📚Saturday's Series Spotlight(Back to School Edition)📚: Cambridge Fellows Mysteries by Charlie Cochrane

Lessons in Desire #2
Summary:
Cambridge, 1906.

With the recent series of college murders behind him, Cambridge Fellow Jonty Stewart is in desperate need of a break.

A holiday on the beautiful Channel Island of Jersey seems ideal, if only he can persuade Orlando Coppersmith to leave the security of the college and come with him. Orlando is a quiet man who prefers academic life to venturing out into the world. Within the confines of their rooms at the university, it’s easy to hide the fact that he and Jonty are far more than friends.

But the desire to spend more time alone with the man he loves is an impossible lure to resist. When a brutal murder occurs at the hotel where they’re staying, the two young men are once more drawn into the investigation.

The race to catch the killer gets complicated by the victim’s son, Ainslie, a man who seems to find Orlando too attractive to resist.

Can Stewart and Coppersmith keep Ainslie at bay, keep their affair clandestine, and solve the crime?

Lessons for Idle Tongues #11
Summary:
Cambridge, England, 1910. 

Amateur detectives Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith seem to have nothing more taxing on their plate than locating a missing wooden cat and solving the dilemma of seating thirteen for dinner. But one of the guests brings a conundrum: a young woman has been found dead, and her boyfriend is convinced she was murdered. The trouble is, nobody else agrees.

Investigation reveals that several young people in the local area have died in strange circumstances, and rumours abound of poisonings at the hands of Lord Toothill, a local mysterious recluse. Toothill's angry, gun-toting gamekeeper isn't doing anything to quell suspicions, either.

But even with a gun to his head, Jonty can tell there's more going on in this surprisingly treacherous village than meets the eye. And even Orlando's vaunted logic is stymied by the baffling inconsistencies they uncover. Together, the Cambridge Fellows must pick their way through gossip and misdirection to discover the truth.

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias #15

Summary:

When their colleague Dr Panesar is the victim of serious allegations, the Cambridge Fellows have to call on every resource to solve the problem. But in a case where nothing is as it appears and they can’t even identify who’s posing the threat, how can they clear an innocent man’s name?

Lessons in Desire #2

Original Review August 2014:
This entry finds our two young lovers on vacation. Jonty is his usual vivacious self, Orlando at first is also his usual cautious, sometimes overly cautious, self but he begins to grow more confident as their vacation goes on. Their love is also growing and with it, they also find themselves at a few crossroads, only some of which concern the murder mystery they find at their vacation abode. Once again we find our young sleuths in the middle of everything. Can't wait to read further entries in this wonderful m/m historical/mystery/romance series.

Re-Read Review June 2016:
Loved it even more the second time around. It was so great seeing the duo on vacation and watching Orlando be a little more free and open without completely straying from his usual careful self.

Lessons for Idle Tongues #11

Original Review July  2015:
When I found out that there was going to be, not one but two, new entries in the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries this year I was so excited.  Within 36 hours of the arrival of Lessons for Idle Tongues on my Kindle, I reached the final page and can I just say that Charlie Cochrane did not disappoint.  Jonty and Orlando are faced with another intriguing mystery that may or may not be an actual mystery but that doesn't stop their investigation.  Now I'm even more hungry for Lessons for Sleeping Dogs and October is seeming way too far off.

As for the overall series, Cambridge Fellows is a great historical mystery with humor, romance, and characters that mesh together perfectly, even when they seem more enemy than friend.  I came across this series last summer when I was searching for historical fiction and even though there were 10 books to the series, I decided to give it a try.  Well, less than 30 days later I had finished all 10.  I will say that the publishers label them as standalones and I guess as far as the mysteries go, yes they do qualify as standalones but because of the growing relationships amongst the different characters, and not just Jonty and Orlando, I highly recommend reading them in order of the chronological timeline, which I included below after the excerpts before the author bio.

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias #15

Original Book of the Month March 2024:

You would think that after 20 books a series would be getting old, tired, rehashed . . . Cambridge Fellows Mysteries is so not getting old, tired, or rehashed.  Charlie Cochrane has kept Jonty and Orlando as fresh and original as ever.  I can't imagine my reading journey without these two Cambridge Dons detecting and romancing their way through life.

Mysteries have always been my go-to genre of choice both in reading and viewing form so there is very little that still surprises me when it comes to sniffing out the culprit(s?😉) but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the journey from crime to discovery.  As I started off by saying some might think a series with so many entries can't possibly keep one guessing but Deadly Alias does.  I won't spoil the mystery but I will say, I lost count on how many times I thought I had it figured out but lo and behold, I'd swipe a page and my guess was foiled sending me back to square one. I did make the correct guess shortly before the reveal but the intricacies surrounding it still left me a bit baffled until all was laid out before me.  So I say with 200% certainty: kudos on the who done it as well as the what, where, why, and how.

As for Jonty and Orlando.  They never lose their spark, their chemistry, and their all around happiness with life . . . long as a good bit of detecting falls in their path.  Having read this series from the beginning I know what lays in front of the pair as well as where fate leads certain cast members but I won't spoil it for anyone who is new to Cambridge Fellows.  These newer entries are thrown about in the timeline so check out the author's website if you want to read it chronologically.  Because I don't want to cotton on to the fate of some characters all I will say is I love seeing this series return to it's "heyday" and it never gets boring when Jonty's family aid in the investigation, talk about a family business😉.

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias is topnotch storytelling, weaving a web of deception that will keep you on your toes.  There are a few comments that elude to previous points  in regards to Orlando's younger homelife that was discussed in an earlier entry but the author handles it so a new reader to the series won't be lost.  Deadly Alias is a great blend of drama, humor, danger, family, chemistry, friendship, heart, and of course mystery.  The author also keeps to the era, from dialogue to social morals to clothing and so many elements in between but does so in a way that you don't feel a part of a school lesson. There may be a few liberties here and there but there's no doubt the respect Charlie Cochrane has for yesteryear and getting it right.

Whether the author keeps adding entries to the early years of Jonty and Orlando's life or she strictly moves on to adding to their older years, I will gobble them up.  Full length novel or one page holiday coda, I will devour them all.  Jonty and Orlando has become members of the family, you may not want them around 24/7 365 days a year but it's great to have them visit.

RATING:

Lessons in Desire #2

Chapter One

St. Bride’s College, Cambridge, June 1906 

“A holiday will do us both the world of good.” Jonty was sitting in his chair in the Senior Common Room of St. Bride’s College discussing the long vacation and plans he had for it. These, naturally, involved Orlando, who in the past had usually holidayed by visiting other seats of learning, with the occasional dutiful visit to his grandmother in Kent interspersed among the academic outings.

Orlando had no concept of just going off to some place of leisure and relaxing, frittering the time away on walks or sightseeing or bathing. His eyes widened as his friend recounted the sort of things he’d got up to in the past—the Riviera, visiting archaeological sites, cruising in the Mediterranean. This seemed to be yet another alien world the sophisticated Jonty was introducing to his naïve friend. When he suggested they should go somewhere together, Orlando was appalled.

“Consider it, Dr. Coppersmith, the world is our oyster. Now, before you begin to quibble about the costs, I would remind you my grandmother left her favourite grandson extremely well off, so money is no object. Name where you would like to go and we’ll organise it. Shall it be Monte Carlo or the rose red city of Petra?” A glorious smile lit Jonty’s face as he made the suggestion, brightening the Stygian gloom which usually infested the room.

“Must we go anywhere, Dr. Stewart?” Orlando was quite content here in his own college among the places and things he knew well. No further unrest had come to St. Bride’s since the murders of the previous winter, allowing his love affair with Jonty to blossom as beautifully as the magnolia trees gracing the Fellows’ Garden. In his eyes, life was perfect here and now, so why should he go off searching for anything else?

Jonty narrowed his eyes. “Of course we must. I have no intention of spending my long vac festering here. If you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.” He sniffed. “Though I have gone alone on holiday too often in the past. I was hoping so much that you would see fit to coming with me, so we could share the excitement. Think of the novelty, the exotic food, the flora and fauna that East Anglia can only dream of. Strange languages. Mysterious sights.”

It was the novelty Orlando couldn’t stop thinking of, or so he told his friend. He’d encountered quite a lot of new things these last few months, particularly when he and Jonty were first acquainted. Now he was hoping for a period of relative calm before the new academic year ensued. The minute he looked into Jonty’s eyes, he knew he was beaten—the man was desperate for this break, the chance of a trip with his lover at his side. Who was Orlando to deny him it?

They eventually reached a compromise—three weeks’ leave, travelling no further than the Channel Islands. Jonty would find them some nice establishment on Jersey and book tickets for the ferry from Southampton. It would be adventurous, although not too much so; the food would be English (with perhaps a little native cuisine included) and there would be no language barrier. Orlando was particularly pleased about that, as modern languages were not his forte—moreover, as he admitted, the thought of being around exotic foreign ladies terrified him.

For the next week Jonty beavered away with the Red Guide, simultaneously picking his mother’s brains about hotels, the Honourable Mrs. Stewart being a great source of information about many things, until finally settling for the Beaulieu at St. Aubin.

“It boasts Three acres of terraced gardens with lawns, Private Tennis Courts, Fishing, and Bathing from the Hotel,” he gleefully explained to Orlando, waving the brochure about. “There are private bathrooms, so you won’t risk ladies walking in on you should you forget to shoot the bolt. The additional cost for that will only be sixpence per night, so you won’t be risking bankrupting me. Convenient for the train, too.”

