The Chocolate Box Holiday Read online

  The

  Chocolate Box

  Holiday

  Daphne Neville

  Copyright © 2017 Daphne Neville

  KINDLE Edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  PublishNation, London

  www.publishnation.co.uk

  Other Titles by This Author

  TRENGILLION CORNISH MYSTERY SERIES

  The Ringing Bells Inn

  Polquillick

  Sea, Sun, Cads and Scallywags

  Grave Allegations

  The Old Vicarage

  A Celestial Affair

  Trengillion’s Jubilee Jamboree

  The Old Tile House

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Late May 2016

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter One

  Late May 2016

  In the back garden of her home near to the church in a quiet Northamptonshire village, Sandra Burton watered lobelia and fuchsias trailing from hanging baskets on either side of the kitchen window. She sang heartily as water dripped through the sphagnum moss and splashed onto the toes of her well-worn slippers. Life had never felt so good.

  When the watering can was empty she put it back beneath the outside tap and with a spring in her step picked a sprig of parsley from the herb garden. As she approached the house, she heard the distinct thud of the fridge door slam shut followed by the rattling of glasses on the pantry shelf.

  Inside the kitchen, Sandra found sixteen year old Zac biting into a large slice of cold pizza as he poured blackcurrant squash into a glass.

  Her face broke into an exaggerated smile. “Hi, love, I didn’t hear the bus. Where are the girls?”

  “Dawdling as usual. Why?”

  “Because I’ve something really exciting to tell you all.”

  Zac yawned. “Oh, I’m starving. What’s for tea?”

  “Fish.”

  “With chips?” Zac was hopeful.

  “No, mashed potatoes and peas.”

  The front door opened and Zac’s younger twin sisters walked into the hallway each dropping their school bags onto the floor. Both half-heartedly greeted their mother as they made for the kitchen cupboard containing chocolate bars and crisps.

  Sandra reinstated her exaggerated smile. “Hi girls, I’ve some really exciting news for you all.”

  Both girls frowned.

  “Oh,” said Vicky, with little interest.

  Kate, however, was curious. “So what is it, Mum?”

  “I’ve won a prize in a competition.”

  Vicky groaned. “Not another toaster.”

  Sandra shook her head. “No, it’s something much, much more exciting.”

  In anticipation the three children stood with their heads tilted to one side.

  “Which is?” asked Zac, prompting his mother to speak.

  Sandra took in a deep breath. “It’s a holiday,” she said, “a lovely holiday in Cornwall.”

  Kate’s face lit up. “What! But that’s brilliant, Mum. Please say it’s Newquay and then Vicky and me can go surfing. One of the boys at school said there’s a really good beach there with lots of sand and huge waves. Apparently it’s really, really popular and they have a music and surfing festival there every summer.”

  Sandra shook her head. “Sorry, Kate, but no it’s not. It’s a place I’ve never heard of before on the south coast called Pentrillick. But don’t worry, Cornwall’s not that big so we’ll still be able to go to Newquay from there.”

  Kate nodded to acknowledge her approval. “Sounds good. Well done, Mum, that’s the best prize you’ve ever won.” She poured herself a glass of blackcurrant squash. “So what does the holiday consist of? You know, is it a caravan, a hotel or what?”

  “It’s a cottage,” said Sandra, pulling details of the competition prize from an envelope and passing it to the children. “See, a lovely chocolate box cottage. It’s called Sea View.”

  “Wow! How many bedrooms does it have?” asked Vicky, eying a picture of the white-washed building.

  “Four. One double which is en suite, two twin and one single.”

  Vicky rubbed her hands together. “Brilliant, that means you and Dad get the double and we’ll all be able to have one each.”

  Sandra bit her bottom lip and slowly shook her head. “Well, actually, I’m afraid not. You girls will have to share, you see, because I’ve invited Great Auntie Hetty to join us and …”

  “…and she’s accepted?” Vicky groaned.

  Sandra attempted to smother a smile. “Actually, you interrupted me before I’d finished. What I was trying to say was that Great Auntie Hetty will join us and Grandma too.”

  Sandra waited for a rebellious response but all three teenagers were rendered speechless. “But they won’t be driving down the same day as us,” she continued, “because Great Auntie Hetty’s best friend’s daughter is getting married on the day we go and so she’ll drive down with Grandma on either the Sunday or the Monday.”

  “So…umm… when do we go?” asked Kate, feeling someone ought to say something positive as she reached for the biscuit tin.

  “Saturday, August the sixth until the twenty seventh.”

  Zac gulped. “That means we’ll be there for three weeks. Does Dad know yet?”

  Sandra nodded. “Of course, I rang him as soon as I got the letter and I must say he’s delighted. It was his idea to invite Great Auntie Hetty and Grandma.”

