgement and shoved the door open. I wasn’t particularly excited about the walk I’d be making in my uncomfortable work shoes.

  Outside in the fresh Surrey air, the humidity nipped at my face and I immediately wanted to go back to bed. The taxi was backing out so I knew I’d have no such luck. In front of the gate, there was an unmanned brick hut with a small silver intercom on the side. Wishing I’d worn my winter coat, I pressed the button.

  “I’m here to see Mr Porter.” There was a crackle but no reply. “My name’s Izzy Palmer.”

  Clumsily stuck to one of the stone lions on guard at the entrance, a video camera panned from left to right. A moment later, I heard a loud click and a door to the side of the main gate jerked open.

  There was no word of welcome, which was odd yet entirely in keeping with all that I knew about Aldrich Porter. In the four years I’d worked at his company, our hermit-like owner had never set foot in the office. I figured that, even if he was about to fire me, I’d at least have bragging rights with my colleagues at this unexpected rendezvous.

  Feeling like a child stepping into Narnia for the first time, I walked through the opening in the thick stone wall. The new realm I had entered felt even colder than the rest of England. The fog hung in the air, close enough to touch, and the dew on the lawn looked frozen, though we were well into August.

  They said there was supposed to be a heatwave coming, I thought and a shiver ran down my back like a drop of cold water. So much for the English summertime.

  I crunched my way up the sloping gravel drive. On either side of the path, neatly kept gardens were laid out. Topiary animals loomed over me, punctuating the long hedgerows. Eagles, stags, dragons and foxes continued the job of the security camera at the gate. They didn’t welcome me to the Vomeris estate so much as warn me that there’d be trouble if I put a foot wrong.

  The fog drew back like the folds of a curtain and the hall came into view. From first glance, I could tell that the main building had been constructed in the seventeenth century, whereas the wings were newer additions, no doubt commissioned by later generations of the Sherwin-Nettlehurst family who had originally owned it.

  Ha, who are you kidding?

  Fine. I admit it. I know nothing about architecture. I looked it up on Wikipedia in the taxi. My actual first impression was, Gosh, that’s big and ugly.

  The façade of the beige-brick house was incredibly wide. Presumably built to give as many people a view of the gardens as possible, it had ended up looking like a stretched-out workhouse, ripped straight from the pages of Oliver Twist. It was ostentatious, impressive and kind of horrible. Countless chimneys sprang up from the rooftops, stone gargoyles adorned the windowsills and each section of the building was a different height, as if a careless child had built it out of wooden blocks.

  Arriving at the black front door, which was entrapped within an immense stone arch, I got the impression that nothing about this place was designed to encourage visitors.

  There was another intercom, another buzz and crackle, but this time a human voice replied. “Side door,” was all it said.

  Once I’d followed the long path around the house, the idea that I was being sent to the tradesman’s entrance was reinforced by a small metal sign which read, Tradesman’s Entrance, nailed to an unremarkable brown door. I passed through it and the temperature dropped five degrees.

  One short, dark passage led to another, with doors on either side giving on to the kitchen and utility rooms. Peering into these unpopulated spaces, I imagined that they had once been run by a pack of staff who, over the decades, had gradually been replaced by modern appliances and lower standards.

  I was enjoying gawping at this strange, silent world when a sudden intrusion made me jump out of my smart trousers and blouse.

  “2917!” I screamed, as a thickset, elderly man appeared from an adjoining corridor.

  “Excuse me, Madam?” He spoke in a soft, deferential manner and wore a neat white shirt and black waistcoat. It seemed safe to assume he was an employee of the house.

  “Oh, just a number I shout when something scares me. It’s not in any way connected to my credit card and you should forget it immediately.”

  Smooth.

  “As you wish, Madam.” His kind face remained politely neutral. “If you would follow me, Mr Porter will see you in his study.”

  Without waiting for my reply, he turned back the way he’d come and I trailed along obediently. He was well into his twilight years and looked pretty wobbly to still be butlering. Taking us down the portrait-lined hallway, past fancy rooms that I desperately wanted to nose about in, he had to pause every ten steps to stretch his right leg.

  “Old war wound.” He glanced back over his shoulder to offer this explanation and I tried to do the sums and work out which war it could have been.

  Battle of Hastings, maybe? The Trojan War?

  Despite the grandeur of the property, there was something rather stale about the place. The carpets were old and dusty, I could see cobwebs in high corners and even the butler’s uniform could have used a clean. I suppose it was all too much work for one old fella and I doubt he got any help from his bosses.

