Murder at Martingale Manor
An exclusive extract from this year's Christmas Day short story
Out on 25th December in eBook and Audiobook formats
Chapter One:
Let’s be very clear about this. None of it was my fault. It wasn’t my idea to take a holiday. Yes, all right, it seemed a good decision at the time, but holidays never end well for me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been persuaded to do something that is supposed to be good for me and ended up running for my life.
This particular holiday was no different. Blame Leon. I did.
‘Half an hour with the patient,’ said Nurse Hunter. ‘No longer.’ She closed the door behind her.
‘Well,’ said Leon, regarding me with his head on one side. ‘Just look at the state of you.’
This remark was not as incomprehensible as it seemed. I’d just returned from a stint in the future, working with – not for – the Time Police. It hadn’t gone well. Not for me, anyway. Hence Leon’s remark about the state of me.
I waved this aside. ‘All in the past. Well, the future, actually.’ He sat down at my bedside and began to rummage through my fruit bowl, which consisted of two apples and a banana rudely arranged by Markham and Peterson. Both of whom, you’d think, would be mature enough to be above that sort
of thing.
Leon sighed. ‘Who shot you this time?’
I rather resented the this time.
‘Some lowlife in 1483. It was all a bit of a scramble. The
next thing I knew, I was on the floor and slightly on fire.’
He sighed. ‘Well, it was only a matter of time, I suppose.’
I scowled. ‘I’m fine, thank you for asking. And leave my
fruit alone.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Like you’re ever going to tuck into two apples and a banana.’
Leon was right. I don’t know why people insist on bom-barding the sick with fruit. It’s bad enough lying on your bed of pain in Sick Bay and wondering if you’ll ever be able to play the violin again, without some well-meaning bugger lobbing satsumas at you, when all you want is a margarita and some chocolate. And a couple of sausages. That’s the sort of food that people should be feeding the sick.
‘I bring gifts,’ he said, and I perked up a little.
‘Something to read.’ He dropped my e-reader and a couple of paperbacks on to my bedside locker.
‘Thank you.’ ‘Some chocolate.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘And a nice bottle of glucose drink to aid your recovery.’ He plonked down a nice bottle of glucose drink.
‘Oh. Um . . . thank you.’ ‘How do you feel?’
About to respond with the traditional absolutely fine, thank
you, I paused. ‘A bit tired.’
Actually, I was knackered. And, even with a hefty combi-nation of drugs and medical plastic, the blaster burn on my shoulder was still killing me.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Leon said.
‘Mm.’ Changing the subject, I picked up one of the paper-backs. ‘Oh, I haven’t read this one.’
He took it off me. ‘The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.’
‘Supposed to be one of her best.’ I took it back and opened it up.
‘Well, don’t start reading it now – I want to talk to you.’ Obediently I closed the book.
He grinned. ‘I’ve had a Brilliant Idea.’ ‘You?’
‘Yes,’ he said, somewhat defensively. ‘You don’t have a monopoly, you know.’
It had been a Brilliant Idea that had got me shot in the first
place. Probably best if I didn’t mention that.
‘Go on, then – tell me about this Brilliant Idea of yours.’ ‘You’ll like this – a holiday.’
‘Lovely,’ I said faintly. ‘As soon as I’ve written my report for Dr Bairstow, of course, and had a word with David Sands about Nefertiti and sorted out the Great Zimbabwe jump, researched the Bosporus Sill and . . .’
‘As soon as you’re discharged from Sick Bay. For a whole week.’
‘A week? I’m not sure I can spare the . . .’
‘Dr Bairstow has already signed your leave form.’
‘I haven’t filled one out.’
‘You haven’t, no . . .’
‘But I’ll need to liaise with David Sands and . . .’ ‘He’s already agreed to cover for you.’
‘But what about . . . ?’
‘It’s all sorted.’
‘I can’t just leave people to . . .’
‘People are quite happy to do without you for a week or so.’
Well, that wasn’t very flattering, was it? ‘What do you mean they can do without me?’ ‘They seem to be looking forward to it.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Well, I suppose we could have a chat sometime about where to go and . . .’
‘We’re going to Devon.’ ‘Devon? What for?’
He picked up my book. ‘An Agatha Christie holiday.’
I perked up immediately. ‘We’re going to murder someone?’ ‘No,’ Leon said patiently. ‘We’re going to visit the world
of Agatha Christie. December, 1924. A quiet country hotel. Old-fashioned comfort. Good food. Roaring fires. Peace. Quiet. No one gets shot. Least of all you.’
‘But . . .’
‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Enderby – she’s putting together an appropriate wardrobe. Dr Dowson is preparing background notes so we won’t stand out too much. We’ll take my pod. It’s all sorted. You just lie here and heal and leave everything to me.’
‘Time,’ said Hunter, sticking her head around the door. ‘That was never half an hour,’ I said to Leon. ‘You primed
her to interrupt before you could be overcome by the strength and logic of my arguments.’
Leon leaned forwards and kissed my forehead. ‘I’ll be back later. Behave.’
I watched the door close behind him then sank back on my pillows and sighed. A holiday? What on earth was he thinking?
I would never forgive him for this.
I poured myself a slug of glucose drink and sipped . . . Not glucose drink – margarita.
Forgiven!
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