An Edith Horton Mystery, #2
Buy Here: Tirgearr Publishing
WWI is over but its echoes are still felt in the 1930s. Giles Etherington was a brave officer who also had a darker side. He does not return from a lone morning’s shooting for grouse on the “glorious 12th”. Is his death an act of revenge for his actions during the war, or as a result of his behaviour since? Edith Horton, his wife’s best friend finds herself drawn into the quest for his killer.
• • •
Revenge is a dish best ate cold–was that how the saying went?
Anyway, it was a thought, a distraction. Nights out with the boys always led to odd feelings the next day; the alcohol led to panic and a sense of impending doom. Nights out in the pub with old comrades–the thought of going was enticing, but the reality was different; watching while they all got on with their lives…Stephen, Ben, Michael, while his own had stopped somewhere in a trench in France. That wasn’t just self-pity; that was fact.
The pace was too manic now, the physical signs of panic becoming too overwhelming–the heart racing, the damp hands and tingling over the upper lip, prickling cold with sweat. The strange weakness. Now, in addition, there was a rushing noise, like that sound when you pressed a seashell to your ear.
This was no good. Much more of this and he would postpone it–that would lead to self-hatred and the depression that went with it. Already there was an echo of the lacerating feelings, the venomous self-talking–“you are useless, couldn’t even do this, coward.”
No, the panic would have to be faced, borne. Look at what other people had had to face. Look at the terrors overcome in a spirit of comradeship and bravery. That is supposed to be what bravery was, after all—feeling frightened but going ahead regardless.
Nausea rising in the throat, sweat breaking out now on the brow.
Limping across to the window. Deep breaths. Pushing the window open. Drawing in the air, which was warm but freshened by a slight breeze, and it was clean, clean air, life giving. Close the eyes, take in deep breaths. Conjure images of steel in the backbone.
Turn quickly now. Resolve coming from somewhere. Reaching for the steel of the revolver. Steel in the pocket now, steel in the backbone and…Please, steel in the mind.
• • •
Noreen is Irish and now lives in the Staffordshire Moorlands with her husband, a dairy farmer. She works part-time as a mentor at Staffordshire University and the rest of her time is spent writing. Many of her articles and short stories have been published and she has co-written a non-fiction book.
She loves crime fiction, particularly that of the “golden age” and that is what she wants to recreate with Edith Horton’s world.
Find Noreen online:
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/noreen.wainwright
Twitter - https://twitter.com/farmerwainwrigh
Golden Age Crime Blog - http://www.goldenagecrime.com
A Home Spun Year Blog - http://www.ahomespunyear.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Wainwright_Noreen