Dead in the Garden: Grasmere Cottage Mystery, #1

CHAPTER 1

That is a body. Valor stared stupidly out the window over the sink where he’d been rinsing his coffee mug, his hazel eyes glued to the obviously dead man at the corner of their garden. He dragged his fingers shakily through his mussed-up red hair. Bish?

Yes, it is. Bishan joined him with their fawn-coloured, long-haired cat, Staccato, perched on his shoulder, playing with his wavy inky hair.

"That’s a dead body in our garden. He risked a glance at his long-time boyfriend to find him mesmerised by the sight. I mean, it’s a corpse."

Very astute of you. Very. Astute. Quite astute. Incredibly so, actually. Bishan had a tendency to repeat words when he enjoyed the way they sounded to him. He claimed it was one of his many autistic superpowers. Ahhh—stute.

Yes, I grasp the concept. Why’s a body in our rose bushes? Valor carefully set the mug into the sudsy water, drying his hands off on his jeans and ignoring the indignant huff from Bishan. Right. I’ll call the police, and you put Staccato in the bedroom.

Their cat enjoyed climbing up on anyone who came into their cottage. Valor didn’t think the local constables would appreciate their uniforms being covered by their feline’s orange-sherbet-tinted hair. She also loved to disappear into the garden, something that wouldn’t be helpful either.

Why are you calling the police? Bishan had his phone out already.

They hate you. Valor fumbled with his iPhone for a second.

Only because I set fire to cotton wool. And they think I’m a terrorist. Bishan shuddered, obviously thinking about the offensive white fluff balls that he hated with a passion. Val? It’s a body. Out there. In our garden.

Maybe stop looking at it?

The police didn’t actually think Bishan was a terrorist. They’d had one unpleasant run-in with one of their neighbours when they moved into the small cottage in Grasmere in the Lake District. The older gentleman hadn’t appreciated Bish’s Indian heritage, their out-and-proud relationship, or the Tamboli family who’d come en masse to help the two move into their home.

Everyone else in Grasmere had been lovely to them. They’d welcomed the couple with open arms. Valor had needed the encouragement after falling out with his own family.

Ironic, in some ways, considering they’d always assumed Bishan’s traditionalist parents would be the disapproving ones. It seemed being gay and dating an Anglo-Indian had been one step too far for the son of an earl. Valor Tarquin Scott had been struck from the family; his father, mother, and elder brother hadn’t spoken to him in over a decade, not since a year after his graduation from Harrow.

By contrast, the Tambolis had embraced both their son and his boyfriend. Valor had been relieved. He didn’t honestly know how they would’ve gotten through without their support—and the help of the old boy network from Harrow.

We take care of our own.

Valor drew his attention back to his still muttering boyfriend. Cotton wool is an inanimate object, Bish. It can’t hurt you.

It’s evil and must be purged with fire. He gently set Staccato into their bedroom and closed the door. Wicked stuff.

Overly dramatic twit. Val rolled his eyes.

It squeaks when you pull it apart. That’s not natural. Bishan gave a full-body shudder this time. Hypersensitivity to sound was yet another of his autistic superpowers—or maybe more of his kryptonite. Well? Call the police.

They don’t think you’re a terrorist, you know. Valor left Bishan to his thoughts when his boyfriend waved him away.

How does one tell the police they’ve discovered a body?

What would Poirot do?

Aside from attending the same school, an unhealthy obsession with Agatha Christie was another thing they had in common. They’d watched every episode of Poirot, multiple times. Bishan tended to see his favourite shows over and over.

And Valor didn’t complain when it came to detective shows.

Stop dithering, Valor, and call the police, or they’ll think you put it off for some reason.

Why does my inner voice sound like our house matron?

Twenty minutes later, their small cottage seemed even tinier with so many people crammed inside it. He and Bishan had been pulled into separate places to be questioned. Have you ever seen the man before? When did you notice the body? Can you account for your whereabouts for the last twenty-four hours?