“It sounds delightful, Jonty,” Orlando said, with liar written plain on his face. “You should book it.”

“Already done. They alleged they were fully booked, August being high season, until they found themselves up against Mama. She spoke to the manager, the owners, probably to King Edward himself—she’s wangled us the best two-bedroom suite in the house. I never really appreciated how wonderful it is to have quite such a formidable mother until now…”

 *****

“Do you still want ‘Jerusalem’ sung at your funeral, Dr. Coppersmith?” Jonty began to gently rub his friend’s back as the poor man clung to the ship’s rail, green to the gills as though desperately trying to fathom out whether he would feel better if he were sick again or not.

“I no longer care, Dr. Stewart. I think I would prefer to die with the minimum of fuss, plus the maximum of expediency. I have enjoyed these last ten months, though I’m greatly afraid I won’t survive the journey.” Orlando finished his speech with dignity, then sped off to the toilet again.

Jonty looked out at the sea and tried not to think of what would be going on in the gentlemen’s conveniences. He felt a more than a bit guilty about bringing Orlando on this trip, but how was he to have any idea that his lover would suffer quite so much from seasickness? Orlando hadn’t even known it himself, having been on nothing more adventurous than the paddle steamer out of Ramsgate.

There were at least two hours of the voyage left before they could feel decent, solid ground under their feet again, then there was the awful prospect of having to do the journey all over again, back to Southampton, in a fortnight’s time.

The nightmare of the crossing eventually ended, all the passengers reaching terra firma with much thanks. Orlando swore, afterwards, he’d felt tempted to kneel down and kiss the solid earth beneath his feet at the quay. Plenty of carriages were waiting for custom, so they were soon riding around the wide bay to St. Aubin, able at last to admire the innocuous-looking waters which had managed to wreak such havoc on a delicate digestive tract.

Orlando was recovered enough to smile when he saw their hotel. It was everything the rather overblown brochure had promised and more besides. Their bags were whisked away with just the right amount of efficient deference, the reception clerk was welcoming without being unctuous. Even the suite, once Orlando was entirely convinced it was quite normal for friends of the same sex to take sets of rooms together, was pronounced to be above reproach.

They hadn’t long begun to unpack before Jonty suggested it was time to find a small sherry or some such before dinner. He assured his friend it would be the right medicine to enable him to recover his appetite enough to tackle at least some of the delights that they’d spied on the hotel menu.

Orlando was rather affronted, wanting everything to have found its proper place in the suite before they ventured out, but Jonty insisted, so he struck his colours. Orlando changed into his dinner jacket, newly purchased on his lover’s orders, as the old one looked more suited to the stalls at the music hall. Properly attired, they went down to the bar.

 *****

The dining room was full, mainly married couples of various ages, from the bashful newlyweds who sat in the corner blushing at every remark made to them to the elderly couple—all wrinkles and bright smiles—who sat at a table directly opposite the two Cambridge fellows. This couple, the Tattersalls, had taken a great shine to the two young men as they’d chatted with them over pre-dinner drinks, insisting they reminded them of their sons at a similar age. They seemed won over by Jonty’s smile, his obvious good breeding, and Orlando’s gravity and beautiful manners.

There were some families at dinner—two had brought their grownup daughters with them. Both girls were plain and seemed rather smitten with the two young men, if blushes or girlish sighs were anything to go by. The only other unmarried couple present was a man perhaps three or four years older than Jonty, accompanied by what could only have been his father, given the strong family resemblance. The younger was a handsome chap whose dark curly hair framed deep blue eyes.

Not that the two fellows of St. Bride’s had eyes for anyone else, but one couldn’t help noticing these things. They also couldn’t help noticing the palpable tension between the two men, shown in their strained politeness and inability to maintain eye contact with each other.

After dinner Jonty and Orlando made up a four for bridge in the sun lounge with the Tattersalls. They proved excellent company, the lady in particular having an impish sense of humour. She chatted away to Jonty, the pair of them giggling like two schoolchildren, despite her being old enough, just, to be his grandmother.

The father and son formed their own bridge four with another married couple, although they were obviously not having half the enjoyment that Orlando and his friend were. Jonty was fascinated, keeping a surreptitious eye on them all evening.

When they got back to their room, Jonty had clearly decided it was character analysis time, despite the fact that Orlando was struggling to arrange, into some sort of acceptable order, the mass of items his friend had strewn everywhere in an attempt to unpack. “That young man’s not happy to be here, Orlando. I think his father has made him come, while he’d rather be at home with his sweetheart, not entertaining a surly old curmudgeon.”

“I hope you don’t feel like you’ve been dragged along to entertain a surly young curmudgeon.” Orlando grinned. “Anyway, it’s nothing to do with us.” He picked up the tie he’d worn for the journey, finding somewhere to put it carefully away.

“Aren’t you even a little bit curious? This is such an opportunity to meet new people, the sort of folk we might never meet at college. Like that delightful old couple—she certainly had the measure even of you at cards, Dr. Coppersmith.” Jonty yawned, stretching like a great ginger cat. “This is going to be such a delightful holiday. The hotel is perfect, the food is excellent, I have great hopes for the company and you look less green than you did this morning. Such a lovely colour in your cheeks now.” He drew his hand down his lover’s face, across his lips. It was the first time they’d touched with any degree of intimacy since they’d left St. Bride’s. The caress made Orlando shudder afresh, as if they were touching for the first time. “We may have two bedrooms, but do we really need to use them both? It’d be easy enough to slip across before the early morning tea arrives, if we set your alarm clock.”

Orlando looked up, determined to refuse. He was still feeling skittish about staying in a suite of rooms with his lover. Sharing a bed was beyond any imagining although, ironically, the item in question was a glorious double bed such as he’d dreamed, on many an occasion, of sleeping in with Jonty. “I’m not sure I feel sufficiently recovered from the journey to want to do anything except sleep.” He studied his hands, the shirt he was trying to hang up, anything but his lover.

“That would be fine. I’m as happy to simply slumber next to you as anything else. There are plenty of other days for romance—we could just be fond friends tonight, or pretend to be that old couple we played cards with. Still very much in love yet beyond the thralls of passion.” Jonty gently touched his friend’s hand.

Orlando felt as if a spider was crawling down the back of his neck, and his discomfiture must have been plain. “What if we slept apart, just for tonight?”

They had reached the crux of why he’d been so keen not to come on holiday. He was frightened of taking their relationship outside the college walls, displaying it to the world. Within the ivy-clad, male-dominated locality of St. Bride’s, it had been easy to maintain a friendship which was more than close without raising a suspicious eyebrow. He’d spent little time with Jonty out of Cambridge, apart from a visit or two to London, where they’d stayed in the relatively safe environs of the Stewart family home. To be with the man in a strange place was to put himself at risk of making a demonstration of his affection by an unguarded look or touch.

Any footman could walk through the streets of town in his bowler-hatted Sunday best, hand in hand with a parlour maid. A pair of dons could never be allowed such freedom; not in Cambridge and certainly not on Jersey. If they ever were mad enough to be tempted, all they had to do was remember the law—two years of hard labour and public disgrace would be no holiday.

Jonty slammed down the toothbrush he’d been unpacking. “Oh, go and sleep in the bath if you want to! I haven’t the heart to put up with this nonsense. I’m going to sleep in my own bed, in my own soft pyjamas, with my own book. If you change your mind and decide to join me, make sure you knock, because I might just have found other company.” He spun on his heels, entering his bedroom with a slam of the door which caused the windows to shake.

Orlando contemplated opening the door again to give his friend a piece of his mind, but didn’t want to end up in a full-blown row in a public building. He also contemplated going in and giving Jonty the most comprehensive kissing he’d ever received. He decided against that, as it was probably exactly what the little swine wanted, so must be avoided at all costs. Even at the cost of a miserable night alone.

Eventually, after tidying everything to his own immaculate standards, he trudged his weary way into his bedroom and readied himself for sleep.

At two o’clock in the morning the heavens opened, torrential rain driving against the windowpanes while thunder pealed as loud as cannon fire. Orlando leapt out of bed without a second thought, making his way through their little sitting room into Jonty’s bedroom. He didn’t knock, knowing by now that any threats from his friend about finding company were all bluster, to find him standing by the window, shivering.

“Come on, Jonty—you’ll get cold, you know.” Orlando put his arms around the man’s shoulders, which felt icy through his silken pyjama jacket. Jonty both hated thunderstorms and was fascinated by them. Orlando had often found him looking out of the window of his room at St. Bride’s while the lightning rent the sky, making the college’s very foundations seem to shake. He could go into an almost dreamlike state, distracted and seemingly unaware of his surroundings, having to be coaxed back gently into the real world. Orlando wondered whether some of the awful things which had happened to Jonty at school had taken place during storms, although he’d never been brave enough to ask.

Orlando took his lover to bed, tenderly soothing him back to sleep, holding tight as each new clap of thunder brought a shuddering through Jonty’s frame. Eventually the storm passed eastwards and they could both fall asleep, Jonty as content as a child in his mother’s arms. Orlando felt masterful, protective and very much in love. If anyone walked in, he had a legitimate medical excuse to be present. Or so he assured himself.

 *****

Thanks to Orlando’s innate body clock, the chambermaid delivering the early morning tea found the two men in their own separate beds, above reproach.

