'MURDER IN MITCHAM PARVA'

This is the fourth book in the Cleo Marjoribanks series - and it takes place in the New Forest.

Chapter 1

I don't believe it!  Only back from Spain for a few weeks and there's another body. No, I haven't found another one as I did when David and I were on holiday.  Apparently there's been a murder in another village in the Forest - that's the New Forest in Hampshire.

This morning before Mrs. Walsh - who 'does' for me - had unpacked her overall and put on the kettle (sorry - switched on the kettle) she was in full spate with the news.

'Had a terrible shock,' she told me in her New Forest burr. 'Linda's dead.'

'Who?'

'My friend, Linda'

'Sorry to hear that.  Was she ill?'

'No-o-o.  Murdered.'  She wrung her hands.  Yeah, honest she did.  She only needed a puzzled look from me to continue, 'Her husband found 'er in the garding this morning.  She went out to bingo in their church 'all last night and didn't come 'ome.'

'Wasn't he worried?'

She shook her head which is now a strange chocolate brown with blue tips and whispered. 'Separate bedrooms.'

'He wouldn't know she'd stopped out.'

'Right, but I don't know why 'e didn't notice at breakfast.'

'Letting her have a lie in?'

'Nah.  She works at Mitcham Manor.  Cleaning, like me, so she'd 'ave ter be up early.'

'You said she was murdered?' I reminded her.

'Head bashed in.'

Yup, that'd kill someone. 'Oh dear.  How did you find out?'

'One of their neighbours phoned ter tell me and ask if I've got 'n hour or two ter spare today if they need someone ter fill in at the Manor.'

Her phone played 'My Way' - she's a Frank Sinatra fan - and she rummaged in her bag for it. That's when I noticed that her nails match the blue in her hair.

When she'd finished the call and was jotting something in her Filofax I asked, 'Why do you still have a Filofax? You can put all that info onto the phone.'

'Don't know how to. This is a new one my 'usband give me.' She snorted. 'A phone's a phone. That's all I need. It's easier ter plan my weeks with the Filofax.'

Rather like me and my calendar. Incidentally, she's a bit older than me.  I think somewhere in her fifties and, so my friend Paula tells me, is always formal. Calls all her clients Mrs. or Miss - whatever. We've decided it must be a family trait as it seems all her family worked in service. You know, maids and things in the big houses.

Mug of tea and two biscuits later Mrs. Walsh finally got started on the work and I went to my office - or study or whatever you want to call it - and phoned Paula.

So you don't get confused I'd better tell you a bit more about me. My name's Cleo Marjoribanks and I'm from the East End of London (cockney-land). When I won the lottery I chucked me job in and bought an old house in Trewith Green, a village in the New Forest.  The house isn't that big, room to spread myself with room to spare for visitors.  And Mrs. Walsh comes a couple of times a week to 'do' for me.

Paula Linley is sort of the lady of the manor and yes, I know what you're thinking, a most unlikely friend for me but she's been my friend from almost when I first moved to the village earlier this year.

'Morning, Paula.  Welcome home.'

'Good morning, Cleo.  Holidays are delightful but there is nothing like getting home, is there?'

'No, but you had a good time?'

'You know about Edinburgh.'

'Probably more than you, even though we have chatted about it,' I commented dryly.  She and Gerard (her husband) had begun in Edinburgh where, along with their teenage daughter, Maggie, they had visited James and Milly, their elder son and his wife and met the new addition - a boy - to the family. 'And you hired a car to go touring the Highlands.'

She chuckled. 'Thanks for taking care of Maggie and getting her off to school.'  Maggie is a weekly boarder.  Before trolling off on their own they had put Maggie on a plane to Southampton where I had met her, brought her home to my house and, two days later, driven her back to school for the new term. 

'We had fun and she and Eva went riding.'

'Now there is a surprise,' Maggie's mother said dryly.

Eva is a teenager David and I met in Spain and, like Maggie, is mad about horses. I'd invited her for a couple of days to keep Maggie company. I know Paula lets her daughter ride through the forest on her own but I was not about to let her do that.

Paula and I chatted for a few more minutes about the holiday, caught up on village gossip then I asked, 'Have you heard about the murder over in Mitcham Parva? Mrs. Walsh knows the woman. Apparently she was a cleaner at Mitcham Manor.'

'Who was it? This is the first I've heard. Our carrier pigeon hasn't been here yet.' In case you haven't spotted the connection, Carrier Pigeon equals Mrs. Walsh.

I told her as much as I know, adding, 'You'll get it all again later.'

'True. You say she was a cleaner at Mitcham Manor?'

'Yes.'

'It is owned by friends of ours. We're due there on Saturday evening for dinner.'

..............

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