Its May in the County of Hoven and private detective Jane Hetherington, receives a batch of new cases, some from the most unexpected quarters.


    What exactly is Tony Poole is hiding? Jane needs to be quick in finding out. She's not the only one interested and the others aren't as nice going about things as she is.
    In his time inside, Danny Grady made it clear he considered prison, its staff and other inmates absurd and contemptible. Why go to so much trouble then to sent straight back inside the same jail?
    Closer to home, a regular character has screwed up big-time. It's time to fess up and face the music.
    An investigation into suspected marital unwittingly drags Jane into a sordid and tangled web. Passions run higher and higher, leading Jane into one of the darkest and most dangerous adventures yet.

​

Its May in the County of Hoven and private detective Jane Hetherington, receives a batch of new cases, some from the most unexpected quarters.


    What exactly is Tony Poole is hiding? Jane needs to be quick in finding out. She's not the only one interested and the others aren't as nice going about things as she is.
    In his time inside, Danny Grady made it clear he considered prison, its staff and other inmates absurd and contemptible. Why go to so much trouble then to sent straight back inside the same jail?
    Closer to home, a regular character has screwed up big-time. It's time to fess up and face the music.
    An investigation into suspected marital unwittingly drags Jane into a sordid and tangled web. Passions run higher and higher, leading Jane into one of the darkest and most dangerous adventures yet.

​

The Night of Harrison Monk's Death & Pandora's Box (Jane Hetherington's Adventures in Detection: 1&2)  now available as a 2 for 1 omnibus.

$2.99/£1.99 Kindle – including free paperback on Kindle Matchbook.

Following the death of a husband,, sets herself up in the private detective business. The Night of Harrison Monk’s Death follows her first month.
    Jon and Carolyn King want Jane to discover who broke into their home wall safe, not to steal the substantial sum in it but to deposit money.
    A young Chinese woman, who hasn't seen her fiancé since he argued with her family. Where is he and who is he?
    A tramp comes to the library each morning to watch the street below with a pair of binoculars. The librarian doesn't like to pry, but would like to know why? Is he suspicious of his wife? A compiler of number plates? Jane thinks not. She thinks it’s all really very simple. 
    Felicity ‘borrowed’ her future mother-in-law’s jewellery (without asking or telling anyone) and hid it in a locked room in a house full of people. Somehow it’s been stolen. Can Jane retrieve it before its owner returns from holiday? 
    Sam who wants to know what, or possibly who, so preoccupies her wealthy boyfriend.
    Dawn Gray asks Jane to prove her son is being bullied. It's a decision they'll both regret.
    Did a near neighbour really stage his own disappearance?
    What really happened on the night of Harrison Monk’s death?
Pandora's box follows our sleuthing housewife's second month in business.
    Jane gets drawn into a local dispute. Can she stop things getting ugly, or is there more to it than meets the eye?
     Roz's long buried secret has somehow been discovered. Can Jane track down the poison pen-pal threatening to disclose it?
    Graham Burslem desperately needs to sell a highly valuable asset, there's no time to lose, but no one must know it's a fire sale. Jane helps, but no good deed ever go unpunished.
    Jane’s patience is tested by Orla Wilson, a woman born out of her time, whose world turns out to be very, very wrong indeed.
    All in all, it's another eventful month which sees Jane throw open a veritable Pandora's box of dark secrets, betrayals, duplicity, villains and lies.
​

There’s a new private detective on the fictional block – sixty-three year old Jane Hetherington. She may not be the most conventional of private detectives, but she’s a damned good one. Unlike many fictional detectives, Jane isn’t an alcoholic, an insomniac, a manic depressive, or a borderline sociopath. Other than grieving for her late husband, she doesn’t have issues with men – quite the opposite – and Jane’s more likely to be fighting an infestation of mice than a serious drug problem or gambling habit. Like the rest of us she likes a good puzzle – a good whodunnit. A why – a where – a how on earth dunnit? In fact, she likes whodunnits so much; she sets up her own detective agency. She has a website and a smart phone, but for the most part, she’s a detective who solves her cases (and she has plenty of these) without the help of modern technology. She’s an ‘honest’ private detective who believes tracking devices and hacking into private communiqués not only unethical, but uninteresting. Where is the fun in that? asks the detective who’s set herself the task of solving her (sometimes convoluted) cases through brainpower alone. 

She spends each month from then on investigating interwoven & seemingly unconnected crimes & mysteries. In classic whodunnit style, the emphasis is on the puzzle and the solution. She thinks hacking and the like, unethical and uninteresting. ‘Where’s the challenge in that?’ asks the detective who’s set herself the task of solving each case through brainpower alone. 

In some of the cases, the reader can do no more than sit back and enjoy the ride. In others the reader has the same opportunity as Jane to discover the truth, with clues and red herrings sprinkled throughout.

The series also introduces the reader to a host of regular characters in the form of Jane's family, friends and neighbours, each of whom have their own adventures. Through flashback, we get to meet her at various stages throughout her life.

However much the plots twist and serve to misdirect, however much effort our detective has to put into arriving at the answer, I promise there will always be a solution - which may arrive with a bit of a sting in its tail.


She’s sensible, honest, discreet, dogged, always fashionable and has lashes of common sense. She has exemplary powers of deduction, can be feisty when she has to be, and has the ability to peer through the extraneous and misleading in the search for the truth. But most of all she sees the good in people (except when there isn’t any), wants to help and mostly succeeds!


available from all Amazon sites (e-book & paperback).