Jonty soon brought his cup into the other room and snuggled under the sheet, the night having been too muggy to need blankets. “Will you wear that tie today, the one I bought you at Easter? The ladies would be very impressed.”

Only a snort came in reply. “Most of the ladies I meet seem impressed at anything.”

“Do you meet very many ladies? Seems you’re living a double life, then, because I never see you talking to them.”

Orlando thumped Jonty around the back of the head with his pillow. “Imbecile. Well, I’m going to take advantage of the ‘private bathroom at sixpence a night extra’ to prepare myself for the day. You can shave at the basin while I’m in the tub.”

Tea shot out of Jonty’s nose, making him splutter in an undignified manner. The thought of Orlando issuing an invitation to be viewed in the bath—such a thing hadn’t happened since the afternoon the man had got drunk at St. Thomas’s college, not even when they’d shared a bathroom while staying at the Stewart family home. It seemed marvellously out of character.

“I’ll certainly take up the offer or we’ll never see breakfast. I can smell the bacon already, although that might just be an olfactory illusion. Breakfast, then church—I saw you wince, but we are going—then off to the beach.” Jonty squeezed his lover’s thigh. “I saw you wince when I mentioned beach as well, so you’ll just have to apply your stiff upper lip.”

 *****

Jonty sat down on a rock to get on with removing his shoes and socks.

“What are you doing?”

“Going paddling, Orlando.” The holiday air had affected them both, so using Christian names now seemed acceptable, even outside their suite. Jonty suddenly looked up at the awkward figure which towered over him. “Oh, Orlando. You’d never been in the Bishop’s Cope, you’d never been punting—please, please don’t tell me that you have never paddled.”

“I have actually paddled on a number of occasions, when I was taken to see my grandmother in Kent.” Orlando attempted to look a man at once dignified and completely au fait with the delights of the seaside.

Jonty assumed a sly look. “When exactly was the last time you indulged in this wild activity?”

Orlando mumbled, “When I was seven.”

Jonty giggled. “Then you had better ruddy well get your socks off and your trouser bottoms rolled up, because you’re coming with me.”

Orlando felt distinctly miffed. He contemplated refusing to do any such thing, but decided to obey orders, stuffing his socks into the toes of his shoes, then tying the laces together in imitation of his lover. The reason for this strange procedure became obvious when Jonty slung his shoes around his neck, leaving his hands free to continue picking up stones for skimming or shells for stuffing in his pockets.

As he watched Jonty turning over rocks to search for tiny crustaceans which he then let run over his palms, it struck Orlando more than ever that at heart his friend was just an overgrown boy. An enormous crab got rooted out, a good three inches across the carapace, which Jonty expertly picked up to wave at his friend.

“What a whopper—look!” He passed the creature over, grinning as Orlando inevitably grabbed it the wrong way, earning a sharp nip on his fingers.

He flung the offending animal away, shaking his sore hand and cursing like a sailor.

“Such language!” Jonty hooted with laughter. “Look, take him across the back, so all your fingers are out of his reach.” He demonstrated the technique, then made his friend do the same.

Orlando took up the vicious creature, more gingerly than if it had been a bomb, breaking into a smile of delight when the method worked. “He’s a beauty. Not big enough for tea, though.” Laughing, he placed the crab down among the rocks, returning to follow his friend.

The tide was ebbing, revealing rock pools full of shrimps which Jonty caught in his hand, then let spring out of his grasp with a giggle. Orlando soon learned that game too, proving much more adept at catching the little invertebrates and the darting fishes than his lover. It was like being a child again, except there hadn’t been that much room for play in his childhood, so there was time to be caught up. Yet again, he could experience a freedom with Jonty that he’d never known before they met.

Jonty picked up a huge ormer shell, holding it to the light so that they could both admire the mother-of-pearl glittering in the sunlight.

“Beautiful. Eh?”

“Indeed.” Although Orlando didn’t mean the shell so much as the man holding it.

Tired, eventually, of annoying the occupants of the rock pools, they walked along the waterline, the warm sea just lapping over their feet. The occasional wave came in with slightly more force, making them jump out of the way, splashing and laughing.

It took a whole mile of wandering for Jonty to begin to make mischief, starting to splash just a little too deliberately in a particular direction. Orlando didn’t notice at first, blaming the splatters on his trousers on the swell. When he did realise what was going on, he handled the situation admirably, deciding that revenge is a dish best eaten cold. While he would have loved to dunk Jonty head to foot, there and then, more pleasure was to be had by quietly removing himself from flying water range before making his plans.

Seaweed wasn’t the most pleasant thing to handle straight from the sea. Jonty usually found it disagreeable on the feet when he had to wade through it, but it was truly disgusting when someone forcibly stuffed it down the back of his trousers. Orlando had executed his vengeance.

“You swine!”

“You’re no longer dealing with some naïve young man who’s spent all his days in a haze of academia. I’m learning, so you’d better watch your step.” Orlando looked smug, strikingly handsome in his triumph.

Jonty fished down his pants to extract the offending piece of algae. He flung it at his friend, missed by a mile, then laughed. “I’ve only ever wanted you to be my equal, Orlando. I’m looking forward enormously to the day when you tease me both mercilessly and with aplomb.” He reached out his hand to take his lover’s, remembered they were in public, shrugged in apology and walked on.

They strolled the length of the beach till Jonty’s pockets were so full of shells he’d begun to rattle. Drying off their feet on their handkerchiefs proved largely ineffective, as did hopping madly about so that the clean, dry foot couldn’t be infected with sand before it made its way into its sock. Sand always found its way into every available crevice and was bound to begin to creep into their shoes, regardless, before they were halfway off the beach. The long walk back to Corbière station would be uncomfortable, although it wouldn’t spoil the delights of the previous hours.

Jonty felt the glow which always came with having enlightened his friend, introducing some new pleasure—innocent or not—into the man’s life. Orlando had shown a spark of delight in having effectively taken a rare revenge and Jonty wondered whether he was plotting other ways of getting one over on him. This holiday is showing every sign of being more than enjoyable.

On the station platform they saw the young man from the hotel looking much happier without his usual companion. He acknowledged them with a tilt of the head, which was all the encouragement Jonty needed to effect an introduction. “I believe you’re staying at the Beaulieu, as we are? My name is Stewart. This is my friend Coppersmith.” Jonty waved his hand to indicate Orlando, who had yet to venture any closer.

“They call me Ainslie, sir. Matthew Ainslie. I’m delighted to meet you.” The man held out his hand, producing an engaging smile in the process.

“Have you been on Jersey long, Mr. Ainslie?”

“Matthew, I insist you call me Matthew.” He smiled again. “I…we arrived three days ago. My father and I always come to one of the Channel Islands once a year—he feels the air agrees with him.”

“I hope it will agree with us, too. It’s our first time here and I’ve been very pleasantly surprised so far. I dare say we’ll be picking your brains about the best places to visit.”

“Your friend over there is enjoying himself, too?” Ainslie indicated Orlando, who looked nothing like a man enjoying himself.

A man trying to win the most surly face competition, perhaps. “I believe he is, although he doesn’t often show it. He enjoyed playing bridge last night with the Tattersalls. Such a delightful couple.”

Ainslie smiled. “They beat us soundly on Friday night. I wouldn’t like to meet Mrs. Tattersall in a rubber if high stakes were in order, although she could charm the birds out of the trees.” His face suddenly changed. “Please excuse me. I can see my father—he’ll want me to attend him.” A smile and the man was gone, leaving Jonty’s interest more piqued than ever.

 *****

After another excellent dinner, the fours for bridge were different from Saturday evening. The Ainslies played against Mrs. Tattersall, who was paired with Orlando, Jonty and Mr. Tattersall having opted to observe the fun. The Tattersall-Coppersmith pair trounced the opposition, even when they were obviously not trying, which made it ten times worse. The elder Ainslie’s temper was beginning to fray as rubber after rubber went down, until he snapped at his son, on whom no blame could be fairly laid. Matthew was a far more competent player than his father.

For Jonty the fascination lay not with the play (that was a foregone conclusion) but in what the eyes around the table were doing. Orlando watched Ainslie’s hands in fascination as he skidded the cards over the table. This man was a talented shuffler and dealer, the sort who would be interesting to see playing alongside a competent partner. While Orlando watched Ainslie’s hands, the man watched his. Orlando had long, delicate fingers, fingers with which Jonty was intimately acquainted, which he found both beautiful and capable of causing havoc in the bedroom. Ainslie followed the graceful movements his partner’s digits made as they picked up and sorted his hand, caressing the backs of the cards.

Jonty observed the way that Ainslie was watching. He would not forget it.

Lessons for Idle Tongues #11

Once dressed for dinner, he wandered along to annoy Jonty. Given their exertions of the afternoon, the chances were he’d be snatching forty winks, and would be nicely flustered at having to rush to get ready. Unfortunately for the purposes of either annoyance or mockery, Jonty seemed well ahead of schedule on the dressing front.

“Now, about tomorrow,” he said as Orlando walked into his bedroom. “Just behave yourself when we get to the ground.”

“Of course I will.”

“Good.” Jonty grinned. “I don’t want any naughty things going on behind the pavilion. Even if it’s one of those that backs onto woodland and allows any amount of sin to take place there.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really? Didn’t many a lad from deepest, darkest Kent lose his virginity behind the school cricket pavilion? Or some other equally convenient location? Ah, got it this time.” Jonty smiled at the elegant knot he’d produced in his tie. “Perfect.”

