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).
To read inside or link through:
https://www.amazon.com/author/ninajonbooks
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007N33HUC
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).
To read inside or link through:
https://www.amazon.com/author/ninajonbooks
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B007N33HUC