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Died and Gone to Devon
TP Fielden
‘One of the best in the genre’ THE SUN‘A fabulously satisfying addition to the canon of vintage crime’ DAILY EXPRESS‘A delicious adventure’ DAILY MAIL on The Riviera Express *** X marks the spot for murder… Temple Regis, 1959: Devon’s prettiest seaside resort is thrown into turmoil by the discovery of a body abandoned in the lighthouse. It’s only weeks since another body was found in the library – and for the Riviera Express’s ace reporter-turned-sleuth Judy Dimont, there’s an added complication. Her friend Geraldine Phipps is begging her to re-investigate a mysterious death from many years before. What’s more, Judy’s position as chief reporter is under threat when her editor takes on hot-shot journalist David Renishaw, whose work is just too good to be true. Life is busier than ever for Devon's most famous detective. Can Judy solve the two mysteries – and protect her position as Temple Regis’s best reporter – before the murderer strikes again?
Praise for TP Fielden (#ulink_49c81728-e23e-527e-ad07-6c42bd3df04e)
‘Peak comfort read has been achieved’
Red
‘One of the best in the genre’
The Sun
‘Unashamedly cosy, with gentle humour and a pleasingly eccentric amateur sleuth’
The Guardian
‘A fabulously satisfying addition to the canon of vintage crime’
Daily Express
‘Highly amusing’
Evening Standard
‘TP Fielden is a fabulous new voice and his dignified, clever heroine is a compelling new character’
Daily Mail
‘A golden age mystery’
Sunday Express
‘Tremendous fun’
The Independent
TP FIELDEN is a leading author, broadcaster and journalist. This is the fourth novel in the Miss Dimont Mystery series.
Died and Gone to Devon
TP Fielden
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright (#ulink_c75d0e7e-55ca-5c52-8913-5f795ceca3ef)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © TP Fielden 2019
TP Fielden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008243739
Note to Readers (#ulink_a95c3a52-2af3-508c-84fa-fd063622f331)
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008243722
For
Julia Richards Ellis
– divine ancestral voice
Contents
Cover (#u2bf4283b-4c34-57a7-90c8-c89ab558c344)
Praise (#ulink_ba9f423b-a3ef-540b-a0ad-3d57911336aa)
About the Author (#u2606025b-f117-5afe-bdd1-231fd174577e)
Title Page (#u27803c33-4056-5245-9efd-b3a4e4d0918a)
Copyright (#ulink_1b6176b8-f2f4-5809-95e6-51e16a3b72ca)
Note to Readers (#ulink_59cfde9b-3790-519c-8adb-edacb9986b7f)
Dedication (#uf9e338c5-06d4-5a8d-b159-902827c9390f)
Part One – Winter
One (#ulink_a2ccb1bb-7923-5185-ac8c-8848bd0c684d)
Two (#ulink_b4f7aeb6-f1e7-5a6f-a5a3-bddfa16e7530)
Three (#ulink_dfa47c8c-e9d9-558e-8609-9140f6add2e6)
Four (#ulink_ff9d7328-f4c9-5585-9779-81939c53ea9f)
Five (#ulink_05d8f850-0901-5d84-bdf5-2b791e851443)
Six (#ulink_5e5243cf-e241-5011-a16c-6dd013034044)
Seven (#ulink_3952ee42-94ab-531a-8dd7-7217cbcc7dc4)
Eight (#ulink_348e3661-3f4e-57b4-91b6-157e198ec63d)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two – Summer
Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Part One – Winter (#ulink_6f1f926c-d649-5a4f-89cc-6a6184894302)
One (#ulink_d241a85c-70f9-5040-bdad-67212a5b366d)
For a newspaper which went to such lengths to remind its readers of the forthcoming jollifications – ill-drawn holly wreaths garlanding the masthead on Page One, other pages adorned with large woodcut prints of Santas and sleighbells – the newsroom of the Riviera Express was decidedly lacking in Christmas cheer.
Above the sub-editors’ table some optimist had hung a dispirited-looking mistletoe twig, but since most of the desk’s occupants were too old or too ugly to kiss, as a gesture it seemed particularly hollow. Outside the editor’s office a despondent-looking fir tree was already shedding its needles, while from the darkroom came the sounds of Terry Eagleton murdering ‘Santa Bring My Baby Back To Me’. It wasn’t a nice thing to hear.
Betty Featherstone was sitting on John Ross’s desk, swinging her legs and listening to the old bore drone on about the glory days.
‘Ayyyyy…’ he said with a growl, ‘it was just aboot this time o’ year. The old King was dying, the worrld was waiting for the soond of muffled bells. Fleet Street had come to a standstill in anticipation. Ye’re too young to know the name Hannen Swaffer, but let me tell you, girrlie, he was the finest – the greatest columnist ever. Hannen Swaffer!’
‘Yes, I think I’ve heard the…’
‘So old Swaff was sent off to Buckingham Palace to find out how things were going. He came back to the office and told the editor: His Majesty must be slipping away. He didn’t even recognise me.’
‘Ha, ha,’ said Betty.
‘You say that, girrlie, but I can tell you don’t mean it.’
He was right. Betty was inspecting the run in her stocking, successfully dammed with a dollop of Cutex Rosy Pink nail varnish, and thinking about the WI Whist Drive report she had to finish before going-home time. Or rather, she wasn’t thinking about it, using Ross and his interminable meanderings as an excuse not to.
Nobody told her, when she joined the Riviera Express from school, it could be this dull – and in the fortnight before Christmas, too! All she had to look forward to for the rest of the afternoon was writing up the tide tables, sorting out the church brass-cleaning roster, and finally doing something about the Bedlington Crochet Club’s seasonal chef d’oeuvre, a knitted Madonna and child complete with manger, now lopsidedly adorning the font in St Margaret’s Church.
‘Ye jest don’ get the quality of writer down here, girrlie. Now Cassandra of the Daily Mirror – that’s quality for ye!’
As she half listened to the Glaswegian’s monody she struggled to think of an intro. How many thousand stitches, she drearily thought, would it take to make a knitted Madonna? Wait a minute – I could turn that into the New Year quiz!
‘Ye ever read his description of Liberace? So brilliant I know it by heart.’
