Death in Print, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by G.M. Malliet
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for G.M. Malliet
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Cast of Characters
Prologue
Chapter One: Boniface
Chapter Two: The Wunderkind
Chapter Three: Minette
Chapter Four: Ursula
Chapter Five: David and Imogen
Chapter Six: DCI St. Just
Chapter Seven: Tess
Chapter Eight: Where Is Jason?
Chapter Nine: Dumb Waiter
Chapter Ten: DCI Ampleforth
Chapter Eleven: First Steps
Chapter Twelve: The Master
Chapter Thirteen: The Wine Steward
Chapter Fourteen: The Scout
Chapter Fifteen: At the Randolph
Chapter Sixteen: Meet the Parents
Chapter Seventeen: The Turf
Chapter Eighteen: Battle of Jericho
Chapter Nineteen: David
Chapter Twenty: Gita
Chapter Twenty-One: Gita Tells All
Chapter Twenty-Two: Gita Tells More
Chapter Twenty-Three: Ampleforth Wonders
Chapter Twenty-Four: Whoever Loved?
Chapter Twenty-Five: Portia
Chapter Twenty-Six: Castling
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Coffee Klatch
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sketchy
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Chase
Chapter Thirty: In the Wind
Also by G.M. Malliet
The St. Just mysteries
DEATH OF A COZY WRITER
DEATH AND THE LIT CHICK
DEATH AT THE ALMA MATER
DEATH IN CORNWALL *
The Max Tudor mysteries
WICKED AUTUMN
A FATAL WINTER
PAGAN SPRING
DEMON SUMMER
THE HAUNTED SEASON
DEVIL’S BREATH
IN PRIOR’S WOOD
The Augusta Hawke mysteries
AUGUSTA HAWKE *
INVITATION TO A KILLER *
Novels
WEYCOMBE
* available from Severn House
DEATH IN PRINT
G.M. Malliet
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © G.M. Malliet, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Gineva Malliet Steventon to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1120-0 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1121-7 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Praise for G.M. Malliet
“Gripping … Malliet draws the reader in with elegant prose and distinctive characters”
Publishers Weekly on Death in Cornwall
“For fans of old-fashioned cozies”
Booklist on Death in Cornwall
“Low-key, highly professional work right up to the unmasking of the surprisingly well-hidden killer”
Kirkus Reviews on Death in Cornwall
“The reader has a real treat in store … Malliet’s writing is both smooth and elegant and her humor delicious”
Booklist Starred Review of Death at the Alma Mater
“Fans of Dorothy Sayers’s novels and other Golden Age British mysteries will enjoy this contemporary salute”
Library Journal on Death at the Alma Mater
“Lots of humor and a bit of ‘guess who this writer is’ make this one a good choice for readers who enjoy intelligent cozies and traditional mysteries”
Library Journal on Death and the Lit Chick
“Top notch … readers will find a tasty tale that doesn’t disappoint. Perfect for fans of the wickedly funny cozy writers M. C. Beaton and Catriona McPherson”
Booklist on In Prior’s Wood
About the author
Agatha Award-winning G.M. Malliet is the acclaimed author of three traditional mystery series and a standalone novel set in England. The first entry in the DCI St. Just series, Death of a Cozy Writer, won the Agatha Award for Best First Novel and was nominated for Macavity and Anthony Awards. The Rev. Max Tudor series has been nominated for many awards as have several of her short stories appearing in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and The Strand. She was a graduate student at the universities of Cambridge and Oxford and now lives in the US with her husband.
www.gmmalliet.com
In memory of Donna Lefeve
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, many thanks to my agent, Mark Gottlieb of Trident Media Group, and the team at Severn House, in particular Joanne Grant, Sara Porter, Mary Karayel, Martin Brown, and Piers Tilbury.
Because books are not created in a vacuum. It takes a talented group of villagers (agents, publishers, editors, copyeditors, marketeers, publicists, jacket designers and soothsayers) to help stories reach their audience.
Thanks also to Dr Brittany Wellner James, Director of Development and Fellow, Jesus College; Bruno Mollier, Head of Catering, Jesus College; and Professor Philip Burrows, also of Jesus College, Oxford, for making themselves available to answer my questions about college black-tie affairs and ancient wine cellars. All mistakes, wrong-headed suppositions and embellishments are my own.
And as always, thanks to Bob.
‘It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.’
