Death Comes to Durham Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Jeanne M. Dams From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Also by Jeanne M. Dams from Severn House

  The Dorothy Martin mysteries

  A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

  THE EVIL THAT MEN DO

  THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES’S

  MURDER AT THE CASTLE

  SHADOWS OF DEATH

  DAY OF VENGEANCE

  THE GENTLE ART OF MURDER

  BLOOD WILL TELL

  SMILE AND BE A VILLAIN

  THE MISSING MASTERPIECE

  CRISIS AT THE CATHEDRAL

  A DAGGER BEFORE ME

  DEATH IN THE GARDEN CITY

  DEATH COMES TO DURHAM

  Jeanne M. Dams

  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.

  This first world edition published 2020

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by Jeanne M. Dams.

  The right of Jeanne M. Dams 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: 978-0-7278-8925-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-713-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0434-9 (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.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Nancy Reagan called it The Long Goodbye: the terrible and heartbreaking condition of dementia. It may not be, for the victim, the cruellest disease. We don’t know what goes on in the minds and hearts of the afflicted. But for those who love them, it is surely devastating.

  I have a dear friend named Sylvia, once brilliant, funny, and compassionate. She’s gone now. Her body lives on, but her personality, her very self, has been taken over by the disease. My favourite cousin Dorothy (for whom my protagonist was named) never knew about the book I’d written in her honour, though she didn’t die for some years after its publication. Sylvia and Dorothy were the inspiration for this story, and to Sylvia and her husband Ed (whom she no longer recognizes), this book is dedicated.

  The city of Durham is much as I have described it, though I’ve exercised the authorial privilege of changing many details to suit my purposes, and inventing others. I hope I haven’t named any of my unpleasant people or places after real people and places; if I have, it was totally unintended. In particular, those familiar with Durham University may recognize that the physical setting of the college I have named St Jude’s is very similar to that of the real St John’s. The reader is assured that St Jude’s does not in any other way resemble St John’s.

  Finally, I owe to Susan Lowe a debt I can never repay. A resident of Durham and connected with Durham University, she not only arranged accommodation for me at the castle, but acted as my guide throughout my time there, took me to fascinating places I would never otherwise have known about, answered endless questions about tiny details, and even agreed to read the very raw manuscript and point out my mistakes. (Those that remain are, of course, due to my carelessness.) Thank you, Susan!

  ONE

  ‘Alan, I’m tired, and my feet hurt. And I need to find a loo.’

  My husband, who had forged ahead, looked back and quirked an eyebrow. ‘Ah. Tea, or a pint?’

  I pulled off my hat and wiped my brow. ‘Can you ask?’

  It shouldn’t have been hot. Durham is in the far north of England, nearly to the Scottish border. In late April the weather should have been cool and rainy. I’d packed with that in mind. Instead, the sun shone brightly and the temperature soared to the high sixties, which, in England, almost qualifies as a heatwave. (They use Celsius instead of Fahrenheit, but my American mind converts to what I still think of as the ‘real’ setting.)

  We were wandering the streets of the ancient city (cobbled – see sore feet, above), because an old crony of Alan’s had invited us for a visit. They’d known each other years ago when they both served in the police force in Cornwall. Alan had moved on, rising to the rank of chief constable in the county of Belleshire, which is where I met him one Christmas Eve. I was newly widowed and feeling very sorry for myself, a stranger in a strange land, wondering why on earth I’d moved from my lifelong home in Indiana to England. Alan, a widower, healed my mood rapidly, and we were married about a year later.

  David Tregarth had remained in the village of Newlyn for a while, but had also risen in rank and moved to Exeter, where he’d retired after a distinguished career. When he’d lost his wife, family connections had sent him far away to Durham, an ancient cathedral city with a renowned university. When he’d written to Alan, he sounded a bit forlorn. ‘Lonely,’ Alan mused as we walked. ‘Missing his home. The north is a long way from Cornwall, and not just geographically. Different terrain, different accent, different mindset. And he doesn’t have enough to do. That granddaughter of his takes good care of him, maybe too good. He never has to lift a finger. That’s not good for an active man his age.’

  ‘Could he afford to live somewhere else?’

  ‘I’d think so, even though housing here isn’t cheap. He was always a thrifty, saving sort of chap. Here’s a pub that looks pleasant.’

