Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2019
Copyright © Fern Britton 2019
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photographs © D.G.Farquhar / Alamy Stock Photo (front cover) Shutterstock.com (all other images)
Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008225216
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008225223
Version: 2019-06-24
In memory of my mum Ruth
1924–2018
Her stories were the best
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
The evening before Mamie Buchanan’s corpse was found had been an enjoyable one. Her niece, the Revd Angela Whitehorn, had thrown a gossipy dinner party for her new parish friends, where it was agreed that her aunt was the most entertaining newcomer Pendruggan had ever had.
This may have been due to her rackety stories and her genuine interest in the lives of others, or, more likely, it could have been her inability to pour anything less than very large measures of alcohol.
‘Your aunt is an admirable woman,’ said a squiffy Geoffrey Tipton, the last guest to say his goodbyes on the chilly, moonlit doorstep of Pendruggan vicarage. ‘My God, they don’t make women like that any more.’
Angela nodded in agreement. ‘They certainly don’t.’
‘GEOFFREY!’ The voice of Mrs Tipton came from beyond the gate, making both Angela and Geoffrey jump. He turned giddily. ‘Yes, my love. Just coming.’ He steadied himself with a gnarled hand on the doorframe. ‘Was thanking the vicar for a splendid party.’
‘You can do that in a letter. COME,’ commanded Audrey. She may as well have asked him to heel.
Geoffrey pushed himself from the doorframe and gave Angela a wobbly wave before staggering towards his wife.
Angela gratefully closed the door and walked to the kitchen where Mamie, the belle of the ball, was gaily polishing off a bottle of champagne.
‘Good God,’ she said theatrically, ‘I thought they’d never leave. Last glass before bed?’ She pointed the bottle towards Angela.
Angela shook her head and started to load the dishwasher. ‘I’ve already had too much.’ Over her shoulder she said, ‘You know Mike Bates is in love with you, don’t you?’
Mamie sank her glass in one. ‘Yes. He told me. And who can blame him, darling!’ Her eyes twinkled with laughter. ‘I’m very fond of him.’
Robert Whitehorn, Angela’s husband, entered with the last of the pudding plates balanced in his hands. ‘Mamie, you were outrageous. You mercilessly flirted with the dreadful Tipton man.’
Mamie became her usual heartless self again and leant out of her kitchen chair to drop her empty bottle into the recycling crate by the back door. ‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘Poor dear Geoff. A frightful old bore but such a sweetheart. That gorgon of a wife of his is hard work.’ Mamie looked to the ceiling and raised her