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Overview
Theodosia Barber had been planning to spend her summer vacation in Europe in any case, so what could be simpler than persuading her travel companions to make a minor detour to the scene of the crime?
Bewitched by Theodosia’s beautiful brown eyes and blissfully unaware of her real motives, Dominic Felse cannot refuse her plea for a change of plan. And he’s certainly not prepared for their innocent touring holiday to become a murder investigation, with Theodosia in grave danger of becoming another unlikely victim. . . .
The Piper on the Mountain is the 5th book in the Felse Investigations, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504027106 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | MysteriousPress.com/Open Road |
| Publication date: | 12/22/2015 |
| Series: | Felse Investigations Series , #5 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| Sales rank: | 816,602 |
| File size: | 7 MB |
About the Author
Ellis Peters is a pseudonym of Edith Mary Pargeter (1913–1995), a British author whose Chronicles of Brother Cadfael are credited with popularizing the historical mystery. Cadfael, a Welsh Benedictine monk living at Shrewsbury Abbey in the first half of the twelfth century, has been described as combining the curious mind of a scientist with the bravery of a knight-errant. The character has been adapted for television, and the books drew international attention to Shrewsbury and its history.
Pargeter won an Edgar Award in 1963 for Death and the Joyful Woman, and in 1993 she won the Cartier Diamond Dagger, an annual award given by the Crime Writers’ Association of Great Britain. She was appointed officer of the Order of the British Empire in 1994, and in 1999 the British Crime Writers’ Association established the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger award, later called the Ellis Peters Historical Award.
Read an Excerpt
The Piper on the Mountain
The Felse Investigations: Book 5
By Ellis Peters
MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
Copyright © 1966 Ellis PetersAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2710-6
CHAPTER 1
The Man Who Fell off a Mountain
Herbert Terrell went to spend his annual summer leave climbing on the Continent, and fell off a mountain in Slovakia. He was traversing a fairly steep rock face by a narrow path at the time, and it seemed that he must have missed his footing at a blind turn where the rock jutted abruptly. They found him fifty feet below, lying on a shelf at the foot of the slope. The shelf, being of white trias limestone, had predictably got the better of the collision. Terrell was impressively and conclusively dead.
Since there was nothing else they could well do for him, the local police did the obvious things. They took a long, cool look at the circumstances of his death, made a full report in the right quarter, popped the body in cold storage, and settled back to await instructions.
In due course, and through the appropriate channels, the news made its way back to all the interested parties in England; and between them, after their own fashion, they compiled Herbert Terrell's obituary.
Sir Broughton Phelps, Director of the Marrion Research Institute, received the news on a Sunday morning in his London flat. Immaculate from church, he sat at his desk and ploughed his way with disfavour through the surplus of work that had kept him in town over a fine week-end, when he would very much rather have been in his garden in Berkshire, sunning himself in a lawn chair. However, he was a hard-working, serious minded and efficient public servant, very well aware of the responsibilities of his office, and the sacrifice of an occasional Sunday was something he accepted as part of the price of eminence.
For one moment, as he cradled the telephone, his whole mind was concentrated upon Herbert Terrell. He saw him more clearly than he had ever seen him in the flesh: forty-five or so, middling tall, even-featured, obstinately un-memorable; a useful, reliable subordinate, thorough, valuable, arid and uninteresting. He saw again the dry, tough methodical body, the austere face, the humourless eyes. Can there be such a thing as a civil servant who has ceased to be anything separate from his office? Where the human qualities are feeble and ill-developed, perhaps the function eats them. Phelps saw his Chief Security Officer clearly as never before, but he saw him for only a moment. The features began to fade at once, until all that was left was the empty outline of a man, the vacancy that would have to be filled immediately.
The Marrion Research Institute was one of those hybrids so frequent in English public and social life. Old man Marrion had founded and endowed the place out of his oil millions, to prospect in dynamics and fuels for the future. The government had taken advantage of an optimistic director's over-spending to muscle in on this profitable field, and propped up the Institute's temporarily shaky finances in exchange for a watching brief and an option on all the results the Marrion computers, drawing-boards and laboratories produced. And this uneasy and contentious engagement had culminated in a slightly embittered marriage a year later, when the Ministry assumed the husband's role, and the Institute's scientists and mechanicians found themselves islanded and fenced in by considerations of national security, who had ingenuously considered themselves, up to then, as dedicated to human advancement. They had felt, some of them, like the children of an autocratic Victorian household, strictly confined in a world where the cheerful and ungifted ran free. And some of them, Sir Broughton remembered, had rebelled. For a little while.
