Malice Downstream

by Thomas, Graham

• ISBN13: 9780449007099
• ISBN10: 044900709X
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2002-11-01
• Publisher: Fawcett

Summary

FLY-FISHING TAKES A KIND OF PATIENCE THAT FEW POSSESS. SO DOES PLOTTING THE PERFECT MURDER. For Detective-Chief Superintendent Erskine Powell, the invitation to visit an old friend in the small idyllic town of Houghton Bridge is too good to pass up. With superb fishing on the River Test, the trip will give him a much-needed chance to rest. Still, Powell can't seem to unwind. He's a seasoned policeman after alland although he's on vacation, his instincts are not. Then the body of a potential member of the Mayfly Fishing Club turns up one morning, tangled in the weeds along the bank. Powell has no choice but to step into the investigation. In a town where gossip is the only thing more popular than a rod and reel, there will be a lot of deep secretsand even darker liesto wade through before he can catch a killer on his line. . . .

Author Biography

<b>Graham Thomas</b>, a biologist by training, lives in British Columbia with his wife, their two children, and a Gordon setter named Laddie. He is the author of four previous mysteries featuring Detective-Chief Superintendent Powell: <i>Malice in the Highlands</i>, <i>Malice in Cornwall</i>, <i>Malice on the Moors</i>, and <i>Malice in London</i>.

Excerpts

The village of Houghton Bridge straddled the River Test like a prim matron astride a winding serpent. At least that's the way Danica Hughes thought of it as she regarded the gray stone tower of the church, rising from the little hill above the High Street like an admonishing finger. She couldn't imagine what had possessed her to come home. Seven years was a long time, and seven years in London seemed like an eternity.

On the surface, Houghton Bridge remained the quintessential Hampshire village, or at least what passed for one nowadays. Set amidst idyllic surroundings, it boasted two traditional coaching inns, a family butcher, a bakery and teahouse, an antique shop, and even a Chinese restaurant for those adventurous souls whose tastes ran to the exotic. Houghton Bridge, like many other villages in the Test Valley, had once been the hub of a thriving agricultural community, supported by numerous family holdings employing a small army of farmworkers. But in the face of globalization--or whatever the current euphemism for greed unfettered by social responsibility was--these had all but disappeared, having been amalgamated into vast factory farms or given over to unattractive housing estates populated by townies who commuted daily to jobs in Andover and Winchester. Either way, the end result was the disappearance of a traditional way of life.

Earlier that afternoon she had walked to the end of the High Street and stood on the wide stone bridge that led to the Salisbury road. Silhouetted against a blustery gray sky, her long brown hair blowing wildly, she had gazed into the water for a long time, trying to reconcile the dingy stream flowing beneath her with the bright waters of her childhood. The Test of her memories was a lucent blue dream, more transparent than the sky itself, rushing over beds of shining chalk through lush water meadows spangled with wildflowers and butterflies. As a little girl she had imagined that the swaying waterweed was the long emerald hair of sprites and the huge trout that resided under every bridge were mischievous trolls.

She wondered how it had all gone so wrong. The river was now dark, depleted, and despoiled. The water meadows had been drained, and the flowers and butterflies had succumbed to pesticides. And not a day went by when she didn't think about Maggie and how it all might have ended differently.

When she returned to the cottage she was feeling more depressed than ever. As she sat watching the passersby from her window, she thought about Brian and how unfair it was to him. She looked at the clock and sighed. He would be home soon and she could use a drink. As she rose from her chair she noticed a movement at the corner of the window. It was a mayfly skittering along the sill. She placed her hand in its path and watched it climb onto her palm. She lifted her hand and examined it. It was a pale yellow dun about an inch long, its faintly colored wings exquisitely veined and delicate, set above a slender, arched abdomen with three long tails. Like Kate Moss with wings, she thought. Ephemera danica, the English mayfly, and her namesake. A beautiful name, she'd been told, but it seemed like a cruel joke now.

Being a riverkeeper's daughter she could see that it was a female--a virgin, in fact. It must have come from the small carrier that flowed beside the cottage. It had probably emerged from the cool depths of the stream earlier in the day and was destined to mate either that evening or the next. She thought about this lovely creature being set upon by a swarm of males and screwed senseless until it fluttered onto the water to lay its eggs. Then, with wings outstretched like a shining crucifix, she would die.

The girl gently closed her fingers around the dun. Its fluttering wings tickled her skin as it struggled to escape. She thought again about that day so long ago and the dark tunnel of the years that had led her back to Houghton Bridge.

