G Malliet: Death of a Cozy Writer

The first book in the St. Just Mystery series, 2008

Many people helped this book into existence, but it might not have made it at all but for the early encouragement of playwright Terryl Paiste.

My sincerest thanks also to the tireless volunteers of the Malice Domestic conference, who further midwifed this novel via their generous award of the Malice Domestic Grant (now renamed in memory of the beloved William F. Deeck).

The members of Sisters in Crime, particularly those of the Chesapeake Chapter, were there when I needed them, which was often.

I would also like to offer heartfelt thanks to the staff of Midnight Ink, beginning with Barbara Moore.

Many thanks also to Muir Ainsley, who patiently and correctly answered all my questions about British arcana without once asking me to please leave him alone. Any mistakes in the novel are entirely mine.

And as always, thanks to my husband, for his patience, love, and support through what must have seemed to him an endless and everlasting process.

While the city and University of Cambridge, England, are of course real, as are Scotland and Cornwall, I have entirely invented the characters in this book who act out their imagined lives against these beautiful backdrops.

Peterhouse likewise exists, but DCI Arthur St. Just is not a real-life alumnus of that hallowed seat of learning.

In some cases, I have invented a village or manor house, such as Newton Coombe and Waverley Court, and placed them somewhat randomly in Cambridgeshire.

And there is now a castle in Scotland that exists only in my imagination.

Ruthven Beauclerk-Fisk-eldest son of Sir Adrian, ruthless Ruthven was heir-apparent to his father’s vast fortune, until his father unexpectedly announced plans to remarry.

Lillian Beauclerk-Fisk-Ruthven’s social-climbing wife, she mostly found murder frightfully inconvenient.

Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk-fuddled and unhappy, she inherited her father’s gift for penning best-selling books. Did she inherit his mean streak, as well?

Albert Beauclerk-Fisk-Sir Adrian’s youngest son. A failed actor and designated black sheep of the family, Albert’s one remaining ambition was to protect sister Sarah from suspicion of murder.

Chloe, Lady Beauclerk-Fisk-Sir Adrian’s former wife, and the mother of his unhappy brood. Did life with Sir Adrian drive her to drink-or to murder?

Sir Adrian Beauclerk-Fisk-a famous writer of mystery novels in the “cozy” genre, Sir Adrian had a devilish talent for making noirish mischief.

Jeffrey Spencer-Sir Adrian’s secretary, an earnest American expat in search of his roots. His attentions to Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk enraged his employer.

Maria Romano-Sir Adrian’s long-time cook, she was the only person at Waverley Court who seemed to have a soft spot for the cantankerous author.

William Watters-The elderly gardener of Waverley Court saw no evil-until someone tried to frame him for murder.

Jim Tanner-Proud proprietor of the local Thorn and Crown.

George Beauclerk-Fisk-Ne’er-do-well son, failed entrepreneur, and playboy, his sibling’s death increased George’s chances in the inheritance sweepstakes.

Natasha Wellings-George’s latest girlfriend: slim, dark, and beautiful. People wondered: Whatever did she see in George?

Paulo Romano-Butler to Sir Adrian, Mrs. Romano’s son spent little time butlering and vast amounts skulking about Waverley Court.

Violet Mildenhall-Notorious in her heyday, her marriage of convenience to Sir Adrian proved less than convenient when it thrust her into the middle of a murder investigation-again.

Martha-Mrs. Romano’s daily help.

Constable Porter, Sergeant Garwin Fear,and Dr. Malenfant- Loyal aides-de-camp to Detective Chief Inspector St. Just of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary.

DCI Arthur St. Just-Crime halted his plans for a ski holiday when Sir Adrian’s devious machinations snowballed into murder.

Mrs. Ketchen-Elderly maid to Chloe, Lady Beauclerk-Fisk.

MandaCroom-Ruthven’s efficient business associate and once-besotted paramour, she viewed murder at Waverley Court as a career opportunity.

Quentin Coffield, Esq.-a supercilious solicitor who played along with Sir Adrian’s dangerous propensity to change his will, at will.

Mrs. Butter-Sir Adrian’s former secretary. Albert enlisted her help in learning what the secretive Adrian had been plotting.

Mrs. Mott-a nurse in Cornwall.

Agnes Grant-a cook who bore witness to a crime long, long ago in Scotland.

THE INVITATION, THOUGH EMBOSSED on the stiffest 100 percent rag-content paper Gribbley’s, Stationers to Her Majesty, could produce, nonetheless had more than a whiff of the prepackaged Marks & Sparks sales offering about it. Ruthven could not remember ever having seen a missive so entirely festooned with angels, or, given his background, decorated with anything more festive than black engraving on woven cream.

Yet here, naked seraphim and cherubim peeked coyly from the pink lining of the envelope, and from every corner of the thick pink card itself, grinning lasciviously as they held aloft a lavender banner announcing what appeared to be an upcoming event, perhaps the end of the world. Their sly expressions duplicated that which normally appeared on Ruthven’s own somewhat round features, which tended to hold a smirk, even in repose. He first scanned the card, then studied it more closely, then groaned aloud.

“The old fool’s gone and done it. He’s really gone and done it.” He threw the invitation across the breakfast table in the general direction of his wife. It missed (for it was a very large table), ricocheted off the silver toast rack, and skidded off onto the highly polished wooden floor.

“Done what, dear?” Lillian, her gaze held by a large display advertisement for precious gemstones, and herself inured, by long years of marriage, to her husband’s tantrums, ignored the card, which now lay face downward on the floor.

“He’s actually marrying one of his little tarts, that’s what.”

Lowering the paper, she peered at him over the headlines relating the latest brawl in Parliament. Lillian, skimming the front page on her way to the advertisements, had noted it seemed to have something to do with child care. If they couldn’t take care of the little brats, why did they keep having them, she wondered? The accompanying photo showed the Prime Minister emerging with a preoccupied scowl from 10 Downing Street, in conscious imitation of Churchill during the darkest days of the war.

She also had taken a glance in passing at the obituaries. She found it interesting that the unimportant people always seemed to die in alphabetical order. She was about to comment on this observable fact when the full import of Ruthven’s words took hold.

“Marrying?” Her voice caught on the last syllable. “Which one? Not the one with the enormous-”