by Issy Brooke
The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway
Book One: Murder at Mondial Castle
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
MURDER AT MONDIAL CASTLE
First edition. October 2, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Issy Brooke.
Written by Issy Brooke.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
One
The servants, much like sensitive people or dogs before a thunderstorm, could tell when an explosion of emotion from the Earl of Calaway was imminent and they would melt away into the back corridors and distant rooms of Thringley House. It wasn’t that they expected an outburst of violent fury or untrammelled rage directed at them; it was simply that any outpouring of passions from the usually cool Earl was so uncommon and unpredictable that no one wanted to be any part of it.
Only one small maid, new to service, hid behind a tall cabinet containing specimens of rare poisonous snails, and watched as the family solicitor inched into the breakfast room. He knew he was entering the scene of a storm which he himself would soon create. The maid, peeking around the snails, was so raw and green that she didn’t even question the presence of natural history objects in the otherwise pleasant room. Starting her career in the strange surroundings of Thringley House was going to make her quite numb to any future eccentricities her next employers might have. If she made it that far; these snails, Conus geographus, had killed at least two collectors.
But at least they were safely behind glass, unlike Lord Calaway.
The family solicitor came to a halt. Mr Postlethwaite’s ancestors had all been in the legal profession. Their family tree was made up entirely of judges, magistrates, lawyers, commissioners and solicitors. Over the generations, these dusty, soft-spoken men of the bar had moved through life on a course parallel to the ancient Caxton family that held acres of land around the large village of Thringley. As the Caxtons had moved up in the world, gathering titles and status from the time of the Norman conquest and onwards, the Postlethwaites had been there too, alongside the great family, preparing the documents, arranging the deals, and offering quiet, careful advice.
But the Mr Postlethwaite that now quivered on the rucked-up rug of the breakfast room was the current patriarch’s son, and he was twenty years younger than the Earl he faced.
And he brought very bad news.
The Earl of Calaway did not look at his wife. He knew that Adelia would be glaring at him. After all, she had warned him where things would end if he insisted on pursuing his so-called “ridiculous” dreams. He didn’t want to see her pursed lips or face her silent righteousness so instead, he barked out, “Girl! Yes, you, behind the snails. Go and ... do something in the kitchen.”
He didn’t need to look at the place where the maid was hiding. He knew she had been there all along; he always knew what was happening around him. He prided himself on his observational skills. And shouting at servants was probably better than shouting at the family solicitor. She was sturdier. Mr Postlethwaite would fall over if a strong draught came through a window.
“Don’t shout. It’s not like you. And anyway she’s a housemaid, dear,” Adelia said, turning to smile kindly at the maid who could not see her mistress’s gentle expression as she was scurrying out with her eyes fixed on the floor. “She doesn’t do the kitchen. I think she was only here on account of the rug.”
The Earl flared his nostrils. He’d observed the maid but, as usual, had missed the wider point. No matter. He’d be tempted to send Adelia out, too, if he dared. But of course, he didn’t dare. Thirty years of marriage to this remarkable woman had taught him many things, and self-preservation was one of them. She wasn’t a tyrant. It was just that she was usually right about things – and he respected that.
Mr Postlethwaite the younger continued to tremble in front of them. He refused all of Adelia’s invitations to join them for a restrained breakfast of eggs and toast. He clutched a thick yellow sheet of paper in his hands, folded so that the text could not be seen.
The Earl thought that he could guess what it said, at least roughly. It would be one more letter of complaint, or perhaps another of those scurrilous posters that had popped up in the local area. Maybe it was the third or fourth frankly libellous cartoon that the press delighted in printing. Last week, a woman had screamed at him in the street. Actually screamed. She had used words that would have upset the roughest of his farm labourers. The situation was becoming intolerable. Something had to be done.
He didn’t know what.
But he was not a man to let uncertainty get in the way of a rash decision. He blinked. Why wasn’t Mr Postlethwaite speaking?
Adelia sighed. “Mr Postlethwaite, please tell us what concerns you today.”
Oh yes, that was it. The Earl hadn’t invited him to speak, that was why the man stayed silent.
