WE ARE THRILLED TODAY, TO WELCOME OUR GUEST AUTHOR, MARK L. FOWLER, WHO IS SHARING THREE CHAPTERS FROM HIS NOVEL, 'THE CRIMSON CORPSE' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
THE CRIMSON CORPSE
A Tyler & Mills Mystery
Mark L. Fowler
CHAPTER ONE
Constance White sat at her writing desk, her face creased into an aspect of intense concentration. She wasn’t moving, and it was difficult to tell if she was even breathing.
It was always like this at the start, at the beginning of anything new; at this setting off into the unknown, where all things were still possible, and wondering how things might turn out.
It had been a busy morning, busy and confusing; disruptive, distracting, disturbing, even, and not at all what she’d had in mind. But things were settling down now, her focus returning to the task at hand.
Her habits were precise, and always had been, despite the best efforts of those who had tried to change them. Constance wrote in black ink, using a pen she had owned for over thirty years. It was in her right hand, resting above an unsoiled stack of blank manuscript pages.
The temperature outside was already touching thirty, the back door of her cottage open to allow in any passing gusts of wind that might care to drop by. The floor fan, practically an ancient relic, was cranked to its highest setting, and kicking up a fair old racket, trying to assert its presence above the heat. Not that she minded: white noise blanked out sounds that might otherwise intrude, and aided rather than hindered concentration during this vital stage in the process.
Anyone watching her would have noticed something changing. They might even have been privileged to witness that sacred moment, when everything began to crystallise; the tortured expression at last giving way to an all-consuming smile of victory.
She nodded to the empty room, to her invisible audience somewhere down the line.
For Constance White knew, in that moment, the story she wanted to tell.
About to introduce the loaded pen to the waiting empty page, she thought she heard something; a sound issuing from behind her, cutting through the noise the fan was making.
She started to turn around.
But it was already too late.
Already too late for Constance White.
CHAPTER TWO
Despite the calendar’s insistence on this being midsummer, it was dark outside when Detective Chief Inspector Jim Tyler arrived at the scene.
In the front upstairs room of Honeysuckle Cottage, Constance White lay slumped across her desk. The marks around her throat indicated strangulation.
A stack of manuscript pages and a paperback book shared the surface of the desk with the corpse, and there was an old fountain pen down on the carpet by her side.
The pen discarded in the struggle, thought Tyler. The ink spatters on the carpet were suggestive of that. Not that there had been much of a struggle, by the look of things.
The cottage was already swarming with officers, including Scenes of Crime neatly decked out in their curious paper suits.
Detective Sergeant Danny Mills stepped into the room, and Tyler acknowledged him with an almost indiscernible movement of the head.
“Did she have much to say?”
Mills had been interviewing the neighbour, Caroline Osbourne. It was Osbourne who had contacted the police, after discovering the lifeless body of her friend.
“Plenty,” said Mills.
“Best stick to the highlights, then,” said Tyler.
The neighbour had been out for the day with friends, returning late in the evening, as dusk was beginning to settle. She noticed that the back door of Constance White’s cottage was wide open, but there were no lights on inside. Observing this to be highly unusual, despite the hot weather, she called round to check that everything was alright.
“And discovered that it wasn’t,” said Tyler. “How is she?”
Mills looked across the room at the dead figure slumped over the desk.
“Don’t even think about it,” said Tyler.
“Sorry, sir,” said Mills. “I’d say she’s had better days – and I’m strictly talking about the neighbour. She was good friends with the deceased. It’s been a terrible shock, as you might imagine.”
“She was a writer – mystery novels,” said Tyler. He nodded over at the book on the desk. “The Crimson Corpse. It sounds like something Arthur Conan Doyle might have come up with.”
Mills looked blank.
“He wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories. What kind of detective school did they send you to? This is going on your report.”
Mills issued a further apology, accompanied by an appropriate and well rehearsed look of shame.
“I don’t suppose you’ve read any of Constance White’s books, either.”
Mills shook his head. “Are they any good, sir?”
“We’ll find out in due course, no doubt, once we’ve sifted through them for clues.”
Mills couldn’t be sure whether Tyler was joking or not. But there was nothing unusual in that.
“Looks like she was setting about writing a new one,” said Tyler. “I wonder what she had in mind.”
Mills was opening his mouth to speak, but at the last moment held back. Tyler was suddenly deep in thought, and Mills, observing the usual etiquette, waited.
“I don’t suppose we will ever know the answer to that,” Tyler said at last. Then he looked directly at Mills. “You know, the strangest thought occurred just now.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“A fanciful thought, the kind that Arthur Conan Doyle might have courted when penning his masterpieces.”
“What were you thinking, sir?” said Mills, as baffled as ever and fearing further bafflement to follow.
