The Monks Hood Murders: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox by Karen Baugh Menuhin

Author:Karen Baugh Menuhin [Menuhin, Karen Baugh]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Little Dog Publishing Ltd
Published: 2020-08-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I paused to wipe water off the tonneau of my car, my gaze drawn to the river, the Calder, as it was called. I recalled seeing it from the windows of Fell House when we’d first talked to Fenshaw and wondered if there was a boat to be had. It was a fine day for a spot of rowing and the fish would be rising. A muddy track skirted the fortress-like walls, so I followed it with Fogg, who raced about in spaniel fashion through the long grass.

There was an ancient picket gate in the rear wall of the Abbey, designed no doubt for easy access to the river and secret escapes should the need have ever arisen. The path led to the riverbank, and I walked down to stare into the crystal-clear water. Fat trout swam among submerged reeds, darting into the shadows as I neared the edge. I sighed because it was a perfect spot for fishing.

There was a short jetty and a rowboat; there was nobody about so I hopped in.

‘Come on Fogg.’ He raced over and joined me with a yip of excitement.

I had rowed for Oxford, and put my muscles to work against the flow. Within minutes I lost sight of the Abbey and rounded a bend to find myself in thick woodland, bounding the rear of the village. A slipway gave onto the water from a gap among the trees, four boats were tied to pegs and the same number were hauled out on the grassy shore.

A kingfisher flashed iridescent blue-green and orange ahead of me. Bright sunshine cut through the leafy canopy in fractured rays to flash from the water in diamond sparks. Bulrushes, lily pads and yellow iris clustered in the shallows and a swan glided by with cheeping cygnets, downy grey and gauche in their mother’s wake.

Fenshaw’s place had its own boathouse. It was a wooden building raised on stone foundations, a pitched roof of slate, blue painted planks and an air of tidy order. There was a long jetty reaching into the river, a boat was bobbing alongside it on a line. I hesitated, thinking to pull over and begin the tedious process of interviewing Fenshaw, but I was tempted to explore further toward the Wexford’s house. I pulled on the oars and turned an outcrop of land planted with weeping willow to see Kitty on a dock, bare feet dangling over the lip.

‘Greetings.’ I coasted in.

‘Hello, there,’ she smiled. I noticed she had very white teeth – small and pretty. Her eyes were dazzling in the sunshine and I tried not to stare.

‘May I?’

‘Of course, throw me a line.’ She rose to her feet. She wore a summer frock, white with floral print and trimmed with lace. A simple band held her chestnut hair to let it fall in curls about her shoulders.

‘Here.’ I gave her the rope and she tied it to a cleat with skilful ease. Fogg bounded out of the boat and snuffled among the reeds.

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