The Secret of Hollyfield House

by Jude Bayton

  Table of Contents

  The Secret of Hollyfield House

  Publication Information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Praise for Jude Bayton

  Chapter One

  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 Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Secret of Mowbray Manor

  The Secret of Hollyfield House

  by

  Jude Bayton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Secret of Hollyfield House

  COPYRIGHT © 2021 Deborah Bayton-FitzSimons

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: author@judebayton.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  Print ISBN 978-1-955441-00-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-955441-01-8

  Published by redbus llc

  Dedication

  To my wonderful daughters-in-law, Emily Wessels Bayton, Natalie Curran Bayton, and Jessica Sutherland FitzSimons. Without you, there would be way too much testosterone in this family.

  Acknowledgements

  Alicia “Ally” Dean—a fabulous writer, an amazing editor and the dearest of friends.

  A huge thank you to my Brit ladies—Lynne Bayton Imeson, Danii Imeson & Sheila Dawn Smith—your help was invaluable, and to my American ladies—MJ Hawe, Nestora Germann, and Susan Brown, who kindly read the first version of this book many iterations ago.

  Praise for

  Jude Bayton

  “THE SECRET OF MOWBRAY MANOR is an elegant historic suspense that does a beautiful job reminding us that when you scratch the surface of dignified family, you don’t have to scratch hard to find blood. Jude’s bold and crisply defined characters felt tangible. I loved getting swept up in the stunning settings, and the mystery and angst locked me in. I couldn’t put it down. The juxtaposition of dark vs. light and good vs. evil gets cleverly flipped on its head. I went from trying to solve the mystery to just hoping that the noble heroine Kathryn isn’t killed before she can uncover the secret and find out what really happened to her friend.”

  ~Amy Brewer, Literary Agent

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, May 6, 1885

  IT WAS A DAY MEANT FOR walking and picking wildflowers. Discovering a dead man lying in the shallows of Lake Windermere had not been part of my plans. At first, I thought a sheep, or large farm animal must have become entangled in the thick green rushes. But as I neared the water, to my absolute horror, I registered human eyes staring vacantly up at the heavens. Foamy spittle oozed from his gaping mouth and there was the appalling buzz of flies in a feeding frenzy atop the bloody wound on his chest.

  What little I had consumed for breakfast rumbled in my roiling stomach, and I turned away to be violently ill. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart pounded. I looked around frantically, desperate to see another living soul to call to my aid. But I was out of luck. There was no one else about. I did not wait another moment. I took off at a run to get the village constable.

  TWO HOURS SPENT AT the police station, and I still could not accept my gruesome discovery. A body. Dear God, I had seen the body of a dead man. I baulked at the recollection and knew the vision of that poor creature would be forever imprinted on my mind. My hands still shook, though the constable had already brought me two cups of sweet tea laced with brandy.

  How I wished Uncle Jasper were here. Though a messenger was dispatched to our house to fetch him thirty minutes since, I had warned them not to waste their time. My uncle would still be foraging out on the hills, while here I sat with my head consumed with images of the dead man, the blood, the flies. My stomach churned once again, and I forced the scene from my thoughts. Who was the poor fellow? The constable had not yet identified him, and I certainly could not, for I had only lived in Ambleside the better part of a month, and hardly knew a soul.

  “Miss Farraday.” Constable Bloom was back, his face pink with exertion from climbing the steep staircase of the police station. “It seems your uncle, Professor Alexander is nowhere to be found. Is there someone else who can collect you?”

  I shook my head. “No, there is not.” Mrs Stackpoole, our housekeeper, was visiting a friend for the afternoon. I sat up straighter. “Constable Bloom. I believe myself recovered enough to go home.”

  But he wasn’t having it. “Now then, miss. Let’s not hurry. You’ve had a nasty shock an’ I wouldn’t want you to go off in a faint or anythin’—”

  “Thank you,” I interrupted. “But I assure you I am well enough. I feel I would be better off at home—if you please.”

  The policeman reluctantly nodded.

  OUTSIDE THE CONSTABULARY, THE fresh air was a welcome balm to my rattled senses, and I filled my lungs. The sun burned bright in the May sky, and I tilted up my face to capture its warmth. After a moment, though, I began to feel rather odd. Most likely the culprit being the brandy in my tea, drunk on an empty stomach. My head spun, my vision blurred, and I teetered off the pavement and stepped directly into the street.

  A carriage flew past my face, the wheel rims so close to my body that I instinctively lurched backwards, losing my balance. I tumbled to the ground, landing on my back with enough force to knock the wind from me. For a moment I lay stunned, until a stranger hurried to my assistance and gently helped me back to my feet.

  “Are you hurt, miss?” The kindly man asked, keeping a tight grip of me.

  I was unable to speak. Nothing felt broken, but my back and head had taken a blow. Strangely enough, the dizzy spell had abated, though my head now throbbed like the dickens.

