Fake Death: A British Cozy Murder Mystery with a Female Amateur Sleuth (A Dotty Sayers Antique Mystery Book 1) Read online

  FAKE DEATH

  A DOTTY SAYERS ANTIQUE MYSTERY

  VICTORIA TAIT

  Copyright © 2022 by Victoria Tait

  A Kanga Press Publication © 2022

  Cover Design by Daniela Colleo of StunningBookCovers.com

  Editing Allie Douglas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For more information visit VictoriaTait.com

  CONTENTS

  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

  PROLOGUE

  The bearded old man shuffled towards the bronze sculpture of a ram, outside the Woolmarket shopping centre, in the elegant Cotswold town of Cirencester.

  He whistled a tune he’d heard the Scottish Regiment’s pipes and drums play as they paraded through the town centre earlier in the day, and glanced up at the clear blue sky. There was a chill in the air and although he doubted it would freeze tonight, it easily could in another week or two.

  There had been some benefits of being in the army. A warm dry place to lay his head and three square meals a day came immediately to mind. The young men and women of the Scottish battalion had marched proudly today, as they should. As he once did.

  Still, it had been a good day and he glanced down at the two bulging plastic shopping bags filled with the fruits of his scavenging.

  The folk of Cirencester were well-to-do but generous, not like the newcomers from London. He remembered when the Cotswolds was a scattering of small farming communities, but now the area had protected status, like a national park but not as strict, and people with money had moved in and built large houses.

  They drove around in imposing 4x4s without a smear of mud on them, and ignored the likes of him and those who’d spent their whole lives here.

  Wearily, he sat down beside a slumped figure on the base of the ram sculpture, placing his bags carefully by his feet.

  “Have a good day, did you?” he joked.

  The figure did not respond.

  Still, farming wasn’t what it was, and the towns and villages were thriving. Even the local schools were full, or so he’d overheard from the conversation of a group of long-haired, stick thin women.

  “Haven’t you got a home to go to, and a Mrs to cook you Sunday dinner?” He asked the silent figure. Yorkshire puddings. The thought of pancake batter rising and baking into those cup-shaped staples of a roast dinner, filled with succulent slices of beef and a dark, rich gravy, made his tummy grumble.

  The immobile figure beside him did not reply, so the bearded man turned to him. “Look mate. It’s getting dark and the temperature’s dropping. It’ll be too chilly for the likes of you out here tonight. So do me a favour, wake up and go home.”

  He placed his hand on the figure’s arm, meaning to shake him awake, and gasped.

  The man was not sleeping.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Twenty-eight-year-old Dotty Sayers hesitated before taking the next step.

  She tucked a strand of shoulder-length mousy-blonde hair behind her ear as she looked back at her green Skoda Fabia, parked in a ‘Staff Only’ parking space.

  Her hand strayed to the back of her head and she flinched as she touched the wound, still raw and sore.

  Her attention turned to the single-storey stone building in front of her, where a sign above the entrance proclaimed, ‘Akemans Auctions’.

  The front door opened and a lady with a neat bob of grey hair, immaculately dressed in a tweed skirt and cream polo neck jumper, called, “George told me to look out for you.”

  Dotty glanced at the adjacent three-storey building, which had once been a flour mill. Hidden in the rolling hills of England’s Cotswolds, beside the River Caln, it represented the history of the area, but also regeneration as it had been converted into Akemans Antiques Centre.

  To Dotty, it represented a new job. A new start. And hopefully a new life.

  “Stop dawdling, it’s cold outside,” admonished Marion Rook before returning to the auction house.

  Dotty shivered as a gust of cool November air brought with it the sweet, rich smell of burning leaves on a bonfire. She adjusted her shoulder bag and walked towards the open door.

  “There you are,” observed Marion from the back of the office, as she pushed her tortoiseshell-framed glasses up her nose.

  The front section of the auction house functioned as both office and reception area. To the left was an open-plan office with two desks, several storage cabinets, and a sink and kitchen units at the back. In front of it was a side door, leading into the adjoining antique centre, and a coat stand stood in the corner.

  On the right-hand side there was a seating area, with a grey sofa and tub chairs arranged around an oval reclaimed-elm coffee table. A door from this area led to the main auction rooms, where monthly auctions of antiques, furniture and collectables were held.

  Marion poured boiling water into a cup and the aroma of coffee, infused with cardamom, filled the room. “Tea?” she asked in her deep, throaty voice.

  “I hope it’s OK, but I’ve brought my own,” replied Dotty. “Dr Wimsey suggested I stick to herbal tea at the moment, particularly camomile or peppermint, to ease my headaches.” Dotty removed a colourful cardboard box from her bag and handed it to Marion.

