When a shocking murder rocks the picture-perfect English village of Raven’s Edge, amateur detective Milla Graham finds herself right at the centre of the mystery. Still reeling from her recent breakup with local police officer Ben Taylor, Milla sets her sights on solving the case, hoping to win Ben back.
But when the evidence begins to point to Milla’s old friend and former boyfriend Lorcan Black, she must choose between her loyalties to the past and the possibilities of the future. Meanwhile, Ben is on a different trail – he’s begun to suspect that the murderer could be someone from his own family’s dark history.
Further complicating matters are Milla’s meddling grandmother, Ben’s no-nonsense police partner Harriet, and David the surprisingly young and sexy new vicar. With shocking twists around every cobblestone corner, the truth refuses to stay buried for long in this quaint village, whose picture-postcard façade hides decades of buried grudges, plots, and betrayal.
Will Milla solve the mystery in time to rescue her relationship with Ben? Can Ben face the skeletons in his family’s closet before one of his own relatives meets the same bloody end?
Read On…
Murder at Ravenswood House
Chapter One
October 28th
Raven’s Edge after dark was an eerie place to be. The surrounding forest loomed closer, darker, nastier, and the cottages along the narrow high street huddled tighter together. When the air was cold and the sky was clear, a mist would curl in from the river and it was all too easy to see how a swirl of leaves could be spun into a tale of ghostly revenge, or the rattle of a slate falling from a roof be twisted into spectral hooves clattering over the cobblestones.
Milla Graham ran along the high street, ignoring the shadows that appeared to shift and twist behind her, and the echo of footsteps that might not have been hers. The moonlight had turned the wet paving stones to silver beneath her feet and effectively lit her way towards the path that led past the village pond, where (legend had it) the local witch had met her end over three hundred years ago.
Witch: A smart woman with a smart mouth.
Someone who didn’t follow the rules.
Someone who didn’t belong.
She’d always felt a great deal of empathy with that witch.
Far too pragmatic to believe in ghosts, she still hesitated before taking the path that led into the forest, switching on her phone torch as the ancient, gnarled branches closed over her head, blocking out the moonlight completely.
The further she walked, the narrower and darker the footpath became. It had been a hot, wet summer and the track was overgrown with ferns and nettles almost as tall as her. The only sound was that of her boots scrunching through fallen leaves and broken twigs. How long had it been since anyone had walked this way?
It was too late to realise she should have brought her car, but with its personalised number plate it was far too distinctive, and she had no wish for anyone in the village to guess she was up to no good.
Leaving it parked outside the house of an ex-lover definitely qualified as ‘up to no good’.
The important word to remember here was ‘ex’.
She was not betraying Ben. She loved Ben. He knew that. But, in the four months they’d been together, she still hadn’t got around to telling him there’d once been someone else.
Milla had met Lorcan in Glastonbury last summer. She’d given up trying to inveigle her way into the music festival and had been sulkily exploring the village. He’d been a bespectacled geek that someone was half-heartedly attempting to rob. She’d chucked a potted geranium at the would-be attacker – and missed, as usual: her aim was appalling – but the other man had taken fright and fled.
‘I need a stiff drink,’ the geek had said. ‘Can I get one for you?’
‘You can buy me a cola,’ she’d replied.
It wasn’t as though she had anything else to do.
So they’d gone to the pub and chatted for hours, until a flurry of notifications had made him pick up his phone and grimace.
‘Sorry,’ he’d sighed. ‘I’m supposed to be on stage in thirty minutes. They seem a bit upset that I’m not there already.’
‘Stage?’ She’d regarded him blankly. ‘You mean at the festival? You’re a musician?’
‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No!’
‘Ah… Well, I’m a musician and I’m supposed to be performing in thirty minutes, so my manager is sending a car for me. Would you like to come too? They give us extra tickets for family and friends, but I don’t have any family or friends, apart from my manager, and…’ Lorcan picked up his phone again and winced. ‘Yep, he’s really unhappy with me. I’ve got to go. Please say you’ll come too?’
She stared at him. What kind of person didn’t have family or friends?
A very lonely one, as it turned out.
