The Murders in Great Diddling: A Novel

Also by Katarina Bivald

The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend

Welcome to the Pine Away Motel and Cabins

Copyright © 2022, 2024 by Katarina Bivald

Cover and internal design © 2024 by Sourcebooks

Cover illustration and design by Sandra Chiu

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

Originally published as Morden i Great Diddling, © Katarina Bivald, 2022. Translated from Swedish by Alice Menzies.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

sourcebooks.com

Originally published as Morden i Great Diddling in 2022 in Sweden by Bokförlaget Forum.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

A crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. ‘Man was made to mourn,’ says the poet. Not so: he was made to diddle.

—Edgar Allan Poe in Diddling, Considered as One of the Exact Sciences

O my darling books! A day will come when others will buy and possess you. Yet how dear to me are they all!

—Antoine-Isaac Silvestre de Sacy (1758–1838)

Contents

Prologue: An Explosive Tea Party

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Case Closed

Excerpt from The Readers Of Broken Wheel Recommend

Books 1–Life 0

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author

About the Author

Prologue

An Explosive Tea Party

Where is Berit Gardner?

Daphne Trent looked out across the neat lawn where the villagers were drinking tea and mingling in the afternoon sun. She knew an event that was about to spiral out of control when she saw one.

It had been an idiotic idea to throw a tea party for the residents of Great Diddling. She had hoped that a few scones and tea cakes would placate the locals and help calm their passions, but so far the opposite had proved true.

The whole event had been thrown together with just a few days’ notice, yet almost everyone had turned up. She suspected their curiosity was to blame. Most of them had never seen Tawny Hall up close before, and they had come to have a nose around—at the house, the strange author, possibly even Daphne herself, not that they had any interest in actually talking to her. As though she were responsible for the things her nephew got up to!

Daphne had actually noticed several people turn away from her as they got too close, repelled like magnets of the same pole. One man muttered to himself as he walked by, a long harangue that was deeply offensive not only to Reginald’s mother—who had married into the family—but to his grandmothers and great-grandmothers and the women who had come before them. And that, Daphne thought angrily, included her own relatives. The man had the decency not to meet her eye at the very least. He was too busy glaring at Reginald for that. What was his name? Was he one of the Smiths? Had his mother worked at Tawny Hall? She couldn’t remember.

Daphne forced her best hostess smile back onto her face. It was something she could usually manage in her sleep, the perfect balance of politeness and charm, bland yet personal. But today it was a real struggle to keep the corners of her mouth turned upward. Her skin felt tight and uncomfortable as she nodded to villagers she wasn’t sure she had met before.

A large half-moon had been mown into the south lawn to accommodate the guests, but beyond that, the meadow grass and flowers swayed at knee height. A white gazebo had been erected on the edge of the mown area, and the Hartfield women from Sisters’ Café on High Street were serving pastries, shortbread, and muffins, with towering trays of cucumber, salmon, and cheese sandwiches. Freshly baked scones jostled for space alongside still-hot tea cakes laden with butter, cream, and jam, and there were several large thermoses of tea, plus a few smaller silver pots of coffee for those who preferred it.

One of the sisters held out a scone to Daphne, and she forced herself to take it. Her smile grew more strained than ever, but fortunately the woman didn’t seem to notice. Mary, that was her name.

Mary continued to make her way among the guests until she reached Daphne’s nephew, Reginald. She offered him a cup of tea, and he took it seemingly without even stopping to consider what the owners of the café—two women he had recently threatened to evict—might have put in it.

Daphne watched on expectantly as he drank two deep mouthfuls, but nothing happened. She turned away with a sting of disappointment.

She knew that Reginald had sent word to several shops in the village on Wednesday, serving them notice on their contracts. He had suggested that the properties on High Street would be put up for sale, but he hadn’t said anything about the new owners nor why they had no interest in keeping the little supermarket, the hobby shop, and the café as tenants.

A delegation of villagers had come to see Daphne in an attempt to get her to talk some sense into her nephew, but what they failed to understand was that there was nothing she could do. The properties were his, just like Tawny Hall would be once she was dead.

Her books would one day be his too.