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http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007N33HUC

I guess I say my target audience are people who:

-like whodunnits and puzzles 

-like crime & mystery esp cozy;

-like to be entertained;

-like to pick their wits against the author;

-like a beginning, a middle and an end;

-like characters they can get to know and care about;

-like dialogue, pace and plot.

They're probably people who don't take themselves too seriously and don't like authors who do.

They’re people with a sense of justice, a sense of fun and who don't mind a bit of uncertainty in life. Basically they’re people who enjoy eating a bowl of sweet peppers knowing the bowl may contain the old Scotch Bonnet.

The series is available from all Amazon sites (e-book & paperback).

To read inside or link through:

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http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007N33HUC

Chapter One

Paul Morder

I

In his late father’s study, Paul Morder began packing up his dad’s belongings. He was being helped in this by his cousin, Julian Carruthers. Julian had volunteered his services for the day, partly because clearing out the effects of the recently departed was such a sorry business, and partly because he had something of importance to discuss with cousin Paul. Something so confidential that he’d surreptitiously locked the front door behind them and pushed the study door closed, even though they were the only two in the house. Julian Carruthers didn’t wish to be overheard.

“I’ll miss your old dad, Paul,” Julian said, studying a picture he’d just taken down from the wall.

“I’m not sure I will,” Paul replied as he took the picture to bubble wrap.

“No – you weren’t ever that close, were you?”

“No, not really.”

From the study window, Julian looked out onto the garden where he’d spend many a happy day, both as man and boy. The spring sunlight glimmered off silvery trunks of the apple and pear trees, and a bird darted by the window, some twigs in its beak. That the garden had been left uncared for these last few months was evident. Spring blossom covered the fruit trees’ branches, but instead of the neatly mown lawn of yesteryear, a mass of tall cow parsley and dandelions now carpeted their feet. Julian noticed a dead bumblebee on the outside windowsill. The cycle of life and death continues remorselessly, he thought. Julian drew the curtains, causing his cousin to look up from his bubble wrapping to ask him what he was doing.

“Do you remember Frances Gilbey?” Julian said. “I went out with her for a few months at Oxford.”

Paul did remember Frances. He remembered her leaving Julian for Guy Longhurst, the future Duke of Hornshire, and the tears and the bottles of whiskey which followed the breakup. She too had recently passed away. He’d seen her death announced in the obituary pages. Was this why his cousin suddenly wanted to talk about something which happened over thirty years earlier? “The girl who left you for Guy Longhurst?” he asked.

“I bore her no hard feelings. Debs and I met at her wedding, if you remember,” Julian remarked, leaving Paul wondering when his cousin was going to get to the point.

“Another untimely death,” Paul said. “It was a car crash which killed him, wasn’t it?”

“Only five years into their marriage, leaving Frances, Britain’s youngest Dowager Duchess and the mother of two young children.”

“Hasn’t she just passed away?”

“Her funeral is on Thursday,” Julian said sharply.

“Did you want me to attend?” Paul asked.

“I want you to shut up and listen,” Julian said. “When I heard Guy had been killed, I immediately rang Frances. What else could I do?” Julian hesitated. “One thing led to another and we began an affair. Debs and I were going through a rocky stage. Frances broke it off after about a year. I agreed with the decision, but somehow the relationship reignited again.”

“How long did the affair last, Julian?” Paul asked.

“Until the end of Frances’s life.”

“The end of her life?” Paul repeated in astonishment. He’d had no idea. “But she’s only just…”

“I love Debs but I loved Frances…”

Paul put his hands on his cousin’s shoulders. “Julian if you need to unburden yourself, I’m here for you, but you don’t have anything to explain.”

“But I do. There’s more. Frances knew there wasn’t any possibility of my leaving Debs, nor would she have wanted me to, but there was this bond between us. More than sex.” Julian stopped speaking abruptly. “It will be easier, if I just show you.” For reasons Paul Morder couldn’t quite fathom, his cousin Julian began fiddling around with the old desk in the study corner. Eventually a concealed panel swung open. “Did your dad ever show you this?” Julian asked.

Paul moved closer. Behind the panel was some kind of secret drawer. Something else he knew nothing about. He knelt down in front of it to examine it in more detail. “Good Lord!” was all he could think to say.

“When your dad made this desk, he gave it a secret drawer,” Julian said.

“How do you know about it?” Paul said.

Julian appeared uncomfortable. “Because your dad told me.”

“But not me!” Paul said, more hurt than angry. “I hadn’t realised what a poor relationship I had with him.”

“I think the idea was…” Julian began.

“To keep things from mum,” Paul interrupted sharply.

“Was to tell you at some stage.”

“Shame he never found the right moment in forty years,” Paul said tersely.

“I don’t know why he didn’t tell you, but I am. I have something else I need to show you,” Julian said, unlocking and opening the drawer. Paul peered inside. Now he got it. In the drawer, lay a pile of letters. For how many years had his cousin hidden them there, Paul speculated.

“We sustained our relationship through correspondence,” Julian said. “These letters are her letters to me.” He teared up at these words.

“Dad knew?” Paul said.

“I had no choice but to confide in him. He suggested I kept them here,” Julian patted the drawer. “That’s when he told me about the drawer.”