She’d gone to the festival and had the best time ever, writing a series of articles about her experience and selling it to a now-defunct music magazine – launching a whole new career out of one good deed.
They’d dated for a few months, but they were better as friends. He’d returned to his house in Provence and she’d ended up here in Raven’s Edge, reuniting with her long-lost family and meeting Ben, whom she still hadn’t got around to telling about Lorcan.
She’d never told Lorcan about meeting Ben either, having a horrible feeling that neither man would approve of the other.
Hence this moonlit trek through a dark, allegedly haunted forest.
Honestly, sometimes she made things so difficult for herself.
After twenty minutes’ walk, the path widened into a single-track lane and the outline of a building emerged from the shadows. A medieval farmhouse, long and low, the refurbished stone gleaming pale in the moonlight, the roof bristling with new thatch. There were no lights, which was odd, and the windows were dark, empty and dead. It was the classic sign of an empty house and she felt that first twinge of unease. Was Lorcan at home? Did she have the right day? Did she have the right house?
She walked around to the front. There was a freshly nailed sign on the gate that said,
RAVENSWOOD HOUSE
Definitely the right place.
She pushed the gate open. A neatly clipped box hedge lined a path that ended at a sturdy wooden door. She switched off her phone, slid it into her pocket and knocked. There was a hollow echo from the other side and the door creaked open.
That was strange.
Careful to keep her feet on her side of the threshold, she leaned inside. ‘Hey, Lorcan! I’m here!’
The house remained silent.
She knocked again, accidentally pushing the door further open.
‘Lorcan! It’s me! Where are you?’
It was unlike him to stand her up. She took out her phone and checked for missed calls or messages. There was only one, and that was from Ben, saying he’d be home around midnight and not to wait up. She replied to that and then, feeling incredibly guilty, sent one to Lorcan.
Where are you?
While waiting for a response, she checked the other side of the door. It had a modern lock rather than an over-sized iron key. If she pulled it shut, the door should lock itself and she could go home with a clear conscience.
But as she pulled the door towards her, a crash echoed from the back of the house.
What the hell was that?
Hesitating for not nearly long enough, Milla took a step over the threshold into the cavernous hall. ‘Lorcan? Are you OK?’
Ignoring the unassailable fact that the house would hardly be in darkness if he were in residence, she switched on the light and walked across the hall into a low, wide passageway that seemed to pass through the centre of the house. The scent of fresh paint made her cough, a testament to the newness of the deep dark gold of the walls. Rather less attractive was the row of Victorian hunting trophies along each wall, their eyes watching her progress with glassy indifference.
She grimaced. Lorcan’s taste in interior design had not improved.
A door on the left led into a large modern kitchen, with crockery in the glass-fronted cabinets and cutlery in the drawers. If she needed any more evidence that he’d moved in, the clock on the cooker was set to the correct time. For someone who never worked regular hours, Lorcan had always been particular about that.
Was he working now?
Strike that thought. The house was too quiet. Even when he wasn’t strumming on his guitar, Lorcan played music wherever he went, creating endless playlists to soundtrack his life. She peeped into the sitting room on the other side of the passageway, but that was deserted too.
His guitars and extensive collection of vinyl records were here, but he wasn’t.
She headed back to the entrance hall. He hadn’t replied to her message. He must have completely forgotten he’d invited her here, which was unflattering to say the least.
The hall was two storeys high, with a wooden staircase tucked into one corner; as she passed beneath the rafters, she heard a curious flapping sound.
She paused, one hand on the banister. ‘Lorcan? Are you up there?’
Was that a movement on the landing? Should she investigate?
What if there was an intruder?
(An intruder other than her.)
‘Hello?’ she said, but not quite as loudly as before.
‘Hello,’ a voice replied.
Her breath hitched.
The voice had come from upstairs.
‘Lorcan? Are you messing with me? Because I’m really not in the mood…’
No response.
‘I’m telling you now, if you jump out at me, pretending to be a ghost, I will notbe pleased.’
‘Hello,’ the little voice said again.
‘I warned you!’ She started up the staircase. Warped and crooked with age, it creaked with every step she took.
