Some truths canāt be left buried.
The second world war may be over, but for Leslie Cadmore the scars remain. His beloved dog died, thereās a rift between him and his lover Patrick, and his father inexplicably abandoned the family for life in a monastery. Fateās been cruel.
A chance meeting with Patrickās sister stirs old memories, and Leslie starts to dig into both his fatherās motives and long-unanswered questions around the death of Fergus Jackson. The worst of a group of disreputable pre-war friends, Fergus was a manipulative rake who allegedly fell on his own knife in a training accident. An accident for which Patrick was apparently the only witness.
Leslieās persuaded to meet Patrick again, and the pair easily fall back into their old dynamic. They uncover connection after surprising connection between their hedonistic old friends and not only Fergusās murder, but Mr. Cadmoreās abrupt departure. As their investigation deepens, Leslie and Patrickās bond deepens too. But no reconciliation can occur until Leslie knows for sure that his erstwhile lover wasnāt Fergusās killer.
I'm going to say it: Charlie Cochrane is a Queen of British Mystery. How she can throw in so many curveballs(sorry I don't know much about Cricket so the sport metaphors, despite being a British mystery will be Americanš) and keep everything straight, well no amount of post-it notes cluttering one's laptop can negate the talented storytelling.
I love a well developed amateur sleuthing mystery but I find it rare where both MCs are the amateur which is exactly what Leslie and Patrick are. Yes, Leslie's reasonably hush hush role on the homefront during the war probably elevates him to semi-amateur but you get the idea. Trying to decide just what went down when one of their younger years acquaintances died a few years earlier, the old flames hope to repair their friendship while putting their heads together and wrinkle out the truth. Turns out there appears to be a long list of possibilities with motives considering the dead man's behavior and personality, problem is the list of possibilities with the means to do so is not nearly as long and yet long enough that there is no clear cut without a doubt suspect. By all accounts Fergus was not the nicest of men but did someone kill him? Was it a training accident? or Was it self-inflicted? So many questions, will the renewed friends find enough evidence to turn theory into fact and will it be enough to bring the truth out or just enough to satisfy their curiosity?
These are all questions I won't spoil but boy is it fun riding along on Leslie and Patrick's armchair detecting.
Leslie and Patrick's previous falling out should have been one to easily rectify especially when so many lost so much during the war and made what's truly important first and foremost in one's life. HOWEVER, stubbornness is a plenty between these two and it takes a phone call or two in subterfuge from Patrick's twin sister, Marianne, to get them face to face. Sometimes it's that first step that is the hardest and with that out of the way, their chemistry is once again enflamed although both parties(reluctantly yet honestly IMO) decide not to act beyond friendship and detecting until an answer is found or all possibilities have been exhausted. Certainly doesn't stop Patrick from flirting thoughšš.
Their "friend's"(and I use that termly loosely) death may be the main arc of The Deadliest Fall but Leslie is also dealing with his father having abandoned family life for a monastery with no reason given. It's the "no reason given" that spurs Leslie into some personal snooping as well. Will he accept what he finds? Will the answers even be given? And are the two cases connected somehow? Once again, you have to read yourself to find the answers but I promise you will love every minute of it.
The Deadliest Fall has so much to offer the reader with emotions all over the place. Some might use the term "convoluted" due to all the questions that keeping popping up but you really can't have an armchair detective story without a certain amount of convulsion, it goes with the territory. It's how an author manages it that makes it messy or not and trust me Charlie Cochrane, a Queen of British Mystery, presents not a mess in sight. I was left guessing up until nearly the our-evidence-points-to reveal but even then I had fluttering flags of doubt. As it turns out I was correct in my guessing. Steven Spielberg, while discussing Jaws, said he learned you can only truly shock an audience once but I don't believe that, an author can shock the reader as many times as they like if done properly and Cochrane does it properly.
One last note: I don't often comment on slangs and quotes in a book but I had to in this case. I've been watching/reading British shows/books most of my life and I gotta say I don't recall ever hearing this one before, "If 'ifs' and 'ans' were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers." I imagine there are variations of this saying in all parts of the world but here in the US(at least to my knowledge) we say "If 'ifs' and 'buts' were candy and nuts, we'd all have a wonderful Christmas." Just wanted to put that out there and to thank Charlie Cochrane for teaching me something newš.