  At the far end o
f the house from where I’d come in, my guide stopped altogether and motioned to a closed door. I felt nervous for the first time. It was not so much the idea of coming face-to-face with a man I’d always regarded as mythical, but the possibility of what lay beyond that gloomy portal. Until I opened it, I could be the new director of Porter & Porter, or headed to the unemployment centre. Let’s be honest, I knew which one was more likely.

  The butler limped off and I got up the courage to knock. When there was no answer, I pawed the handle gently and the door creaked open. That much was easy enough, but I was having trouble taking the next step and entering the room.

  Stop being such a wimp. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Thanks for the pep talk, brain, but a number of terrible events could be set in motion. I could lose my job and end up on the street. Don’t forget that we have zero transferable skills and are uniquely suited to our very undemanding role at Porter & Porter where no one in four years has realised how entirely unnecessary we are!

  But we live with Mum-

  Would you please just shut up and let me be nervous for once?

  I swallowed my fears and stepped inside to discover a long room lined with bookshelves that were stuffed to bursting with green and red leather-bound volumes. Their shiny gilt lettering looked like landing lights on a runway, drawing my attention to the man sitting silently behind the oversized desk at the far end of the room.

  The owner of the house was bolt upright in a high-backed, leather chair. The only photos I’d seen of him were from a decade earlier and, in the intervening years, the once stick-like Mr Porter had grown even thinner. And yet, he dominated that room despite its size. With his closely cropped grey hair and balled-up fists thoughtlessly resting in front of him, he had the look of a retired gangster surveying his kingdom.

  On the wall just behind him was something equally sinister; a macabre collection of mounted skulls, with animals of every size from mouse up to moose staring back at me over Aldrich Porter’s shoulders. He hadn’t registered my presence and continued staring at a point somewhere up near the ceiling.

  “Sorry, Mr Porter.” I was still standing by the door. “I knocked but…”

  I was about to deliver a no doubt sterling explanation for the intrusion when I realised that he still wasn’t looking.

  Oh, Gosh. Not again.

  I could feel my heart pumping faster as I approached the desk. His eyes were open but his gaze was empty and lifeless. It was as if someone had pressed pause on his existence and he couldn’t click back to life until the command was reversed.

  There was no sign of blood, but from the stillness of his chest, as I stretched my hand out towards him, I could tell that he was most definitely-

  “What are you doing in here?” His gaze twitched to lock on to me.

  “Mother’s maiden name: Gibbs! AHHHH!”

  “Who are you, girl?” He wasn’t dead after all. Just… asleep?

  Urghhhh, sleeping with his eyes open. It would be less creepy if he was dead.

  “Izzy Palmer, sir. You asked me to come.” I felt like I’d been called to see the headmaster and straightened up to pre-empt any accusation of slouching.

  “Oh, I see.” He begrudgingly accepted my answer and then smiled a little as if nothing weird had just happened whatsoever.

  I’m a rude person so, without any invitation, I pulled up a chair and plonked myself down – it helped me get through the heart attack I was experiencing. The room had fallen silent again and he sat looking at me like he was trying to figure out an optical illusion.

  As he sized me up, the skeletal beasts on the wall behind him cried out in manifest terror. It reminded me of my bedroom back home, except, instead of posters of pop singers from my adolescence, whoever had decorated it was a big fan of death.

  “I wanted to meet you in person,” he eventually told me. “The woman who single-handedly tracked down Bob’s killer.”

  “Single-handed!” I laughed at the idea that little old me could have done such a thing. “I don’t do anything single-handed. My mum still has to help me get my arms in my winter coat when I’m wearing a big jumper.”

  He adjusted his position in his seat and continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “The thing is, I don’t know how I should feel about you. You solved the murder of one of my oldest friends and simultaneously denied Porter & Porter the managing director I had personally selected to take over from me.”

  He spoke as if the inconvenience of David’s absence was a greater crime than Bob’s death. I wished that my sweet, incarcerated boyfriend had been there to support me; this whole episode was far weirder than I’d imagined.

  To calm myself down, I tried to take in the room around me. Porter’s desk was covered with objects, yet phenomenally neat. It reminded me of a case of exhibits in a museum. Everything had its place, right down to the pens and ink cartridges that formed a neat border around a cricket ball on its stand. Nearby, there were family photos, wooden stamps shaped like lotus flowers, and a large, exotic seed pod no doubt from some large, exotic plant.