“Is that true or are you making it up? And why can’t you have the same sort of black tie as everyone else?” Maybe when Jonty took it off tonight, Orlando could accidentally cut the offensive object into fifty-seven pieces.

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias #15

Autumn 1912

Orlando Coppersmith loved the mellow days at the back end of summer, as the evenings darkened and the garden began to give the first hints of soon relinquishing its present glories for those of autumn. He liked the way the increasingly watery sun lit up the courts of St Bride’s college and how the light played across the desk in his study there. He even appreciated turning his thoughts back to the coming term and the challenge of knocking some maths into brains that weren’t always receptive—to see the “Eureka!” moment in a student’s eyes was still a pleasure.

But most of all he loved Jonty Stewart, who shared his life at both St Bride’s and Forsythia Cottage, their home along the Madingley Road. Although that love was at present being sorely tested.

“What are you up to now, pest?” Orlando called through the shut door of Jonty’s study.

“Nothing.” The guilty edge to Jonty’s voice and the sudden cessation of the din which had been emerging from the room gave the lie to that statement.

“Would you like me to come in and provide independent verification of the fact?”

A sound, reminiscent of somebody hurriedly hiding something, was followed by the door opening a little and Jonty’s handsome—yet guilty looking—face appearing round it. “No, thank you. There is no matter of interest here.”

“For nothing going on and no matter of interest there’s an awful lot of noise being generated.”

“Can a Kildare Fellow of Tudor Literature not have an early morning rearrangement of his filing system without having to endure an inquisition?” As Jonty spoke, he edged out of the door, closing it swiftly behind him.

Orlando rolled his eyes. At least part of his lover’s filing system usually consisted of sweeping everything into a certain drawer higgledy-piggledy. “And does this reorganisation involve a brick hammer or whatever else made that unholy racket?”

“I dropped a couple of heavy tomes on the floor. Jolly near my foot, as it happens. Would you like to inspect the area for damage?” Jonty smirked. “Or any other part of me?”

👬💙🔪💕🔫💙👬

If the men of St. Bride’s College knew what Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith got up to behind closed doors, the scandal would rock early-20th-century Cambridge to its core. But the truth is, when they’re not busy teaching literature and mathematics, the most daring thing about them isn’t their love for each other—it’s their hobby of amateur sleuthing.

Because wherever Jonty and Orlando go, trouble seems to find them. Sunny, genial Jonty and prickly, taciturn Orlando may seem like opposites. But their balance serves them well as they sift through clues to crimes, and sort through their own emotions to grow closer. But at the end of the day, they always find the truth . . . and their way home together.

********

Be sure and check the author's website for a complete chronological list of novels, novellas, free short stories in the Cambridge Fellows Mysteries Universe.

👬💙🔪💕🔫💙👬

Cambridge Fellows Mysteries

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Part 4  /  Part 5  /  Part 6

Veteran's Day Edition 2020

Mother's Day Edition 2021

Mother's Day Edition 2022

Father's Day Edition 2022

School Edition 2023

School Edition 2024

School Edition 2025

Veteran's Day 2025

School Edition 2026

Sunday's Short Stack

Lessons in Keeping a Dangerous Promise

February Book of the Month 2024

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias

Alasdair and Toby Investigations

Part 1  /  Part 2

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. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ 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.

FACEBOOK  /  BLUESKY  /  WEBSITE

NEWSLETTER  /  KOBO  /  RIPTIDE

FB DEADLY DAMES  /  FB FRIEND

BOOKBUB  /  TWITTER  /  AUDIBLE

CARINA  /  B&N  /  GOOGLE PLAY

iTUNES  /  AMAZON  / GOODREADS

EMAIL:  cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com

Lessons in Desire #2

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

Lessons for Idle Tongues #11

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

Lessons in Exposing a Deadly Alias #15

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

Cambridge Fellows Mysteries

Series #1-12

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

WEBSITE  /  GOODREADS TBR

Series Novellas

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

An Act of Detection #1

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

The Case of the Grey Assassin #2

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

The Case of the Deadly Deception #4

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

Alasdair & Toby and Cambridge

The Case of the Undiscovered Corpse #1/#3

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  GOODREADS TBR

📚📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation(Back to School Edition)🎥📘📚: Carrie by Stephen King

Summary:

#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • 50TH ANNIVERSARY EDITION WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION BY MARGARET ATWOOD •  Stephen King's legendary debut, the bestselling smash hit that put him on the map as one of America's favorite writers • In a world where bullies rule, one girl holds a secret power. Unpopular and tormented, Carrie White's life takes a terrifying turn when her hidden abilities become a weapon of horror.

"Stephen King’s first novel changed the trajectory of horror fiction forever. Fifty years later, authors say it’s still challenging and guiding the genre."  —Esquire

 

“A master storyteller.” —The Los Angeles Times • “Guaranteed to chill you.” —The New York Times • "Gory and horrifying. . . . You can't put it down." —Chicago Tribune

 

Unpopular at school and subjected to her mother's religious fanaticism at home, Carrie White does not have it easy. But while she may be picked on by her classmates, she has a gift she's kept secret since she was a little girl: she can move things with her mind. Doors lock. Candles fall. Her ability has been both a power and a problem. And when she finds herself the recipient of a sudden act of kindness, Carrie feels like she's finally been given a chance to be normal. She hopes that the nightmare of her classmates' vicious taunts is over . . . but an unexpected and cruel prank turns her gift into a weapon of horror so destructive that the town may never recover.

News item from the Westover (Me.) weekly Enterprise, August 19, 1966:

RAIN OF STONES REPORTED

It was reliably reported by several persons that a rain of stones fell from a clear blue sky on Carlin Street in the town of Chamberlain on August 17th. The stones fell principally on the home of Mrs. Margaret White, damaging the roof extensively and ruining two gutters and a downspout valued at approximately $25. Mrs. White, a widow, lives with her three-year-old daughter, Carietta.

Mrs. White could not be reached for comment.

Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious level where savage things grow. On the surface, all the girls in the shower room were shocked, thrilled, ashamed, or simply glad that the White bitch had taken it in the mouth again. Some of them might also have claimed surprise, but of course their claim was untrue. Carrie had been going to school with some of them since the first grade, and this had been building since that time, building slowly and immutably, in accordance with all the laws that govern human nature, building with all the steadiness of a chain reaction approaching critical mass.

What none of them knew, of course, was that Carrie White was telekinetic.

Graffiti scratched on a desk of the Barker Street Grammar School in Chamberlain:

Carrie White eats shit.

The locker room was filled with shouts, echoes, and the subterranean sound of showers splashing on tile. The girls had been playing volleyball in Period One, and their morning sweat was light and eager.

Girls stretched and writhed under the hot water, squalling, flicking water, squirting white bars of soap from hand to hand. Carrie stood among them stolidly, a frog among swans. She was a chunky girl with pimples on her neck and back and buttocks, her wet hair completely without color. It rested against her face with dispirited sogginess and she simply stood, head slightly bent, letting the water splat against her fl esh and roll off. She looked the part of the sacrificial goat, the constant butt, believer in left-handed monkey wrenches, perpetual foul-up, and she was. She wished forlornly and constantly that Ewen High had individual—and thus private— showers, like the high schools at Westover or Lewiston. They stared. They always stared.

Showers turning off one by one, girls stepping out, removing pastel bathing caps, toweling, spraying deodorant, checking the clock over the door. Bras were hooked, underpants stepped into. Steam hung in the air; the place might have been an Egyptian bathhouse except for the constant rumble of the Jacuzzi whirlpool in the corner. Calls and catcalls rebounded with all the snap and flicker of billiard balls after a hard break.

“—so Tommy said he hated it on me and I—”

“—I’m going with my sister and her husband. He picks his nose but so does she, so they’re very—”

“—shower after school and—”

“—too cheap to spend a goddam penny so Cindi and I—”

Miss Desjardin, their slim, nonbreasted gym teacher, stepped in, craned her neck around briefly, and slapped her hands together once, smartly. “What are you waiting for, Carrie? Doom? Bell in five minutes.” Her shorts were blinding white, her legs not too curved but striking in their unobtrusive muscularity. A silver whistle, won in college archery competition, hung around her neck.

The girls giggled and Carrie looked up, her eyes slow and dazed from the heat and the steady, pounding roar of the water. “Ohuh?”

It was a strangely froggy sound, grotesquely apt, and the girls giggled again. Sue Snell had whipped a towel from her hair with the speed of a magician embarking on a wondrous feat and began to comb rapidly. Miss Desjardin made an irritated cranking gesture at Carrie and stepped out.

Carrie turned off the shower. It died in a drip and a gurgle.

It wasn’t until she stepped out that they all saw the blood running down her leg.

From The Shadow Exploded: Documented Facts and Specific Conclusions Derived from the Case of Carietta White, by David R. Congress (Tulane University Press: 1981), p. 34:

It can hardly be disputed that failure to note specific instances of telekinesis during the White girl’s earlier years must be attributed to the conclusion offered by White and Stearns in their paper Telekinesis: A Wild Talent Revisited—that the ability to move objects by effort of the will alone comes to the fore only in moments of extreme personal stress. The talent is well hidden indeed; how else could it have remained submerged for centuries with only the tip of the iceberg showing above a sea of quackery?