~ William Blake
Cast of Characters
Sir Boniface Castle, founder of Castle Publishing, Oxford, UK
Lady Ursula Castle née Blackenthorpe, his wife, whose family money funded her husband’s dreams
David Castle, their son and editor-in-chief at Castle Publishing
Imogen Castle, their daughter and head of marketing
Gita Patel, assistant at Castle Publishing
Jason Verdoodt, St Rumwold’s College tutor and bestselling author on whom all hopes for Castle Publishing are pinned
Minette Miniver, Jason Verdoodt’s long-suffering girlfriend
Professor Titus Ambrose, lecturer in theology, whose rooms are across the staircase from Jason’s
Professor Mortford ‘Morty’ de Witt, college doctor and professor of medicine, often called in by Thames Valley Police to advise on a case of murder
Lord and Lady Yale-Lequatte, deep-pocketed supporters of literary causes and guests at the celebration of the sale of one million copies of Jason Verdoodt’s The White Owl
Tricia Magnum, aka Dame Patricia, bestselling but frequently remaindered author of children’s books. She had a fling with Jason she claims is all in the past.
Professor Alice Davies, expert in artificial intelligence, former MI5 agent, and master of St Rumwold’s College
Sir Bartholomew Tremaine, St Rumwold’s College librarian, who resents those who would turn his sacred library into a ‘nightclub’ for celebrating a bestselling novel
Dimitri Smirnoff, St Rumwold’s College butler in charge of catering the private party for Jason
Professor Charles Monet, the college’s wine steward
Tess Babbage, a college scout who sees too much
Gregory and Amber Verdoodt, parents of the deceased author
Detective Chief Inspector Arthur St. Just of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary
Portia De’Ath, crime writer, University of Cambridge criminologist, and Arthur’s fiancée
Detective Chief Inspector Ampleforth of Thames Valley Police
Detective Constable Daisy Lambert of Thames Valley Police. No one at the police station ever listens to the young constable, and they probably should.
PROLOGUE
The Turf was crowded despite the weather. If you waited for good weather in Oxford you might never leave the house.
And she had had enough of never leaving the house. Kevin was gone and as much as she wished things were different, that was a fact.
It was time to get back out there in the world. All her girlfriends said so. But the fact was there was only one Kevin and she’d been lucky to have him. Besides, at fifty, she was getting too old for this sort of carry-on. She was more likely to make a fool of herself after more than twenty years out of the dating market than find tolerable male companionship, let alone true love.
Her friends told her there were dating apps for older people, an idea that turned her rigid with horror. She’d likely end up with one of those blokes who emptied her bank account and scarpered off back to Russia. Maisie, her sister, a religious type, thought she could meet someone if only she would join her church, showing a complete lack of understanding that any hypocrisy like that was beyond her. God had abandoned her, so she had returned the favour. The last church she had set foot in had been for the funeral service for Kevin (who had also not been religious. A man in black from the funeral home who had never met Kevin stood up before the small crowd of Kevin’s friends and pub buddies and done what he called a ‘celebration’ of his life. It might have been a celebration of any man, good or bad, with prizes just for breathing, and it carried not a trace, not a hint, of Kevin within the words, the empty words).
Still, on a Wednesday evening, it made a nice change to put on a colourful frock, the one with poppies and the belted sash that Kevin used to love. He told her she looked like a movie star in that dress, and she told him she looked more like a character actress, but ta very much. She wore a red sweater over the dress to keep out the weather.
Readying herself for these expeditions, she’d combed up her hair and even put on a little red lipstick. Not because she was trying to attract anyone but because, after a bare existence of work-eat-sleep for so long, it made her feel human. As close to human as she might ever feel again. She didn’t invite any of her friends to join her, or Maisie, who was teetotal anyway. They’d all start in with their dating nonsense, talking about how their cousin Sally met a bloke on the It’s Your Turn app, when what she really wanted was to be alone. Alone in the company of a crowd, if that made any sense at all. It made sense to her.
In the days and months after Kevin’s accident, people said wasn’t it lucky she and Kevin had never had children. Her own sister had said it – her with her twins who were ‘the light of my life’. People talked no ruddy end of rot, and as soon as she’d shut the door on them she’d say out loud – there was no one to hear, after all – all the many things she might have said but had kept inside. Only one of those many things was that she would kill to have a small version of Kevin running around the house, or a small version of herself that was part Kevin. It would be, either version, girl or boy, a child who was good with its hands, good at making things, good at getting fiddly things just right. Kevin had been a carpenter for Brice Builders, and he was so good they put him on doing the finishing work, inside and out. Mr Brice had even turned up for the ‘celebration’, which he didn’t have to do – that’s how much Kevin had meant to him. He was an artist, was Kevin, and Mr Brice had said so. Not just good at his job, but an artist. It meant everything to Kevin to reach the end of the day knowing he’d done better than his best.