How similar you and my father are, Paul thought to himself. Not a bit of wonder you were so close. “Mum knew nothing about this?” he asked.

Julian vigourously shook his head. “I don’t think she’d have approved, do you?”

Paul wasn’t certain he approved. He couldn’t imagine his cousin’s wife, Debs, cheating on Julian, but kept his counsel. “Did you write to her?” he asked. He wanted the answer to be no, but of course it wasn’t.

“Many times,” his cousin replied. “Frances’s sister has them. She took possession of them when Frances became ill. She didn’t want the children to find out. Still doesn’t. I’m due to collect them from her this coming Thursday. The day of your drinks party as a matter of fact,” Julian said. “I take it, you’re keeping the desk?”

“It’s virtually the only thing of dads I actually like. Although I’m rapidly going off it.”

Julian put the letters back in the drawer, closed and locked it, returning the key to its hiding place. “I’d like to keep our letters together,” he said. “Can I bring my letters to Frances with me on Thursday and put them here?” He tapped the drawer. “They’ll be safe there. I’m not ready to destroy them. Not yet. But I can’t risk…”

“I understand Julian.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I can hardly say no, can I?

“When is the desk being collected?” Julian asked.

“Tomorrow,” Paul said. “But we’re rehearsing for the show Thursday afternoon, remember. The house will be crawling with people, including Debs.”

“I’ll arrive after rehearsals but before the party gets into full swing,” Julian said, adding, “Please promise me you won’t tell a living soul about this? Not even Sarah.”

“I promise Julian.”

“Not about Frances, nor the letters, nor the drawer?”

“Definitely not the drawer. That may well come in useful one day,” Paul joked.

“Good man,” Julian said, patting his cousin on the back. “Now let’s start packing this place up before your sister arrives and asks us what the hell we’ve been doing all morning!”

Extract from April by Nina Jon

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CHAPTER ONE
Sisters! Sisters!

I

In kitchen of her sister’s house, eighteen-year-old Lucy Erpingham poured two glasses of white wine and carried them over to the table where her sister, Jodie Narbade, peeled cellophane away from a selection of dips.

“Jodie, would you say you’re very much the older sister?” Lucy asked, slumping down in the chair next to Jodie.

“What makes you ask?” Jodie replied.

“Some new guy has started at work and I got talking to him and said you were six years older than me. He said with an age gap like that, he bet you’d always been very much the older sister – that’s what he said – and I said, what you mean bossy?”

Jodie helped herself to a breadstick. She knew what her sister really wanted to talk about. “Do you like him – this new guy?”

“A bit.”

“A bit, eh? How old is he?”

“Bit older than me.”

“Has he got a girlfriend?”

Instead of replying, Lucy opened a bag of crisps, dunked one of them in some of the dip and popped it in her mouth.

“What’s his name?” Jodie asked.

With a mouthful of food, Lucy mumbled something incomprehensible, to which Jodie raised her wineglass and said, “Here’s to Lucy and Mmunamable!”

“Me and Mmunamable! I wish we could do this more often, Jodie. Get together like this.”

“I’m always here for you Lucy, you know that, but I’m a married woman now, I’m not at your beck and call anymore, love.”

“Yeah, but I need someone to confide in.”

“Why? What have you done?” Jodie teased. “Is that the door?” she asked just as the front doorbell rang for the second time. “Who on earth can that be at this time?”

She answered the door to find her neighbour looking quite flustered.

“I’m so glad you’re in Jodie,” he said. “My battery’s flat and I’m already late. I need somebody to jump it. Is your husband about?”

“No, he’s at a stag night, but don’t worry I’ve got leads in the back of my car. I’ll just get my keys.”

She picked up her keys from the hall table, and called out to her sister, “Lucy I’m just helping my neighbour jump-start his car. I won’t be long.”

“Okay,” Lucy called back.

IILess than fifteen minutes later, Jodie walked back into the kitchen with the words, “Got him started.” Lucy wasn’t there. “Lucy? Where are you?” she called out.

Nobody replied, and so she knocked on the door of the downstairs’ cloakroom, but the door swung open, revealing an empty room. Lucy wasn’t in the living room either. Jodie yelled upstairs: “Lucy? Are you up there?”

When she didn’t hear anything, she ran up the stairs but her sister wasn’t anywhere that she could see. She returned to the kitchen. It was a bit like the Marie Celeste – the wine bottle was where she’d left it, as were their snacks and wineglasses, both still two thirds full. Where on earth was she? She was about to say, “I think you’re a bit old for hide and seek love,” when she realised Lucy’s handbag and coat were gone.

She called Lucy’s mobile phone, but got the answer phone. “You gone home Lucy? Aren’t you feeling very well?” she said. “At least call me and let me know you’re okay.” She sent the same message by text and received a reply by return.

‘Had to go! Sorry. Things to do. C U!’

Jodie stared at the message. She’d never known her sister to do such a thing. It was completely out of character.

‘What’s happened? I’m here for you whatever you’ve done. But I can’t help you if you won’t tell me!’ she immediately texted back.

She didn’t get a reply and her calls went unanswered.

Extract from A Game Of Cat And Mouse by Nina Jon


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CHAPTER ONE

February

With the arrival of a new and intriguing enquiry in her inbox, it looked as though the second month of Jane Hetherington’s new life as a private detective was going to be as busy and as interesting as the month before.