Halfway up, she heard a curious whispering and fluttering emanating from the dark void above her head.
I don’t believe in ghosts.
Old houses often made strange noises; three months of living in her current home had proved that. Wood expanded and contracted with the rise and fall of temperature, nails loosened over time, air got into pipes—
Something shot past her head, knocking her off balance.
If she hadn’t been grimly holding onto the banister, she’d have fallen to the bottom of the stairs.
She still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t screamed.
A blur of black circled towards her and this time she ducked, swearing softly as some kind of creature plunged past, wings beating once, twice…
A leisurely glide around the hall and it vanished into the darkness. She followed its path, squinting into the gloom. A bat? It would have to be a big bat! A large bird? An owl or a crow, or…
Or a raven.
Obviously.
The woods were full of them, hence the name of the village. The local witch had allegedly turned herself into a flock of them and been known as the Raven Queen ever since. An unkindness of ravens. It seemed appropriate, because the villagers had been trying to kill her at the time.
The raven landed on the banister behind her. It was huge, almost the size of a chicken, and now it was sidestepping towards her, tail fanned out for balance.
She took a wary step up.
The raven tilted its head, revealing a sharp, curved beak and one black beady eye trained directly on her.
Milla tried to think calm, relaxing thoughts.
OK, it was big, but it was a wild bird. It should be more afraid of her.
How had it got in?
She released her grip on the banister and took another step up.
The bird sidestepped again, head bobbing, as though performing some weird dance – the kind her Great-Uncle Fergal performed at parties when he wasn’t even drunk – lowering its head and cocking it sideways again, as though to get a better look at her.
Was it Lorcan’s pet? He’d never mentioned having one.
More to the point, was it plotting an attack? Her eyes as a tasty hors d’oeuvre?
Why couldn’t Lorcan have owned a budgie?
‘Hello,’ it said.
It could talk? She didn’t know ravens could talk!
She backed up a few more steps.
The raven followed her every move with interest but, at the very moment she thought herself safe, it gave a horrible gurgling croak and stretched its wings, ready for flight.
Milla fell up the last few steps and yanked open the nearest door, really hoping it wasn’t a linen cupboard, slamming it behind her, half-expecting to hear the bird crash against the other side and see that wickedly sharp beak penetrate the centuries-old wood.
On the other side of the door, all was silent.
Somehow that made it worse.
She leant against the wall, hearing her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
What was Lorcan thinking to allow a bird like that to have free range of his house? The wingspan must be easily four feet, and as for that beak…
When she saw Lorcan again, she was going to kill him!
She switched on the light. She appeared to be trapped in his bedroom. The window was open, presumably due to the paint fumes, although the thick brocade curtains hung motionless, despite the breeze whipping up the hill.
Maybe she could leave the house that way?
Lorcan’s taste for Victorian Gothic was evident in the relentlessly aubergine walls and hangings draping the four-poster bed. A silver skull on a shelf bookended a stack of poetry books. Beside the bed was a bottle of his favourite Finlayson’s Best Whisky. Picking it up by the neck, she held it up to the light, swilling around the liquid. Half empty. Not surprising. What was surprising was the packet of sleeping pills beside it. Why did he need those? They’d be enough to knock anyone out for hours, particularly when mixed with alcohol. Had he taken any tonight? Yet his bed didn’t appear to have been slept in.
Should she be searching the house for his comatose body?
With Mr Beaky outside, waiting for the chance to feast on her soft parts?
Maybe not.
Lorcan Black was a grown man. He could take care of himself.
There was only one glass beside the bottle, so he hadn’t had company. Not unusual. Lorcan always had trouble trusting people. The packet of sleeping tablets had a dispensary sticker from a French pharmacy but she knew he’d been living in Provence since last Christmas. There was a copy of Shelley’s poems, a silver pendant containing the wing of a morpho butterfly and, if that wasn’t Gothic enough, a large specimen jar at the very back, containing more bits of dead animal.
This farmhouse was turning out to be a regular house of horrors.
She sighed and bent to check it out, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
The contents were fake.
They had to be.
It was a prop from a film.
Because anything else…
Was unthinkable.
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