  Vicky groaned. “I might have known.”

  “I think you’re being a little unfair, Vicky. Both Great Auntie Hetty and Grandma can be very good company and Grandma has been very low lately. She took losing Granddad very badly, poor soul.”

  “Yes, but they’re just so straight-laced,” said Vicky, breaking open a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, “especially Grandma. She believes children should be seen and not heard. Which is silly and shouldn’t apply to us because we’re teenagers now.”

  Sandra threw back her head and laughed. “Straight-laced! May I remind you that your grandmother and great aunt were teenagers back in the Swinging Sixties? I’ve seen pictures of them all made up and wearing mini skirts and a couple of lovely looking girls they were too.”

  Vicky dunked a crisp into her glass of squash. “Humph! But the Swinging Sixties were forever ago, Mum. Blimey, you weren’t even born then.”

  Bill Burton finished his shift at the supermarket where he worked and crossed the car park to his faithful old Volvo Estate. Happily he whistled and merrily he took a hop, a skip and a jump, for not since he was a boy waking up on a Christmas morning had he felt so ecstatic, so jubilant. The reason being, the phone call from Sandra, his wife. Her news had set his mouth into a grin that he was unable to wipe from his clean-shaven face.

  Because money was a little tight the family had not pre-booked a summer holiday but had instead planned to hire a tent and go camping wherever the weather looked the most promising when the time was right. But now that wouldn’t be necessary for due to his wife’s dedication and addiction to entering competitions they had something much, much better to look forward to. Three whole weeks in Cornwall. Bill started the Volvo’s engine, switched on the car radio and heartily sang at the top of his voice, all the way home.

  During the following weeks the family read as much as they were able on the Internet about Pentrillick and even borrowed books about Cornwall from the library. Bill looked forward to walking the cliff paths, doing a spot of sea fishing and enjoying a pint in the local pub. Sandra was keen to visit some of the locations where the BBC’s television series Poldark had been filmed. She also planned to do a spot of sun bathing and looked forward to the prospect of eating out. The girls were really excited about surfing and swimming hence their parents were thrilled to discover that both wet suits and surf boards could be hired from Newquay which negated the expense of kitting the girls out. Zac wasn’t sure what he wanted from the holiday. He wasn’t one for sun bathing, he didn’t much care for swimming and certainly not surfing, nor was he attracted to the notion of fishing, and he didn’t think there would be many opportunities to chat up gir
ls with Great Auntie Hetty and Grandma in tow. He did, however, like to draw and so made a mental note to make sure he packed a sketch pad or two and a selection of pencils.

  Two weeks before the family were due to leave for their holiday, the children broke up from school. The weather during the last few days of term was glorious with temperatures well over thirty degrees Centigrade but sadly it did not last. Heavy thunderstorms brought the mini-heatwave to an abrupt end and the summer vacation began on a more moderate footing with temperatures hovering around average for the time of year.

  On Saturday evening, Sandra switched on the television to watch the early evening news and on seeing the headlines, she tutted. “Goodness me. Look at this, Bill. What a nightmare.”

  Bill, half way through writing an email, unwillingly looked up from his laptop and Zac likewise glanced up from his mobile phone. The girls were upstairs in their bedroom.

  Bill frowned. “Dear, dear, thank goodness we’re not stuck in that lot,” he said, observing aerial footage of stationary vehicles and their frustrated passengers queueing for miles in order to reach Dover and ferries to transport them over the Channel to France.

  “Poor, poor souls,” said Sandra, genuinely sympathetic, “it must be misery for families with young children. What a horrible way to start a holiday.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” said Bill, as his eyes wandered back to his laptop, “Thank goodness we’re staying in this country.”

  Everyone lost interest in the News when it moved on to the subject of a possible ban for Russian athletes at the Rio Olympic Games but their interest was instantly regained when they heard mention of the name Pentrillick.

  Sandra quickly grabbed the remote control and turned up the volume as all eyes focused on the television screen. Someone had been murdered in the village and the body had been discovered by Rosie Rutherford, a local artist, who apparently lived next door to the deceased.

  No-one in the family spoke as the news sank in and Sandra turned the volume back down. From the girls’ bedroom directly overhead, the sound of music echoed through the house and the remainder of the television News fell on deaf ears.

  Zac spoke first. His face was white. “Does that mean there is a murderer on the loose at the place where we’re going for our holiday?”

  “Hmm, er…yes,” said Sandra, “it looks very much as though that is the case.”

  Zac clearly felt uneasy. “But will it be safe?”

  “Don’t worry, son,” said Bill, in a matter-of-fact manner, “I expect it’ll turn out to be a domestic, these things usually are and I daresay the murderer will be under lock and key long before we set foot in Cornwall.”

