Murder in Little Shendon
by A.H. Richardson
2017. Paperback. 256 pages.
Review:
If you're looking for the perfect murder mystery to cozy up with this fall or winter season, then Murder in Little Shendon is exactly what you need. This story begins in the town of Shendon, a small community in which everyone knows everyone. When one citizen is murdered, everyone is suddenly a suspect and it is up to the police detective and two amateur detectives to determine just what happened in this quaint little town.
This is one of those classic whodunit novels in which all citizens are interviewed and each seems to have some sort of plausible reason that they could be the suspect. I had a really enjoyable time reading this book and trying to unfold the identity of the murderer along with all of the characters. I was truly drawn into the story and events and became invested in many of the characters.
Speaking of characters--there are a lot! This because a bit overwhelming at moments, but I was impressed with how much detail and personality Richardson gave each character. They really are each a unique person with their own desires, motives, and expressions, and this really benefited the novel and gave it a much more exciting atmosphere.
The chapters are all fairly, short, which makes this book perfect for lighter reading or fitting in when you have the time (trust me, I understand how busy this time of the year gets!). The writing style was also written in a somewhat simplistic manner in that perfect 'whodunit' style that easily lets the reader continue to be engaged.
Overall, I've given Murder in Little Shendon four stars and would certainly recommend this series to any murder mystery fans!
Excerpt:
Chapter One
A Killing in The Bygone Era
BARTHOLOMEW FYNCHE LEANED OVER HIS DESK, adjusted his pince-nez and
peered down at the document on his desk. He gave a series of grunts, which
culminated in a long “Hmmm”.
He
scratched a brief note on the pad in front of him. He always used a pen and ink
because he did not approve of ballpoint pens and regarded them as signs of an
uncivilized society.
Mr.
Fynche turned his attention to the small jade horse in front of him, running
his fingers over it gently, almost lovingly. He frowned, took a deep breath,
and removed a key from around his neck. He unlocked a drawer to his desk,
placed the small statue inside and carefully locked it again.
He
glanced at the French Ormolu clock on the wall before consulting his watch, and
pursed his lips together in annoyance. He didn’t like people who were not
punctual. Time was money, and his time was particularly precious.
The
retired Mr. B. Fynche had been involved in a number of most interesting
exploits in his life, not the least of which involved his extraordinary
knowledge of rare documents, famous objets
d’art, and rare paintings. It was rumored that he had been involved with
MI5 just after the war, but no one was quite certain about this. Nowadays he
puttered fairly contentedly in his antique shop, which he had named The Bygone
Era.
He did
the occasional appraisal for some local villagers and was
occasionally persuaded to go into London (a trip he detested) to authenticate
something or other for the odd client he had. He was, as far as anyone knew,
unmarried, quite without family, with the exception of a sister who was rumored
to live in New Zealand and a brother who was deceased.
At
first glance, Fynche’s little shop seemed to be an untidy mass of bric-a-brac,
consisting of small statues, framed documents, interesting looking things in
glass cases, paintings of all descriptions, prints, watches, chains and… much
much more. Mr. Fynche however, knew exactly where everything was, referring to
it on occasion as organized clutter.
Today
was Thursday, better known as early closing day when most if not all the shops
in the village closed about noon, and The Bygone Era was no exception. Fynche
liked to lock the doors, put up the CLOSED sign and busy himself with his latest
project, and he had many of those.
The
little man glanced down once again at some notes he had made. For the first
time in his life, he was not quite sure how to deal with this. Probably the
best policy was to be frank and explain that this was not something with which
he chose to be involved. He scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. Perhaps
no mention of the police should be made at this juncture, for he felt
instinctively that he would have to be careful here.
A
knock on the door interrupted his reverie and Fynche’s eyes again darted up to
the clock. He frowned, realizing that the knock was coming from the back door,
which was rarely used. Thoroughly disgruntled, the old man unlatched the door.
“Come
in,” he said curtly, “and see that you close the door behind you.” He paused,
then growled in a surly manner, “You’re late; we need to talk.”
“I’m
sorry. There was some work left to do,” answered the other. A breeze blew
through the open window behind Fynche’s desk.
“Close
the window, please. That wretched cleaning woman always leaves the window open,
and it blows my papers all around.”
“Very
well.” His visitor closed the window obediently.
“Come
around to the front, where I can see you. Something quite interesting has come
up and we need to talk. Clearly, decisions have to be made here. Did you hear
me…?”
Fynche
made a half-turn, threw up his hands defensively, and gave a smothered cry, but
it was too late. The broad brass base of an Edwardian candle holder was wielded
aloft and came crashing down with a sickening thud into Mr. Fynche’s skull.
Blood flew everywhere, seeping into the dark wood of the desk and into some
papers and puddling on to the floor.
Mr.
Bartholomew Fynche, open-mouthed and eyes glazed, his hands futilely clutching
at the air, slumped over the side of his chair and onto the floor… very very
dead.
The
visitor spent a moment or two looking around the cluttered shop, hunting for
something, but then thought better of it. With a sudden gesture, the visitor
pried a large gold ring from Mr. Fynche’s finger, hastily made the decision to
leave and, used The Bygone Era’s back door as the avenue of escape. The door
was closed quietly, and the visitor slipped out noiselessly into the anonymity
of the bustling throng of last-minute shoppers in the High Street. It was a
bright sunny day in late spring.
About the Author:
A.H. Richardson was born in London England and is the daughter
of famous pianist and composer Clive Richardson. She studied drama and acting
at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. She was an actress, a
musician, a painter and sculptor, and now an Author.
A.H. Richardson lives happily in East Tennessee, her
adopted state, and has three sons, three grandchildren, and two pugs.
She speaks four languages and loves to do voiceovers. She plans on
writing many more books and hopes to delight her readers further with her
British twist, which all her books have.
What do you think of this new murder mystery? Let me know!