His simple, mildly sarcastic answers didn’t do much to endear him to the detective. Valor found it hard to focus on the questions while also keeping an eye on Bishan across the room. He knew his boyfriend would be mortified if the looming plainclothes policewoman triggered a shutdown.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when the woman in question frowned at Bishan then stepped over to whisper into the ear of the detective who’d been speaking to Valor. He could barely make out the muffled words. "He’s refusing to talk."

Daft cow.

He’s not refusing to speak. He can’t, Valor interjected. The twin glares sent his way didn’t faze him; he’d spent a lifetime being scowled at by the master of the disapproving frown, Bertram Valor Scott IV—the seventh Earl of Dorset. He happens to be autistic. You might consider giving him a moment. He’s overwhelmed, and it’ll be a bit before his brain starts allowing words to filter in to him again.

But—

We’ll step into the garden to check on the progress out there. We’ve gotten enough from you both for now in any case. Detective Inspector Reggie Spurling had been kind to them during the kerfuffle with their neighbours, and proved once again to be an understanding sort of man. If he needs a break, why don’t you take the cat out for a walk?

Hilarious. Valor left the detectives to argue amongst themselves. He found Bishan wrapped in a blanket in his favourite armchair, trying to disappear into himself from the looks of it. Bish? Why don’t we see how many of our nosy neighbours are watching the excitement?

Bishan shook his head, curling further in by pulling his feet up onto the seat.

Right.

Time for a bit of violin.

Valor had found over their years together, going back to being roommates as shells—new boys—at Harrow, that Bach on the violin did wonders for Bishan. He retrieved his instrument from the corner where all their various musical toys were kept. It didn’t take long for him to get into the flow of one of their favourite pieces.

Poirot would definitely not be playing the violin with a mystery to solve. Sherlock might.

I’m not a detective, though.

Just obsessed with them, and now we’ve got our own mystery to solve. Or, no, we should probably leave the police to handle it.

We’re not in a show on the telly.

A bit of snooping can’t hurt, can it?

He continued to play his violin while stepping toward one of the open windows in their living room. Calm Bish, and eavesdrop on the police while figuring out how to keep us out of their suspicions. Easy-peasy.

Well, mostly.

Val? Bishan spoke twenty minutes into Valor’s violin concert for one. Don’t you think the police might find the 1812 Overture an odd choice of music when we’ve a corpse in the bushes?

Found your words for you, didn’t it? Valor couldn’t be bothered to worry about what strangers thought. His concern would always go first to helping Bishan cope in a world that never seemed to consider struggles of day-to-day life for autistics. You all right?

Going to make tea. Lots of tea.

Turning his attention to putting his violin away, Valor allowed Bishan the time he needed to recover his composure. Despite all his assurances, his boyfriend always came out of a shutdown feeling embarrassed. As if he’s done it on purpose. Wish I could help.

Mr Scott?

Valor set the case carefully onto the shelf and turned to find Reggie Spurling waiting for him. Detective Inspector. What can I do for you? More politely pointed questions?

You said you’d never seen the deceased before? Either of you?

Valor had gotten a fairly good look at the poor soul in the garden. Not that I can recall. Bish’s better with faces than I am. He’d definitely have remembered. Have you identified him? I’m good with names.

We’d rather not disclose any information just yet. We’ll be in touch, but please stay out of the garden for today at least. We’re not finished back there. Detective Spurling paused to narrow his dark eyes on Valor. I’d appreciate you remaining in the county if at all possible. With your family connections⁠—

My family wouldn’t lift a pinkie to offer me any sort of assistance, Detective Inspector. In fact, they’d probably do their best to help your case against me if they thought I’d done something. Valor managed not to sound as bitter as he often felt when it came to his parents, elder brother, and younger sister. Is there anything else?

CHAPTER 2

Oh, my darlings. It’s dreadful. Awful. How are you coping? You must come round— Oh, hello, Reginald. How’s your Nan? Lottie Wright swanned into the cottage without even knocking on the door. My Wilfred sent me right over to make sure you hadn’t gotten yourself into trouble.

Mrs Wright. Detective Spurling appeared completely resigned to being treated like a young boy.

"Tell your Nan she owes me a tea. Now,