“Motives for murder,” said Tyler. “But on reflection, perhaps I ought to keep my wilder fancies to myself. After all, this is the dawning of the twenty first century, and likely murders are no longer committed to prevent authors from spilling the truth. Let’s go and chat to this neighbour, shall we?”
Mills followed behind, frowning over the assumption that murder to silence someone had ceased to be a thing.
CHAPTER THREE
Caroline Osbourne was sitting in the front room of her adjoining cottage, in the company of two female police officers. She looked bloodless, thought Tyler. Shock, no doubt.
“I understand Constance was a good friend of yours,” he said, after passing on his condolences.
“Thank you, and yes, she was a very good friend.”
Tyler took his time, not rushing the woman into reprising her grim discovery. He understood that she had been out for the day with friends.
“That’s right. We had a lovely day.”
Once she’d finished her brief account of her trip in good company to a National Trust property in nearby Derbyshire, Tyler said, “Had you been friends long?”
They had met when Osbourne moved in next door. She’d moved into the property after her husband died, and struck up a friendship almost immediately with Constance. That was close to five years ago.
“Constance loved this area. It’s what we had in common from the very start. I had some family based around here, when I was growing up, and I’d always had a fondness for the village. And when I saw this little cottage was for sale, I didn’t hesitate. It was just big enough for me, now I’m on my own. Constance said many times that she planned to live out her days here, and I could understand that.”
Tyler could understand it, too. This doomsday village of Penkhull, nestled in the heart of the City of Stoke–on–Trent, had captured his heart also. Only a few years previously, he had happened upon the place following an unceremonious exile from London, after losing his rag and punching a senior colleague. The uncharitable had blamed an insubordinate attitude and a drink problem. Tyler saw it as a reasonable stand against a bully and a tyrant who had reminded him too much of the bullies and tyrants that plagued an unhappy childhood.
“I have to ask ...” he said.
Osbourne gave the names of the people she had spent the day with, and the details of the National Trust property they’d visited using their memberships. Her friends had picked her up from home at eight o’clock that morning, and all had gone for breakfast at Trentham Gardens. She gave Tyler the details of the cafe where they’d had eaten, and the times of their arrival and departure.
“I asked Constance if she wanted to come with us.”
“You saw her before you left the house?” said Tyler.
“I asked her the day before, actually – last evening in fact. She does occasionally come out with us on these trips, though not so much when she has a book on the go.”
“Constance was writing a new one?”
“She was planning to start work on her latest, that’s what she said. She told me she had an idea that was coming nicely to the boil.” Osbourne smiled sadly. “That’s how she put it. She said ...”
Suddenly her eyes misted over, and there was a crack in her voice as she added, “Constance said it was a little like she imagined pregnancy to be.”
Tyler offered a questioning look.
“She often said funny things like that; she had her own way of putting things. She said she would stay in as she thought tomorrow would be the day, and she wanted a home delivery.”
Catching the crack in her voice and the mist in her eyes, the supporting female officers were quick off the mark, offering to make a fresh cup of tea. They were displaying remarkable efficiency, for in practically no time at all they were bringing in a tray of drinks, and causing DS Mills to lick his lips. The promise of refreshment appeared to have awoken him up from his slumbers. It was a phenomenon Tyler was keen to point out later, once they had returned to Cedar Lane police station.
“You were telling me earlier,” said Mills, “that Constance always had a story to tell.”
“Did she ever,” said Osbourne. “She had such a rich store of them. But that’s not surprising given the life she’d led. You couldn’t have made it up.”
“Sounds interesting,” said Tyler.
The cups filled and distributed around the room, she provided the detectives with a brief history of the life and times of the late Constance White.
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Book Links:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HGB3G3H4 The Crimson Corpse ebook
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Crimson-Corpse-Tyler-Mills/dp/B0HHFLHJ3K The Crimson Corpse PB
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AUTHOR BIO
Mark Fowler is based in North Staffordshire.
His crime novels include the popular colour-themed Tyler & Mills police detective series set in Staffordshire, where Potteries wit clashes with London grit as the chalk and cheese duo search for truth and justice.
The first book in the series, Red Is The Colour, was shortlisted for the Arnold Bennett Book Prize, and his latest book, The Crimson Corpse, has just been released. There are currently nine books in the series, and all can be enjoyed as standalone crime novels.
He also writes the Manchester based detective series featuring DI Charlie Reed, and her faithful sidekick DS Paul Rigsby.
Mark also publishes psychological suspense novels, and one gothic novel: Coffin Maker.
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COMING SOON: On Monday, 5th October, our fnatastic team member, author Lorraine Carey, is sharing her short story, 'She Waits'.
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