  From where I was sitting, the photos were upside down but I could make out a faded image of Mr Porter on his wedding day. There was a more recent one with his five grown-up children in front of Vomeris Hall and, in the centre of the desk, one final photo of his eldest daughter, dressed in the cap and gown of her university graduation.

  After years of rumour and office gossip, the combined effect of his obsessive neatness, sadistic hunting trophies and doting paternal pride was difficult to make sense of. I tried to fit it all together but it wouldn’t go.

  The silence had gone on too long and I was considering saying something when he spoke. “I suppose I should offer my congratulations at least. You achieved what the police couldn’t.”

  “It was nothing.” I might have blushed a bit.

  You are so humble, Izzy, not to mention modest. Someone should give you a medal for how humble and modest you are.

  Shut up.

  “It got me wondering whether I was wrong about you.” He tipped his chair at an angle and bounced gently back and forth but never stopped looking at me.

  “How could you be wrong about me? We’ve never met before.”

  “True, true.” His index finger flicked out in acceptance. “But I keep a close eye on the company and, somehow, you slipped beneath my radar.” He looked into the middle distance and I was worried for a minute that he’d fallen asleep again.

  Multi-millionaire Aldrich Porter really wasn’t the person I’d expected him to be. Known as a shrewd investor, he was a legend in the financial industry. Yet, in person, he was an odd mix of hard-headed businessman and loveable grandpa. Part Steve Jobs, part Dick Van Dyke.

  Snapping from his trance, he sat forward once more and opened the top desk drawer. “Anyway, it’s a shame, but you’ll need to sign this.”

  I looked at the stapled A4 document which he slid across to me. “What is it?” At least I would finally find out what I was doing there.

  “I’m not someone who believes in charity.” He took one of the fountain pens from its place and began to dismantle it, laying out the pieces before him, like a soldier stripping down a pistol. “Even with my own kids, I didn’t want to spoil them, so I’ve never given them any handouts. I told them when they were young they could work for me or find another job. No one ever gave me a free ride and look what I’ve achieved.”

  I flicked to the last page where a figure stood out above Mr Porter’s signature.

  “£25,368? Sorry, Mr Porter, I still don’t understand.”

  His eyebrows raised as if I’d just offended him. “Obviously it wasn’t my idea. My advisor told me we should get out in front of any potential legal action so I’m offering you a year’s salary plus an additional stipend. I calculated the amount based on any grievances you might have suffered.”

&nbs
p; His words clicked together in my head and I came to understand something of the man who’d been rattling off enigmas for the last five minutes. “You’re talking about Bob trying to have me killed aren’t you?” I had to breathe in deep to process what he was saying. “Bob, the monster you created and supported right to the end. Bob the rapist and wannabe murderer.”

  I thought I’d injected enough outrage in my voice but he clearly didn’t catch it. “That’s right.” He smiled, swapping personas once again.

  “And you think you can put a price on that?”

  He picked up the cricket ball and tossed it from hand to hand. “What I think is irrelevant. I’ve based my calculations on hard fact. Taking into account emotional impact and inconvenience, whilst factoring in the knowledge that it was your boyfriend who turned out to be the killer. It’s a more than fair settlement.”

  “How did you know that David was my boyfriend?”

  Past tense, Izzy?

  I said, shut up.

  “As I told you, Miss Palmer, I keep a close eye on my business.”

  I couldn’t bear to look at him right then, but the alternative was a lion skull or the jaws of an alligator. I turned away altogether and gazed out through the window, across the great expansive lawn. I had no doubt that Mr Porter knew the exact cost of every single item he possessed. From the topiary bushes to the antique books on their ancient shelves, there was a price tag for each of them, carefully filed away in his brain.

  A surge of anger shot out of me and I addressed him once more. “In which case, you’ll know that I’m not interested in money.”

  He laughed at me. It wasn’t just a snicker, it was a full-on, stomach-shaking roar at the idea that someone could place money anywhere but the top of their list of priorities.

  “Fine, don’t think about the money – think what you could do with it. You could move out of your parents’ house, or visit all those places you’ve only read about. You could go up the Nile, on the Orient Express, or over to the Caribbean.”

  Wow. He does know a lot about us.

  I stood up from the chair to look down on him. “You think everyone has their price, don’t you?”