We have only skimpy hearsay evidence upon which to lay our foundation in this case, but even this is enough to indicate that a “TK” potential of immense magnitude existed within Carrie White. The great tragedy is that we are now all Monday-morning quarterbacks . . .

“Per-iod!”

The catcall came first from Chris Hargensen. It struck the tiled walls, rebounded, and struck again. Sue Snell gasped laughter from her nose and felt an odd, vexing mixture of hate, revulsion, exasperation, and pity. She just looked so dumb, standing there, not knowing what was going on. God, you’d think she never—

“PER-iod!”

 

It was becoming a chant, an incantation. Someone in the background (perhaps Hargensen again, Sue couldn’t tell in the jungle of echoes) was yelling, “Plug it up!” with hoarse, uninhibited abandon.

“PER-iod, PER-iod, PER-iod!”

Carrie stood dumbly in the center of a forming circle, water rolling from her skin in beads. She stood like a patient ox, aware that the joke was on her (as always), dumbly embarrassed but unsurprised.

Sue felt welling disgust as the first dark drops of menstrual blood struck the tile in dime-sized drops. “For God’s sake, Carrie, you got your period!” she cried. “Clean yourself up!”

“Ohuh?”

She looked around bovinely. Her hair stuck to her cheeks in a curving helmet shape. There was a cluster of acne on one shoulder. At sixteen, the elusive stamp of hurt was already marked clearly in her eyes.

“She thinks they’re for lipstick!” Ruth Gogan suddenly shouted with cryptic glee, and then burst into a shriek of laughter. Sue remembered the comment later and fitted it into a general picture, but now it was only another senseless sound in the confusion. Sixteen? She was thinking. She must know what’s happening, she—

More droplets of blood. Carrie still blinked around at her classmates in slow bewilderment.

Helen Shyres turned around and made mock throwing-up gestures.

“You’re bleeding!” Sue yelled suddenly, furiously. “You’re bleeding, you big dumb pudding!”

Carrie looked down at herself.

She shrieked.

The sound was very loud in the humid locker room.

A tampon suddenly struck her in the chest and fell with a plop at her feet. A red flower stained the absorbent cotton and spread.

Then the laughter, disgusted, contemptuous, horrified, seemed to rise and bloom into something jagged and ugly, and the girls were bombarding her with tampons and sanitary napkins, some from purses, some from the broken dispenser on the wall. They flew like snow and the chant became: “Plug it up, plug it up, plug it up, plug it—”

Sue was throwing them too, throwing and chanting with the rest, not really sure what she was doing—a charm had occurred to her mind and it glowed there like neon: There’s no harm in it really no harm in it really no harm— It was still flashing and glowing, reassuringly, when Carrie suddenly began to howl and back away, flailing her arms and grunting and gobbling.

The girls stopped, realizing that fission and explosion had finally been reached. It was at this point, when looking back, that some of them would claim surprise. Yet there had been all these years, all these years of let’s short-sheet Carrie’s bed at Christian Youth Camp and I found this love letter from Carrie to Flash Bobby Pickett let’s copy it and pass it around and hide her underpants somewhere and put this snake in her shoe and duck her King again, duck her again; Carrie tagging along stubbornly on biking trips, known one year as pudd’n and the next year as truck-face, always smelling sweaty, not able to catch up; catching poison ivy from urinating in the bushes and everyone finding out (hey, scratch-ass, your bum itch?); Billy Preston putting peanut butter in her hair that time she fell asleep in study hall; the pinches, the legs outstretched in school aisles to trip her up, the books knocked from her desk, the obscene postcard tucked into her purse; Carrie at the church picnic and kneeling down clumsily to pray and the seam of her old madras skirt splitting along the zipper like the sound of a huge wind-breakage; Carrie always missing the ball, even in kickball, falling on her face in Modern Dance during their sophomore year and chipping a tooth, running into the net during volleyball; wearing stockings that were always run, running, or about to run, always showing sweat stains under the arms of her blouses; even the time Chris Hargensen called up after school from the Kelly Fruit Company downtown and asked her if she knew that pig poop was spelled C- A- R- R- I- E: Suddenly all this and the critical mass was reached. The ultimate shit-on, gross-out, put-down, long searched for, was found. Fission.

She backed away, howling in the new silence, fat forearms crossing her face, a tampon stuck in the middle of her pubic hair.

The girls watched her, their eyes shining solemnly.

Carrie backed into the side of one of the four large shower compartments and slowly collapsed into a sitting position. Slow, helpless groans jerked out of her. Her eyes rolled with wet whiteness, like the eyes of a hog in the slaughtering pen.

Sue said slowly, hesitantly: “I think this must be the first time she ever— ”

That was when the door pumped open with a flat and hurried bang and Miss Desjardin burst in to see what the matter was.

A young teenage girl wreaks telekinetic vengeance on her high school tormentors and religious-nut mother.

Release Date: November 3, 1976

Release Time: 98 minutes

Director: Brian De Palma

Cast:

Sissy Spacek as Carrie White

Amy Irving as Sue Snell

William Katt as Tommy Ross

Nancy Allen as Chris Hargensen

John Travolta as Billy Nolan

Betty Buckley as Miss Collins

P. J. Soles as Norma Watson

Sydney Lassick as Mr. Fromm

Stefan Gierasch as Mr. Morton

Priscilla Pointer as Mrs. Snell

Piper Laurie as Margaret White

Edie McClurg as Helen Shyres

Awards:

49th Academy Awards - March 28, 1977

Best Actress - Sissy Spacek - Nominated

Best Supporting Actress - Piper Laurie - Nominated

34th Golden Globes - January 29, 1977

Best Supporting Actress – Motion Picture - Piper Laurie - Nominated

AFI's 100 Years

100 Thrills - #46

1976

Stephen King

Stephen King was born in Portland, Maine in 1947, the second son of Donald and Nellie Ruth Pillsbury King. He made his first professional short story sale in 1967 to Startling Mystery Stories. In the fall of 1971, he began teaching high school English classes at Hampden Academy, the public high school in Hampden, Maine. Writing in the evenings and on the weekends, he continued to produce short stories and to work on novels. In the spring of 1973, Doubleday & Co., accepted the novel Carrie for publication, providing him the means to leave teaching and write full-time. He has since published over 50 books and has become one of the world's most successful writers. King is the recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to the American Letters and the 2014 National Medal of Arts.

Stephen lives in Maine and Florida with his wife, novelist Tabitha King. They are regular contributors to a number of charities including many libraries and have been honored locally for their philanthropic activities.

TWITTER  /  WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER

iTUNES  /  AUDIBLE  /  AUDIOBOOKS

CHIRP  /  GOOGLE PLAY  /  IMDB

BOOKSHOP  /  B&N  /  WIKI

KOBO  /  PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE

BOOKBUB  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N

CHIRP  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES  /  iTUNES AUDIO

GOOGLE PLAY  /  AUDIBLE  /  AUDIOBOOKS

PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE  /  BOOKSHOP

WEBSITE  /  WIKI  /  GOODREADS TBR

Film

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK

B&N  /  AFI  /  IMDB

WIKI  /  ALL MOVIE  /  TCM

📚⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine(Back to School Edition)⏳📚: The Best Corpse for the Job by Charlie Cochrane

Summary:

Lindenshaw Mysteries #1

Tea and sympathy have never been so deadly.

Schoolteacher Adam Matthews just wants to help select a new headteacher and go home. The governors at Lindenshaw St Crispin’s have already failed miserably at finding the right candidate, so it’s make or break this second time round. But when one of the applicants is found strangled in the school, what should have been a straightforward decision turns tempestuous as a flash flood in their small English village.

Inspector Robin Bright isn’t thrilled to be back at St. Crispin’s. Memories of his days there are foul enough without tossing in a complicated murder case. And that handsome young teacher has him reminding himself not to fraternize with a witness. But it’s not long before Robin is relying on Adam for more than just his testimony.

As secrets amongst the governors emerge and a second person turns up dead, Robin needs to focus less on Adam and more on his investigation. But there are too many suspects, too many lies, and too many loose ends. Before they know it, Robin and Adam are fighting for their lives and their hearts.

Original Review November 2014:
I have to start by saying that I have been a fan of English murder mysteries since I knew what the definition of mystery was, anything and everything from Agatha Christie to Caroline Graham.  The body count in The Best Corpse for the Job may not be as high as most English mysteries but the camaraderie  between Robin and Anderson, his sergeant reminds me of Barnaby and any of his sergeants from Midsomer Murders. As for the mystery, it is simple and completely mind boggling all at the same time. Being a fan of mysteries there aren’t many times that I can’t figure it out halfway through the story, no matter how well written it is, and I’m not gloating or bragging, it’s just experience. But this one kept me guessing right up to the big reveal.

You can’t help but love Adam, he’s exactly the kind of guy we all want in our lives: fun, caring, and has the potential to love with his whole heart.  Robin is the kind of cop that we all would want to be handling the case of a murdered loved one. He’s determined to find the killer without being so single-mindedly focused on one suspect that he doesn't search everywhere. Looking at them together, is amazingly fun. Robin and Adam may not be an enemy to lover trope but certainly a strangers-at-odds to lover kind of pair ripe with banter, sexual tension, and fighting the moral dilemma of drawing the line between “chatting” and cop/witness.  Definitely a win for those who love mystery and wit with budding romance possibilities.