Daphne had spent her life at Tawny Hall. It was her home, but it also meant so much more to her than that. The house gave her a sense of history, binding her to the men and women who had come before, as though she was a chapter in a fascinating story that had begun long before she was born. There was magic in the walls here, an intoxicating mix of time and place, memory and opportunity. Sometimes, as she sat in the library, she actually found herself forgetting what century she lived in.

But the spell hadn’t proved strong enough to stand up to Reginald. In the face of his hostility, the glittering exterior fell away, leaving nothing but the damp, the dust, the cobwebs, the faded wallpaper, and the books that had been shoved, in panic, into every nook and cranny in an attempt to prevent them from taking over the house completely.

Given half a chance, he would get rid of the lot of it. He would throw out the furniture and her collection—or the junk as he called the memories she had gathered over a long and rich life. He would get rid of her.

On the other side of the lawn, Reginald raised his teacup in a mocking toast. Daphne turned away, but she could still feel his eyes on her.

His presence forced her to see herself through his eyes. Old and wrinkly, with thin lips and small eyes, loose skin hanging from her arms—how did he know that when she always wore long sleeves?—and, worst of all, ridiculous, in her old-fashioned dresses and the wig she wore to hide her bald spot.

Daphne still thought of herself as young and beautiful, but it was as though Reginald could see the portrait of Dorian Gray hidden in the attic.

Oh, why had he come here? She had been so happy here before Reginald turned up and ruined everything.

Daphne took a bite of her scone. It seemed to grow in her mouth, and she sipped her champagne in an attempt to wash it down. Even that tasted stale, like old apples and rot and the relentless passage of time, and she searched irritably for somewhere to put her plate.

In the end, her secretary and right-hand woman, Margaret, took it away. She returned a short while later carrying a new bottle of champagne, and she filled Daphne’s glass without a word.

Bit of a tense atmosphere, said Margaret, as prosaic as ever. She was the kind of person who would look out at the Flood, turn to Noah, and say, Looks like a spot of rain.

Yes, it is rather, Daphne agreed.

Right then, much too late, she remembered the angry man’s name. He was a Samson, not a Smith. The owner of the little supermarket in the village.

How are we for champagne? she asked.

Stock levels are good, Margaret replied.

Then there’s nothing more we can do, thought Daphne. Where was Berit Gardner?

She surveyed her guests’ glum faces and found herself wondering just how many of them were fantasizing about killing someone. She counted in her head.

At least five of them wanted to kill her nephew.

And at least one wanted to kill her.

1

Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive, bam-bam-bam-bam, stayin’ aliiiiiiive.

Berit Gardner hummed to herself as she ironed a white shirt on the table in her spartan kitchen. She was wearing her best going-out jeans and had a corduroy jacket and two scarves waiting for her on the back of the chair.

She was looking forward to the tea party at Tawny Hall with a mix of anticipation and fear, considerably more of the latter.

What if she didn’t find them there?

What if she didn’t hear anything at all?

She had never looked forward to a mingle before. There was something about people trying to show off their best sides that virtually guaranteed it would be boring, and she had no reason to think that today would be any different. On the contrary, there was a real risk she would come away having wasted the afternoon chatting about the weather.

No, she told herself. There were stories to be found here, she could feel it. She had known that since the moment she first laid eyes on the little cottage. It felt right. As though she had returned to a long-lost home or finally reached the place she had been heading toward all her life.

In truth, it had started before she even arrived. The minute she saw the ad, she had felt a pang of something she had been longing for, something she had missed.

Even the names had something special about them. She said them aloud to herself now, trying to conjure up some of their magic.

Great Diddling, she said. Albert Lane. Wisteria Cottage.

It was that sense of magic and adventure that had convinced her to plow all of her savings, every last penny of the unexpected royalty payment, into a cottage in the middle of nowhere in a tired, rundown village in Cornwall.

And now she was going to attend the tea party. She would smile; she would mingle; she would make small talk about the weather if that was what it took. And she would find them.

Berit swallowed. Strange. She was nervous. Another unfamiliar feeling.

She glanced down at her watch. Half two. Almost time to head over to Tawny Hall.

What the…?

She moved around the kitchen table and leaned over the sink to get a better look out through the little window onto the street.

Sure enough, there was a young woman standing on the gravel path leading to her cottage, and she had a suitcase.

