Mystery crime fiction written in the Golden Age of Murder "Originally published in 1935, Bude's murder mystery remains as intriguing today as it was upon its release almost 80 years ago." ― Publishers Weekly When a body is found at an isolated garage, Inspector Meredith is drawn into a complex investigation where every clue leads to another puzzle: was this a suicide, or something more sinister? Why was the dead man planning to flee the country? And how is this connected to the shady business dealings of the garage? This classic mystery novel is set amidst the stunning scenery of a small village in the Lake District. It is now republished for the first time since the 1930s with an introduction by the award-winning crime writer Martin Edwards. Golden Age writer Bude's mystery (published in 1935, the same year as his debut novel, The Cornish Coast Murder , moves from this spectacularly disturbing opening into a satisfying intellectual puzzle, in which tiny discrepancies, like what time the tea table was set, become hugely illuminating.--Connie Fletcher " Booklist " The deeper Meredith delves into the case, the more complicated it becomes. A cast of believable, colorful characters will keep the reader engaged...-- " Publishers Weekly " JOHN BUDE was the pseudonym of Ernest Elmore (1901–1957), an author of the golden age of crime fiction. Elmore was a cofounder of the Crime Writers' Association, and worked in the theatre as a producer and director. The Lake District Murder By John Bude Poisoned Pen Press Copyright © 2014 Martin Edwards All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4642-0653-5 Contents Introduction, 1, I The Body In the Car, 5, II Meredith Gets Going, 14, III The Puzzle of the Hose-Pipe, 27, IV Clue at the Bank?, 37, V Motive?, 44, VI Sensational Verdict, 57, VII The Parked Petrol Lorry, 66, VIII Prince And Bettle Explain, 82, IX Investigations at the Lothwaite, 92, X Discoveries at the Depot, 103, XI Problem Number Two, 118, XII Fraud?, 127, XIII Meredith Sets His Scheme in Motion, 141, XIV The Quart in the Pint Pot!, 152, XV The Inspector of Weights And Measures, 166, XVI The Bee's Head Brewery, 182, XVII The Muslin Bag, 193, XVIII Meredith Goes to Earth, 207, XIX Pipes, 222, XX "The Admiral", 234, XXI Reconstruction of the Crime, 248, XXII Circumstantial Evidence, 261, XXIII The Last Round-Up, 283, CHAPTER 1 The Body in the Car When the northbound road leaves Keswick, it skirts the head of Derwentwater, curves into the picturesque village of Portinscale and then runs more or less straight up a broad and level valley until it arrives at the little, mountain-shadowed hamlet of Braithwaite. There is a fair amount of traffic up this valley, particularly in the summer; tourists wending their way into the Buttermere valley are bound to take this road, for the very simple reason that there's no other road to take. It also links up the inland Cumbrian towns with the coastal towns of Whitehaven, Workington and Maryport. About half-way between Portinscale and Braithwaite, on a very bleak and uninhabited stretch of road, stands a newish stone-and-cement garage on the rim of a spacious meadow. There are a few petrol pumps between the road and a broad concrete draw-in, where cars can fill up without checking the main traffic. The garage itself is a plain, rectangular building with a flat roof, on one side of which is a brick lean-to with a corrugated iron roof. About ten paces from the Braithwaite side of the garage there is a small, stone, slate-roofed cottage. It is not flush with the road, but set back about fifty feet or more, fronted with an unkempt garden which boasts a few wind-stunted crab-apple trees. Altogether this small desolate group of buildings is not exactly prepossessing. One feels that only the necessity of earning a livelihood would drive a man to dwell in such a spot. One wet and windy night, toward the end of March, a dilapidated T-model Ford was rattling through the deserted street of Portinscale. At the wheel sat a red-faced, bluff-looking farmer of about sixty. He was returning from a Farmers' Union dinner in Keswick. He felt pleased and at peace with the world, for he had that inside him which sufficed to keep out the cold, and the engine of the Ford, for all its years, was running as smooth as silk. Another twenty minutes, he reckoned, would see him in Braithwaite, roasting his toes at a roaring fire, with a "night-cap" at his elbow to round off a very convivial evening. But it is precisely at those moments when the glass seems to be "set fair" that Fate invariably decides to take a hand. And Fate had decided that Farmer Perryman was to make a late night of it. He had, in fact, only just cleared the last outlying cottages of the village when the Ford engine broke into a series of spluttering coughs and finally petered out. Drawing into the side of the road, Luke, cursing under his breath, buttoned up the collar of his coat, pulled an e