‘I don’t want to say too much in writing, but I need help,’ the e-mail began. ‘Someone is sending me anonymous letters, threatening to reveal something I did many years ago. If it gets out, my life’s over (I haven’t killed anyone – promise!) I need someone who can find out who’s sending the letters and put a stop to it. I don’t want the police involved and my husband mustn’t find out. Do you think you can help?’

In her study, Jane leant back in her chair. Had anyone asked her a couple of months earlier what she thought private detective work entailed, she’d have replied – Oh, nothing more exciting than tracking down missing poodles, most likely. How wrong she’d been. A more eventful month than the previous, would be hard to imagine – or a more tragic one.

As a widow in her sixties, Jane guessed she wasn’t a textbook private eye, and her decision to become one eccentric, some might say barmy. Her daughter, Adele, had been horrified at the idea.

“What if something happens to you, mum?” she’d screamed.

“I’m a shrewd enough operator not to put myself in any danger, Adele,” she’d replied calmly. “It comes down to this. Your father is dead. You have your own family, your own life. I’m sixty-three years of age. I might live for another twenty years. Even another forty. What am I to do with my time? I’m unlikely to find work at my age, even if I’m inclined to take on a job; and besides I’ve been born with a trait which allows me to solve the most impenetrable of mysteries. Let’s face it; I’ve been doing it all my life. Why not make use of it and keep myself gainfully self-employed and my little grey cells exercised, that’s what I say.”

“Do you actually know how to wiretap, Jane?” “her son-in-law Lee, had teased.

“No, Lee I don’t. Nor do I have any idea how to plant a tracking device under a car; hack into private e-mails; or lay a bug. Nor do I have any intention of finding out,” she’d said. “For one it’s illegal, for two, it gets people into all sorts of trouble, and for three, where’s the challenge?”

“Your stance might put off those who prefer their private detectives on the morally ambiguous side,” Lee’d joked.

“That it might Lee, but underhand practices and modern technology can’t solve every case. Sometimes only brains and old-fashioned detective work will do it. My website will say the same thing.”

In her study, she smiled when she thought back to this conversation. Lee might well be right, but so far her stance hadn’t seen her out of work, as her new enquiry proved.

She stared out of her study window. She only hoped she could help the e-mail’s sender. There was something plaintiff about the words, yet at the same time, the writer was not obviously touting for sympathy. Jane couldn’t help wondering what on earth the poor woman had done all those years ago which anyone would care about now. The possibilities were endless. There was nothing for it. She’d take the case, if only to find out.

She replied: ‘I do not consider myself to be a judgmental person, and I hope you will not find me to be one. I will listen to whatever it is you choose to tell me, with, I promise, a completely open mind and will do my best to help you. Before I can do that I must meet you. Please let me know when and where would be convenient for us to meet.

Jane Hetherington.’

A short exchange of e-mails followed, at the end of which both the time and venue of their first meeting was agreed.

Only the first of February and a new client already, Jane thought whilst reaching over to answer her ringing telephone.

“Jane, thank heavens you’re in,” the caller said.

Jane recognised the voice immediately.

“Mirabella! How lovely to hear from you!”

“Mirabella Dawson-Jones, the rector of Failsham, was a larger-than-life character, both physically and through the loquacious nature of her personality. Although hers had been a controversial appointment, her parishioners, of whom Jane was one, adored her and hearing her voice on the end of the phone always picked Jane’s spirits up enormously.

“Jane, my dear, I’m sorry but this is going to have to be a short telephone conversation,” Mirabella said, barely pausing for breath. “I have a wedding to perform. I can’t be fashionably late, can I? I mean, I’m not the bride, am I? I’m officiating! Anyway, I’ve just come off the phone to the Bailey sisters.”

Jane knew the three Bailey sisters well. As a long-term resident of Failsham, it would be impossible not to, for the Bailey sisters were not only three of Failsham’s most elderly residents, but three of its most eccentric.

“I’ll admit to being somewhat harried when they called,” Mirabella continued. “I only answered the phone because I thought it was the verger asking where on earth I was. You’ll never guess what’s happened?”

“What?” Jane said only to listen on in astonishment while Mirabella talked. “No!” was all she could say at the end of it.

“That’s what I said. They really called to speak to Felix because he’s on the local council,” Mirabella said of her husband, “but he’s in the Lake District, and I know nothing about it. I said you may be able to help them, now you’re a private investigator.”

“I will visit them immediately,” Jane said.

“Would you, Jane? Would you? Oh my goodness, is that the time? I really must go, or I’ll be defrocked!”

Call over, Jane left for the market square immediately, with but one thought on her mind – Spinsters in Peril!

Excerpt From: Pandora's Box by Nina Jon.


available from all Amazon sites (e-book & paperback).

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CHAPTER ONE

JANE HETHERINGTON’S FIRST CASE

I

In the church hall Carolyn King stood up. She knew many in the hall disapproved of her marrying a man a lot older than her, who she’d met waitressing at his daughter’s wedding, but she couldn’t spend the rest of her life worrying about what others thought of her. She was here to support her husband at his charity event and no more. She clapped her hands to quieten everyone down and said, “The winner is…wait for it… Milly Fletcher!” Penny Orlick, already on her feet, looked rather taken aback at this statement and abruptly sat back down at the card table where she had spent the afternoon playing bridge, whilst twenty-year-old Milly Fletcher leapt up yelling, “I’ve won! I’ve won!” as though she’d won the lottery rather than a print valued at a few hundred pounds at most. Young Milly ran up to collect her prize. It should have been presented by Carolyn’s husband, Jon, but he made no attempt to hand Milly the prize. Instead he just stared at the pile of money on the table in front of him (which he’d just counted out from the sweet-jar still on the table), muttering, “Too much money. Too much.”