How long had she been there? Now that she thought about it, Berit wondered whether she hadn’t heard a knock at the door a while back. Yes, she had heard something, but it had been so quiet that she had barely paid any notice to it.

Right then, she realized her mobile phone was ringing. She found it in the living room, buzzing wildly, the name DON’T PICK UP!!! flashing on the screen.

She picked up anyway. She always did.

What do you want now? she asked, making her way back through to the kitchen and peering out through the window. The young woman was still there.

Berit’s literary agent, Olivia Marsch, ignored her whining tone. Her own was so professionally cheerful, it wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming from a preschool teacher. How’s my favorite author?

Ha! Berit muttered. She knew full well she wasn’t Olivia’s favorite. Her agent was unfailingly fair in that regard; she loved her authors in strict order of their sales figures. Berit wasn’t sure, but she suspected that she was currently Olivia’s seventh or eighth favorite and that she was dropping rapidly in the ranks.

Has your new assistant arrived yet? asked Olivia.

Berit froze. My what?

Your new assistant. I’ve sent her to help you. She can stay in your spare room.

In my spare room?

Either she had gone crazy or the world had, thought Berit.

You’re always complaining that there are too many people bothering you, so she can help with that.

I don’t need a damn assistant.

There, she had said it. Now all she had to do was stand her ground. Conversations with Olivia were a little like trench warfare: you simply had to pick a position and then hunker down.

She’s already on her way. Left civilization early this morning.

Hold on a second, said Berit, leaning forward over the sink again until her nose pressed up against the glass. The sun-bleached curtains left behind by the previous owner tickled her forehead. What does she look like, this assistant of yours?

Young woman. Mousy, shoulder-length hair. Terrible posture. Remind her to stand up straight if you have the time—not that it’s ever made any difference when I’ve done it. When I last saw her, she was wearing a thin, beige coat. All very boring.

The young woman outside had shoulder-length brown hair and a boring beige coat.

Oh Christ, Berit muttered.

No need to thank me. Only the best is good enough for my authors.

She looks about fifteen!

Turns nineteen this summer. Or is it eighteen? No, nineteen.

And what the hell am I meant to do with her?

Give her plenty of food and water and take her out for a walk three times a day. How do I know? You’re the one always complaining about being overworked and isolated in your little house in the sticks. And not even the fashionable sticks! Honestly, I’ve never heard of anyone moving to inland Cornwall. How are you going to write your warm, cozy novel about a woman in the media who inherits a cottage in Cornwall if it’s not even by the sea? Where’s the hot fisherman going to come from, I ask you? Not that you’ve considered any of that, I’m sure. You authors are always so impractical.

I’m not going to write some Corni—

That’s why I’m sure you’ll find some use for her.

The young woman had taken out her phone and was now standing with it clamped to her ear. Trying to reach Olivia, no doubt.

Berit looked down at her watch again. It was now eight minutes to three, which meant she was officially late.

I need a follow-up novel, Berit.

I’m not going to write it.

August at the latest. The readers are expecting a new book from you next year.

I’ll never be ready by then.

That’s why I’m sending help! Someone who’ll be happy and grateful to cater to your every whim. Grateful. She loves your books so much she’s actually willing to put up with you. I warned her, but she said, ‘Whatever it takes to read another book by Berit E. V. Gardner, I’ll do it!’ You can always send her back if you’re not happy.

Wait! said Berit. I don’t even know her na—

But Olivia had already hung up.

***

Sally had two options.

One, she could admit defeat and head home.

Two, she could walk the three meters to the door and knock again.

Sally stared at the door in front of her. It was pale blue with a white frame, and the paint had started to flake away. Beside it, there was a wooden sign with the words Wisteria Cottage painted in the same shade as the door. The flowers from which the house took its name framed everything, making it look like something out of a Beatrix Potter story. Sally half expected to see a talking rabbit, hedgehog, or duck appear from the bushes at any moment.

Berit Gardner probably hadn’t heard her first timid knock, but Sally didn’t want to try again in case it seemed like she was pestering her. Then again, she had caught a glimpse of a face in the kitchen window, and logically that face should have seen her too. Yet the door remained stubbornly closed, and she was still standing on the gravel path, going through her options.

Sally couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go back and say that Berit hadn’t even let her inside. It was ridiculous. It was…undignified. She was practically a grown-up now.