She tightened her hand into a fist and squeezed as hard as she could, her eyes brimming with tears.

The scene appeared slightly out of focus, like a faded photograph--spidery black branches against a featureless sky and in the distance the buildings of the village huddled together beneath the stern tower of the church. She moved through the wet grass, stepping carefully over bloodred flowers. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a long white dress. The hem was soaked with dew and she noticed with a curious thrill of alarm that the damp stain had now risen above her knees. She shivered and began to hurry.

When eventually she stood beside the stream, rushing dark and deep between tangled banks, she called out in a small voice, "Maggie, Maggie!" There was no answer. There was never any answer, just a faceless figure in the distance, slowly approaching.

She stared at her dress, uncomprehending, as the dark stain crept past her waist. Her heart pounded, the metallic taste of fear in her throat. She closed her eyes. "Oh, God--Maggie," she whispered, "help me, please help me." She suddenly felt hot, feverish, her body warm and sticky now.

She opened her eyes and looked down. Her dress, drenched with blood, clung to her like a crimson shroud of self-immolation.

She knew that if she screamed she would not be able to stop.

"Dani, wake up. It's all right, I'm here." She felt the pressure of a hand on her shoulder, substantial and reassuring. Someone standing over her bed, a familiar voice.

"Maggie?" She struggled to get her bearings. Her shirt was soaked with perspiration, the duvet cast aside. The room was suffused with a gray light, a sliver of dawn between the curtains. Outside, the faint murmur of water.

"It's me, Brian," the voice persisted.

She remembered now. The Dream. The same dream she'd had every night since returning to Houghton Bridge.

"Are you all right?"

She sighed. "Yes, I'm fine."

He looked down at her, the halo of her dark hair and pale perfect skin, like Botticelli's Venus. He sat on the bed and reached for her hand. Her fingers were limp, unresponsive. "Dani, look . . . ," he said, "you can't go on like this."

"Can't I?" Her voice sounded oddly disinterested.

"You must stop blaming yourself," he persisted. "It's not your fault."

She searched his face. If only she could believe him.

"It happened a long time ago. Nothing either of us can do will bring her back--" He hesitated, groping for the right words. "I think you should talk to someone."

"Talk to someone?" Her voice sharp now. "A bloody shrink? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"And spend the rest of my days wandering about in a haze of antidepressants? No thank you." She experienced a sudden stab of guilt. "Oh, Brian, I--I'm so sorry. I didn't mean--"

He stopped her, shaking his head. "What's important right now is you."

She smiled weakly, trying to reassure him. "You've been very kind, letting me stay here until I can get settled. It's just that . . . there is nothing you or anybody else can do. I need to sort it out for myself."

He seemed strangely wounded by her words. "I understand, of course." There was an awkward silence. "Do you want me to stay?" he asked eventually.

She withdrew her hand from his. "I don't think that would be wise," she said, drawing the covers over her bare legs.

"No. No, I suppose not." He rose to his feet. "You'll let me know if you need anything?"

She attempted another smile. "I promise."

After he'd gone she stared at the ceiling for a long time, tears of recrimination burning her face.

CHAPTER 2

The old man sat on the bank of the Houghton Brook squinting into the sun. It was a glorious May morning; the meadow was alight with yellow cowslips and the pink sparks of ragged robin; warblers chattered in the reeds, and the stream was running full and clear. The first flowering tresses of Ranunculus had emerged onto the surface of the water, turning the weed beds white with delicate flowers. The man looked at his companion. "What do you think, John, was it a dabchick or a fish?"

John Miller, head riverkeeper for the Mayfly Fishing Club, studied the concentric ripples spreading over the surface of the water. "I'm certain it's a fish, Sir Robert."

Sir Robert nodded. "Right. There are a few olives coming off. Shall I stick with the Adams?"

"Should be as good as anything. Try to place your fly even with that patch of reeds, no more than a foot out from the bank, if you can. You'll have to watch you don't get caught up." Miller considered the position. It was a difficult cast for a right-handed caster, casting upstream from the left bank of the stream, but he was confident that Sir Robert could pull it off. Of all the members of the club, he most enjoyed guiding Sir Robert. The old boy was getting on now, but he was an accomplished angler who had spent fifty years perfecting his technique on the best trout stream in the world and--more important of all as far as Miller was concerned--he possessed a deep and abiding love for the sport.

