Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Pudding, Poison & Pie

  A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery

  Sigrid Vansandt

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Excerpt from “Two Birds with One Stone”

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  Chapter 1

  “It will have blood they say; blood will have blood.”

  -William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act III, Scene IV

  Marsden-Lacey, England

  Present Day

  AMOS, THE PINT-SIZED MALTIPOO, curled up warm next to Martha as a mournful, winter wind howled outside Flower Pot Cottage. A storm was winding its way down from the high hills of the Yorkshire Dales and into the sleeping village of Marsden-Lacey. Soft snow fell, leaving a thick, white blanket of the cold stuff on roof tops, gardens and quiet, empty streets. No living thing stirred the nighttime peace. Cozily tucked between a feather bed and two heavy quilts, Martha Littleword drifted off to sleep.

  “The world is ending next week,” the dark-haired woman whispered into Martha’s ear. Martha pulled back and laughed as if in reaction to a shared joke, but the woman’s face betrayed no emotion as she turned and left the room. As Martha watched, she became smaller, the intense light from the hallway blotting out the edges of her silhouette and blurring the remainder of her retreating figure.

  “I don’t believe you!” Martha called to the departing prophet of doom as she was swallowed up by the darkness. “You’re just saying that to make me follow you. I won’t! I won’t do it!”

  Martha stood firm, and instead of pursuing the woman, she wrapped the red blanket from the couch around her. Its warmth comforted her and helped to block the intense cold of the room.

  Where was Merriam? He’d promised to be here. He had lied. I can’t do it anymore, she thought. I wish Helen would come home. It’s too lonely here.

  Sounds coming from the kitchen caught her attention. Cabinet doors slamming caused a seed of panic to take root in her stomach. Metal on metal, like the sharpening of a blade, came from somewhere inside the house. A cold feeling of fear crawled up Martha’s spine. The hair on her skin raised in warning as the room became colder causing her breath to hang in white wisps. Instinct told her to run, but she couldn’t move. Muscle numbing horror riveted her to the spot. The earlier bright light emanating from the hall was gone, replaced by a brooding darkness, pulsating with evil and cruelty. She silently screamed instructions to her body to listen and to move. She needed to get out of the house. Finally, her body found its will and she ran to the front door, flinging it open just as a hand clamped down on her shoulder. An excruciating pain dug into her back.

  Whirling around, she saw her attacker’s face contorted with a twisted joy. A sharp pain stabbed her abdomen, causing her to lean forward. With her last bit of strength, Martha gave the female attacker a great shove, hoping to push her back into the black gulf of hell from whence she’d sprung. The force of the blow caused the woman’s knife to fall from her hand, striking a knothole and lodging blade-up in the floor. Off balance, she seemed to fall in slow motion, her facial expression one of shock and surprise.

  The sound of the body hitting the ground and a hellish scream made Martha recoil from the sickening sight. The woman lay on her back, skewered by her own knife. Blood began to spread. She writhed and grabbed for Martha, her hands like claws, her face almost preternaturally cruel. With the life streaming out of the woman on the floor, Martha dropped to her knees. She clasped both hands together in a gesture of prayer over the dying woman, who now lay lifeless and still.

  “No!” she cried. “I didn’t mean to!”

  Martha’s brain climbed upward, through the fog of fear and repulsion, forcing her consciousness to swim along with it. Her muscles found their power for action, bringing her upright into a sitting position. Clammy and with blurry eyes, she tried desperately to find a focal point in the dark room.

  Her gaze locked onto the steady, gentle light coming from the street lamp outside her bedroom window. She didn’t dare shut her eyes but kept them riveted to the light. Soon, her shaking subsided and Martha realized she was, mercifully, at last, awake.

  Chapter 2

  Stratford, England 1623

  JUDITH STIRRED THE CONTENTS OF a large copper saucepan. The August heat in the kitchen was stifling. She’d spent the morning preparing a chicken broth for her mother, Anne, who’d been ill.

  Both of Judith’s boys were playing somewhere out in the large farm yard and she hoped they would stay quietly out of trouble until she finished her task. Anne told Judith not to worry about her and to let Mitty, the cook, prepare the meal, but Judith wanted to do it. Anne and Judith shared a deeper understanding than most mothers and daughters. They’d both lost young children to the plague. Anne had always been there for her children and the preparation of the rich broth was a loving act by a devoted daughter.

  Judith climbed the back stairs of the large, rambling house her mother called home. The house’s name was New Place. William, Judith’s father, bought it for his family once his fortune was secure. It would never be Judith’s home again. The entire estate would go to her older sister, Susanna, but Judith never expected it anyway. She’d realized early on what really mattered was not the gift of things, but the gift of human love.

  That didn’t mean, though, that she wasn’t pragmatic. Today was more exhausting than usual for Judith. Her children were at the age where they were exceptionally needy, money was always tight and the care of her sick mother over the last few weeks was wearing Judith down, both physically and mentally.

