Death at Wentwater Court reissued

Minotaur has just reissued my first Daisy Dalrymple mystery (of 22) in trade paperback, with a great new cover.

The series is set in the 1920s in England. Daisy has just achieved an assignment to write a magazine article about an earl's mansion, Wentwater Court, so she has joined a family and guest house-party.

Excerpt:

In the morning, Daisy rose with the sun, which, as Wilfred

had pointed out, was not particularly early at the beginning of

January. Skipping the cold bath and postponing the outdoor

exercise, she dressed warmly and went down to the breakfast

parlour, a pleasantly sunny east-facing room. James, Fenella,and Sir Hugh were there before her. Sir Hugh lowered his Financial Times momentarily to wish her a good morning before retreating once more behind that bastion.

She helped herself to kedgeree from the buffet on the

sideboard and joined them at the table.

"Will you skate with us this morning, Daisy?" Fenella asked.

"I know you're frightfully busy but this weather may not last and

we don't get such spiffing freezes very often."

"Yes, I'd like to, if I can borrow skates?"

"We have a cupboardful," James assured her. "There's bound

to be something to fit you."

"Jolly good. I'll finish off the roll of film in the camera

down at the lake, and spend the rest of the morning developing my

pictures."

Sir Hugh, emerging from his newspaper, told her he owned

shares in the Eastman Kodak company and asked about the

developing and printing process. Daisy explained as she ate.

James and Fenella lingered over their coffee until she had

finished her breakfast, then took her to look for a pair of

skates.

Outside, the air was crisp and still. Daisy couldn't resist

leaving a footprint or two in the glistening untrodden snow

beside the path. It crunched underfoot.

James carried the skating boots down the hill for her as she

was laden with camera and tripod. While she set them up, he and

Fenella sat on the bench and put on their skates. They circled

slowly at the near end of the lake, waiting for her.

"Go ahead," she called, already chilled fingers fumbling

at the stiff catch that attached the camera to the tripod. "I'll

be with you in half a mo."

Waving to her, they joined hands and whizzed off towards the

bridge. As they reached it, James yelled, "Stop!"

They swerved to a halt beneath the arch. James moved

cautiously forward into the black shadow cast by the low sun.

And then Fenella screamed.

Support an indie bookstore at Seattle Mystery Bookshop or Mysterious Galaxy

or order from Amazon

Heirs of the Body

The 21st book in my Daisy Dalrymple series comes out in a few days (UK 6th December, US 10th December) just in time for the holidays.

Set in 1927: Daisy's cousin, the present Lord Dalrymple, was not brought up to the job, and he's just realised, approaching his fiftieth birthday, he has no idea who is his heir. Advertising in newspapers worldwide brings a slew of candidates from all over the Empire and all walks of life. His lawyer, with Daisy's assistance, winnows the possible heirs down to four.

But none can provide adequate proof of legitimate descent in the male line. In fact, one of them is missing--whether temporarily or permanently, his wife (or widow) isn't sure.

While awaiting clarification, Lord Dalrymple invites them to Fairacres to celebrate his birthday. Also present are his known family in England, including Daisy and her husband, DCI Fletcher of Scotland Yard, and their children.

When a string of mysterious accidents is followed by the death of one of the would-be heirs, it begins to look as if someone is out to nobble the competition...

Excerpt:

   The bronze Daimler arrived at last... the chauffeur, and the one remaining bobby vied to help Raymond into the car. Daisy tipped him, as Raymond showed no sign of doing so, and he handed her in next.

.... Raymond remained slumped in the corner, eyes closed. Before they were halfway back to Fairacres, he started to breathe sterterously, an unpleasant cross between a snort and a gasp. Alarmed, Daisy spoke to him. He didn't respond.

   She listened for a few minutes, then reached for the speaking tube. "Smethwick?"

   "Yes, madam?"

   "Mr. Raymond seems to be very ill. I think we'd better take him straight to the doctor, in Upton upon Severn. Just stay on this road."

   "Yes, madam."

   "I don't know his address."

   "We'll just have to ask, madam. You're all right, are you?"

   "So far, thank you." After all, having hysterics or fainting would hardly alter the situation for the better....