Original Audiobook Review June 2020:
Not much more I can add to the original review from 5-1/2 years ago that would express how much I love The Best Corpse for the Job.  Since my original read, I've come to realize that the Lindenshaw Mysteries would probably fall under the sub-genre "cozy mysteries", well, personally I never quite got that because mysteries aren't really "cozy", they are riddled with mayhem even when it's evenly blended with humor, romance, and drama.  So to me, a mystery is a mystery but however you want to label it, The Best Corpse for the Job is a winning gem.  There's crime, a new romance(BTW I loved how the author used the characters' determination to keep it legit by slow burning the sexual tension until the crime is solved), drama, and of course everything that lovers of English mysteries have come to expect: murder and wit.  Let's face it, these English villages must be some of the most dangerous places to live on the planet😉😉.

As for the crime and re-read/listen, well some mysteries don't really have the staying power of revisits but Charlie Cochrane has definitely made this one of the repeaters.  I may have remembered who did it but I'll admit the why was a little hazy but even if it had been clear as well it wouldn't have taken away any enjoyment.  The banter-filled journey Adam and Robin take was just as brilliantly fun the second time around and I can safely say it'll be just as fun when I reach the 100th revisit, which says more about the author's talent than anything else I could come up with.

David Maxwell is a new-to-me narrator which can be almost as scary as a new-to-me author because if the narration doesn't fit the characters or story it can really effect how a person "absorbs" the journey.  Well, I needn't have worried because David Maxwell's narration is spot-on and really brings Adam and Robin to life, makes their beginnings realistic and the crime engaging and attention grabbing.

Together Charlie Cochrane and David Maxwell are a winning combination and I hope the rest of her Lindenshaw Mysteries comes to audio soon.

RATING:

Chapter One
Adam Matthews stifled a yawn, shifted in his seat, and wished he were anywhere else but here.

Outside, the sun was shining. A beautiful late-spring Thursday morning in a beautiful English village. Two blackbirds were having a standoff on a grassy bank dotted with daisies; the world looked bright, exciting, and full of hope. The only sign of schoolchildren was the sound of purposeful activity. Lindenshaw St. Crispin’s School was putting on its handsomest face, as if it knew it had to sell itself to the visiting candidates as much as they had to sell themselves to the board of governors. Maybe that handsome face would distract them from learning just how much of a bloody mess the school was and how badly it needed a new headteacher to turn it round.

Simon Ford, one of the applicants for the headteacher post, was droning his way through his presentation on “what makes an outstanding school,” sending volleys of jargon and acronyms flying through the air to assault his listeners’ ears. The droning was so bad that Adam’s head began to nod. Which, in the greater scheme of things, was the least of his worries.

He was one of the poor sods trying to work out whether Ford was right for the job.

Two days of activities, interviews, picking apart everything the candidates said, and this was only bloody day one. He’d been given a particularly important role, or so Victor Reed, the chair of governors, had said. They needed an educational perspective, and Adam’s invaluable feedback from the candidates’ presentations and his marking of their data-handling exercises would help the rest of the governors—as laypeople—form an opinion. Yet, all Adam could feed back at the moment was the feeling of being bored to death. He knew he should have brought his buzzword bingo sheet.

“Adam? What’s your view on that point?”

Oh hell. Victor was talking to him, and he had no idea what it was about. “I’m sorry,” Adam busked it, trying to look like he’d been deep in meaningful thought. “I was thinking about the point Mr. Ford made about children in care. Could you repeat the question?”

“Mr. Ford was saying that the key to any school’s success is the enthusiasm for learning it produces in its pupils.”

“Were I to be headteacher of Lindenshaw St. Crispin’s,” Ford began again, before Adam could add his twopenn’orth, “I would make it my priority to engender that lifelong love of learning in all the children here.”

Bugger. That would have given me full house on my buzzword bingo card.

Still, Ford had hit at the crux of the matter because the previous headteacher had done bugger all to make anybody want to do anything at the school, least of all the teachers to produce good, or even outstanding, lessons. As was typical of too many nice little schools in leafy English villages, St. Crispin’s had relied on its reputation for too long. The best thing the previous headteacher had done for the school was leaving it, although the reasons for that lay under a cloud of rumour and secrecy. Why was it proving so hard getting somebody to step into her shoes? They’d tried the previous term and failed.

Adam sneaked a look at the clock. Ten past twelve—not much more torture to endure today. He caught the eye of one of the parent governors, who gave him a wink. Christine Probert was keen, committed, and pretty as a peach. The hemline of the skirt resting at her knees hadn’t stopped the blokes present from eyeing up her legs.

“Do we have any questions?” Victor asked, surveying the governors with an expression that seemed to demand they didn’t.

“Mr. Ford, what is your view on—” Oliver Narraway, community governor and the bane of much of the community’s life, nipped in but not quick enough.

“Simon, I’m a parent governor, so you’ll appreciate why I ask this question.” Christine had been hotter off the mark than Usain Bolt. “You mentioned parental involvement as being key to children’s success. How have you engaged them in your existing role?”

Well done, Christine. Tie down the loose cannon.

Ford beamed. “That’s a challenge for every school these days, Mrs. Probert. At Newby Grange Primary . . .” He was off again, leaving Oliver looking furious at having been knocked off his “modern education is rubbish” hobbyhorse and Victor breathing a huge sigh of relief at that fact. Oliver’s hit list didn’t stop at modern education; it included modern hymns and women in positions of power—apart from Mrs. Thatcher, whom he regarded as a saint. And gay men. Or, as Oliver put it, raving poofs.

Surely they’d break for lunch soon? Adam felt guilty for not being more enthusiastic, but he wouldn’t give any of the candidates houseroom on their showings so far. Three years he’d been teaching here, and despite all its failings, despite the lack of leadership and the dinosaurs on the governing body who couldn’t be trusted to choose new curtains let alone a new headteacher, he loved the place.

He looked sideways at Oliver, watching him slowly seethe at what Ford was saying. What would he do if he saw me coming out of that bar in Stanebridge? Bosie’s wouldn’t be his sort of place. All right, nobody could sack him for being gay, thank God and employment law, but he wouldn’t put it past any of them to make his life intolerable. Subtly, of course. Just like the previous headteacher, had done. Maybe that’s why she’d been eased out, or at least one of the reasons, before the wrath of the school inspectors came down like a ton of bricks and even more cow manure hit the fan.

A knock on the door, followed by the appearance round it of Jennifer Shepherd, the school secretary, cut short all talk.

“Sorry to interrupt. The wire’s worked loose on the front door release again, and the thing won’t open properly.”

“I’ll sort it.” Adam was out of his chair before anyone could stop him. Freedom ahoy! Thank goodness the caretaker only worked early mornings and evenings so Adam was the appointed handyman the rest of the time. “Sorry everyone. Class A emergency.”

“That’s fine,” Victor said, sending him on his way with a wave. “Our security system is vitally important,” he added, addressing Ford. Vitally important and almost impenetrable. Unless someone was a staff member, and as such, granted knowledge of the entry code for the keypad. Somebody, like Ford himself, couldn’t usually get into the school except through the main door. He’d need to buzz the intercom and persuade Jennifer to press the little switch to let him in, after which he’d come into view of her desk, through the hatchway window. Ultimate power for Jennifer, except when the wire had worked loose, then nobody without the code could get in that way short of bulldozing the door down.

Adam followed Jennifer down the corridor.

“Sorry to pull you out,” she said. “I didn’t have anywhere else to turn.”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Adam said, stepping into the office and realising that freedom was still a pipe dream. Ian Youngs, another candidate for the headship, was flicking through a book of school photographs. This was part of his free time, intended to let the candidates have a chance to go round the school and get to know it better. Adam could think of better things to do with the time, like talking to the children, rather than lurking in the office.

“Got that screwdriver, Jennifer?”

Jennifer handed over a little box of tools. “I’ll leave you to it.” She turned her attention to the other invader of her territory. “Are you enjoying those? That’s from when St. Crispin’s won the local mathematics challenge in 1995.”

“Really?” Youngs didn’t sound impressed.

“Yes. We used to be one of the top schools in the county.”

Adam felt Jennifer bridling, even though he was under the desk, wrestling a handful of wires.

“You seemed to win lots of awards in the 1990s, Mrs. Shepherd,” Youngs continued, sounding like he was trying to redeem himself. Adam wanted to warn him not to smile, as that would ruin the effect. He’d weighed the bloke up as soon as he’d seen him, and while Youngs wasn’t exactly bad looking, when he opened his mouth, he revealed a set of crooked teeth. Not the most attractive smile, especially in combination with his slightly protruding ears.

“We did.” Jennifer didn’t sound any happier. She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “Will they be out soon, Adam?”

“Should be.” Adam emerged, brushing fluff from his trousers. “All sorted, I think.”

Jennifer pressed the button, heard the release catch open, then smiled. “You’re so clever. What would I do without you?”

“Have a peaceful life?” Adam winked at Youngs, who just scowled in return.

“It’s a shame they can’t just change the timetable around and see you straight after lunch, Mr. Youngs, now that we’re down to two candidates instead of three. It means you having to kick your heels for ages,” Jennifer said. “But our Mr. Narraway insisted we had to keep to what we’d planned, breaks and all.”

“It’s to do with the timing of assembly,” Adam explained. “The vicar has to watch Simon Ford lead an act of worship, like he watched you earlier, before he sits in on your presentation. And we all need a bit of lunch before any of that.” Adam kept his eye on Youngs, who was slipping a piece of paper—on which Adam had seen him jot something down—into his pocket.

