DEATH IN A FISHPOND
by John Douglas
Author's disclaimer : Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of "Midsomer Murders" and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. I assert copyright of such characters, scenes and situations as are not already copyrighted. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.
CHARACTERS
D.C.I. TOM BARNABY, D.S. BEN JONES, JOYCE BARNABY, DR GEORGE BULLARD, P.C. ANGEL
plus
DICKIE BRAITHWAITE, a successful stockbroker, age: 59
VIOLET BRAITHWAITE, his wife, age: 57
TRIXIE, their eldest daughter, age: 29
ELLIE PAYTON, their second daughter, age: 27
DAVID PAYTON, Ellie's husband, age: 31
FLEUR, the youngest daughter of the Braithwaites ("the afterthought"), age: 13
MARK SLOFIELD, age:30
DUNCAN SLOFIELD, his father, age: 61
LESLEY SLOFIELD, Duncan's wife, age: 60
COL. ERNEST FISH, age:70ish
REV. HENRY CHATSWORTH-BROOKE, age:55ish
BETTY BOOTLE, age:60ish
MRS BEECHAM, housekeeper to the Braithwaites, age: 40ish
...
Chapter One
"One, two, three – doe!, a deer, a female deer, ray!, a drop of golden sun!" Violet Braithwaite pounded the keys of the rickety upright piano energetically and then stopped. "Stand up straight, Fleur darling, breathe right, right in – chest out – and again!"
Even obeying the injunction of her mother, Fleur's chest was remarkably flat for a girl of thirteen. Her thin little voice projected the words of the song with more enthusiasm than accuracy, but she was determined to get the part of Maria in the following term's school production of The Sound of Music.
She had just brought us back to doe when the sound of the front door closing could be heard in the music room of the Old Hall, Midsomer Mallow. "Daddy, daddy!"cried Fleur, running excitedly into the hallway, where Sir Richard Braithwaite was divesting himself of his macintosh and bowler hat. "I can do all of doe!, a deer now!" and she flung her arms round him.
"She's doing very well," said Violet, who had followed. "I'm convinced that Fleur will become a great actress."
"Yes, of course she will," said Dickie, "but what I need now is a gin and tonic." He led the way into the low-beamed sitting-room of the 16th century mansion and headed for the drinks cabinet. Dickie was a middle-aged man with a bald head, unremarkable apart from being little over five foot six inches tall. Every part of his body was small, including his feet, which were always encased, whenever he was in public, in shiny patent leather shoes. Violet on the other hand positively glowed with vitality and had large, slightly bulging eyes that seemed to pierce whoever she happened to look at. Unlike her husband, she was the sort of person that would always stand out in a crowd.
"Was it absolutely ghastly in London today?" asked Violet. "At least you don't have too much longer to go in that wretched office."
"Five months, Vi, and I can draw my top hat pension." Dickie poured a generous measure of gin over two ice cubes. He had founded Braithwaite and Clarke with no more than one other partner, the eponymous Mr Clarke, but now it was one of the most prestigious firms of stockbrokers in the City, catering particularly to private investors with considerable means. "Oh, that's better." Dickie half-emptied the glass of gin and tonic and looked at his wife. "Do we have to have that Open Day here next week?"
"Yes, we do," said Violet, "we're in the Open Gardens scheme and Henry has advertised it in church." Henry was the Reverend Henry Chatsworth-Brooke of the church of St Simon and St Jude, which was a hundred yards up the road from the Old Hall. "Besides, it's time the sisters all got back together again."
Dickie groaned. "Oh no, not Trixie and Ellie."
"I don't remember Trixie," said Fleur, who had sat down on the floor and was hugging her knees.
"That's what I mean," said Violet. "She may have gone completely off the rails, but there's no excuse for not coming to see us for the last ten years."
"Bohemian, I suppose you would call her," said Dickie, taking a more moderate sip from his depleted glass.
"Hopeless, completely hopeless," said Violet, picking up the latest edition of the Causton Echo from the coffee-table and flicking through it. "But I don't know what you've got against Ellie."
"I haven't got anything against her, but that husband of hers is a bit of a stick."
"David is a good man, and he's rich," said Violet. "I approve of David."
"But why do they all have to come here?" Dickie sounded exasperated.
"I can't do all the catering on my own," said Violet, "and I can't expect Mrs Beecham to do everything."
"No, no, of course not," said Dickie appeasingly. He was about to get up to replenish his glass when a terrible thought struck him. "O, Lord!" he said. "She hasn't got another young man in tow, has she?"
"Well, if she has, he isn't coming," said Violet firmly. "Ellie made her promise."
"Hmm." Dickie sounded unconvinced.
"Here it is," said Violet, finding the Notices page, "Saturday 24th July, 2pm to 6pm, at the Old Hall, Midsomer Mallow. Lady Braithwaite and Sir Richard have kindly consented to open their garden to the public. Entrance £3.50. Proceeds to charity. Refreshments available." Violet stressed the last two words.
"Mmm."