Chapter One
Hampshire, 1947
āCome back, you menace!ā Leslie Cadmore broke into a run, but his dog was fleeter of foot than him and absolutely determined, it appeared, to stay at a distance from him. He shouldnāt have let the hound off the lead, although wasnāt it easy to be wise after the event? āMax! To heel.ā
Leslie might as well have tried to catch the wind in his cap. The black Labrador was evidently under the impression that this was an incredibly enjoyable game, given the way he repeatedly looked back to encourage him to come closer, before setting off again. Thank God the common was wide, provided good visibility and was always kept clear of livestock at this time of year.
āMax! If you donāt come here, so help me, Iāllāā He never managed to finish the threat, a pair of young women having come into sight. Theyād rounded a stand of trees and would soon be within earshot. Damn it.
The dog, still capering about, spotted the newcomers and made for them, slowing to a respectable trot and no doubt putting on his most friendly expression, the devious little sod. The swing of his tail gave every indication of a happy, amenable hound.
āYou swine,ā Leslie muttered, annoyed that the women had clearly worked the kind of magic he couldnāt, although grateful that Maxās interest in making new friends might allow him to be put back on the lead.
By the time Leslie reached them, Max had transformed into the most well-behaved pet a man could wish to own, sitting compliantly at the womenās feet and letting himself be stroked.
āIām so sorry.ā Leslie raised his cap. āHeās such a pest. Oh.ā He paused, breaking into a grin and holding out his hand towards the taller of the women. āI didnāt recognise you, Marianne. How lovely to see you again.ā
Marianne warmly clasped his hand in both of hers. āI thought it was you, Leslie, although this fellow made me think I had to be mistaken. Whereās Towser?ā
āGone to his long home, Iām afraid. Four years ago.ā He turned to the other woman, who was owed an explanation. āHe was my retriever, Miss . . .?ā
āGeraldine Simpson.ā Marianneās friend extended her hand. āSo pleased to meet you. Iāve heard about Towser already and the fun you all used to have walking him on the common, although Marianne told me less about his owner.ā
āShe would.ā Marianne Sibley had always given the outward impression she was fonder of Towser than sheād been of him, although for a while Leslie had suspected that had borne an element of subterfuge. āIām far less interesting than my dogs. Leslie Cadmore, late of this parish and a very old friend of the family Sibley.ā
āYour mother still lives here, I believe?ā Geraldine made such a contrast to Marianne. Compact where her friend was willowy; cheery faced where Marianne always seemed so cool and aloof; brightly dressed in contrast to the autumnal shades the other young woman had always favoured. Leslie had valued his friendās calmness in those younger days and how different she was to many of the local young women.
āMother does live here,ā he replied. āIn Larkspur House, where I was born and grew up. Marianne knows the place well. Do you remember the tennis parties?ā
āI do. Towser always had to be tied up, poor lamb, because he wanted to join in. I hope this chap is better behaved.ā Marianne bent to pat Max, who was wearing a saintly expression.
āHeās an absolute scoundrel, although I couldnāt guess how heād conduct himself at a tennis match, as heās never had the opportunity to experience one. Heās a town dog, Miss Simpson, so doesnāt know country manners.ā Strange, though, that Marianne wasnāt aware of what had happened to Maxās predecessor, because Leslie would have expected her and his mother to pass the time of day on occasions. Had the Sibleys also moved awayāhis mother hadnāt mentioned it, if soāor was there something else that had prevented the doings of Leslie Cadmore being passed on to her? And Geraldine knowing that Mrs. Cadmore was still a local proved she must have been discussed. Marianneās expression was no help, her face, as it had been from a child, proving unreadable.
āDid I hear you calling him Max?ā Geraldine asked.