  ‘
I’ve never had David’s sort of problems,’ he continued after he’d brought me my pint. ‘You’ve kept me from loneliness, and kept me busy.’

  ‘We’ve both kept busy. Cheers.’ I sipped, glad to sit and rest, and thought about our life together the past few years. A surprising amount of crime had come our way, as people in Sherebury and elsewhere had begun to trust us to solve some knotty problems. My penchant for detective fiction, and my natural nosiness, matched well with Alan’s trained policing skills. Yes, we’d had plenty to occupy our time. And of course two autocratic cats and a large dog had also made their demands. ‘I wonder how the animals are?’

  ‘I thought you’d be thinking about them. Three days is about your limit before you start to worry, and we’re over that. You know they’re being thoroughly spoilt. Jane treats them like her own children.’

  ‘Jane is a jewel. I don’t know how she keeps up with her own dogs and our menagerie, at her age.’ Our next-door neighbour Jane was certainly well into her eighties, though no one was ever so impertinent as to ask. We could guess, though, because she’d taught generations of Sherebury kids before finally retiring, and they still came to see her, with their children and grandchildren.

  ‘If she ever slows down it’ll be the death of her. She’ll end up like David, twiddling her thumbs and fading away.’

  ‘Well, he’s shown no signs of fading away these past few days. Goodness, he’s kept us on the run. I’ve seen more castles and churches than I knew existed. I’m actually glad to have a day to ourselves. If only there were fewer cobblestones and hills!’

  Durham is a city built on hills. The heart of the city, the cathedral and the castle, is atop a hill, with a sharp curve of the River Wear on three sides. The castle in such a location was easily defensible against raids from the Scots, and is, in fact, the only Norman castle never to have been breached. This I had learned from reading tourist brochures, and given the number of ruined castles we had seen lately, I found the fact impressive.

  The cathedral is also impressive, in a different way. I love cathedrals, and I think ours in Sherebury is the most beautiful in the world. It’s late Gothic, my preferred style. But Durham, almost pure Norman, is remarkable. It, along with the castle, was completed in the early twelfth century, and has suffered little destruction over the ages. There is a purity and cohesiveness about it that many other ancient churches lack. ‘I feel at home there,’ I remarked, and Alan, for once, had not followed my train of thought. He raised his eyebrows. ‘In the cathedral. It feels friendly. Maybe we could go to evensong later?’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea to me. Meanwhile I’m getting peckish. Pub lunch?’

  After lunch we repaired back to the castle for a nap. If that sounds odd, I should explain that after centuries serving as the residence of Durham’s prince-bishops, the castle was purchased in the 1800s by the newly formed University of Durham to house its first college. Various parts of the extensive complex of buildings were modernized and adapted for use as student housing, and, when the students are on holiday, their housing becomes a B&B for visitors. So there we were, staying in a somewhat inconvenient room up a great many stairs, with ancient battlements directly outside our window, and eating our breakfasts in a breathtaking Great Hall with a three-story-high stained glass window. The Hilton was never like this.

  By the time we woke, the weather, in tried-and-true English fashion, had changed dramatically. Clouds had rolled in, along with a gusty wind, and rain threatened at any moment. It was far too early for the five-fifteen evensong, but if we delayed we ran the risk of getting drenched.

  ‘We could tour the cathedral,’ I suggested half-heartedly.

  ‘The last tour of the day just left. And we’ve already explored it rather thoroughly.’

  ‘Drat. I wish we had our car and could go somewhere.’ We had chosen to take the train to Durham, as parking was limited in the city, and driving on the peninsula, where castle and cathedral are situated, incurred a congestion fee which could mount up. So far David had driven us everywhere, but David was today paying a duty visit to a very old great-aunt at a nursing home outside the city. She didn’t always know him, but he was scrupulous about seeing her regularly. He planned to take us to dinner when he got back, dinner at a lovely hotel.

  I yawned. ‘Maybe tea at the cathedral café?’

  ‘I’m not very hungry. And in any case, they stopped serving at four.’

  I looked at the bedside clock, sighed and got up to make us a pot of tea.

  Alan’s phone warbled as I was rinsing our cups out at the bathroom sink, and I could hear very little of his end of the conversation over the sound of running water.