OK, she told herself. She would march right up to the door and knock firmly, loud enough that it made a sound this time, and then she would look Berit E. V. Gardner straight in the eye and say, Hi! I’m Sally Ma—

No, it was probably best not to mention her surname just yet, which put her in a bit of a tricky position. She could hardly just go up to the author and introduce herself as Sally, as though she was some chirpy American waitress. OK, forget the name. She would simply say, Hi, I’m your new assistant.

But that plan wasn’t exactly socially acceptable, either. Just turning up and claiming that you had come to work for someone. Sally was pretty sure her new boss should at least know she had been given an assistant.

She swallowed. She was tired and hungry after the journey from London. The closest train station was a twenty-minute drive away, and there hadn’t been any taxis when she arrived. The only bus went once a day, fifteen minutes before her train arrived, and so she hadn’t had any choice but to grab her suitcase and start walking. She would probably still be lugging it behind her now if it wasn’t for the man around her age who had slowed down, stuck his head out of the window, and asked if she’d run away from home.

Sally had been a hot, sweaty mess, and she couldn’t think of anything to say. As it happened, that didn’t matter because he didn’t wait for an answer before he went on.

Liam Slater. Driver, knight in shining armor—or a grubby Vauxhall, anyway. Available for hire or sale, cash or down payment. Generous terms, low interest rates, no hidden fees.

When she failed to speak, he had leaned over the seat, opened the passenger-side door, and told her to get in.

You visiting someone? he asked once she was in the car.

I’m not sure.

Thinking back to that moment now, Sally shuddered with embarrassment. He must have thought she was a prize idiot.

Wisteria Cottage, Albert Lane, Liam had repeated to himself. That’s the author’s place, isn’t it? The Swedish one? Kind of weird?

Berit Gardner.

She a friend of yours, then?

Not…exactly. I’m going to be working for her. Maybe.

What, she hasn’t made up her mind yet? Is it like a trial thing? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do great. She’ll love you. But she can’t be much of a boss if she just left you at the station like this! Everyone who lives ’round here knows that the bus and the train times don’t match up. Why didn’t she come to get you?

She doesn’t even know I exist.

Liam had stared at her then.

It’s, um…a surprise, she continued. That I’ll be her assistant, I mean.

She had expected some sort of criticism or confused remark, but he had just tipped his head back and roared with laughter.

Amazing. So ballsy. You know, you remind me of Eleanor. Eleanor Hartfield. She runs the café here in the village. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would’ve done when she was younger. She’s crazy too.

Sally had felt a little wounded to be called crazy, and she must have shown it because Liam had quickly reassured her that he meant it as a compliment.

Eleanor says all the best people are crazy, he said just before he dropped her off outside the cottage. This is it. Wisteria Cottage, as agreed. Don’t worry about the payment. I’ll invoice you.

She had missed him the minute he drove away, the sudden silence in the absence of his voice making her feel lonelier than ever.

She stared at the door.

There was a third option, she realized now. She could stand here forever, or at least until the neighbors called the police. She had definitely seen a head of gray hair pop up behind the rose bushes next door.

Right then, the door swung open.

She recognized Berit Gardner immediately from her headshots, the steel-gray hair, cut short, the almost childishly blue eyes. The author looked just like she did in pictures. She looked…well, friendly.

But that was simply a first impression. As Berit Gardner studied Sally now, those same blue eyes took on a stern, almost hostile coldness. Sally got the sense that the older woman viewed everything through a clear-eyed, merciless lens and that she wouldn’t hesitate to say exactly what she thought about the world, Sally, and anyone else unfortunate enough to get in her way.

So, you’re my new assistant, are you? said Berit. She didn’t sound especially enthusiastic.

I, uh…guess so, said Sally. I mean…yes, I am.

And I’m sure you have a long, well-established track record as an assistant?

Y… No.

Great, thought Sally. She couldn’t even manage simple sentences anymore. From the corner of her eye, she saw a head of gray hair disappear behind the rose bushes in next door’s garden.

Name?

Sally.

Berit raised an eyebrow.

Sally M-Marsch.

I suppose there’s some sort of relation there?

She’s my mum.

Sally wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught a glimpse of something human in Berit’s eyes. Humor, compassion, possibly a combination of the two.