āYes. After a distant cousin who once came to visit Larkspur with his family. Itās proved an apt name.ā
Marianne burst out laughing. āI remember him. He was what my mother would call a spoiled brat. If he was my child, heād have spent more time confined to his room than out of it. Any idea what heās doing now, Leslie?ā
āWorking his way through the ranks at Scotland Yard, believe it or not. Perhaps heās seen the light, or itās a case of poacher turned gamekeeper.ā
āHe could be paying off the sins of his childhood. All I have to do is think of him pulling my pigtails and my scalp hurts. Worse than your brother was, Geraldine.ā
āOh, George isnāt that bad. Settling down with Victoria and finding himself articled has bridled any wild tendencies.ā Geraldine cast her friend a sidelong glance that could only be described as sly. āLike Patrick.ā
āHow is your brother, Marianne?ā Leslie had anticipated Patrick would be mentioned sooner or later and was pleased he hadnāt had to raise the topic. Despite being twins, Patrick and Marianne were as different in personalities as any siblings could be. Chalk and cheese didnāt come near it.
āWorking too hard. Throws all of his time into his practice.ā She patted the dogās head. āHeād like you, boy. Prefers his patients with a bit of character.ā
Leslie nodded. Patrick had always liked dogs to be dogs and not pampered lap pets. Heād also appeared to prefer animals to the majority of humans. āYou can trust them,ā heād say, āunlike much of the human species.ā Even as a child, Patrick had seemed to be a veterinarian in the making. Heād no doubt have a successful practice and that wouldnāt simply be a testament to his skills or training. Patrick had the same lean, dark, handsome looks his sister was blessed with. Looks that would see a stream of female clients bringing their pampered pooches to his door.
āYouāre right about the hard work. He never seems to be available, thatās certain.ā Geraldineās voice bore a distinct hint of annoyance. āMy mother has invited him to a number of events, but he pleads pressure of time. Sheās rather given him up as a lost cause.ā
āMany people have.ā Marianne tossed her head.
āHeāll settle down one day,ā Leslie said, not sure that he believed that any more than Patrickās sister would do. They both knew him too well. Had known him, in Leslieās case, given how long it was since theyād last spoken. Suddenly, Leslie was filled with a fleeting memory of the three of them as children, the last time they played hide and seek: him, Marianne, Patrick, all of them around twelve years of age. Sheād said afterwards they were getting too old for such childish things, possibly because sheād taken umbrage at Patrick being so slow at finding her. Best not to mention that, since it probably still rankled, and the day itself had ended sadly, with a tramp being found dead of exposure in the church porch. Mr. Cadmore had been called on to handle the affair, being churchwarden and with the vicar away on holiday. Still, such rare instances apart, those had generally been very happy days.
āGive my very best to your mother. I do feel guilty for not having kept in touch with her as I should.ā Marianne fixed her eyes on Max. āLike you, Leslie, I donāt get down here as often as I would like.ā
That provided a partial answer to some of his questions, although moving away from an area didnāt mean she couldnāt send a letter if she really wanted to. Perhaps, like Patrick, Marianne was simply busy. Leslieās mother had told him that she worked as a legal secretary in Winchester, and heād assumedāevidently mistakenlyāthat she travelled there from the Sibley home.
āI will pass on your regards, with pleasure. Are you here for long?ā Leslie added. His mother might be pleased to have Marianne over for tea in order to talk over old times.
āUntil Monday morning, when my nose goes firmly back to the grindstone. Albeit returning to work will make a pleasant escape from Fatherās hunting stories. His enthusiasm hasnāt dimmed over the years.ā Marianne gave the dog a final stroke, then took her friendās arm. āWe must get back. Terrible trouble if we come in late for luncheon.ā
āBlame me and my wretched hound.ā Leslie tipped his cap again. āNice to have met you, Geraldine. Fond regards to your parents, Marianne, and to your scapegrace of a brother.ā
āIāll tell them all that I spoke to you. Although Iād always assumed youād have kept in touch with Patrick.ā Marianne waved her hand airily. āIt shows how mistaken we can be.ā She set off slowly, pausing after a few steps to turn and say, āIt really is lovely to see you again. We shouldnāt have let it be so long. All of us.ā
āIndeed.ā Leslie watched the women go, momentarily unable to move himself and not only because he was thinking about the assumption Marianne had made about him and Patrick keeping in touch. Her gait bore the same easy grace as her brotherās, bringing to mind the last time Leslie had seen him. At Waterloo station. Walking away and out of Leslieās life.
āWeāre back,ā Leslie called, entering the hall of Larkspur House and letting Max off the lead from which he was clearly anxious to be freed.