  Marion’s face softened as she regarded Dotty. She removed a tea bag from the box and asked, “Are headaches your only side effects from the attack?”

  Dotty took a breath before answering. “I no longer have dizzy spells, which is a relief as it means I’m allowed to drive, but Dr Wimsey warned me I might not be able to stare at a computer for too long, and my focus might wander as I become tired.” She smiled slowly, “But I promise, I’ll work as hard as I can.”

  Marion handed Dotty a cup of camomile tea and said, in a businesslike tone, “David and I have agreed to help George with the auctions until the end of the year. Besides, it’s too cold for tennis and golf in November and December, and David has no more trips planned until the new year. You only need to do as much as you can handle, although I’m sure Gilly would also appreciate some help in the antiques centre.”

  The door from th
e main auction room opened and a tall lady with long blonde hair, and a tailored trouser suit, walked into the office carrying a painting.

  This was Georgina Carey-Boyd, known to everyone at Akemans as George. She organised the monthly auctions, while her less glamorous, but far more warm-hearted, sister, Gilly Wimsey, ran the antiques centre.

  George held the painting up, so it faced Marion and Dotty, and asked, “What do you think?”

  Dotty didn’t know what to say. She saw a picture of a group of soldiers and an evocative coloured background of blues, reds and yellows. The soldiers’ uniforms weren’t modern and reminded her of an exhibition of the Battle of Waterloo her late husband, Al, had taken her to.

  “Oh, is that a Tom Keating?” Marion’s eyes glowed as she stepped forward. “He was a legend in our part of London when I was growing up.”

  “No doubt he was,” George raised her eyebrows, “since he produced and sold many art forgeries. But his own paintings fetch a decent sum these days. This one reminds me of the Road to Spain which recently sold for nearly $3,000.”

  Marion inhaled deeply. “That’s quite a sum. If you want to know whether it’s real or a fake, I’d ask David.” She chuckled. “I think Tom would appreciate the irony, God rest his soul, of other painters forging his work.”

  “Mrs Carey-Boyd,” a male voice shouted from the direction of the auction room.

  George sighed. “Our first delivery of the day. I wish we had a porter to organise things, but as we don’t, Marion, can you and Dotty check everything has arrived and is intact? We don’t want any more missing or allegedly damaged items.”

  She tapped her tailored trouser leg. “I’m leaving shortly for a viewing, so can you also photograph everything and write brief descriptions? Add an estimated value if you can, although David or I will run through the Lots when we prepare November’s auction catalogue.”

  Marion nodded. “Of course.” She finished her coffee, returned to the back of the office and washed up her cup. “Ready?” she asked Dotty.

  Dotty bit her lip and nodded slowly.

  Dotty enjoyed her morning unwrapping items which had been to delivered to Akemans auction house, as she worked alongside the highly efficient Marion.

  “Can you find a pair of silver candlesticks on the inventory?” Marion asked.

  Dotty put down the lamp she’d partially unwrapped and consulted some stapled pages. “There are three pairs of silver candlesticks on here. Russian silver, Georgian telescopic, and plain silver.”

  She looked across at the candlesticks Marion had placed on a temporary plastic table and asked, “Which are those?”

  “Have a look and tell me what you think,” instructed Marion.

  Dotty stepped across to the table and paused, before picking up a candlestick. Her brow wrinkled, and she replied in a shaky voice, “It’s quite ornate, so I don’t think it’s the plain silver.”

  “Correct,” confirmed Marion. “But you won’t know if the decoration is Georgian or Russian, so the key is the description ‘telescopic’. See how the middle section has two different-sized rings, like the tubes of a telescope?”

  Dotty peered at the candlestick. “Yes”, she replied uncertainly.

  “That means it’s the Georgian telescopic pair. Take some photographs and I’ll write a brief description.”

  George Carey-Boyd strode across the large room to join them, and asked, “How are you getting on?”

  Dotty steadied the auction house’s camera and took photos from different angles, as Marion had previously shown her.

  “Slowly, but surely,” replied Marion. “There are some nice pieces.”

  Dotty put the camera down and finished unwrapping the table lamp.

  Marion turned to George and asked, “What about you? How was your viewing?”

  George tapped her foot. “A complete waste of time. The owner only wanted to sell his book collection, which he mistakenly thought was full of rare volumes. I tried to explain that first editions don’t always command high prices, particularly if there was a print run in the tens of thousands, but he refused to accept my advice. He said he’d find a specialist dealer, which will just mean wasting someone else’s time.” She clicked her tongue.