Circumstances had exalted Herbert Terrell's office, as circumstances had placed him in it. Where security precautions are so tight and vital, the sudden death of one man cannot be allowed to disrupt essential services. To-day only a skeleton office staff and the maintenance men were in, tomorrow someone else must be securely installed in Terrell's place, that man-shaped outline, faint as a wraith now, solidly filled again, another hand on the curbs, another sharp eye on the most secret of secret files, the private personnel file.
He supposed he'd better contact the Minister, and ensure that his authority to appoint could not be questioned. The old man didn't care a damn, if the truth were told, but could be awkward if his perquisites were infringed or his nominal authority by-passed.
Sir Broughton Phelps picked up the telephone again, and switched on the scrambler before he asked for the number of the Minister's country house. No doubt where he'd be on a fine Sunday in July.
"Just a few minutes, darling," he said across the desk to his decorative and influential wife, who had put her head into the library to call him to lunch. "Something's come up unexpectedly. I won't be long."
She made a face at him, not entirely playfully. Not even on Sundays did his time belong to her, but she still considered that it should. "Something bad?"
"No, no," he said soothingly. "Nothing serious. Just a vacancy that's cropped up and has to be filled, that's all."
The Minister's private secretary was a dashing young man whose native flippancy was held in check by his unerring sense of occasion. He had more respect for Sir Broughton Phelps than for most people, but even that wasn't saying very much. He intended, however, to rise in his profession, and he was good at official languages. It didn't matter that Sir Broughton could disentangle his utterances at the other end of the line just as effectively as the scrambler could unscramble it. What is said, not what is meant, goes in the records.
"I'm extremely sorry, Sir Broughton, but the Minister's just gone out for some urgently needed air and exercise. He's been hard at it all morning. Is it anything urgent? Should I try to find him? Or can I convey a message, and get him to call you back later?"
Fishing, thought Sir Broughton, mentally translating. Slept all morning, and won't come in until dusk. Could be over at Patterson's with his horses, but more likely fishing.
"I'd be obliged if you could get word to him, I just heard from Prague that the Institute's Security Officer has had an accident on holiday there, climbing in the mountains. I must make some arrangements to fill his place at once. No, it won't be a temporary appointment. Terrell's dead. If you could reach the Minister, I should be glad. My own nomination would be Blagrove, but of course I defer to his judgment."
The secretary unscrambled that into: What does the old devil care, as long as the job's done properly? Go and get his OK for me, and he can doze off again.
So he went. His thoughts, as he walked down the fields towards the river, were speculative and pleasurable. He had his eye on a certain promotion job himself, but unfortunately the most hazardous thing the present incumbent ever did was to play a moderate game of golf. A pity!
The Minister was flat on his tweedy back in the lush, vivid turf by the river, his rod carefully propped beside him. He opened one speedwell-blue eye, startlingly young under its thick grey brow, and trained it forbiddingly on his favourite assistant.
"No touts, no hawkers, no circulars!" he said, in the buoyant and daunting voice he had only acquired in his old age, after a lifetime of watching his step, and one liberating instant of abandoning every such anxiety.
"No, sir, I promise you needn't move. It's Phelps on the secret line. I wouldn't call what he has a problem. It could be a slight jolt. His right-hand man's died on him — Terrell, his Security Officer."
"Nonsense!" said the Minister, closing the eye again. "Terrell's out of England somewhere, the Caucasus, or some such outlandish region. Climbing. Does it every year. Never could understand people taking up such unintellectual hobbies. What's in a lump of rock? What does he get out of it?"
"A broken neck, sir, apparently. It seems he fell off one of his pitches this time. They picked him up dead. No, sir, there's no doubt. Sir Broughton's had the official report. He's concerned about the vacancy, and would like your authority to appoint."