āIn the drawing room, dear.ā His motherās voice sounded as sweetly as a womanās half her age.
Alexandra Cadmore was still a handsome woman, despite the events of the past few years. Not for her, however, the lot of so many of her friends during wartime, a telegram bringing the news no wife or mother would wish to receive. Leslie had been based at home, doing something he could never divulge the details of, apart from hinting that it had been vitally important. āLogistical and extremely boring if crucial to the war effortā was how heād described his work, and that was what his mother had told her friends. He wasnāt convinced she believed the āboringā part, although sheād always kept up the pretence. So, heād remained physically safe, returning to civilian life tired but intact, if a touch emotionally battered.
It was his father, Jerome Cadmore, whoād been torn from her and not by death. Unless finding a vocation and entering a Benedictine monastery could be defined as crossing intoāor having one foot on the doorstep ofāoneās eternal rest. It was marginally better, sheād confessed to Leslie when the news had broken, than his having run away with a WAAF, which had happened to one of her old school friends. Worse in some ways, though, because anybody could understand the attractions of a woman in uniform; the attractions of God werenāt so obvious. It had been the third year of the war, so Leslie hadnāt been on hand much to give her support, but sheād coped, as she always did.
āDid you have a nice walk?ā His mother glanced up from her knitting.
āVery, apart from Max exhibiting wanderlust. I ran across Marianne, out taking the air with one of her pals. I didnāt realise she no longer lived here with her parents.ā Leslie flopped down into his favourite chair.
āIām sure I told you. I daresay you werenāt listening at the time.ā She grinned. āHow is she?ā
āNot a jot different from how she was at nineteen. Or indeed nine. I was surprised that you havenāt kept in touch with her.ā
āI see her parents at church. They keep me abreast of all things Sibley. Marianneās doing splendidly at work and has a little flat of her own, now.ā She paused to count her stitches. āThey worry about her living alone, but thatās a cross all parents bear. Which friend was with her?ā
āA girl called Geraldine something-or-other. Simpkins. Simpson. Max was most taken with them both.ā The dog, whoād sprawled himself on the fireside rug, glanced up at the mention of his name. āThank goodness they came along or Iād still have been out on the common, trying to get this wretch back on his lead.ā
āMarianne always had a knack with animals. Her fatherās daughter, every bit, although sheās a better hand with a rod and fly than he is.ā
Leslie chuckled. Mr. Sibley had been continually vexed at the fact. āSheās better at taking a trout than most of us. Some zoologist chap once told me that women have a natural unfair advantage when fishing. A natural aroma they produce that attracts their prey.ā
āDoes it work with men, dear? Is that why some women appear to be irresistible?ā She held her handiwork up to the light, nodding approvingly at it before resuming knitting. āAlthough in Marianneās instance, Iād say itās likely a case of her not rising to the male fly. Not yet, anyway.ā
Leslie wasnāt sure she ever would. Not every mare had a hankering for the stallion.
āShould we invite her and her friend to tea today?ā She continued, with an air that was a little too nonchalant to be entirely convincing. Was this a repeat of the getting-my-son-in-a-room-with-eligible-women ruse? āIām sure that young Edwin would take an invitation across, on his bicycle. Would sixpence be over-generous as payment?ā
āI couldnāt say, not having a housekeeperās son to run errands for me and so being oblivious to the going rate.ā It wasnāt spoken unkindly: Mrs. Edwards was an absolute treasure, a war widow without whom the running of Larkspur House would no doubt grind to a halt. Leslieās mother was lucky to have her and to be able to keep her. At least his father had only dedicated himself to God and not included his considerable worldly wealth, so his wife had been left with enough to live comfortably.
āBut should I invite her? I noticed that expression of disdain at the suggestion, dear.ā How his mother could have seen any expression on Leslieās face, given the way her eyes were fixed on her knitting needles, was a mystery of the arcane maternal arts.
āI wasnāt aware of feeling disdain. Perhaps it was indigestion. Invite her by all means. Itās not like sheāll have that rogue of a brother with her, to drop a teacup or trip over the rug.ā Leslie wasnāt sure why heād felt the need to mention Patrick. Maybe it was simply to divert his mother from any further discussion of Marianne and her matrimonial prospects. It was a topic sheād aired on many an occasion over the years, and one that had subtly featured Leslie as a possible candidate for the womanās affections, although not so often recently. Could this be her idea of reviving a notion that was always doomed to fail?