   Daisy sat back. The horrible sound had stopped and Raymond's chest no longer heaved at each breath. Perhaps he'd be all right just going to bed? Should she take his pulse?

   Reluctantly she slid across the leather seat. His breathing was so quiet she couldn't hear it at all. She couldn't see his chest rising and falling. When she lifted his wrist, his hand flopped downward. His skin felt clammy.

   No pulse. The blank stare wasn't a stare, because those fixed eyes were seeing nothing.

Chapter Twenty-one

   Daisy's heart stood still. For a moment she couldn't speak, then she cried out, "Stop!" so loud that Smethwick heard her although she didn't use the tube.

   He glanced back, his expression startled. A hundred yards farther on, he pulled into a farm gateway. "Madam?"

   She opened the door and jumped out, her one thought was to escape from the immediate vicinity of Raymond's body. "I can't find a pulse," she blurted out as Smethwick, alarmed, also sprang out of the Daimler. "I think he's dead."

   "Let me check," he said in a businesslike way. "I drove an ambulance in the war. Flat feet."

   He climbed into the back of the car, leaving Daisy thinking sad thoughts of her fiancé, Michael, who had likewise been an ambulance driver during the war but had not returned.

   "You're right, he's gone." The chauffeur emerged from the interior. "Had an accident in Worcester, did he?"

   "Yes, but the police seem to think he just fell, and he himself said he hadn't hit his head."

   "Heart attack. Or stroke. He's the age and figure for it."

   "He seemed so vigorous!"

   "Oh well, you never can tell. I s'pose I better lay him out on the seat. Otherwise he's going to slide off when we start moving. If you don't mind sitting in front with me, madam."

   "Yes, please!" said Daisy.

   Once the Raymond's body was in a decently recumbent position, Smethwick fetched a car-rug from the boot to spread over him. The cheerful red and yellow tartan was altogether inappropriate, but as the chauffeur said, "Beggars and corpses can't be choosers." He returned to his seat behind the steering wheel. "I haven't driven around with a stiff behind me—if you'll pardon the expression—since the Armistice. Where to now, madam?"

   "Oh dear, I expect we ought to take him to Dr. Hopcroft, even though it's too late. He'll know what to do."

   "Right you are. I've got to find a post office and send a wire to my company, too. The boss isn't going to be happy."

   "If he didn't pay in advance, I daresay Lord Dalrymple will cover the expense." She only half listened to Smethwick's response. She was wondering whether Raymond's death fitted into the pattern of accidents—assuming there was in fact a pattern—and if so how.

   From what the copper had said, it sounded as if someone had pushed him aside at the last minute, possibly saving his life. It was slightly odd that the Good Samaritan hadn't stayed to make sure he was all right and to enjoy the kudos. Perhaps he'd been in a tearing hurry, or perhaps just shy.

   He might yet be found. Daisy had learnt from experience the sequence of events that Raymond's death would lead to. As he had not, to her knowledge, been under the care of a doctor, and no medical practitioner had been present, an inquest would be necessary. In the circumstances, after Alec's hobnob with the CC, the coroner would surely require an autopsy. If there was anything fishy about Raymond's death, a police investigation would follow.

   The police—

   "Hell!" Smethwick jammed his feet on the brake and clutch. The car slithered to a halt in a few inches of brown water. Ahead, the lane was under water as far as they could see, ripples spreading round the next curve...

Upton upon Severn, subject to flooding after heavy rainfall upstream 

Heirs of the Body can be ordered from


http://www.amazon.com/Heirs-Body-Dalrymple

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/heirs-of-the-body-carola-dunn 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Heirs-Body-Dalrymple 

http://www.waterstones.com/waterstonesweb/products/carola+dunn/heirs+of+the+body 

Or better still, support independent mystery booksellers

http://www.seattlemystery.com/  (I'll be signing December 14th at noon)
http://www.mystgalaxy.com/ (San Diego signing January 9th at 7 pm)
http://www.mysteryink.com/ (Huntington Beach, signing Jan. 11 noon)
http://www.bookem.com/ (S. Pasadena, signing Jan. 11 at 3 pm)

A Colourful Death now in PAPERBACK

by Carola Dunn

A COLOURFUL DEATH is the second in my Cornish Mystery series. Cornwall is a peninsula bounded by the Atlantic Ocean on the northwest. The coast is indented with rocky, cliff-bound coves providing harbours over the centuries for fishermen and smugglers alike. Much of the centre consists of rugged Bodmin Moor, but the moors are surrounded by fertile farmland with a milder climate than most of Britain.