  Reaching the top of the stairs and the door to her mother’s bedchamber, she tapped gently. “Mother? I’ve brought you something to eat,” she said softly, not wanting to startle Anne.

  Pushing the door open, she bent her neck around to see if the invalid was sleeping. In a massive four-poster bed, propped up on a hefty pile of feather pillows, slept her Anne. Judith saw the shallow rise and fall of her mother’s chest, which relieved the younger woman greatly. In the last few days, she’d become increasingly concerned that, at some point, she would walk in and find her best friend asleep forever.

  The older mother’s eyes flickered open and a soft smile creased the aged and weathered face, testifying to her long association with life’s joys and worries.

  “Is that you, my darling?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, dear. Are you hungry?”

  The still bright eyes looked up at the warm summer light filtering hazily through the clear glass window panes. There was a mellowness to Anne’s unhurried response.

  “No. I’m no longer hungry,” she said with a quiet smile.<
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  Judith cocked her head to one side. She knew her mother meant more by the simple statement, but she wasn’t ready to let the only person who ever truly loved her, understood her, and fought for her, leave this life yet. It was too much too soon.

  The old mother, being wise about the needs of children, knew this, too, so she took the broth being proffered by her youngest of three and with benign resignation drank her soup dutifully.

  After Anne had put the bowl down to rest upon her lap, she summoned the energy to ask her daughter a question.

  “Do you know if your father’s things are ready for Mr. Condell? He was supposed to come by this week.”

  “Yes, everything he asked for is ready. All of Father’s foul copies left in his desk are in a case for him.”

  “Good. Those are the last of his first draft copies he used in the theatre. Mr. Condell and Mr. Hemmings have put such effort toward this folio.”

  Anne shut her eyes, as if exhausted by the effort to eat and talk. Soon, she slept. Taking the bowl and opening one of the hinged windows to allow fresh air to enter the room, Judith let herself out, her mind on the many tasks still ahead of her.

  Anne Hathaway Shakespeare, Judith’s mother, died four days later. Because Shakespeare’s daughters were illiterate, they weren’t able to write Anne’s epitaph, but with the help of Susanna’s husband, they composed a beautiful remembrance in honor of her. They laid Anne to rest next to her famous husband and their father, William.

  It is worth noting that Anne was never known to have traveled from Stratford, to have been able to read or write, or to have lived a life beyond the simple one of a wife and mother. What is curious about her is that though her husband’s legacy is one beyond measure to the world, so might hers have been, as well, due to the great love her children certainly felt for her. The great bard’s epitaph is written in stone; Anne’s is not. Hers is written upon a brass plate, not a cheap material during the seventeenth century and much more valuable than stone.

  Brass would be immortal, and this may have been what Anne’s children wished most for their beloved mother.

  The words on her grave were:

  “Thou, my mother, gave me life, and thy breast, milk. Alas! For such great bounty to me, I shall give thee a tomb. How much rather I would entreat the good angel to move the stone, so that thy figure might come forth, as did the body of Christ; but my prayers avail nothing. Come quickly, O Christ; so that my mother, closed in the tomb, may rise again and seek the stars.”

  When you consider Judith and Susanna were uneducated and not given the opportunity to write their famous father’s epitaph, they succeeded beautifully when it came to their mother’s. Anne’s legacy was one of great love and sacrifice. Some might say the most eternal gift of all.

  Chapter 3

  Marsden-Lacey, England

  Present Day

  “YOU NEED A REST,” HELEN Ryes, an extremely well-dressed, pretty, brunette of about forty or so years of age was saying to her friend, Martha, a curvaceous redhead who, at the moment, was feeling whiny.

  Martha Littleword gingerly put her teacup down into its saucer and slumped in the tall, chintz-covered wingback chair. She’d been working double duty while Helen, her business partner, was out of town for two weeks in New York, seeing a possible client about work to be done on a collection of Audubon prints.

  “Would you mind if I went on a little holiday?” Martha asked. “Maybe a long weekend somewhere quiet with a spa. I want a massage every day, cheese plates without fruit, and a wonderfully soft bed with too many fluffy pillows.”

  Martha put two teaspoons of sugar in her tea and reached for a lemony-looking poppy seed muffin sitting daintily on the two-tiered china plate. The two friends were catching up at Marsden-Lacey’s best teashop, Harriet’s.

  Helen reached across the lace tablecloth and patted Martha’s hand solicitously.

  “You deserve it, and I think the business should pay for it,” she offered with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “The business is doing so well, and our list of clients is growing. Mr. Fukushima emailed me that he likes our bid. It looks like we’ll be going back to New York in March.”

  Martha’s eyes narrowed. She’d come to recognize a certain tone in Helen’s voice. It reeked of something, as yet, unannounced.

  “Go ahead, tell me what’s up,” Martha said.