āPatrick was certainly the clumsiest child I ever met. He must have grown out of it, or else heād not have anyone bringing their animals to him. With the exception of women of my age who should know better.ā There was very little that escaped the notice of Leslieās mother, despite the fact that she didnāt do much socially anymore, outside of the church or the local causes she supported. āIs he staying with his parents too?ā
āNot that Iām aware of, although to be honest I didnāt ask Marianne the question.ā Nor had she offered the information. āI donāt think he works locally.ā
āHeās based in Surrey, I believe. Near Epsom, so he can work with horses as well as his beloved dogs. Iād have thought youād have known that.ā That remark was evidently worthy of a direct glance, over the top of her spectacles.
āI havenāt spoken to Patrick in years. Same as Iāve not spoken to Marianne.ā Leslie shrugged. āYou know what itās like. People knock around together and are great pals, then they go off in different directions and suddenly find theyāve not spoken in ages. And the longer it goes on, the harder it is to get out oneās pen and paper to jot down a line. It takes an errant hound and some good fortune, like this morning on the common, to re-establish communication.ā
It wasnāt just a matter of the length of time. Somehow, the closer you had been to somebody, the trickier it was to make that first move and the more awkward that reconnection might prove. The conversation with Marianne had felt stilted, to say the least.
āThen perhaps a chat over a pot of tea and a scone is exactly whatās called for. Iāll compose a note to Marianne. Was the friend called Geraldine? I shall invite her too.ā
Leslie confirmed the name, accepting his fate. He excused himself, saying that a short turn around the garden would be pleasant, before luncheon, although he insisted Max should stay inside, as punishment. The dog snored happily, oblivious of what was being said about him.
Leslie lit a cigarette, hands cupped to protect the matchās flame from the wind. No sooner had he taken the first draw than he heard Edwin leaving the house, heading for the garage where he kept his bicycle. Once Leslieās mother got an idea in her head, she lost no time on it. Marianne would no doubt accept the invitation, unless she had another engagement that couldnāt be broken. Leslie should use the next few hours preparing himself to be a welcoming host, which was longer than heād had to gather his wits on the common.
He strolled along the path, glancing with pleasure over the rolling Hampshire countryside. Whoever had laid out the gardens at Larkspur House had known their business, making the most of the south-facing aspect. People were said to have lived in this area for thousands of years, probably enjoying the same view from their villa or roundhouse. When Leslie was a boy, heād turned up pieces of pottery in the local mole hills, pieces that his father had assured him were Roman. Heād believed it at the time and it might have been true, although Mr. Cadmore did have a plausible way about him.
It was a skill that heād developed further in the running of his business, gently planting ideas in other peopleās heads when it would prove useful, such as the time heād employed a young man only to find him unsuited to his role. Via a couple of seemingly innocuous conversations, focussed on the young manās ambitions and happiness, theyād soon reached the point where heād decided heād made the wrong choice and would be joining a local brewing company. Leslie grinned in remembrance of the tale.
Heād reached the Larkspur orchardāif half a dozen apple trees and a similar number of both plums and pears could be given that titleāwhich was the place where heād always been happiest. Sitting in a deckchair in the dappled light or swinging in a hammock, when reading, dozing, studying for exams, or simply enjoying the thrill of being alive in a world untouched by the fingers of war. As a small child, carefully scribing his name and address in his little notebook. Leslie Simon Cadmore, Larkspur House, Kinebridge, Hampshire, England, The World. That world had changed, as so many had warned it would, although some people had still retained the over-optimistic view in 1939 that this time it really might all be over by the first Christmas. Would people ever learn from the past?
The hammock had long since been taken down, and as Leslie wanted to rest his limbs, he had to make his way to the rose garden, where a sturdy wooden bench had been well placed to benefit from any sunshine. Todayās light was watery but bore a hint of warmth to come, and though it would be too early in the year for buds or blossoms on the roses, it wouldnāt be unpleasant to finish his cigarette there, coat wrapped around him.
