The Word Is Murder
(Hawthorne and Horowitz Mystery #1)
by Anthony Horowitz
About the Author
The author of the bestselling teen spy series, Alex Rider, Anthony Horowitz is also responsible for creating and writing some of the UK’s most loved and successful TV series, including Midsomer Murders and Foyle’s War.
He has also written two highly acclaimed Sherlock Holmes novels, The House of Silk and Moriarty; a James Bond novel, Trigger Mortis; and his most recent stand-alone novel, Magpie Murders, was a Top Five Sunday Times bestseller.
He is on the board of the Old Vic Theatre, and regularly contributes to a wide variety of national newspapers and magazines on subjects ranging from politics to education. He was awarded an OBE for his services to literature in January 2014.
The Word is Murder is the first in a series of crime novels starring Detective Daniel Hawthorne and the author Anthony Horowitz.
The House of Silk
Moriarty
Trigger Mortis
Magpie Murders
One
Funeral Plans
Just after eleven o’clock on a bright spring morning, the sort of day when the sunshine is almost white and promises a warmth that it doesn’t quite deliver, Diana Cowper crossed the Fulham Road and went into a funeral parlour.
She was a short, very business-like woman: there was a sense of determination in her eyes, her sharply cut hair, the very way she walked. If you saw her coming, your first instinct would be to step aside and let her pass. And yet there was nothing unkind about her. She was in her sixties with a pleasant, round face. She was expensively dressed, her pale raincoat hanging open to reveal a pink jersey and grey skirt. She wore a heavy bead and stone necklace which might or might not have been expensive and a number of diamond rings that most certainly were. There were plenty of women like her in the streets of Fulham and South Kensington. She might have been on her way to lunch or to an art gallery.
The funeral parlour was called Cornwallis and Sons. It stood at the end of a terrace, with the name painted in a classical font both on the front of the building and down the side so that you would notice it from whichever direction you were coming. The two inscriptions were prevented from meeting in the middle by a Victorian clock which was mounted above the front door and which had come to a stop, perhaps appropriately, at 11.59. One minute to midnight. Beneath the name, again printed twice, was the legend: Independent Funeral Directors: A Family Business since 1820. There were three windows looking out over the street, two of them curtained, the third empty but for an open book made of marble, engraved with a quotation: When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. All the wood – the window frames, the frontage, the main door – was painted a dark blue, nudging black.
As Mrs Cowper opened the door, a bell on an old-fashioned spring mechanism sounded loudly, once. She found herself in a small reception area with two sofas, a low table, and a few shelves with books that had that peculiar sense of sadness that comes with being unread. A staircase led up to the other floors. A narrow corridor stretched ahead.
Almost at once, a woman appeared, stout, with thick legs and heavy, black leather shoes, coming down the stairs. She was smiling pleasantly, politely. The smile acknowledged that this was a delicate, painful business but that it would be expedited with calm and efficiency. Her name was Irene Laws. She was the personal assistant to Robert Cornwallis, the funeral director, and also acted as his receptionist.
‘Good morning. Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I would like to arrange a funeral.’
‘Are you here on behalf of someone who has died recently?’ The word ‘died’ was instructive. Not ‘passed away’. Not ‘deceased’. She had made it her business practice to speak plainly, recognising that, at the end of the day, it was less painful for all concerned.
‘No,’ Mrs Cowper replied. ‘It’s for myself.’
‘I see.’ Irene Laws didn’t blink – and why should she? It was not at all uncommon for people to arrange their own funerals. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked.
‘No. I didn’t know I’d need one.’
‘I’ll see if Mr Cornwallis is free. Please take a seat. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
Diana Cowper sat down. Irene Laws disappeared down the corridor, reappearing a few minutes later behind a man who so exactly suited the image of the funeral director that he could have been playing the part. There was, of course, the obligatory dark suit and sombre tie. But the very way he stood seemed to suggest that he was apologising for having to be there. His hands were clasped together in a gesture of profound regret. His face was crumpled, mournful, not helped by hair that had thinned to the edge of baldness and a beard that had the look of a failed experiment. He wore tinted spectacles that were sinking into the bridge of his nose, not just framing his eyes but masking them. He was about forty years old. He too was smiling.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘My name is Robert Cornwallis. I understand you wish to discuss a funeral plan with us.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been offered coffee or tea? Please come this way.’
The new client was taken down the corridor to a room at the end. This was as understated as the reception area – with one difference. Instead of books there were folders and brochures which, if opened, would show images of coffins, hearses (traditional or horse-drawn) and price lists. A number of urns had been arranged on two shelves should the discussion veer towards cremation. Two armchairs faced each other, one beside a small desk. Cornwallis sat here. He took out a pen, a silver Mont Blanc, and rested it on a notepad.
‘The funeral is your own,’ he began.
‘Yes.’ Suddenly Mrs Cowper was brisk, wanting to get straight to the point. ‘I have already given some consideration to the details. I take it you have no problem with that.’
‘On the contrary. Individual requirements are important to us. These days, pre-planned funerals and what you might call bespoke or themed funerals are very much the mainstay of our business. It is our privilege to provide exactly what our clients demand. After our discussion here, and assuming our terms are acceptable to you, we will provide you with a full invoice and breakdown of what has been agreed. Your relatives and friends will have nothing to do except, of course, to attend. And from our experience I can assure you that it will give them great comfort to know that everything has been done exactly in accordance with your wishes.’
Mrs Cowper nodded. ‘Excellent. Well, let’s get down to it, shall we?’ She took a breath, then dived straight in. ‘I want to be buried in a cardboard coffin.’
Cornwallis was about to make his first note. He paused, the nib hovering over the page. ‘If you are considering an eco-funeral, might I suggest recycled wood or even twisted willow branches rather than cardboard? There are occasions when cardboard can be … not entirely effective.’ He chose his words carefully, allowing all sorts of possibilities to hang in the air. ‘Willow is hardly more expensive and a great deal more attractive.’
‘All right. I want to be buried in Brompton Cemetery, next to my husband.’
‘You lost him recently?’
‘Twelve years ago. We already have the plot, so there’ll be no problems there. And this is what I want in the service …’ She opened her handbag and took out a sheet of paper, which she laid on the desk.