With her husband apparently unable to move, Carolyn King handed the prize to the young woman, to applause from the audience. While Milly Fletcher held up her print for the others to admire, Carolyn leant towards her husband and said, “What on earth is wrong?”

“There’s too much money. That’s what,” he said. “There was two thousand and forty-one pounds in the jar this morning and now there’s three thousand and twenty-two pounds. Where’s the rest come from, for pity’s sake?”

“You must have miscounted, Jon,” she said.

Her husband looked at her in disbelief. She realised her comments were foolish. Sixty-one-year-old Flight Lieutenant Jonathan King was always sure of his facts.

“I’ve a good mind to get a private detective on to it,” he said to Carolyn on the way home.

“You?” she asked him – her husband wasn’t one to spend money, even when absolutely necessary.

“No choice. The plodders aren’t going to be interested, are they?”

“They all advertise online nowadays,” his wife replied.

II

At home, Jon King made his choice of detective, and then set about e-mailing her.

‘Let me begin by saying that I am always quite sure of my facts. I am quite certain that whilst my wife and I were out, someone let themselves into our house and broke into our safe which contained a sweet-jar full of money. Now this is where the story gets odd – the culprit, or culprits, didn’t steal the money – no! They deposited more money, as though my safe was a bank and my sweet-jar their account, locked the safe and departed, leaving our house and our belongings otherwise untouched.’

III

“Is this one of the more unusual cases of safe-breaking you’ve been asked to investigate, Mrs Hetherington?” Jon King asked, showing Jane Hetherington into his front room, where Carolyn was waiting for them.

“It certainly seems an unusual set of circumstances,” Jane replied, making no mention of the fact that this was her first case.

Jane would have put Jon and Carolyn’s age gap at twenty years. She didn’t want to speculate how the two met – it was none of her business, and they seemed happy enough. Carolyn invited her to sit down.

“Are you quite sure nothing is missing?” Jane Hetherington asked.

“Quite sure,” Jon said.

“Nothing at all?” Jane said.

“Not even a single peppercorn. I counted,” Jon replied.

“My husband is always quite sure of his facts, Mrs Hetherington,” Carolyn said.

Jane wasn’t sure when the sofa on which she sat had been purchased, but judging by the spring she could feel pressing into the small of her back, it wasn’t within the last thirty years. That didn’t surprise her. When she’d arrived at the address, she’d found a gate hanging off its hinges, a potholed driveway, a garden of clover, molehills and nettles and a house which even an estate agent would be forced to describe as being in need of some attention. My goodness, she’d said to herself, as she parked outside the dilapidated house. Paint peeled off the windowsills, sticky tape repaired cracked windowpanes, roof tiles were missing, a drainpipe had almost come away from the wall entirely, and on her way through the hallway, she’d nearly tripped over a bucket placed beneath a water-stained ceiling.

She looked around the living room. Its carpet and curtains were almost as threadbare as the clothes worn by the Flight Lieutenant himself. It was only January and the lack of central heating was getting more and more noticeable by the minute. She wasn’t sure if this stemmed from poverty or parsimony. But whichever it was, Jane was shivering with cold. Maybe this was the reason behind the anonymous act of benevolence – well wishers had had a collection for them?

“You can understand my reluctance to go to the police in such circumstances,” Jon King said.

“I can,” Jane said.

“Can’t have them wasting man-hours chasing after someone who goes around putting money in other fellows’ safes, hey?”

“We certainly can’t,” she said.

“And you can also understand why I require your services? Got to get to the bottom of it.”

“Indeed you must, and we will, Mr King I promise you that. Would you be so kind as to give me those figures once again to allow me to make a note of them?” Jane asked, flicking open her notepad and using a pencil to take notes.

“There was two thousand and forty-one pounds in the sweet-jar when I put it in the safe. I didn’t open it again until the count, when the pot had mysteriously increased to three thousand and twenty-two pounds. Of that, I am absolutely certain.”

“My husband is always absolutely certain of his facts, Mrs Hetherington,” Carolyn King said.

“Quite extraordinary. May I see the safe?” Jane asked, just as the lights went out.

“Oh that fuse box,” said Carolyn, standing up. “Excuse me a moment.” She made her way to the door with the words, “One day I’ll electrocute myself changing the fuse.”

The safe in question turned out to be in Jon King’s study. Jane followed him there; passing Carolyn King balanced precariously on a chair in front of an old-fashioned fuse box, high up on her kitchen wall.

The safe was concealed behind a drinks cabinet. To get to it, Jon King had to squat on his haunches and remove bottles of brandy, port and Grand Marnier from the cabinet, before pulling the cabinet out, and sliding it to one side. This revealed a small wall safe, slightly smaller than the cabinet and which, until the drinks cabinet had been removed, had been completely concealed behind it.

“If you don’t mind turning your back,” Jon King instructed, waiting to open the safe. “Even Carolyn doesn’t know the combination.”