"Hmm, yes," owned the old man after a moment's thought, "I suppose we shall have to be thinking about that. Did for himself finally, did he? I always said it was an idiotic way of passing one's time. Why do they do these things? I take it Phelps has someone in mind for the job?"
"He mentioned one Blagrove, sir, if you approve."
"Old Roderick's boy. Might do worse. Used to work with Terrell before his promotion, I remember. All right, tell him he can go ahead, I approve." He closed both eyes again, and lay soaking in sun. Not fishing weather, of course, but you can't have everything. "Oh, and, Nick ..." He opened one eye again, reluctantly.
"Sir?"
"There's a wife. Widow, rather. Terrell's, I mean. Seem to remember they separated, about a year ago. If Phelps knows where to contact her, perhaps he should break the news, otherwise they may have trouble locating her."
"Of course, I'll suggest it to him."
"Good boy!" said the Minister vaguely, and closed his eye again, this time with unmistakable finality, having taken care of everything. "Not that I think she'll be fearfully interested," he said honestly, and returned his mind gratefully to his own intellectual and productive hobby.
Chloe Terrell, formerly Chloe Barber, born Chloe Bliss and soon to be Chloe Newcombe, turned her key in the door of her Chelsea flat about eleven o'clock that night, and heard the telephone buzzing at her querulously. She towed Paul Newcombe across the hall after her, and plunged upon the instrument eagerly. One of the most disarming things about her was that even at forty-three she still expected only pleasant surprises. Telegrams, sudden knocks on the door at late hours, letters in unknown hands from unknown places, all the things that make most people's blood run cold, merely made Chloe's eyes light up, and had her running to meet benevolent fortune half-way. Fortune, hypnotised like the audiences from whom she conjured applause simply by expecting it, seldom let her down.
"Oh, Sir Broughton — how very nice! Have you been calling me earlier? I'm so sorry! Such a lovely day, we ran out to Windsor."
She hoisted brows and shoulders at Newcombe across the pleasant, pastel-shaded room, to indicate that she couldn't make out what this caller could possibly want with her. Off-stage and on, her voice had made such a habit of intimacy that she never could remember to moderate the tone, whether for dukes or dustmen.
"Get yourself a drink, darling, and make yourself comfortable. One for me, too, please, and I'll be with you. ..." The telephone clucked at her, and she took her smooth, cool palm from the mouthpiece again. "No! But really? Oh, no, it's impossible!"
She was a belle laide, brown, slender and sudden, with an oval, comical, elf's face, a blinding smile, and huge, purple- brown eyes. The eyes grew larger and larger now, dilating in pure astonishment, without, as yet, any suggestion of either consternation or delight. You would have been willing to hazard, however, that she enjoyed being astonished. A blazing smile touched her parted lips and lingered, but that could have been the reflex of disbelief.
"You've taken my breath away. I don't know what to say. Well, that's very understanding of them, and very kind. I think I should like to go out there, yes. I do think I ought to, don't you? Where was it you said? Just let me write it down." She scribbled indecipherably on the margin of the telephone directory, and whistled soundlessly at the outlandish spelling involved. "Thank you so much for letting me know, Sir Broughton, and for your sympathy. So kind of you! So very kind! Good-bye!"
She put down the receiver, and stood staring at Newcombe over it, wide-eyed, bright-eyed, open-mouthed.
"Paul, the maddest thing! Herbert's gone and got himself killed!"
Paul Newcombe spilled his whisky. A few drops flicked from his shaky fingers and spattered the large photograph of Chloe Bliss as Viola, which stood on top of the cabinet. She made a delicious boy.
"What did you say? Terrell killed?"
"Yes, darling! Had a fall, climbing somewhere in some impossible place." She spelled out from her own hieroglyphics, not without difficulty, and with a very engaging scowl: "Zbojská Dolina — can that be right, do you think? In something called the Low Tatras, in Slovakia. He'd worn out all the ordinary Alps, you know. He was quite good, so they said. But this time he fell off a traverse, or something. Anyhow, they picked him up dead."
"Look, honey, are you quite certain? Who came through with this? Can you rely on it that it's true?"
"Of course it's true. That was the head of his Institute on the line, and he had it officially. Poor old Herbert, who'd ever have thought it!"