  “Well…I’ve heard from Lord Percy Farthingay’s heir, a Mr. Brickstone, in Warwickshire. It’s only about two hours from here. He wants us to come down to look at an unusual manuscript he’s unearthed in his uncle’s library.”

  “And…” Martha said in a coaxing way sure to encourage Helen to completely spill the beans.

  Becoming more animated than her usual prim manner, Helen gushed, “Oh, Martha! It may be an old prompt from The Globe Theatre in London. Not just any prompt, either, one from when William Shakespeare and his collaborator, John Fletcher were writing for the King’s Men.”

  “Uh, huh,” Martha said, without much enthusiasm. “And, so that I get this right, you think we should go together to meet Lord Feathergay…”

  “Lord Farthingay,” Helen corrected, beginning to pull out a compact mirror from her purse. She discreetly checked her smile for spinach.

  “Farthingay, so sorry,” Martha acquiesced in a bored tone. “He needs both of us on this jaunt to Warwickshire?”

  “No, probably not, but I’d love to have you with me. I miss my buddy. Besides, you could snuggle up in a nice estate hotel while I talk to Feathergay. I mean FARTHINGAY!”

  They both giggled.

  The girls were enjoying a new lease on mid-life. After Helen’s husband, George, ran off with his nubile, twenty-something assistant, Helen had been in need of help in a bad way. The works-on-paper restoration business she and George owned was impossible for one person to run alone. Martha, on the other hand, was suffering from empty-nest syndrome, a dull existence at home, and a boring job as a paralegal.

  Kismet or karma, depending on how you looked at it, had landed both of them in the middle of a local murder investigation. The two new friends hit it off and decided to solve the murder. Once they survived that adventure, they decided to work together in Helen’s business.

  These days, the new endeavor was going smashingly well. Since they’d teamed up, they’d managed to survive two raving lunatics, and save five treasures lost to time; the working arrangement played to both their strengths.

  “You haven’t been home for even two days. Don’t you want to see Piers before we head off to Warwickshire?” Martha asked, trying to entice Helen to stay put by other means. If she had to use Piers Cousins, an attractive ex-client of theirs who had sparked-up a flirtation with Helen, as the bait to slow Helen down, then so be it.

  “He’s not here. He’s in London. I thought…” Helen hesitated to finish.

  “What?”

  “He might join us.”

  “Good. I’ll be left to my own devices: sleeping, sleeping some more, and lounging.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Helen said and then laughed.

  “I’m pooped,” Martha retorted and popped the last bite of the poppy seed muffin into her mouth.

  “When is Kate coming home from university for Christmas?” Helen asked.

  “In about a week and a half. She’s bringing a friend.” Martha’s eyebrows danced up and down twice. “Any advice?”

  Helen put the mirror back in her purse in a deliberate manner, picked up her teacup, and stared off through the curtained window at the falling snow.

  “I remember the first time my Christine brought home a friend.” Helen chuckled lightly. “He barely topped the scales at a hundred and twenty pounds and had long hair tied up in some kind of weird-looking bun on his head. For two days, he followed me around the house telling me about his body-building routine.”

  Helen rolled her eyes and turned to look at Martha directly.

  “What a dud, but fortunately at the time, Christine had attention de
ficit when it came to men, and he was quickly replaced by a new love d’jour in a few short weeks. The short answer to your question is, if you don’t like him, keep quiet and pray for the best.”

  Martha nodded. “That’s good advice. She’s been so secretive about her boyfriends, so for her to bring one home may mean it’s serious.”

  “Maybe, but he’s not your boyfriend; he’s hers. She’s your daughter, so she must have a good head on her shoulders.”

  Martha sat back in her chair and gave Helen a grateful smile. “Ah, thank you. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

  She put her napkin on the table. “I think we’d better get back to the Flower Pot. Amos, Gus, and Vera are probably in need of a stretch. They’ve been hugging the fireplace since the last snow.”

  The girls stood up after waving goodbye to Harriet. Grabbing their hats, coats, mufflers, and gloves to ward off the outside cold, they pulled open the door and pushed through the low-beamed aperture, into a winter wonderland, Yorkshire style.

  Having snowed on and off for three days, the weather was perfect for this time of year. Everywhere you looked, rounded mounds of the white stuff clung to thatched roofs, tucked up against hedgerows, and covered the ground in pillowy softness. The villagers were in the throes of seasonal decorating. Traditional mixtures of conifers, rosemary, holly berries and pinecones were stuffed into woven willow branches to create swags and wreaths. The cheerful foliage bedecked doors and windows along streets and alleyways making the entire village a lovely Christmas present waiting for good Saint Nicholas to arrive.

  “I love England at Christmas,” Martha said as they walked down one of the alleys. “It looks like an illustration from a children’s book. Do you remember ‘Wind in the Willows,’ Helen?”

  “I do,” Helen replied.

  “Remember the picture where Mole and Rat are wandering through the wintery medieval village lane? They’re looking in the cozy, warm windows and you wished as a child you lived there,” Martha said.