Jon waited until Jane obediently turned her back, before he opened the safe. When she was allowed to turn around, she found the door to the safe wide open and the safe itself empty except for a few hard-backed exercise books, lying on its floor.

“I do the household accounts in them,” he said of the exercise books. “Old-fashioned, double-entry book-keeping. The jar containing the money sat on top of those books. The screw lid was still in place. Someone must have taken the jar out of the safe, opened it, put the extra money into it, screwed the lid securely back on, put it back in the safe and locked-up the safe again. But who would want to do a thing like that?”

“It’s an unusual thing for anyone to do, I’ll warrant,” Jane said. “The safe was still concealed behind the drinks cabinet when you next opened it, I presume?”

“Not only that, each bottle in the cabinet was exactly where it should have been.”

“I see,” Jane mused. “I presume you didn’t leave the sweet-jar unattended at any time, other than when it was in the safe?”

“You presume correctly.”

She glanced around the room for a few minutes but she didn’t notice anything untoward. She didn’t want to stay there for any longer than was necessary. The study wasn’t heated and she was freezing cold. The living room at least had a fire burning, although not very brightly.

“Do you mind if we return to the living room?” she asked.

Once they were back in the living room, Jane asked Jon to talk her through the days which led up to the safe break-in. While he talked, Jane moved to stand in front of the fire, holding her hands over the faltering flames in an attempt to keep warm.

Jon explained that the money in the safe had been raised from the sale of raffle tickets at the bridge club, of which he was president (and had been for the past ten years). The bridge club met weekly and throughout the year there were various charity events, including raffles. The particular raffle, for which the money had been raised, was enjoyed greatly by everyone who took part in it. It took place annually, and tickets for it were on sale throughout the year. The idea behind it had been Jon’s own. Worried that people might be becoming bored by conventional raffles, he hit upon a novel idea, namely that each time a raffle ticket was purchased, the person buying it would estimate the total sum they thought the raffle would raise by the end of the year. This figure they wrote on the back of the ticket. The person whose guestimate was closest to the sum actually raised won. They didn’t win the pot of money raised by the raffle - that went to charity - instead they won a separate prize. This year’s prize had been a print by a well-known local landscape artist, signed by the artist himself.

“As I always say when requesting donations, a decent prize ensures we keep the prize money up,” Jon said.

Jane was having difficulty concentrating, because she was so cold. She was wondering if it would be impolite to stoke the fire, or even put some more coal on it. In the end she wrapped her jacket tightly around herself and put her hands in her pockets. Jon didn’t appear to notice. Jane wondered how many times he didn’t notice a guest freezing to death. Maybe they didn’t get many visitors she thought, at least none who ever came back.

“I keep the money collected in an old sweet-jar for convenience. You know the big plastic ones they have in old-fashioned sweet shops full of lemon drops and the like. I close the raffle five days before the result is announced. This gives me time to count out the takings and work out who the winner is. I must have counted the money out two dozen times or more,” he explained. “I knew to the penny how much money was in that jar. Vincent Orlick was the winner. He was remarkably close – two thousand and forty-seven pounds – to the actual two thousand and forty-one pounds we’d raised. He isn’t very well, and so I let his wife Penny know he’d won, to make sure she came along to collect his prize.

“The count always takes place on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a ritual. Carolyn and the other ladies put on a good spread, and while everyone helps themselves to the refreshments, I tip the money from the jar out on to the table. I count out the money on stage, pound by pound, in full view of everyone. I put a microphone on the table, that way people can keep score. It’s all very good natured. As always, I began the count at the stroke of six p.m. By five after six, I was beginning to panic – something was wrong. I counted out two thousand pounds, and there was still masses of money still uncounted. When I got past two thousand and thirty-five pounds, I lost count – something I’ve never done before. There was far too much money left on the table. There were piles of notes, where there should have been a few coins left at most. Carolyn was worried I was having a heart attack. I thought I was. She asked me if I was all right. I was literally staring at two piles of money, unable to continue. I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. I struggled on, but had to stop. Someone in the audience shouted that I’d reached two thousand and forty-eight pounds. Carolyn agreed. She was acting as invigilator. I carried on. The final figure was three thousand and twenty-two pounds – three thousand and twenty-two pounds! Where on earth had the extra money come from, I wanted to know? Young Milly Fletcher was jumping up and down in the air, squealing, ‘I’ve won! I’ve won!’

“I remember her running up on stage and shouting something about giving the print to her mother as a birthday present. Poor Penny Orlick looked as confused as I felt. She was very good about it, saying it didn’t matter, it was for charity after all, and we all make mistakes – but I don’t, Mrs Hetherington. Not about such things. I last counted the money a couple of days before the raffle, and when I put that sweet-jar into my safe, there was only two thousand and forty-one pounds in it. The jar stayed there until the morning of the raffle. I only wish I’d noticed the denominations of the notes before I began the count.”

“Denominations?” Jane asked.

“People buy their tickets with pound coins, sometimes a fiver at most. I take the coins to the bank every so often and convert them into notes; otherwise I’d be weighed down by coins. I ask the bank for five and ten pound notes only to make the count last longer. But when I began the count, I found there were fifty pound notes in the pot, Mrs Hetherington.”

“How extraordinary,” Jane said. “Tell me Mr King, do you keep the raffle money in the safe here during the year?”