  The carriage came to a quick halt not far down the street and a liveried coachman rushed back to assess the damage.

  My rescuer turned on the driver with a scowl. “Good God, man. You should pay attention where you are going. This poor woman could have been killed!”

  “…She stepped right out in front of me,” the driver protested, his face white as a sheet. I began to say something but was distracted when the carriage door swung open and a passenger alighted, heading in our direction.

  She wore a striking sapphire blue travelling suit, her mass of blonde hair artfully scooped up into an elaborate bun, underneath a matching jaunty felt hat. With eyes blue as forget-me-nots, her expression was one of genuine concern.

  “Oh, dear.” She came to stand before me, inspecting my face as an artist studies his subject. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I said
unconvincingly. “At least I shall be once I catch my breath.” I still felt winded, and my legs trembled—though it was hardly surprising after the morning I had already endured.

  “Come.” She grasped my arm firmly and glanced at her driver. “We must go somewhere close where the lady may rest and perhaps take refreshment.” Dismissing the stranger with a polite thank you, she led me a short way down the street into a tearoom before I could protest. In truth, I was rather relieved to sit. I was queasy, and my spine was sore where it had taken the brunt of my fall.

  The lady gave our order to the hostess as she took me inside the establishment. We settled into our seats and, before long, a waitress brought over a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of hot, buttered crumpets.

  “There now,” said the young lady. “This should set you to rights, I’ll be bound.”

  I did not respond but watched her pour me a cup for which I was most grateful. I eyed the crumpets. Perhaps they would help settle my nausea. “May I?” I enquired boldly, glancing at the food.

  “Certainly, please help yourself,” she said.

  I did not hesitate. I took one bite and at once my upset stomach decided it was ravenous.

  “Goodness, you must think me so rude,” the lady said as I ate. “Here we are at tea, and I have yet to even introduce myself. I am Evergreen LaVelle. May I ask your name?”

  I swallowed and dabbed my lips with the serviette. “Jillian Farraday, miss.”

  She gave me a pretty smile. “Are you new to Ambleside? I do not recognise you.”

  “Yes. I am recently moved from Devon.”

  “Indeed?” Her blue eyes sparkled. She looked like a porcelain doll, smooth and delicate, not a hair out of place. I shuddered to think how I looked.

  “I have never been to Devon,” she continued. “Pray, tell me. What brings you to our Lake District?” She removed elegant white cotton gloves, set them upon the table, and then helped herself to a piece of a crumpet. She placed it delicately in her mouth, and I became uncomfortably aware that in comparison, I had devoured mine like a rabid dog.

  “I moved here to work for my great-uncle. He lives in Ambleside.”

  Miss LaVelle's eyebrows raised. “Indeed, what is it you do?” I believe she thought me his maid or housekeeper.

  “I am a secretary. Uncle Jasper is an academic. He does much in the way of research on lichens and flora. I transcribe his studies which are sent to various agricultural colleges in the country.”

  There was an immediate change in her countenance. I had apparently been elevated in status.

  “Would that be Professor Alexander, by chance?” She took another sip of tea.

  “Why, yes. Do you know him?”

  “Not really—but Father does.” Miss LaVelle placed her teacup back in its saucer and her expression grew thoughtful. “Miss Farraday, I am sincerely sorry about what happened with our coach. Are you sure you do not require a physician?”

  “Positive, thank you. I shall have a few aches and pains, but I will recover.” I did not mention what I had witnessed earlier that morning. Those wounds would scar.

  She was not mollified. “But I feel dreadful about this. You will at least allow me to take you home in the carriage?” Her pretty eyes glittered with an idea. “And you must come for luncheon on Friday. That way, I can ensure you are fully recovered.”

  “Oh, that is not necessary,” I stammered, shocked at her invitation.

  She reached into her reticule and retrieved a small, embossed card. “Please.” She touched my forearm and gave a mournful smile. “I should so enjoy speaking with you again, and it would be far more comfortable at Hollyfield. Say you’ll come.”

  I hesitated. I had no desire whatsoever to do as she asked, but something in her face made me reconsider. Surely she could not be lonely? I was uncertain. Yet as I examined all the reasons I should decline, I heard myself accept both her card and her invitation.

  THAT EVENING, WHEN UNCLE Jasper finally returned from his trek across the hills, he discovered me in the kitchen with Mrs Stackpoole, the housekeeper. I cradled a mug of beef tea between my hands, which she had insisted upon making after hearing my shocking news. I still could not shake the image of the dead man from my mind.

  The day had stayed warm, yet with the sun gone, the evening brought with it a slight chill, so we sat before the stove warming ourselves.

  “What’s this, then?” Uncle Jasper put down his satchel and pulled off his boots in the mud room. He strode into the kitchen, leaving a trail of dried dirt from his thick wool socks. “Good evening, ladies. Am I late for dinner?” Sparse grey hair on his head stuck up at awkward angles. His face was ruddy from a day of wind and sun, and his round glasses threatened to slip off his snubbed nose.

