Hazel Holt - Mrs. Malory and the Festival Murder

Mrs . Malory a nd the Festival Murder

By

HazelHolt

** SMASHWORDSEDITION **

PUBLISHEDBY

Coffeetown Presson Smashwords

Published byCoffeetown Press

PO Box 95462Seattle, WA 98145

All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrievalsystem, without permission in writing from thepublisher.

Cover design bySabrina Sun

Contact:info@coffeetownpress.com

Copyright 2010by Hazel Holt

ISBN:978-1-60381-046-3 (Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-047-0 (Cloth)

ISBN:978-1-60381-048-7 (ePub)

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FOR JANFERGUS,

withlove

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BecauseI managed to get myself lost in the Harborne one-way system, it wasearly evening when I got to the hotel. The M5 had been full ofindecisive caravans, thrusting young men in Sierras and the DafRacing Lorry Team, so I felt pretty exhausted. I threw my bag andcoat on to the bed and switched on the television and the electrickettle. I was pleased to see that the tea-making facilitiesincluded a couple of chocolate wafer biscuits and that there wasconditioner as well as shampoo in the bathroom. Not that I plannedto wash my hair (I was only going to be staying one night) but itgave me a feeling of agreeable luxury. I love staying in hotels,just for a short time after a few days I get restless and want myown things around me and I miss the animals but for a littlewhile I greatly enjoy this enclosed, private world, whereeverything one might want is conveniently to hand.

I hadtravelled to Birmingham from my home in the West Country to speakat a Literary Lunch, organized by a large bookstore. This isntsomething that happens to me very often the books I write areusually considered too academic but the latest one was a study ofthe writer Ada Leverson and the connection with Oscar Wilde made itpopular enough for the organizers of the Lunch to feel thatpeople (as opposed to academics) might want to listen to me forfifteen minutes or so. I hate speaking in public the sound of myvoice, on the rare occasions when Ive heard it on a tape-recorder,makes me shrivel up with embarrassment but in a weak moment Isaid yes and Id been fervently regretting it eversince.

Therewere to be three speakers and Id asked to be the first so that Iwouldnt have to sit through the others, getting more and morenervous. Especially since one of the other speakers was AdrianPalgrave, whom I knew and disliked. He is, in effect, a neighbour,living in a converted schoolhouse in a village just outsideTaviscombe. I suppose you might describe him as a well-known poetand broadcaster well known for being well-known, as my sonMichael says and he is, in his own opinion at least, a prominentliterary figure. Perhaps I am being just a little sour because hehas made it very clear that he thinks of me as a mere amateur. Heis always affable, but with a patronizing air that I find veryirritating indeed. I sincerely hoped he wouldnt be staying in thehotel, though since the Lunch was to be held there on the followingday, I very much feared he might. It was with this thought in mindthat I went down to the dining room early, feeling that he would bemore likely to dine fashionably late. I ate my food quickly with myhead bent low over my book and then retreated to the safety of myroom. After I had read through my speech one more time and wonderedif anyone would find it remotely interesting, I had an enjoyableevening watching a thriller on television and doing mynails.

The high-spot of any stay in a hotel for me is the FullEnglish Breakfast. At home I rarely have more than a slice oftoast and a cup of tea, but when Im away I always go the wholehog. This particular morning my plate was deliriously full ofbacon, egg, tomatoes, mushrooms, black pudding, and fried bread andI sat and contemplated it with satisfaction. I had just unfoldedmy DailyTelegraph and was givingmyself over wholly to pleasure when I was aware of a figurestanding beside me. It was Adrian Palgrave.

Ah, Sheila. May I join you? he asked and without waiting formy reply he sat down.

He wentdroning on about how tiresome it was to have to come all this wayto speak at this tedious luncheon but one did have a duty to onespublisher. Needless to say, his breakfast consisted of half agrapefruit and a black coffee. Fortunately he didnt seem torequire any actual verbal response so I was able to get on with myfood, but the treat was ruined and I was thoroughly putout.

I must say I was surprised that they asked AliciaNash to be the other speaker. I mean, she is a highly competentactress she was in one of my radio plays but hardly a literary figure.

She has just written a book I replied. The fried bread wasvery crisp and a piece shot off my plate when I cut into it. Adrianlooked at my still substantial plateful with some distaste andsaid: Memoirs. Anecdotes, really.

I havent read it, I said, but they say its veryamusing.

Adrianscrutinized my plate more carefully.

Should you be eating all that fried stuff? he asked. Isuppose you know its crammed with cholesterol and statistics haveshown that middle-aged women are just as liable to heart-attacks asmiddle-aged men.

I didnot need Adrian Palgrave to remind me that I am a widow in mymid-fifties. I bit into a piece of black puddingdefiantly.

At my advanced age, I said, this is the only way left tolive dangerously.

He gaveme a brief humourless smile and went on.

I hope the book-signing afterwards doesnt go on too long.Ive got to get to the Pebble Mill studios for an interview thisafternoon.

I dont imagine my book signing will take any time at all, I said. I expectI shall just stand there with a pile in front of me feelingembarrassed. What a pity I cant sign your books for you.

Thisfrivolous remark on such a serious subject was not consideredworthy of a smile of any kind and he continued.

I went to the new Concert Hall yesterday evening.The acoustics are superb. They were doing Gerontius. I was following with a score, of course, andevery note was like crystal! Quite magnificent. I rather expectedto see you there such an opportunity!

Ithought guiltily of the thriller on television and said quickly:Oh, I arrived rather late...

Hepushed aside his half-eaten grapefruit and leaned across the table.I was thinking, as I sat there, that we really must make a specialeffort with the music for this years festival. We need somethingreally unusual a new piece specially commissioned or someInternational musician.

I dont really imagine that we could attract anyone ofInternational standing to the Taviscombe festival, Iprotested.

Adrianregarded me earnestly.

I think you underestimate the influence that I andsome of our other more important residents may have, Sheila, hesaid reprovingly. Certainly our particularly picturesque corner ofthe West Country has attracted a more than usual number of writers,painters, musicians, actors, and television producers. Oh yes, andpoets. Not that I would call them residents. Most of them stilllive mainly in London and just have second homes in the countrysidearound Taviscombe. There are a few full-timers as well as Adrian.Oliver Stevens, who makes those marvellous televisiondocumentaries, lives in a lovely old rectory between Taviscombe andTaunton and Will Maxwell the successful dramatist lives all theyear round in a cottage at the end of a rough track in the middleof Exmoor with no mains water. Thats what I call being a resident.