The bench seemed to fit his shape. When younger, heād found it too hard, smacking of self-punishment, but now the solidity of it was better suited to his tastes, after years of getting used to discomfort. Bletchley chairs in Bletchley huts. Strange to think how heād assumed back then that he could easily put the war years and all theyād brought behind him, to return as quickly as possible to his previous life, only to find that the time heād spent in that place couldnāt be unspent. It would always be part of him.
Be grateful you made it through in one pieceāthousands of men and women would have given their right arm to be home for another spring. Some of them did.
It could have been Patrickās voice in his ear, saying those words, rather than the voice of conscience, but he hadnāt spoken to Patrick in ages and couldnāt even say with certainty when the man had last visited Larkspur House. Yet his presence somehow still seemed to fill the garden, this place where theyād played so often as young children and later as boys on the cusp of manhood. The mentions of Patrick that morning rang accusatorially in Leslieās ears. How the hell could they have let so much time pass without making contact?
Because youāre a coward. One who didnāt have the guts to ask Patrick either of the two questions you wanted to, afraid that the answers would be too hard to bear.
How easy it should have been to frame the first. āDo you really love me, Patrick, as I really love you, despite everything?ā Seeing Marianne had brought that more clearly into focus, had reawakened the need to have Patrick at his side again, whether it was out on the common walking a dog or sitting in the orchard or lying in a bed between cool linen sheets.
The other question would have been trickier, as impossible to ask Patrick as it would have been for Leslie to tackle his father about why he had gone into Combe Abbey. Either question would have risked receiving an answer full of peril, in terms of how it might have irrevocably changed a relationship. Leslie often wondered if heād somehow driven his father into leaving, perhaps unconsciously forcing the man to consider what it would be like to live a family life in the knowledge that his son was different, and all the disgrace that might bring were it made public. It might have been a safer choice to cut himself off from continually dealing with that. It was easy to love your neighbourāor your familyāif you didnāt have to live with them.
But if that hadnāt been his motivation, what had? He must either have been running towards a life of contemplation or running away from something in his secular life that could no longer be borne. Leslie couldnāt shake from his mind the great scandal of 1938, when thereād been an attempted strangling in one of the nearby hamlets. A farmer had given himself in at the local police station, confessing that after fourteen years of constant nagging, heād snapped and nearly killed his wife. Surely that sudden outburst of violence could never have happened with Leslieās parents?
There had only been one instance when Mr. Cadmore had shown real aggression, and that had been when on a holiday. Heād killed what had appeared to be an otter with a heavy blow to the skull, much to young Leslieās horror. It had turned out to be an escapee from a localāillegalāmink farm, about which Mr. Cadmore had been warned.
āEvil creatures, Leslie. Best to get rid of them quickly, before they can cause any harm.ā Most anglers would have agreed with him.
More comically, there was a family story about him having boxed the ears of a rival for the love of Leslieās mother. Yet Mr. Cadmore could be so soft heād wept at a sermon about the massacre of the innocents.
On the way home heād explained his distress. āIf itās trueāand you take all these Bible stories with a pinch of salt because men wrote them downāthen itās beyond wicked.ā
Heād always shown a similar desire to protect his family from harm. Until, of course, heād broken their hearts by his act of retreat into the life of the cloister. That decision had been so out of characterāassuming they had really understood what the man was like and what he wanted. Maybe some part of his father was, and always would remain, hidden and unknowable. Leslie had spent many hours brooding on the subject, having nobody he could discuss such personal things with. Had his father harboured a self-denied yet lifelong devotion to God, one that he was always going to manifest at some point or else be driven mad? Heād left no clue behind when heād made his abrupt departure, his final note to them, Iāve left you well provided for money-wise. I canāt let you suffer, ringing hollow. Emotional anguish was as hard to bear as financial.
If Leslie was unclear about his fatherās motives, he had still less clarity in his thinking about Patrick. The other question Leslie had left unasked was more serious by far. It was almost unthinkable to air, no matter how close the two men had been. Leslie whispered it now, the calm of the gardenāas well as the knowledge that nobody could hearābringing him courage.
Did youmurder Fergus Jackson? And how the hell did you pull it off?
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. Sheās a member of both the Romantic Novelistsā Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