  “Professor, do have a care. I have just this day swept the blasted floor.” Mrs Stackpoole shot to her feet, throwing a disapproving glare in his direction. She put the kettle back on the stove to boil.

  “Forgive me, Mrs S. My mind is elsewhere. I have been on a decidedly important ramble.” He took a seat. “Do you recall the missive that arrived before lunch?”

  “Of course, I do,” she flustered. “T’were me who gave it to you when I was on my way out.”

  He looked at me for the first time. “Well, let me tell you, Jilly, it was of vital import. My dear, I have been invited by Lord Mountjoy, to participate in an evening of lectures presented by none other than the Royal Pharmaceutical Society. I am to give a detailed talk on the substantial variety of lichens and mosses found here in the Lake District.” His face beamed with pleasure.

  I smiled. It was difficult not to, for he looked terribly happy. “I am pleased to hear it, Uncle. Congratulations.” Though I had not lived with him long, I was already attached to the old man. He was my only living relative, after all.

  His bushy eyebrows drew close together. “I have only until the twenty-first, so I shall have great need of you these next two weeks, Jilly. It is imperative my notes are up to date and in perfect order.”

  Mrs Stackpoole came to the table and placed a cup of tea in front of him along with a thick ham and cheese sandwich. Her capable hands crept onto her broad hips and she shook her head in disapproval. “Never mind your blasted fungi, Professor. When you stop to take a breath, you might ask your poor niece how she fares after the rotten day she’s had. The poor mite has had a nasty shock as well as a tumble.”

  Uncle Jasper paused, pushed his spectacles back up his nose and took a large bite of his sandwich. Once he had swallowed, his pale blue eyes fastened upon my face. “Well, go on Jilly, speak up. What has happened?”

  I set down my tea and sighed, dreading the telling. “I took a walk this morning down to the lake and had the misfortune to discover a dead body floating in the water.”

  Uncle Jasper stared at me, momentarily lost for words. Then he set his food back on the plate and reached over the table to take my cold hands in his. “Oh, my goodness, surely not, dear girl. A body? Good Lord. You have told the police?”

  “Yes, of course. I ran to the village as fast as I could and fetched Constable Bloom back there with me. Then he took me to the police station until I was well enough to come home.”

  Uncle Jasper searched my face. “My poor, poor dear,” he said softly. “That must have been horrifying. ’Tis rare for something like that to happen here, but with a lake as large as Windermere, sometimes drownings occur. Especially when there are tourists visiting.”

  I shook my head. “No, Uncle. This was no accident. There was a deep wound in the man’s chest. Constable Bloom says the man was stabbed.” As the words left my lips, my voice wavered. And then much to my consternation, I began to cry.

  Chapter Two

  THAT NIGHT, MRS STACKPOOLE PREPARED an Epsom Salt bath which gave soothing comfort to my sore back after a long soak. As I climbed slowly into bed, she brought me up a small snifter of ‘medicinal’ brandy to help me sleep.

  By morning, my mental state was much improved, even t
hough I had woken from bad dreams more than once in the night. My body ached, and it took longer than usual for me to dress as my shoulders and neck were stiff. When I arrived downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Stackpoole already had the kettle on the hob and sliced bread ready to toast.

  “How are you this mornin’? Did you get any rest at all?” she enquired as I walked into the room.

  “A little. The bath and brandy really helped. Thank you, Mrs Stackpoole.”

  “You are most welcome, poor dear,” she said, spearing a slice of bread to hold over the flame of the stove. “You look much better than you did last night. Got some colour back in your cheeks.” She turned the bread to toast the opposite side. “Your uncle has already breakfasted an’ gone off on his ramble. He’s that excited about his bloomin’ lecture, he all but floated out of the door.”

  I smiled, then had a sobering thought. “Do you think it safe for him to be out alone after what happened yesterday?” I could not help but worry.

  “Of course,” she blustered. “That man can take care of himself.” She placed the slab of toast onto a plate and gestured for me to come and take it. “The only danger he’s in is breakin’ his neck gallivantin’ up and down those hills.”

  I spread butter on my toast. She was right. I pictured the old professor, surprisingly spry for a man in his late sixties. “’Tis a wonderful thing to have a passion in life, Mrs Stackpoole. I believe it keeps Uncle Jasper young.”

  “I don’t know about that.” She poured boiling water into a teapot and carried it to the table. Her vast grey curls spilled from underneath her white mob-cap, and her ample bosom jiggled as she took a seat.

  The housekeeper poured our tea, and my mind reached back to the horror I had seen the day before. I quickly shook it away. Instead, I thought of the young woman I had met.

  “Mrs Stackpoole, do you know much about the LaVelles?” Last night I had told her how their carriage had knocked me down, but not elaborated beyond that.