My condolences, she said after a moment.

Sally looked up at her for a moment. Thanks. I think. She steeled herself before she next spoke. Miss Gardner, I—

Call me Berit. Not that it matters. I don’t need an assistant, and I certainly have no intention of taking one on just because Olivia wants to wash her hands of you.

Her words didn’t upset Sally. What Berit had just said was true. This will be a wonderful opportunity for you, sweetheart. That was what her mother had said once she realized there would be a gap of several months between Sally finishing a language course and enrolling at university. Olivia would never have been able to cope with having her around for that long.

Berit cast a demonstrative glance down at her watch.

I’m late, she said.

Sally felt her shoulders slump even lower. She couldn’t force the author to take her in. In that respect, sadly, she was nothing like her mother. If Berit didn’t want an assistant, then Sally would just have to… Well, she wasn’t quite sure. Head home, she guessed.

She glumly turned to look at the road, so tired that she shivered, despite the warm spring air.

I s-suppose I can catch a train back to London this evening. Sally was irritated with herself for sounding so pathetic, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was hot, sweaty, hungry, and weary, and she felt about twelve years old. Her shoulders were also aching after dragging her bag for miles. I’ll just tell Mum that…well, I’ll come up with something.

Berit folded her arms.

Do you know if there’s anywhere I can get something to eat in the village? Sally asked. I don’t want to be any trouble, but it’ll probably take me a while to walk back to the station and I’m not sure when the next train is and… Well, thanks anyway. She fumbled for the handle on her suitcase and desperately tried to blink back the embarrassing tears.

Oh, for God’s sake, Berit muttered with a sigh. Come in, then. But hurry up. We’re going to a tea party.

***

Sally braced herself against the sink with both hands as she stared into the little bathroom mirror.

She looked exactly like someone who had spent the day lugging a heavy suitcase from London to Cornwall. Her hair was plastered to her flushed face, her clothes crumpled and sweaty.

She quickly splashed her face with cold water. From the ground floor, she could hear Berit’s restless footsteps on the creaky wooden floor.

You can do this, she told herself. Just stick to the usual strategy: find a wall and pretend you’re invisible.

She reluctantly made her way downstairs. In the living room, Sally’s eyes were immediately drawn to the enormous Edwardian desk that dominated the space. It was incredible, all sleek mahogany and polished brass, with an abundance of drawers. The handsome, dark-green leather writing pad practically seemed to invite creativity, and the desk itself had been angled so that anyone sitting at it would have a view out onto the charmingly overgrown garden through the french doors.

Despite all that, the surface of the desk was empty. Not a single pen or sheet of paper in sight. No sign of the stack of books—whether for reference or inspiration—that every author should have. No computer or charging cables, no Post-it Notes, nothing at all to suggest that any writing was ever done there.

In the middle of the room, Berit waited impatiently with a scarf in each hand.

The party is up at Tawny Hall, and I suspect half the village will be there.

Sally swallowed. I’m not very good at parties, she confessed, subconsciously taking a step closer to the wall and shrinking back.

Berit ignored her and impatiently waved both scarves. Which do you like best? she asked.

The first one, which Sally suspected Berit preferred, was a shade of deep green. The second was a beautiful, shimmering golden yellow.

The yellow, she blurted out.

Berit arranged the green scarf around her neck and then patted her pockets.

Notepad. Pen. Hip flask. You never know when it might come in handy.

She then moved toward Sally, getting right up close. Sally blinked in confusion, holding her breath. Berit’s eyes looked bluer than ever, and Sally noticed that she made no attempt to hide her fine lines with makeup.

Stand still, said the author.

She draped the yellow scarf around Sally’s neck with an elegant flourish.

If you ever feel out of place, you should never try to be invisible, she said. Nothing draws more attention to a person than trying not to be seen. What you need to do is control what they see. Control the story. There. Now you’re the girl with the yellow scarf.

Berit patted her pockets again. Right, she said. Let’s go.

2

Something awful is about to happen, James Elmer thought as he looked around the tea party.

Nothing had gone to plan lately, but that probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The same had been true all his life. Ever since he failed his first school test at the age of seven, he had known that life was nothing but one long line of disasters that would catch up with him sooner or later.