  “But we go in two weeks,” persisted Zac. “In fact two weeks today.”

  “And that’s more than long enough for the police to have caught the killer. Isn’t that so, Mother?”

  Sandra frowned. It was obvious her husband was trying not to alarm their son. “I suppose so,” she said. But her voice lacked conviction and she clearly shared Zac’s apprehension.

  Over the following two weeks, the family heard no more news regarding the murder in Pentrillick and so hoped, as Bill had suggested, a satisfactory arrest had been made. To build up the excitement, they made lists of things they needed to take with them. Sandra had her hair cut and restyled and they all went shopping and bought new clothing with the money they had saved up for the hiring of camping equipment and to pay campsite fees should they have gone on the camping holiday as originally planned.

  Zac was also treated to a new quality sketch pad and the girls asked for a DVD entitled Surfing for Beginners. They considered buying sun cream but after watching the grey clouds rolling overhead decided instead to buy it in Cornwall, should it be needed. After all in Britain, summer could not always be relied upon to live up to its name.

  On Friday morning, the day before they were due to leave, Sandra was delighted to watch the forecast and see that the weather looked settled for at least the first few days of their holiday.

  On the washing line in the back garden she hung out a few last minute garments which blew nicely in the light south easterly breeze. With the back door and windows wide open to let in the welcome sunshine, she and the children then gathered together everything they needed to take with them and stood it all in the hallway ready to pack into the car when Bill arrived home from work.

  In the evening the family sat in the living room together and watched the television, although no-one was really interested in anything they saw as they were too excited about the holiday.

  At half past ten, the twins went to bed. Sandra and Bill followed soon after. Zac also went to his room but not with any intention of sleeping for he was determined to watch the opening ceremony of the Rio Olympic Games on the television set in his room. But gradually he snuggled down lower and lower beneath the bedclothes and long before Team GB walked into the arena, he was fast asleep.

  Chapter Two

  Very early on the morning of Saturday August the sixth, the Burton family left their Northamptonshire home for the drive to Cornwall. The sun was shining and the family were in very high spirits, even Vicky whose turn it was to sit in the middle of the back seat for the first part of the journey.

  Because they were making good time, and she was aware that the cottage would not be available for their occupation until four o’clock, Sandra suggested they drove into Exeter when they came off the M5 to have some lunch and to stretch their legs.

  Amongst the shops they found a small café in a backstreet where the prices seemed reasonable and so they went inside and seated themselves around an oblong table in a corner.

  As the children looked at the menu, Sandra observed a painting hanging on the wall behind Bill. It was a rugged beach scene and in the bottom corner, two little penguins sat on a rock each wearing brightly coloured waistcoats. A small plaque on the frame informed her it was the work of Rosie Rutherford.

  “Why do I know that name?” Sandra asked, waving her finger at the painting.

  Bill turned to look up at it. “Hmm, I don’t know but I must admit the name does sound familiar.”

  Zac gave the painting a cursory glance. “She’s the artist who found the dead body of her neighbour in Pentrillick.”

  Sandra shuddered. “Oh dear, of course it is, silly me. I do hope they’ve found out who murdered that poor lady.”

  “I expect they have,” said Bill, in a level-headed manner, “because we’ve heard no more about it, have we?”

  “I think it’s all very exciting,” said Vicky, as she passed the menu to her mother, “going somewhere where there’s been a murder, I mean.”

  Sandra took the menu and placed it on the table so that Bill might see it also. “That’s because you’re so young, Vicky. When you’re older you’ll see things differently. I can assure there is absolutely nothing exciting about death and especially murder.”

  “I must admit I rather like her style,” said Bill, pointing at the painting and eager to change the subject. “I wouldn’t mind having something like that above our fireplace.”

  Sandra nodded. “Yes, I agree and I suppose we might be able to see some of her work while we’re in Cornwall but I should imagine it’ll be way out of our price range.”

  Just after five o’clock, the family Volvo turned left off the A394 and into a country lane which ran downhill. Vicky excitedly waved her arm as they passed a farm and turned a sharp corner. “I just got a glimpse of the sea,” she squeaked, “Really, I did and I’ve gone all goosepimply.”

  “Well, we must be nearly there,” said Bill, taking his foot off the accelerator as they neared a tractor slowing down to turn into a field. “The signpost back on the main road said two miles.”

  Pentrillick was a large village, its main street ran parallel with the coast but from the road much of the sea was hidden behind cottages and houses which lined the narrow winding street.

  Driving slowly through, they passed an antique shop, a hairdressers, and a large white building standing back from the road with a name-board saying Pentrillick Hotel. As they neared a church on the right-hand-side, Sandra waved her hands. “Slow right down, Bill. We must be nearly there because according to the brochure the cottage is almost opposite the church.”