  A short lady with an abundance of bright orange curls bustled towards them and grabbed Dotty’s arm, saying enthusiastically, “It’s great to have you back.”

  She turned to George and said, “I’ve just had Aunt Beanie on the phone and she sounds in a real flap.”

  “I thought she was one of your saner relatives?” remarked Marion dryly. “Despite her appearance. And especially compared with her husband. Do you know he tried to attack me with a pitchfork and accused me of stealing when I collected a picture to be valued last week?” She crossed her arms.

  Gilly Wimsey brushed her hair out of her face. “Oh, you mustn’t blame Uncle Cliff. Aunt Beanie tries to hide it, but his dementia is getting worse, and I’ve no idea how she’s coping with him, the farm and everything else.”

  “I’ve told her numerous times to sell the farm,” declared George, “But she’s so stubborn, and refuses to.”

  “A family trait,” mumbled Marion.

  Gilly smiled sadly at her sister. “You know Uncle Cliff was born there, and he has lived and worked on the farm his entire life. Aunt Beanie thinks it’s only fitting he should die there, rather than in some modern house or, worse still, a residential home.”

  George tapped the ends of her fingers together. “But she can’t tie herself to him for the rest of her life. It’s such a shame she lost her consultancy job when Gloucestershire’s Art and Antiques unit was disbanded. I don’t know what she sees in farming. It must be so dull after establishing and running Akemans with father for so long.”

  Gilly shook her head. “I take my glasses off to her. I know how hard the last two years have been since Fred, their old farmhand retired, and with Uncle Cliff’s condition.”

  She turned to Dotty and grinned. “But you should see their house, crammed with a lifetime’s baggage. Every cupboard is packed full and any spare corner has a collection of baskets, a pile of boxes or displays of sporting items.”

  “Typical baby boomer,” remarked Marion. “Can’t bear to throw anything away. It was the rationing after the war that caused that mindset.”

  A door opened in the side of the building and a stocky man stepped inside. “Room for another delivery?”

  Ignoring him, George asked, “So what does Aunt Beanie want?”

  “She muttered something about a priest, donations and a swindling crook. I’ve no idea what she was talking about, but I think we should pop over.”

  “I can’t,” declared George, glancing towards the door as a chair appeared, carried by the stocky man.

  “Marion?” enquired Gilly.

  “Not likely. I’m keeping well away from your uncle. But why not take Dotty. She’s worked hard all morning and I think she should have a break. I don’t want to be in trouble with your husband, Gilly, if she develops a headache, or worse still, collapses.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dotty sat in the passenger seat of Gilly’s little white Toyota Aygo as they drove along narrow Cotswold lanes. It was a bright, but chilly, November day and she thought the orange leaves of a roadside oak tree resembled Gilly’s bright hair.

  The red and yellow beech hedges gave way to woody-stemmed hawthorn ones and, in the gaps between the hedges, Dotty viewed stubble fields, empty after the summer harvest of wheat, barley and oats.

  “It’s so beautiful,” confessed Dotty as she watched the passing scenery.

  “I think the Cotswolds are at their best in spring and autumn,” agreed Gilly, as she slowed down and entered a village whose sandy-coloured stone houses were illuminated by the soft autumn light.

  “I hope you’re not too uncomfortable.” Gilly glanced across at Dotty, who’d drawn her knees up towards her stomach in the confines of the car.

  “Peter doesn’t believe in extravag
ance, but I’m trying to persuade him we need a family-sized car. The kids are growing and they have so much school kit. Besides, I need space to transport items for the antiques centre, and preferably a vehicle which can cope with the pot-holed lanes I increasingly find myself on when collecting items to sell.”

  “What about a Land Rover Freelander?” suggested Dotty. “Al’s is still standing in the drive and I should really sell it before winter.”

  Gilly slowed and swerved as they passed two horse riders wearing high-visibility waistcoats. She replied, “But won’t you need it?”

  Dotty slowly shook her head. “No, I’m happy with my little Fabia. I don’t think I could cope with the extra gears and all the complicated functions of the Freelander. If I do trade my car in, I’ll keep to something compact and simple.”

  Black letters on a white metal sign told them they were entering Fairford.

  “Aunt Beanie and Uncle Cliff’s farm is on the edge of the town, and the farmhouse is coming up on the right,” Gilly explained.

  They drove through an open gateway, and Dotty noted an old wooden gate slumped against the stone wall of an outbuilding. There were cracks in the concrete yard and a gust of wind picked up a pile of straw and twigs and spun them around in a circle. Dotty shivered.

  Gilly laid a hand on her leg. “It’ll be warm inside. Come on, it’s time to meet my aunt and uncle.”