He didn’t mention any of this to Penny, of course. James Elmer was a firm believer that failure was contagious. People shunned losers in favor of winners, and that was why he had long since learned to hide his fears behind a cheery optimism.

Relax, said Penny, proving that she had never quite grasped just how much of a struggle life was for him. Things that were simple for others always required a huge amount of effort from James Elmer.

Just take the building work at the hotel. He had drawn up a detailed budget, but the project had already cost far more than planned. The construction firm hadn’t stuck to their quote. What was the point in even having a budget if you didn’t follow it?

Penny gripped his hand, and he realized he had been fidgeting with his tie. It was now rather lopsided, and he felt an itch to straighten it, but Penny was still holding his hand.

Everywhere he looked, people were wandering around in the sun as though nothing was about to happen. James swallowed and fought back a powerful urge to run home and hide.

Here. Have some champagne, said his wife. It’ll help perk you up. You’ll see.

I need to talk to Reginald Trent.

It had to be a misunderstanding, he told himself. He could still fix this.

Penny snorted. Reginald Trent is a bastard, simple as that. He’ll never be reasonable. You’re kidding yourself if you think there’s any point trying to talk to him.

James ignored her. If he could just talk to Mr. Trent, businessman to businessman, he was sure they could straighten things out. He felt himself break out in a cold sweat when he thought about what Penny would say if she knew what he had done.

Is that the author? Penny asked. She looks like a bit of an oddball if you ask me.

He followed her eye.

A middle-aged woman had just arrived with what he assumed might be her daughter. Penny was right. The author wasn’t much to look at. She was strangely dressed, in a men’s jacket and jeans. It was one thing for teenagers to wear jeans all the time, he thought, but this woman was around his age, if not older. At least forty, possibly even in her fifties. Her hair was gray, and she had made zero effort to liven it up with a bit of color.

The young woman by her side looked much more like his imagined idea of an author. She was dressed entirely in gray, with a dramatic yellow scarf adding a hint of interest. Her trousers were neatly pressed.

James nodded approvingly.

Penny knocked back her first glass of champagne and immediately helped herself to another.

Come on, let’s have a bit of fun, she said. I’ve never met an author before.

James shook his head. If she wanted to have fun, she had married the wrong man.

***

The minute Berit saw Tawny Hall, she instinctively reached down to her jacket pocket. She dug out her notepad and pen and began writing.

The clean, straight Georgian lines were softened slightly by the ivy and the climbing roses, by the sun glittering in the dark windows. The tea party was in the garden, but the house seemed to draw the eye in, suggesting that the real adventure lay indoors.

This was a house with a life of its own, Berit thought. A house with a personality.

A soft, almost girlish voice rang out across the lawn. Berit Gardner! it shouted with perfect pronunciation.

Berit turned and saw their hostess coming toward them with outstretched arms. She was wearing a long, white dress that billowed out around her as she sailed over the grass. Her face was hidden behind a white hat with a theatrically large brim, its yellow ribbon the only hint of color.

Berit reluctantly put away her pen and paper. Then she froze. She knew what was coming.

Sure enough, Daphne leaned in to kiss her on both cheeks—something that, as a Swede, Berit had always found excruciating. Her strategy was to stand perfectly still and let it happen. Trying to actively take part and work out which cheek to offer up always ended in disaster, as witnessed by the countless occasions on which she had almost kissed a complete stranger on the lips.

A cloud of Chanel No. 5 enveloped her as the brim of Daphne’s hat hit her forehead.

Welcome! said Daphne. I simply must get you to sign your books for my collection.

The hostess glanced back over her shoulder to the woman clutching an armful of books just behind her. Daphne took one from the top of the pile and handed it to Berit.

Berit dug her pen back out of her pocket, opened the cover, and scrawled her illegible signature across half of the endpaper. She then closed it and opened the next, repeating the process until she had worked her way through every book. It still felt absurd to see her name in print, not to mention how odd it was for someone to want her signature on something other than a contract or a credit card payment.

Daphne clapped her hands in delight. Wonderful! she said. Now we can enjoy ourselves.

She seemed oblivious to the fact that no one else seemed to be having much fun. In fact, the atmosphere around them was palpably tense, with the villagers shooting hostile glances in their direction as they passed. No one was smiling.