  I came out to find him sitting on the bed, frowning and running a hand down the back of his head, his habit when thinking hard. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We won’t be having that fine dinner tonight. That was David on the phone. Something unfortunate has happened at the nursing home.’

  ‘Oh, dear. One of the residents gone missing?’

  ‘Far worse than that. One of the residents found dead. David couldn’t say very much on the phone, but from what he carefully didn’t say, I gather it looks like murder, and everyone’s in a flat spin.’

  I raised my eyes to heaven. ‘Full cover-up mode? “We can’t let this get out, we have a good reputation, it’s probably just an accident, we can’t call in the police, can’t you deal with it, Mr Tregarth?” Right?’

  ‘More or less. Somewhat more subtly expressed, I gather, but that’s the gist. David isn’t a bit happy about it, and I doubt he’ll go along with their wishes, but he can hardly just leave them to their fate. Which means we’re on our own for an evening meal. David did mention a Lebanese place about halfway down the street to the market square. He says it’s quite good.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for Lebanese. What are the other options?’

  ‘He didn’t list any. I’m sure there are any number of small restaurants in the area, probably good and reasonably priced. The students would keep them going even if there were no other clientele. The trouble is we don’t know where they are.’

  ‘And I don’t feel like wandering around in the rain looking for them. Look, it’s getting on toward five. Why don’t we meander over to evensong? Maybe we can ask someone there about a good place to eat.’

  We very much enjoyed the service. An English cathedral choir, singing in the magnificent acoustic of ancient stone walls, is the nearest to heaven I expect to come for some years yet, and the words of the service are calming and soothing. But most of the attendees were tourists like us, and no one had any ideas about restaurants.

  We stood and looked at each other as the church emptied. A verger was standing at the door, ready to lock up for the night. We had to make up our minds and go somewhere.

  The rain had stopped, or had paused, at least. A little watery sunshine was making the wet paving stones glisten. I was glad to hold Alan’s arm as we made our way back to the castle next door.

  Alan grinned at me. ‘Are you starving?’

  ‘Not really, no. That was a very filling lunch we had.’

  ‘Then why don’t we just walk down to Tesco’s and pick up some sandwiches or salads or something? If we had a microwave we could get a couple of ready meals, but we don’t. I’m sure we can find sustenance in one form or another.’

  The evening having turned pleasant, we enjoyed the walk, though the steep hills were challenging, with wet, slippery pavements and cobbles. We found quite enough portable food and brought it back to the courtyard of the castle, where we wiped the rain off a table and benches and sat down to enjoy our impromptu picnic.

  We were polishing off a second glass of some cheap wine we’d found when Alan’s phone rang again. David, he mouthed at me, and put the call on speaker.

  David was full of apologies for his failure as host, and hoped we’d found a decent meal somewhere.

  ‘Not your fault, and we managed splendidly,’ Alan assured him.
/>   ‘I do feel terribly negligent, but I’ll make it up to you. The thing is … this is all turning madly complicated. I’d like to talk it all over with both of you, and I’d just as soon my family didn’t hear. I could be there in about twenty minutes, if that would suit you?’

  ‘Of course,’ we both replied. ‘We’ll meet you at the entrance to our tower to let you in; there’s a coded lock. You sound really worried, David,’ I added. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes and no. I’m considerably distressed. You see …’ He paused for a moment. ‘The … er … matter we discussed did turn out to be the crime we mentioned. And the principal suspect, at least for now, is Great-aunt Amanda.’

  TWO

  Our room wasn’t really big enough for three, but we made do, Alan sitting on the bed and David and I on the chairs at the minute table. David had brought a bottle of Alan’s favourite whisky, Glenfiddich, and I had the remains of the bottle of wine; we rinsed out our tooth glasses and one coffee cup and passed around the small packet of crisps we had left over from our supper. Raising his glass in a silent toast, David began.

  ‘I’ll try to make this coherent, but there are so many strands to the story, I hardly know where to begin.’

  ‘Try the news format,’ I suggested. ‘Who, what, when, where, why.’

  ‘The who part is easy. The victim is Blake Armstrong, a man in his mid-sixties. I didn’t ask his exact age; that’s not important just now. He was a semi-retired doctor in private practice in Durham, specializing in geriatrics. He had admitted himself to the nursing home a week or so ago, claiming exhaustion and the need for a complete rest.’