Large print edition

With small towns, built of local granite and roofed with local slate, and picturesque scenery, Cornwall has long been a haunt of holiday-makers--and artists.

One such painter, Nick Gresham, is next-door neighbour to my protagonist, Eleanor Trewynn, a widow in her 60s. Thanks to an introduction from Eleanor, Nick succeeds in placing a couple of paintings in a London art gallery. He returns triumphant from London only to find the pictures in his shop have been slashed to ribbons.

US edition, hardcover and paperback

Sure that he knows who the culprit is--a jealous fellow-painter--Nick sets out to confront him. Eleanor, worried about what he might do, tags along, with her Westie, Teazle, in tow.

Excerpt:

"There it is." Nick pointed to a narrow shop front opposite the Gold Bezant Inn.

It took Eleanor a moment to decipher the sign above the shop window, as it was written in Old English script. King Arthur's Gallery, it said.

"King Arthur? Shouldn't that be in Tintagel?"

"He couldn't find a suitable place in Tintagel, but he's obsessed with King Arthur. Come and look."

In the window was a display of three paintings. At first glance, they seemed to Eleanor to be quite pretty but rather depressing. She could understand why holiday-makers didn't choose to buy pictures of slender mediaeval maidens with flowing hair and tragic mouths drooping over dead or dying knights, however meticulously portrayed. She wouldn't want one on her wall, breathing gloom every time she looked at it. They were flamboyantly signed: Geoffroie Monmouth.

But she didn't have time to study them. Nick had pressed the electric bell button. No one came. Heedless of the CLOSED sign, he pushed the door. Opening, it set off a jangle, just like his own shop door. The fact that it was not locked suggested to Eleanor that the artist was still within, probably in the throes of producing another grim memento mori. She tied Teazle's string to an ancient, worn boot-scraper to one side of the door and hurried after Nick.

The blind at the rear of the display window was pulled down, so the interior of the shop was dim. Facing the door, a life-size and remarkably lifelike King Arthur stood, barring the way. Grey-bearded, he wore a crown encircling his helmet, and his visible arm and his legs were clad in gleaming armour, the rest covered by a crimson tabard embroidered with flowers. In his right hand he wielded Excalibur. His other arm was hidden by a blue shield with a device of three crowns. Exquisitely detailed flowers surrounded his mailed feet.

Though Eleanor was sure she had never seen the picture before, it was vaguely familiar.

The jangle failed to bring any response. Nick looked around. "Damn," he swore under his breath. "If he's not in the back room, I'll have to trek up to his bungalow."

"Not a bungalow, surely! He ought to live in an ancient cottage overgrown with rambling roses, if he can't manage a crumbling castle."

"A 1950s bungalow," Nick said firmly, striding round behind King Arthur. "And any interest he has in flowers he devotes to his painting, not his garden."

Reluctantly Eleanor followed. He flung open a door in the back wall and stepped through into a room lit by a window facing north, high in the far wall.

"Ye gods! Eleanor, don't come in!"

But Eleanor was already on the threshold. She saw a figure sprawled face down on the bare boards. His beige smock was drenched with crimson, and a crimson pool had spread across the floor around him.

Someone pushed past her and cried in an anguished voice, "My God, Nick, what have you done? You've stabbed him!"

So Nick is arrested, and it's up to Eleanor to find out who really killed Geoffrey Monmouth. She soon finds out there are many people who would have liked to...

UK edition

Seattle Mystery Bookshop
Mysterious Galaxy
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Colourful-Death-Cornish-Mystery/
http://www.amazon.com/Colourful-Death-Cornish-Mystery-Mysteries
Barnes&Noble
Waterstones

Tintagel--Old Post Office

Padstow--scene of the crime

A shop in Port Isaac. Eleanor and Nick live in a fictional village based on Port Isaac and Boscastle, farther up the North Coast.

The popular TV series Doc Martin is set in Port Isaac.