Four glasses of champagne appeared on a tray in front of them, and Berit studied the woman who had supplied Daphne with both books and alcohol.

This is Margaret Brown, my secretary, Daphne explained.

Sally Marsch, Berit countered. My assistant.

How do you do? said Daphne, to which Sally mumbled a polite How do you do? in reply.

Of the two women, Daphne was clearly the dominant personality, but Berit found herself drawn to Margaret. Once she started looking at her, it was incredibly hard to stop, perhaps because the secretary seemed so determined to remain professional and in the background. In her own way, she was almost as theatrical as her employer.

I’m so glad you moved to my little village, Daphne cooed. I’ve been the only bookworm here all my life. Sometimes it feels as though I’m the only one who even knows how to read. She gave a loud, joyless laugh before she went on. You may already have noticed, but Great Diddling isn’t exactly a stronghold of culture. No theater, no bookshop, no library.

Maybe not, said Berit. But there are definitely stories here, I can feel it.

Tall tales, perhaps. Lies and pure fiction.

Precisely.

Berit recognized the first two villagers who came over to introduce themselves as the owner of the local hotel and his wife. She had eaten lunch there once, a meal accompanied by the din of the construction site to the rear of the property. It was a mistake she hadn’t repeated since.

The man was in his forties, wearing a tweed suit. He was pale, almost anemically so, though he also had that typically English ruddiness that caused his face to flush at the slightest hint of emotion. Right there and then, he seemed nervous to the point of panic, his cheeks scarlet. The woman with a hand on his arm had frazzled, bleached hair and long, neon-pink nails.

Margaret leaned in to Daphne and whispered something in her ear.

Allow me to introduce James Elmer, said Daphne. And this is his wife, Penny. This is Berit Gardner, the famous author who recently moved to the village. Extremely talented!

Berit pulled a face. Not that talented, she muttered uncomfortably. As a Swede, she was even more uncomfortable with praise than with cheek kissing.

How do you do, said James. Nice to have a bit of culture in Great Diddling. That sort of thing is important, so important. I’m afraid I haven’t read any of your books myself, but I’m sure they’re…um, very rewarding. Interesting, that’s the word I was looking for. I’m always telling Penny that I should start reading more, but it’s just so hard to find the time when you’re as busy as I am.

He began nervously fiddling with his jacket, and his wife reached out and steadied his hand.

Oh, thank you, he said as he realized what he had been doing.

Margaret waved to the next person waiting to be shown off to Berit, or perhaps it was Berit being shown off to them. At events like this, it was always hard to know who was the circus animal and who the audience, she thought.

Margaret leaned in toward Daphne again to remind her of the woman’s name, but Daphne seemed distracted. Her eyes were on a tall, well-dressed man, following his every move.

Sima Kumar, Margaret eventually spoke up. Chair of the local council.

Sima was young, much younger than Berit would have expected for someone in such a prominent position. She was smartly dressed, in gray trousers and a pair of sleek pumps that kept sinking down into the lawn, and she looked at Sally and Berit as though she was trying to work out what she could do for them.

Something about her slightly superior smile and the impatient look in her eye told Berit that she was used to being the smartest person in the room—and that she was terrible at hiding it.

Sima also happened to be strikingly beautiful, though she seemed completely unaware of that fact. Her thick, dark hair framed her sharp cheekbones and large, deep-set eyes, and she had dazzlingly white teeth, her smile both charming and confident.

She followed Daphne’s eye, and her expression changed when she saw what Daphne was looking at. Sima’s professionalism crumbled, and Berit saw several powerful emotions fighting for dominance. Passion, or possibly desperation, plus something dark, restless, and anxious. Her face paled and then she blushed.

My nephew, Reginald Trent, Daphne said to Berit.

Berit studied the man who seemed to have provoked such a powerful reaction. He was in a gray summer suit and wore his arrogance like an extra accessory.

He’s some sort of banker in the city, Daphne explained.

He has a lot of interesting ideas for the future of Great Diddling, said the hotel owner, whose forehead was now slick with sweat. I’m hoping I can have a word with him later.

Reginald Trent walked past an older woman who had been moving between the guests, pouring more tea and trying to foist sandwiches on them.

You swine! she hissed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

He wheeled around, but all he saw was a kind, grandmotherly figure with curly white hair and