The Mayfly Club, established in 1821, was arguably the most exclusive fishing club in the world. Membership was limited to nineteen, and it counted among its members peers of the realm, captains of industry, doctors, lawyers, military men, and politicians past and present--the top drawer of British society, in Miller's estimation. Only three things were needed for one to be considered for membership in the Mayfly Club: money, connections, and--since members were elected for life--someone had to die first.

The Mayfly Club owned exclusive fishing rights on twelve miles of the River Test and rented the rights on its tributary, the Houghton Brook. The club also owned a modern trout hatchery for stocking the river, and several local businesses including the Mayfly Inn in Houghton Bridge, which served as the club's headquarters during the fishing season. The club's affairs were managed by an honorary secretary, usually the longest-standing member, while the business of maintaining the fishery was overseen by the head riverkeeper, who supervised a number of assistant keepers.

As Miller watched his gentleman work out a suitable length of line with crisp false-casts, he realized just how lucky he was. He was able to make a living at a job he loved and, the son of a farmworker, he had achieved a station in life he had never dreamed possible. J. R. Miller, Riverkeeper, Testbourne House, Houghton Bridge, Hants. At first he'd had a problem with the upstairs-downstairs aspect of the job, but the social climate was changing in Britain, and class was less of an issue nowadays. Admittedly, the members tended to be fairly conservative and some of them liked to lord it over mere mortals like himself, but generally the relationship between the riverkeeper and his employers was a cordial one based on mutual respect.

To Miller, Sir Robert Alderson epitomized the classic Mayfly Club member. The eldest son of an old East Sussex family, Sir Robert was a distinguished surgeon, now retired, who had been knighted for making some breakthrough or other in the field of organ transplantation. Above all he was a true gent. Soft-spoken and equa-ble by nature, and progressive in his ideas, Sir Robert always gave the impression that whomever he was speaking to was, at that particular moment, the most important person in the world. He was presently the club's honorary secretary and, as such, worked closely with the riverkeeper on the management of the fishery. He had supported Miller's recommendation, against considerable opposition from some of the other members, to reduce the stocking of hatchery fish in order to increase the head of wild trout in the club's water. This had forged a bond between them, which had led on several occasions to Sir Robert seeking Miller's advice on internal club affairs, confidential matters that the riverkeeper would never have dreamed of discussing with anyone else, not even his wife. Another point in Sir Robert's favor was the fact that he was by far the best dry fly fisherman in the Mayfly Club, almost as good as himself, Miller reckoned, not immodestly.

"Here we go," Sir Robert said with a final forward snap of his rod.

It was a beautiful cast; the line and leader straightened in the air before dropping the tiny fly like a wisp of down on the water about a yard upstream of where the fish had last risen. Sir Robert drew in line at exactly the same pace as the fly drifted back toward him. One moment the fly was floating on the surface of the stream, wings cocked upright, and the next moment it had disappeared, leaving only a sprinkling of tiny bubbles behind.

"God Save the Queen," Sir Robert intoned in a mea-sured cadence to give the fish time to take the fly firmly. Then he raised his rod sharply to set the hook.

Stung by the barb, the trout tore downstream toward the weir at the bottom end of the beat. The rod bowed and the reel screeched as the fish stripped off line.

"You'd better turn him, Sir Robert," Miller said matter-of-factly. "Another ten yards and he'll be over."

Sir Robert nodded. "Right."

He gradually applied pressure with his forefinger to the drum of the reel to slow its revolution and then, holding his breath, he clamped down hard. The little split cane rod bent double but miraculously nothing broke. After having been so abruptly pulled up short, the fish seemed content to stay where it was and sulk. Sir Robert slowly got to his feet and made his way downstream, stooping slightly and keeping just the right amount of pressure on the fish--enough to keep it off-balance but not enough to provoke it into running again. When he was directly opposite, he coaxed it to the bank without further incident.

Miller scooped the trout up in the net and presented it to his gentleman. "A cracking fish, Sir Robert. A little over two pounds, I should think. That makes a brace for the morning." He paused, awaiting instructions.

The fisherman examined his catch appreciatively. It was indeed a splendid specimen, about sixteen inches long and deep in the body, with gold on its belly, iridescent purple flanks sprinkled with dark spots, and a broad green back. "Let's release it," he said. "One will be enough for supper."

"Right." The riverkeeper knelt beside the stream and gently returned the trout to the water. He watched it slowly swim away, none the worse for the wear and tear but perhaps a little wiser. He looked up at Sir Robert. "Shall I put the kettle on?"

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Excerpted from Malice Downstream by Graham Thomas
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.