“He would if I’d let him,” Carolyn King answered, walking into the room with a tea tray in her hands. She set the tray down and proceeded to fill three cups with tea.

“Milk and sugar?” she asked Jane.

“Just milk, please,” Jane replied.

“Carolyn makes me keep the money at the bank,” he admitted. “I only take it out the weekend of the raffle. That gives me time to work out who the winner is. Often the result is quite close. One year we had a draw. We had to toss a coin to decide who would win the prize.”

“Jon dear, I don’t think Mrs Hetherington needs to hear about that,” Carolyn said, handing him a cup of tea then sitting down next to him.

“You’re quite right,” he said. “I took the money out of the bank on Friday, and put it in the safe, although I told everyone it was still in the bank and Securicor would be delivering the money to the club on Sunday morning. I’m not a complete fool,” he added. “It was only in the safe for those few days.”

“In truth, Mrs Hetherington, Jon and I are the only people who knew the money was here in the safe, and Jon’s the only one who knows the combination,” Carolyn King said.

“I honestly believed it was a joke Carolyn was playing on me – but she swears not.”

“I know nothing about it. If I did, I would have come clean by now. Besides, where would I get one thousand pounds from?”

“Is it only the two of you who live here?” Jane asked.

They both nodded.

“My first wife Judith, passed away three years ago from cancer. I have three adult children. One is studying abroad, one lives in Manchester and the other in London. Carolyn and I don’t yet have any children of our own,” he said, giving Carolyn’s hand a little squeeze.

“Does anyone else have access to the house?” Jane asked.

“Well, let’s see now. The cleaner, the lady who tries to polish the silver and the ironing lady. We had a gardener until he died last year. He was eighty-two.”

“Are any of them ever alone in the house?”

Jon shook his head. “No. We will always make sure one or other of us is here.”

“They’ve all been with Jon for years. When Judith fell ill, she needed help in the house, didn’t she Jon?” Carolyn said.

Jon nodded.

“When we got married Jon suggested we let them go, but I wouldn’t hear of it, no help – no marriage.”

“I’m not sure any of them are likely suspects. The lady who sort of polishes the silver is, well…” Jon said.

“Hopeless,” Carolyn said. “We’d get rid of her, but she lives next door and it would be awkward and unkind. I have to re-polish it myself after she leaves. She’s quite elderly, and has difficulty with her hands and knees. I think we can rule her out as a safe-cracker.”

“We can rule out no one,” Jane said. “Is there a possibility that any of them knew the combination of the safe?”

“I didn’t even tell my late wife the combination. No one knows it but me, and besides, I very much doubt any of them could afford to be so generous. Remember we’re talking about the best part of a thousand pounds, Mrs Hetherington – that’s more than I pay any of them a year. No, whoever has done this, is a very wealthy and eccentric practical joker.”

“Which rules me out,” Carolyn said.

“If Judith’s brother hadn’t e-mailed me a photo of himself taken on the Pyrenees on the day in question, I’d accuse him.”

“Mrs Hetherington will get to the bottom of things,” Carolyn announced. “I’m quite certain of it.”


Excerpt From: The Night of Harrison Monk's Death.

available from all Amazon sites (e-book & paperback).

To read inside or link through:

https://www.amazon.com/author/ninajonbooks


http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007N33HUC

Farmer, Old MacDonald, was a great fan of the An Unsuitable Job for a Ruminant series, by international bestselling author, Aries the sheep. When he learnt of the author’s guest appearance in the social networking game Sheep Pennsville, he broke into piggybank and bought a ticket for the event.

Old MacDonald arrived in good time, joining many others by the stage where Aries was due to read from his memoirs – Sheepish. The stage was empty other than for a podium, on which rested a copy of Sheepish, and a trellis table piled high with the author’s other books.

To Old MacDonald’s surprise, a young man suddenly ran past him, his trousers ablaze.

"Who on earth was that?" Old MacDonald asked a passing post man.

"Oh, that's just Liar Liar," the post man replied, hurrying over to a barn door to ring the bell twice.

Aries was grimacing when he scampered on stage on all fours. He raised himself up on his back legs and leaned against the podium. Although the crowd gave him a standing ovation, Old MacDonald was shocked by the animal’s appearance. Not only was his fleece matted and far too long (Mutton dressed as lamb, thought the old farmer. Needs a good sheer!) but the sheep was out of breath and heavily perspiring.

"I'm a dreadful sight, and don't I know it," Aries said. "I was chased by a couple of sheepdogs. Would have caught me too. Couldn't get any further. Two closed doors blocked my way, guarded by a pair of foxes. That's all me needs, I thought. Pair of foxes! I stopped by one. Which door to escape? I asked. The fox pointed at the door furthest from me. I looked at the other fellow and said, Which door to escape? That fox pointed at the door nearest to me. It was the old – one always lies, one always tells the truth, trick. I opened the door nearest to me and jumped through it. The hounds followed. I jumped out again, slammed the behind me, and took the other door. Predators – they're all the same!" he said, rolling his eyes. He picked up Sheepish and waved it at the audience.

"Hysterically entertaining! Breathtaking! Exotic! Astonishing recall – sensational! A wonderful, observational, literary feast. Shakespearean! Heroic. Epic! Amazing. Delightful!

