The Murder Awards: A fabulously fun cosy 1930's crime series. (Amy Rowlings Mysteries) by T.A. Belshaw

Author:T.A. Belshaw [Belshaw, T.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SpellBound Books
Published: 2023-11-04T16:00:00+00:00

The Rectory was an imposing, early eighteenth century building which was positioned in three acres of land just off North Street at the top end of Spinton. It had, as its name suggests, once been owned by the church, but they divested themselves of the property in the late eighteen hundreds when worshiper numbers began to decline. The current vicar lived in a smaller property next to the church. The front door of the house was open as Amy and Bodkin arrived and after standing around for a few minutes and after trying the doorbell twice without success, Bodkin wiped his feet on the huge coconut mat and stepped into the hall with Amy following closely behind.

‘Shouldn’t we go around the back, Bodkin?’ she asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Bodkin said, giving the waist of his grey, twill trousers a tug. ‘These things feel like they’re falling down,’ he hissed.

‘Shh, stop moaning, Bodkin, you look nice. That short-sleeved shirt really suits you.’ She touched his bicep. ‘I didn’t realise you had muscles.’

They found themselves in a wide hallway which was lined with likenesses of some of the former church notaries. There were four huge, solid oak doors leading off, two to each side. On the right as they entered, was a dark-wood staircase leading upwards.

They followed the hall until they came to a huge, square sitting room, with a pair of large, French windows built into the far wall. Amy could hear the sounds of voices filtering into the room.

‘This way,’ she said as she took Bodkin’s arm, and together, they stepped into the well-kempt garden. There were about two-dozen people present, the men dressed casually in slacks and shirts with just one or two elderly men wearing yachting style, double breasted, blazers. The women wore summer frocks and wide-brimmed sunhats.

Amy looked around the garden where the guests were standing in small groups. Set out alongside the back wall of the house was an open fronted marquee with rows of trestle tables inside, containing plates of thinly cut, triangle sandwiches, sausage rolls, Vol-au-vents and dishes of sherry trifle.

‘Alice would have been disappointed, there’s no pig on a spit,’ Amy said as she dragged Bodkin away from the trestles. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for food later,’ she whispered, leading the policeman across the lawn towards the smiling figure of Shirley McKenzie, who was standing with a small group of middle-aged women.

‘Amy, Mr Bodkin,’ she cooed. ‘I’m so pleased you could make it.’ She took a step back and studied Amy. ‘I love that dress, where on earth did you get it?’ She leaned forwards and took a closer look at the red, halter neck, polka dot summer dress that Amy had picked out from her wardrobe. ‘Stunning,’ she said. ‘Did you buy it in London?’

‘Brigden’s, in town,’ Amy said. ‘I buy all my clothes from there.’

‘I’ve never been in,’ Shirley said, ‘but I’ll make sure I do in future if they’re selling things of that quality.’

Amy held her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound of her voice.

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