"Dead! Well, I'm damned!"
"I know! And, darling, there's another thing, he says the Czechoslovak authorities are prepared to make it possible for me to go out there immediately, if I like, and see about the arrangements for bringing him home. Isn't that something? And I've never been to Czechoslovakia, so why not? After all, they've asked me. ..."
"Chloe," he said, appalled, "you don't realise what this really means."
"Oh, yes, I do. But I didn't do it to him, you know. I didn't do a thing, it just happened. I can't make it un-happen. So what's the use of being hypocritical about it? In a way it's very convenient, you can't deny it. Now I shan't have to bother about trying to get him to agree to a divorce, we can get married whenever we like. And he did have a certain amount of money, besides being insured. Not that I'd have wished anything bad to happen to him just for that — or even at all. But why not admit to being interested in the results, now that it has happened? I hate humbug. Money's useful, and being a widow makes it easy to be your wife. And I want to be your wife, and you want me to — don't you?"
Newcombe put down his whisky, tilted her head back gently by a fistful of her thick, dark, straight hair, and kissed her vehemently. She emerged smiling.
"Well, then! And you will come with me to this place in Czechoslovakia?"
In a couple of weeks more he had, in any case, to undertake a protracted buying tour on the Continent — he manufactured and imported gloves, handbags, brief-cases and other small leather goods — but of course if she wanted him to he would go. She always got what she wanted out of him.
"Darling, this won't be business, not exactly. And I'll be there. It's fashionable to go behind the Iron Curtain this year, everybody's doing it. And it's the least we can do for poor old Herbert. The most, too," she added reflectively.
"I thought you hated humbug! Oh, all right, of course, if you want to go. ..."
"Darling!" murmured Chloe, hugging him happily. "It'll be wonderful! I must get lots of beautiful black. I look well in black, and they're sure to be rather conventional in Central Europe. But I'll be a fiancée, as well as a widow! What superb timing!" She held him off for a brief instant to get a good look into his swarthy, self-confident, faintly wary face. "Are you sure you didn't pop over and push poor old Herbie off his mountain?"
He took it that she was playing games of fancy with him, and stopped her mouth the easiest and pleasantest way; but afterwards, on his way out, he had a queasy feeling that she might not have been joking. Either she was an immoderately silly woman with pockets of cleverness, as most people supposed, or she was an inordinately deep one who enjoyed appearing naïve. He could never quite make up his mind. Possibly she was both at the same time, or both in alternation. Whatever she was, she was irresistible, so he might as well give up speculating.
It was he who remembered, as he was leaving, that there was one more person who ought to be notified. The girl wasn't Terrell's daughter, of course, she belonged to Chloe's first marriage, and her father had been a quite distinguished scholar in his provincial way, Professor Henry Barber, the sort of middle- aged, shabby, eccentric, companionable wit for whom young and ambitious actresses fall with a resounding but transitory bang. He'd died when his daughter was twelve years old, which meant she was turned eighteen now. She hadn't, by all accounts, got on at all well with her first stepfather. Took herself off to Oxford, so Chloe said, largely to get away from him; after old Barber's unpredictable and exciting vagaries, this one's cool, correct orthodoxy had infuriated her. Newcombe hoped profoundly that the second stepfather was going to be more of a success with her, but the thought of confronting a self-possessed and hypercritical eighteen-year-old frightened him more than he would have liked to admit.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Piper on the Mountain by Ellis Peters. Copyright © 1966 Ellis Peters. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Chapter 1: The Man Who Fell off a Mountain,Chapter 2: The Man Who Wasn't Satisfied,
Chapter 3: The Man Who Thumbed a Lift,
Chapter 4: The Man Who Kept the Score,
Chapter 5: The Man on the Skyline,
Chapter 6: The Man in the Chapel,
Chapter 7: The Man Who Wasn't in Charge,
Chapter 8: The Men Who Came to the Rescue,
Chapter 9: The Man Who Reappeared,
Chapter 10: The Man in Ambush,
Chapter 11: The Man Who Failed to Arrive,
Chapter 12: The Man with the Fujara,
Preview: Black Is the Colour of My True Love's Heart,
About the Author,