That's just a sample of the honest reviews for Sheepish. All damned lies. I'm a simple soul who writes for other simple souls. I grew up in Ourl Ayr in Scotland. We were poor. We only had the grass under our feet, in the sky over our heads. My father expired at the age of ten and a half, leaving me and my brothers and sisters to be raised by mum and her twenty-four sisters.

It was a happy and secure lamb-hood, until the day my mum left me. I last saw her climbing up a ramp into a lorry. The farmer was also there. I asked where she was going. My aunts told me mum was running away to join a herd of mountain goats, something she'd always wanted to do, they said. She was living the dream!

Ma’s decision inspired me. I wanted to run away like mum had. After months of hesitation – Can I do it? – I did. I ran away. I spent some much needed time alone, eventually writing The Sheep Dog's Bollocks, based on my experiences. The rest is literary history.

Let me tell you a bit more. I like to explore pastures new. I walked here all the way from my tax haven in Baahrain, with just the wool on my back. I’m a Reiki Master, skilled in extraordinary healing. This said, someone managed to pull the wool over my eyes the other day. I saw a stall selling lucky dip tickets. 'Everyone’s a winner!' it proclaimed. I bought a couple of tickets from the stallholder. "You've lost," she said bluntly. "But your sign says Everyone’s a winner!" "Everyone’s a winner," she replied. "But your tickets are numbered two and three, so you've lost." "You lie so!" I bleated. He gave a rueful head shake. "Well, on her conscience be it! I deviate." He removed his jacket to reveal a T-shirt with the words – History's Cleverest and Bravest Line-Up.

"I can announce that – History's Cleverest and Bravest Line-Up, is the title of my forthcoming book."

The audience clapped. "To launch it, my publishers and I are throwing a party starring characters from my book. It starts in a few minutes, and you're all invited." He pulled open a curtain beside him. This revealed a door under a neon sign – Entrance: Heroes/Fiesta.

Aries threw open the door. "This way please, ladies and gentlemen," he said.

"Stop!" Old Macdonald shouted. "Don't go through that door. He's not Aries the author. He's not even a sheep. He’s a wolf in sheep's clothing!"

"Nonsense – he’s as gentle as the lamb," were the last words spoken by a little piggy, as Aries threw off his woolly disguise and became the big bad Wolf.

Epilogue

Our story cuts to the drawing room of a large mansion in the countryside, where a butler serves sherry from a silver tray to people dressed in outfits from the 1930s. Old MacDonald is also there. As farmers have dressed the same since time immemorial, he doesn't stand out.

"How did you see through his disguise, Old Macdonald?" asked a gentlewoman, looking up from the bridge table.

"I'm not really old MacDonald. Nor have I ever had a farm. I’m really Jane Hetherington, a real fictional private detective," Jane Hetherington said, throwing off her old MacDonald Avatar. "At the end of a long day sleuthing, I enjoy nothing better than a bit of virtual reality."

"But how did you see through his disguise, woman?" a moustached man by the billiard table, asked.

Jane took out her notebook. "There were many clues. The grimace he wore when he ran on stage, was an involuntary lip curl at the sight of a postman.

His home, Ourl Ayr, doesn't appear on Google maps. What he really said was – ' I grew up in our lair in Scotland.' These narcissistic personality types love playing mind games.

Look again at his book reviews. The first letters spell: He Bears A Wolf’s Head.

He said his father expired aged ten and a half. But did you spot the word Rex in that sentence?

He described coming upon two locked doors, guarded by foxes, and thinking – ‘That's all me needs. Pair of foxes!’ Did he mean for his lunch?

He shared with us his indecision at leaving his flock. Can I do it? – a sentence which contains the term Canid. He told us of spending time alone, as though a proverbial lone wolf.

He mentioned walking here. Wolves enjoy walking, covering large distances, sheep don't. He made a big deal of being a Reiki Master, skilled in extraordinary healing. A master of reconnaissance, skilled in territory stealing, more like.  The couple of sheepdogs who chased him? Rival wolves chasing him out of their territory.

The lucky dip tale gives us a chilling insight into the fate of those who cross him. Did he really say – "You lie so!" – or "You die – foe!" Study carefully the words at the end of that tale – "Well on her conscience be it! I deviate."  I ate well on her, is hidden away in there.

A boastful creature, he couldn't help but tell us how he sees himself when he announced the title of his next novel – History's Cleverest and Bravest Line-Up. The last word also spells lupine. Our friend considers himself, History's Cleverest and Bravest Lupine.

The penny finally dropped when I saw the words over the door were an anagram of: Enter Here So I Can Feast. He was the wolf at the door.

"Bravo," the others cried.

"Sherry ma'am?" the butler said, offering Jane a drink.

"Thank you," she replied, helping herself to a small glass.

Note from author.

Apologies to all wolves out there for the sweeping anti-wolf generalisations contained in this blog. I know wolves aren't really the bloodthirsty creatures of folklore, but are highly intelligent, rather shy, pack orientated animals, who, at weekends, play English professional football for the city of Wolverhampton.


Nina Jon is the author of the newly released Magpie Murders, a series of short murder mysteries with a Cluedo-esque element, and the Jane Hetherington's Adventures in Detection crime and mystery series, about private detective Jane Hetherington available from all Amazon sites (e-book & paperback).

To read inside or link through:

https://www.amazon.com/author/ninajonbooks


http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007N33HUC