All the rich folk with their fitted cabinets could thank Kevin every time they opened a perfectly balanced door that didn’t creak or come off in their hands and beheld all the expensive things they owned. Every time their roof didn’t leak, or their windows shut tight without sticking, they could thank Kevin.
But of course, they never did thank Kevin. They never knew Kevin Bottle existed. For folk like that, things they wanted to make their lives better just magically appeared. If they paid enough for the best, things would magically appear. And if some bloke fell off the scaffolding at his job building their house in a gated estate, what was it to them? They couldn’t know and they wouldn’t want to know. They would come to think of their new luxury home as a place of bad luck, haunted by a tall man with a red beard, dressed in workman’s clothes and carrying a hammer and a measuring tape. No, they wouldn’t want to know and certainly Brice Builders wasn’t going to tell them. Kevin’s accident had rated a brief notice in the Oxford newspaper, a ‘worker injured’ notice, with no follow-up when he died in hospital three days later. The world had moved on by then. The Kardashians and that lot were busy getting married again.
Yes, the world had moved on, leaving her to wish she’d never met Kevin, or that she’d never been born, or that she’d been born somewhere else than England. Anything to ease the gnawing pain that was life without Kevin.
The pub wasn’t hard to find if you were in the know, but it had become a student prank to send tourists in the other direction – to pretend they’d misunderstood and send them down Turl Street instead to the vanished pub of that name. The Turf Tavern, a completely different animal, was reached by way of St Helen’s Passage, a winding, narrow, dark alley running between a college wall to one side and a brick house on the other. Halfway along the alley was a sharp turn, but eventually the alley ran into the little ancient pub, crooked and teetering with age. It looked as if it would collapse in on itself, but according to the sign over the door it had stood since the twelfth century. Looming over it was the top of a college bell tower.
The pub was crowded but she found her favourite seat in a far corner, away from the bar, where she could be alone and observe people. She enjoyed blending into the background, keeping her eyes and ears open. Her Yorkshire granny used to say there’s nowt so queer as folk, and she was right about that. The Turf was perfect for people watching, and it had soon become a habit on her one day off a week to dress up a bit and come here for a pint on her own.
She had lived in Oxford all her life, and she had worked in an Oxford college for three years, ever since Kevin passed, for a little extra money (Kevin did like to spend) and for something to do. So she knew all the types.
The students, of course, were rowdy on a weekend night, but this was a weekday, and maybe some of them had tutorials the next day or were mindful they needed their rest. She wanted to tell them you can rest when you’re dead. You’re only eighteen, only twenty, only twenty-one, and you’re full of life and energy and you don’t have arthritis (yet) and the world’s all at your feet. You leave this place with an education the rest of the world can only envy and some of you will go on to great things. This is no time to rest up. Rest up for what – for being old and alone?
Others were tourists, and those were the fun ones to watch, easy to pick out of any crowd. Germans, Japanese, Arabs, Swedes – you name it. They were different but all the same. The Americans were the easiest to spot, however hard they tried to blend in. God bless them they tried, but everything they did gave them away, from over-tipping the barmaid on down. Their expensive travel clothes, and their accents too, of course. Their tendency to talk just that bit too loud.
Of course, in a pub they needed to shout to be heard, but not quite so much and not so often as they did shout. Their sense of belonging was what surprised her, of fitting in wherever they were, and because they had a great-great-great-uncle from Wales or Cornwall or whatever, the entire country must be their home, too. But at the same time they had this sense of wonder, like a child’s, at being surrounded by all the history – the history she herself took for granted. They were amazed at all the beautiful buildings which had been created before the United States was ever thought of. Places built by men like her Kevin, in fact.
Their shopping bags and clean new backpacks and tourist maps and tickets sprouting from their pockets – all these were clues that gave them away, but the shoes most of all. While things had changed over the years in Oxford, with people getting more casual (sloppy, she thought) all the time, the one thing that still surprised her was how easy it was to spot Americans by their shoes. All ages and sorts, the Americans wore some variation of the same brand of trainers beneath their travel pants. Maybe it was because they were on holiday and they were dressed for comfort, but she suspected they dressed like this at home, too, in what they called ‘leisurewear’.
The usual waitress came over to her to take her order, which was kind – the ritual was the customer should order a drink at the bar, however teeming it was with people, but she’d never get a drink by herself, she wasn’t the pushy type, and being here alone was enough of a personal challenge for her. It was getting easier, but still, she felt this was what Kevin would have wanted. She was easing herself back into the world, not sitting at home going slightly mad, pretending to watch some rubbish on the telly and thinking of him.