“I don’t mind.” Youngs smiled, crooked teeth and all. “It’ll be nice to go stretch my legs for a while. This morning’s been hard work, what with taking assembly and getting the third degree from the pupil panel.”

Jennifer smiled at the mention of the pupils. “You should take a wander around the village while you’re at it, Mr. Youngs. You can’t say many places have kept their charm and not changed too much over the years, but it’s certainly true of Lindenshaw.”

Adam choked back a laugh. Parts of Lindenshaw had barely reached the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first.

“I’ve got that impression already. I’ll see you at about half past one, Mrs. Shepherd.” Youngs turned towards the door.

“Good. That’ll give you plenty of time to set up your presentation. They’re strict about punctuality.”

“I’ll remember that.” Youngs stopped at the office door, and Adam thought he heard the man mutter, “I bet they like being strict about all sorts of things.” Youngs pushed against the front door, annoyed that it wouldn’t budge, as the rest of the governors came out of the classroom and into the hallway.

“You’ll need to use the exit button,” Christine piped up, smiling at Youngs.

“Thank you!” he replied, beaming. Every male candidate puffed his chest out when Christine was around, like a gamecock trying to impress a hen.

“It’s like bloody Alcatraz getting in and out of here,” Oliver said.

Adam gave him a sharp glance; Oliver was watching Youngs with more than a passing interest, as were the vicar and Marjorie Bookham—the only other woman on the governing body—as if there was something about the man that they were trying to fathom out. A hand on Adam’s shoulder ushered him along the corridor, and the others following in his wake. The Reverend Neil Musgrave was steering his flock as usual, this time in the direction of the staffroom, where lunch would be waiting.

“The more I see that man, the more I think I might have met him somewhere before,” Neil said. “What about you, Marjorie? Does he ring any bells?”

Marjorie bridled. “Of course he doesn’t. If I knew him from somewhere, then I’d have already declared it or else I might not be allowed to stay on the selection panel.” She stopped, waiting for Victor to catch the others up. “I’m right, aren’t I, Victor?”

“Sorry, Marjorie, I missed that.” The chair of governors looked preoccupied, his normally neat appearance slightly awry and an untidy pile of papers under his arm.

“I said that if the vicar crossed swords with Ian Youngs in the past, then he should declare it.”

“What’s all this? Can’t have any conflict of interest, Neil,” Victor said.

Neil shook his head. “I didn’t say that I knew him. Marjorie’s being mischievous. I just said I had a feeling I’d met him at some point in the past, but even if I have, it’s probably something entirely innocuous. I run across an awful lot of people in the diocese, one way or another.”

Victor, who had a certain bovine quality, scowled. “Please be careful, Marjorie, even if you’re just making a joke. Remember all the trouble we had last time we tried to recruit.”

Seconds out, round one?

“I don’t think I’m responsible for that debacle.” Marjorie turned on her heels and headed for the ladies’ toilet, sashaying stylishly as she went. Marjorie was a good-looking woman for her age—early fifties, maybe?—and was always immaculately dressed in clothes that reeked of class and couldn’t have been found even in the poshest of the Stanebridge shops.

Neil watched her go, shrugged theatrically, then led the way to the staffroom and lunch.

Adam flopped into his favourite chair, grabbed a sandwich, and dealt with priority number one. Cheese and pickle would stop the rumbling in his stomach from becoming too audible.

“They both seem to be very nice. Mr. Ford and Mr. Youngs,” Christine said.

“Nice?” Oliver snorted from across the room. “I’m not sure nice is what we’re looking for in a headmaster.”

“Admiral Narraway’s looking for a hanging and flogging captain,” Neil said under his breath.

Victor grimaced. “We shouldn’t make any judgements this early in the process. And it’s ‘headteacher,’ not ‘headmaster,’ remember? Gender neutral.”

“We can decide if we want to send them home.” Oliver, ignoring the gender bit, pointed his sandwich crust at Victor as though it were a gun.

“Like we sent them home when we tried last term? Not one of them made it through to the second day and the interviews proper.” He fished the tea bag from his mug, flinging it into the bin like a bullet.

“That’s because they were all rubbish,” Oliver continued, aiming his crust gun at Neil this time. “And I can tell you exactly why. It was because—”

“Sorry, chaps and chapesses. May I remind everyone present about confidentiality?” Victor wagged his finger. “I’m sorry, but what happens in the interview room stays in the interview room. Leave it at the fact that none of them were good enough.”

Marjorie, who had returned and was now hovering by the watercooler, nodded. “It’s such a shame Lizzie Duncan was taken ill and couldn’t be here. Getting a woman’s answer to some of the questions would have been enlightening. And yes, I know the last woman wasn’t much use, but don’t tar all of my sex with the same brush.”

“We couldn’t have put the process off again, Marjorie,” Victor said, tetchily.

“We’ll just have to hope these two chaps don’t make a mess of things like the last lot did,” Oliver said, unable to point his crust gun at anyone as he’d eaten it.

Adam wasn’t interested in hearing more if they weren’t going to dish the dirt on the last round of recruitment and looked up at the clock. “Blimey, is that the time? I’ve got a phone call to make.”

“Making a date for the weekend?” Christine smiled knowingly.

“Nothing so glamorous. Finding out how Mother’s cat got on at the vet. Said I’d ring before one o’clock. Twenty minutes before I get cut out of the will.”

Marjorie picked up her handbag. “I think there’s time for me to nip home and put my washing out. Shame to waste a good drying day.”

“Just make sure you’re back in time.” Victor kept looking at his phone. “Ian Youngs is giving his presentation at one fifty-five.”

Marjorie headed out of the room as Oliver got to his feet. “I’m going to find somewhere to have a cigar. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I’m far enough away from the school not to pollute the air the little ones are going to breathe.” He slammed the door behind him.

Neil, hovering over his seventh sandwich, shook his head. “He’s always been a bit of a loose cannon, and I fear he’s getting looser by the day.”

“Then tie him down,” Jeremy Tunstall said, looking up from the huge pile of papers he’d been flicking through. Lead Learning Partners, or whatever it was they were calling the people from the county education department this week, seemed to go through a lot of trees. “You don’t want a repeat of the mess you got into when you tried to recruit before. Now, I’ve got calls to make, assuming I can get a bloody signal. I’ll be back about half past one.”

Adam watched him go. “I should have told him about the ladies’ loo. You’re supposed to be able to get a signal in there.”

“How do you know?” Neil asked, grinning.

“Jennifer told us, of course.” Adam eased out of his chair. If he went out into the lane by the school field and faced south, he could generally get a decent fix on the network. Maybe it would be easier just to see Jennifer and ask to use the landline?

He was halfway through the office door when Jennifer’s voice—in conversation with Marjorie about sandwiches or some such nonsense—stopped him. He didn’t want to be nabbed by these two formidable females, who, for all their superficial spikiness with each other, had always been thick as thieves.

“Neither Simon nor Ian joined us for lunch, even though there was an open invitation. Are they in the candidates’ hidey-hole?”

“Hidey-hole? Oh, you mean the children’s kitchen? Not as far as I know.” Jennifer waved her hand airily.

Marjorie sniffed. “Good. We were hoping they might spend their spare time looking around the school and talking to the children rather than hiding away.”

“Oh, that nice Mr. Ford was certainly keen to do that. Last time I saw him, he was being led off by a group of children to eat his sandwiches with them on the field.” Jennifer smiled; it was clear which candidate she had her eye on. “It’s such a lovely day, we let the children have a bit of a picnic out there. Much healthier.”

“I wish I’d joined them. I feel the need of some fresh air, especially having been cooped up with Oliver most of the morning.” Marjorie eased past Adam, who was still hovering in the doorway, leaving a trail of good-quality perfume behind her.

“Maybe you could rescue Mr. Ford if he’s still out there,” Jennifer shouted after her. “I wouldn’t put it past some of the year-six children to have tied him to a tree by now, pretending he’s a human sacrifice.”

*****

The ringing of the bell signalled the end of the children’s lunchtime but not quite the end of Adam’s phone call. They’d established that the cat was fine and the vet hadn’t charged an arm and a leg, and were just getting onto the “when are you next coming to dinner?” bit.

“Let me get through these next few days, and I’ll organise something. Bell’s going. Got to go. Love you.”

The vicar was coming up the field, weaving his way between children as they dawdled over getting into line. He looked distracted.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Adam asked as Neil approached.

“Eh?” He took a deep breath. “Oh, they’re not even worth a farthing. Come on, better not be late or Victor will have my guts for garters.”

“I think you’ve got the short straw. Watching Ford lead assembly and then back in to listen to another presentation.”

“Collective worship, not assembly. The bishop insists on the right name as we’re a church school.” Neil winked. “Only the second collective worship of the day. I’ll survive.” Neil steered them towards the side of the school. “I’ll take the shortcut and see if anyone will let me into the hall direct.”

“I’ll sign you in, then, or Jennifer will have your guts for garters too.”

“Don’t bother. I forgot to sign out.”

Adam wished he were going with the man. Watching assembly had to be better than going through Ian Youngs’s data analysis—another one of the many hoops they’d made the candidates jump through. He’d take the file into Jennifer’s office and plonk himself at the spare desk, which was about the only bit of free space available today, then plug in his iPod so the background noise wouldn’t disturb his concentration.

