Hello, Book Lovers!

In case you’ve missed it, I’ve been sharing the opening chapters of the first murder mystery in my Rookie Reporter Amateur Sleuth Mystery series, The Reporter at the Gate, on my Notes from the Cave blog.

Up next after the prologue and chapter one is chapter two, where James arrives for what he believes will be a boring interview with the soon-to-be sworn-in resident Judge, Albert Harrington. But he quickly discovers that he has bitten off more than he can chew. And just like in every good murder mystery, his ordinary world is about to be disrupted in a big way.

Without further ado, here’s a bit about the story.

Two

Tuesday: 8:55 a.m.

A thick layer of mist covered the sleepy Millway Lane. James glanced at his polished brown boots and adjusted his grey suit jacket as he stepped out of his car. After locking his vehicle, he trekked along the path. The cobblestones introduced James to a new level of foot pain as he strolled down the narrow lane from the only sensible place he’d found to park his red Peugeot. Upon arrival, he took one look at the English stone mansion—or as his inner French peasant would describe it, a château—and parked his cart and horse out of sight.

As he reached the black iron pedestrian gate, James grabbed the rail, then pushed. He shook the gate, then groaned—it was locked. The beige limestone façade loomed behind the gate, its rectangular windows stared back like a pair of tired, judgmental eyes. Its brown slate roof bore the weathered scars of English rain, while the chimneys stood like watchmen posted at a castle’s fortified tower on the lookout for approaching enemies.

Surveying the English-style front lawn, James spotted the pristine-white front door ajar. Resisting the temptation to climb the stone fortress walls, James wandered along the path and entered the property via the driveway. As he strolled past the open gates, James noticed a massive dent and scraping of silver paint on the iron fence. That was going to be an expensive repair.

As James slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, his stomach churned, and a wave of panic swept through him as he inched closer to the house. He was going to screw up the interview and spend the rest of his life as a gofer.

James adjusted his suit jacket and tie. This was the outfit his grandmother Valerie Lalonde had suggested as the most appropriate thing to wear when interviewing a resident judge on the eve of his appointment. He was way out of his depth.

James took a deep breath, then resumed his pilgrimage towards the Honourable Albert Harrington’s front door. As James admired the Georgian-era architecture, he staggered over a loose stone tile in the driveway.

After he regained his composure, James’s eyes looked over a series of blood spots splattered along the path. Following the trail, James stared at a bloodied handprint on the door. Merde.

With a racing heart and against his better judgement, James pushed the door open. A rock formed in the pit of his stomach as he surveyed the large, off-white foyer tiles scattered with crimson droplets. An overwhelming copper aroma mixed with a faint hint of polish and lavender sachets smacked him in the face, causing him to wheeze. Old ladies seemed to love those things. On second thought, the lavender might’ve been an attempt to add warmth to a home that felt more like a museum.

A white, carpeted staircase curved up to the first floor without a single droplet of crimson. So whoever was bleeding didn’t exit from the upper level. A lone bloodied handprint was on the wall at the corner near a hallway that branched off to the left.

On his toes, James darted through the lobby, then froze as he glanced down the hall to his left. Oh, la vache.

A dark-crimson smear lined the hall on one side. It appeared that Albert might’ve struggled to remain upright and needed support. Out of curiosity, James crept along the corridor towards the first open door. Though frightened of what he might find inside, James stepped into the study.

An array of blood droplets was scattered among the sea of mahogany furniture and floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books. In front of the desk, where a visitor might sit, was a pool of blood. Next to that lay a lone mediaeval-style arrow. It was something from a bygone era of fantastical tales featuring knights and aristocrats turned thieves. Nestled in front of the corner bookshelf was a polished suit of armour. The suit of armour gleamed in the morning light that was peeking through the curtains. Dust clung to the plumes of its helmet, suggesting it had stood guard over the room for years, waiting for its moment in the spotlight. A familiar mediaeval battle poster flashed into the forefront of James’s mind. Albert Harrington must be a part of the Mediaeval Society.

All the telltale signs of an accident or potential murder were present. Only one thing was missing—the body. It might not necessarily be murder. He could’ve injured himself, which would explain why the gate and front door were left open.

James tiptoed out of the study and glanced down the hall towards the narrow stairs that led to the sitting room. The blood either ended or began here. And the house seemed quiet, almost eerie. Maybe they left for Accident and Emergency in a hurry and forgot to let him know.

James sighed.

Then he headed back into the study and around the scattered droplets of blood. He paused. His blue-green eyes followed the droplets scattered across the tabletop and onto the antique globe in the corner, near the fireplace. Before him lay the arrow.

His heart rate sped up. This was no accident.

The thick, plush carpet near the window was curled back, and the door of the floor safe was open. A robbery gone wrong? Careful not to disturb any evidence, James flicked through the papers on the black desk tray. He shouldn’t be doing this. It felt like a gross invasion of Albert’s privacy, but all he needed was enough information to start his investigations.

A silver laptop lay closed on the centre of the desk. Not a single scratch was on the lid. Five more minutes, then he had to call the police. James released his hand from the tray, as a file under the laptop caught his eye. As he lifted the computer, the Northamptonshire police logo came into view. James froze.

After minutes of deliberation, James slipped the file out from under the laptop and flipped through it. No matter what, he needed to return to the office with a story, or it would be his blood on the floor. He slipped out his smartphone. The words “no signal” glared back at him from the top left-hand corner of the screen. Typical.

James took a few notes, then slid the folder under the laptop.

In the silence of the room, James tucked his phone back inside his suit jacket. He glanced out the window at the row of hedges that lined the path leading to the pedestrian gate. Technically, he should phone in the story. Rhys Kelly’s words filled his mind. It was up to James to prove that he was up to the task. So phoning it in wasn’t an option. All he had to do was chase the story in front of him.

With that quick pep talk behind him, James reached down and pulled the handle on the desk drawer. It was unlocked. Inside lay a leather-bound daily planner. He flipped through the pages and turned to the current date. On the entry for the day before, someone had written “Rachel Spencer-7:07 a.m.” Farther down the page, in the nine-thirty a.m. time slot, a file number was scribbled. That name sounded familiar.

After pulling out his smartphone again, James tapped the screen, opened the notes app, and stared at the name on the screen: Yvette Spencer. The timing was curious. Albert was about to be sworn in as a resident judge at the Northampton Crown Court, and he was revisiting old murder cases.

James bit his lip as he studied the phone. A few seconds later, he added more notes to the app then looked at the next page of the planner. Other than a notation regarding his own interview, there was only one name on the page along with a phone number and the words “battle rehearsal.”

After typing more notes, James pocketed his device. Peering down, he spotted the bloodied handle of the walking cane next to his boot. He ought to search the rest of the house, just in case.

Unfortunately, I’m no longer providing advanced reader copies at this time. But you can buy The Reporter at the Gate direct from me at the launch price of 99 pence (for a limited time only) by clicking the button below. 

 Happy reading, everybody!

Amelia xx