He was a third of the way through the task when a quiet passage in his music coincided with a harsh buzz from the front door intercom.

“Who is it?” Jennifer spoke into a little grey box, out of which a tinny version of Marjorie’s voice emerged in answer. She flicked a switch under her desk. “It’s open, come in.”

Marjorie soon appeared at the hatch. “Does someone eat all of the pens here?”

Jennifer looked up. “What? Oh, sorry, Marjorie, I’ve been fighting with the computer all lunchtime. It’s got a mind of its own. Here you are.” She eased herself out of her chair and passed a Biro through the hatchway.

“I’m not late, am I? Oliver would tear me off a strip if I was.” Marjorie didn’t seem overly concerned about the fact.

“More likely give you six from the cane.” Jennifer appeared pleased with herself for making a slightly saucy joke, even though Marjorie didn’t seem at all amused. “No, you’re fine.”

Adam gave up trying to sort out the data. “The presentation’s not due to start until one fifty-five, so you’ve even got the chance to grab a cup of tea.”

“Anyway, Mr. Youngs went for a bit of fresh air earlier on and isn’t back yet, so he’ll be the one getting the wigging.” Jennifer shook her head.

Marjorie sniffed. “How was the cat, Adam?”

“Cat? Oh, yes, fine, thank you.”

“Adam had to ring his mother about her cat,” Marjorie explained, showing no sign of going to get some tea, or even of going anywhere.

“Are you sure he wasn’t ringing his girlfriend?” Jennifer said, archly.

Oh, joy.

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you. You’d be working out how to get in touch with her and snitch about all my bad habits.” Adam cringed. Why did he always feel as if he had to hide? Why couldn’t he bring a partner to the summer social without risking somebody like Oliver having palpitations? Might help to have a partner to bring, of course.

“I can’t believe you have any bad habits, Adam.” Marjorie smiled.

Better ask the ex about that, Marjorie. He’d make your eyes stand out like organ stops.

“It’s nearly ten to two. I’ll give Mr. Youngs another couple of minutes, and then I’ll ring his mobile.” Jennifer was back at her desk, scowling at the computer, which seemed to be misbehaving still.

“If he’s got his phone turned on. We do ask candidates to switch them off during the activities.” Marjorie sniffed again. “I think I will get myself a cup of tea. It’s been a bit more hectic today than I thought it would be.”

“You shouldn’t have rushed home; you should have put your feet up,” Jennifer said, still making faces at the screen. “Your husband could have put the washing out, couldn’t he?”

“Could he? That would be an unexpected case of taking initiative.” Marjorie turned on her heel and headed for the staffroom.

“She leads a dog’s life.” Jennifer kept her voice low, even though Marjorie had gone around the corner. “When you get wed, don’t you expect your wife to wait on you hand and foot.”

“I promise I won’t,” Adam replied. That was a cast-iron guarantee.

*****

Back again. Same classroom, same panel, same anticipation of death by PowerPoint.

Same Oliver, glancing at the clock and looking like he was about to explode.

“I say we should just scratch Youngs’s presentation and count it as a definitive black mark against him.” Oliver clenched and unclenched his hands. “We don’t want a headmaster who can’t keep his appointments.”

Christine, inevitably, was the voice of reason. “We should give him another few minutes. Maybe he got lost.”

“Got lost?” Oliver glowered. “Then he shouldn’t have been wandering around, should he? What’s that chappie Ford doing now?”

“It’s all on the timetable, of which you have a copy, although I don’t suppose you’ve bothered with it.” Victor rummaged in his inside pocket, producing a folded sheet of A4 paper. “He’s into his second session of free time. You’ve just been watching him lead an assembly, haven’t you, Neil?”

Neil rubbed his hands together. “Yes. And very good it was. The children loved singing ‘Our God is a great—’”

“This is ridiculous.” Tunstall got up, prowled over to the window, and peered out. “Can’t see him.”

Marjorie turned in her seat to address Adam. “He did go out for a walk?”

“Yes. He made his escape just when I’d finished sorting that buzzer out.”

Tunstall shook his head. “I was hoping he’d show a bit more gumption. Simon Ford certainly seems to be on the children’s wavelength.”

Adam waited for the inevitable comment from Oliver. It came.

“Do we want someone on their wavelength? When I was young, I was scared stiff of my teachers, and when I was a headmaster, the children would never have wanted to play skipping with me. Fear and respect—that’s what’s lacking these days.”

Oliversaurus archaicus.

Tunstall swivelled in his chair. “We want someone who can take the school into the twenty-first century. You seem to want to drag it back to the nineteenth.”

Oliver stood up. “Now, you just—”

Any likelihood of fisticuffs was put on hold by a knock on the door. Shame. Adam had been looking forward to Tunstall versus Narraway, heavyweight knockout.

“Come in!” Victor said.

Jennifer stuck her head around the door. “I’ve tried ringing Mr. Youngs, but he’s not picking up his mobile. Do you think he’s all right?”

“Good lord, you don’t think he’s had an accident or something, do you?” Christine grabbed Adam’s arm.

“What on earth makes you think that, Christine?” Victor asked. “Would you try ringing again, please, Jennifer? If there is some genuine problem, we should allow him a bit of leeway.”

Tunstall forestalled any dissent. “Ian Youngs is a good candidate, and you can’t afford to turn your noses up at him if he’s been delayed by something out of his control.”

The increasingly awkward silence just continued. Apart from a faint noise . . .

“Is it me, or does that sound like a mobile phone?” Adam jerked his thumb towards the wall dividing the classroom from the children’s kitchen, where space had been set aside for the candidates to take refuge.

Victor leaped out of his chair. “I bet Youngs got the timetable buggered up—sorry, vicar—and he’s sitting there waiting.”

“Or he’s gone off and left his phone, and that’s why Jennifer can’t get him to answer. Although, how he’s got signal when most of us struggle . . .” Marjorie stared out of the window, as though she was trying to spot him.

Victor rose and headed for the door, raising his voice as he went out. “Don’t bother trying to ring Youngs, Mrs. Shepherd. He’s left his phone in the kitchen. We can hear the bloody thing ringing, and I’m going to go and find out what’s going on.”

“Language, Victor. There are children around, you know,” Neil said as Victor left. He grinned at Adam. “He must be rattled to have sworn twice in as many minutes.”

“How rattled do you have to be to turn the air blue?”

“You should hear me in the shed if I hit my thumb with a hammer! There was once . . .” Neil stopped, as the chair of governors reappeared at the door. “Are you all right, Victor?”

“Um, got a bit of a problem. Neil, could you and Adam give me a hand?” Victor’s face was as pale as if he’d met the school ghost in the corridor.

“Of course.” Neil, unhesitating, followed Victor out the door, and Adam slipped into their wake, intrigued.

The children’s kitchen was barely bigger than a generous broom cupboard, with a door to the corridor and a fire door leading to the field in case the little horrors set their fairy cakes ablaze. The table where the ingredients usually got slaughtered was tucked in an alcove with a bench on either side of it. Only, this time, something else had come to a sticky end there.

Ian Youngs.

Even though there wasn’t any TV-forensic-show-type bloodbath, the man was obviously dead, eyes wide-open and unseeing, body slumped and unmoving. Adam, who’d never been in the presence of sudden death, wasn’t sure if he was going to faint or throw up.

“Should I get Jennifer to call an ambulance?” Victor, transfixed by the corpse, seemed like he might beat Adam to the fainting bit.

“Get Adam to do that.” Neil exuded professional competence, leaning over the body. He gently shook Youngs, got no response, felt for a pulse in his neck, and shook his head.

“He’s not just been taken ill?” Victor asked.

Why did that voice sound so faint? And why had the room started to swim in and out of Adam’s vision?

“Gone, I’m afraid. But I don’t like the appearance of his face, nor the bruising on his neck.” Neil looked up, face ashen. “Be a good chap, Adam, and ask Jennifer to get the police to come, as well. I don’t think this was from natural causes.”

Adam, who’d made the mistake of getting a glimpse of that contorted face, managed to pass the message on before heading for the men’s toilet and losing all his Waitrose sandwiches.

Adam Matthews's life changed when Inspector Robin Bright walked into his classroom to investigate a murder.

Now it seems like all the television series are right: the leafy villages of England do indeed conceal a hotbed of crime, murder, and intrigue. Lindenshaw is proving the point.

Detective work might be Robin's job, but Adam somehow keeps getting involved—even though being a teacher is hardly the best training for solving crimes. Then again, Campbell, Adam's irrepressible Newfoundland dog, seems to have a nose for figuring things out, so how hard can it be?

Saturday Series Spotlight

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

June 2024 Book of the Month

And Nothing But the Truth

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. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ 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.

FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  WEBSITE

NEWSLETTER  /  KOBO  /  RIPTIDE

FB DEADLY DAMES  /  FB FRIEND

BOOKBUB  /  BLUESKY  /  AUDIBLE

CARINA  /  B&N  /  GOOGLE PLAY

iTUNES  /  AMAZON  / GOODREADS

EMAIL:  cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com

The Best Corpse for the Job #1

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK
B&N  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES
iTUNES AUDIO  /  AUDIBLE
RIPTIDE  /  GOODREADS TBR

Series

AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK
B&N  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES

iTUNES AUDIO  /  AUDIBLE

RIPTIDE  /  GOODREADS TBR