“My Lady, my Lord. Ah. I am sorry to report a potentially injurious development in the, ah ... the matter.”
The Earl still would not look at Adelia. He thought, I’m in for it now. She warned me. She’s not going to remind me that she warned me. She knows that I know. She’ll be silently right, damn it. Why did I marry a clever woman?
“Injurious?” he said to the solicitor. “Has someone challenged me to a duel? That would be an amusing diversion.” He tried to laugh.
“At which you’d lose,” Adelia said. He could hear her soften the remark with a smile curving the words upwards. “Please, Mr Postlethwaite, speak plainly. You have known us for long enough.”
Mr Postlethwaite unfolded the paper and slid it onto the table. “Mrs Duncan Cosslett is pressing charges. And unlike the ... the others, she has the money to do so, and the energy to do so, and the ...”
“Spite,” finished the Earl. “She is a woman driven almost entirely by spite. I cannot imagine what else might be affecting her to cause her to take against me with such passion.”
“Perhaps it was the loss of her husband?” Adelia put in. It wasn’t that the Earl was an unfeeling man; it was just that he sometimes lacked the capacity to understand that others might also feel things. So she had told him on many occasions, he reflected.
“Yes, well, as to that bereavement,” Mr Postlethwaite continued, “she has sought the medical opinion of a certain doctor of Harley Street and he is convinced that you could have managed the case in a different way.”
“You mean I could have stopped the chap from dying?” the Earl said. “Hardly. His liver had gone, his kidneys had gone; the poor fellow hadn’t passed water in a week. He was either going to die or he was going to go pop. Nasty business, either way, don’t you think?”
He risked a glance sideways and saw Adelia wince. “This is what we have talked about before,” she said in a low tone. “Your bedside manner is what is lacking, not your medical skill.”
“My medical knowledge is second to none. My bedside manner should have no part in the cons
iderations.”
He was sure that a look then passed between Mr Postlethwaite and his wife. He pursed his lips. But they didn’t understand; he knew he was good at what he did. He spoke plainly to his patients and did not fudge the issues that they were facing. What would be the point of that? He had no truck with half-truths and empty platitudes, and yet here he was, the target for every malcontent in the area who had ever fallen ill and had recourse to the Earl’s care.
It baffled him. He knew, as an Earl, he was the most unusual doctor most people had ever met. That was one reason that he spoke bluntly to them. He did not want to seem lofty or unapproachable. But Adelia often told him that he was not meant to be a doctor, or at least, not the sort that people would turn to if they needed soothing.
She was wrong, he was sure of it. She wasn’t usually wrong but about this, she was. She had to be. He couldn’t bear the thought of the alternatives. And he was a feeling man, he thought fiercely. He felt he had to be a doctor. It was his only link to his father – his only real emotional link. The title? The earldom? That could go hang.
He was not meant to be an earl – now, that was a different matter. He had not been raised to inherit the lands or the main title. He had been content enough to go through life as mere Mr Theodore Caxton, and didn’t even use the family’s subsidiary titles to which he could lay claim, Viscount this, Viscount that, honourable the other. He let his older brother do the aristocratic thing in society while he happily sank into his studies. He quickly mastered all the main branches of science and mathematics and, to everyone’s shock and horror, planned from a young age to become a doctor.
They told him that it was not appropriate, of course. Even without inheriting the Earldom, it was simply not done. Perhaps lower ranks could indulge themselves in such dalliances – if he had been a baron, perhaps – but the son of an earl, even the second son, ranked highly and had other, more serious duties.
But Theodore was a single-minded sort of man. He didn’t want to become a doctor in order to rebel against his position and spite others, or to prove that he was better than anyone else, or anything else of that ilk. He simply saw the act of saving another’s life as the very noblest thing that one could do.
To be a doctor was a calling.
As a small boy, he had watched his father grow ill. Nothing had helped ease the man’s suffering. Every treatment and every innovation failed him. Then a young, jovial country doctor had been called in and whatever he did, he did it well. The young Theodore had listened at doors and watched from corners and had seen how the doctor had the very power of life and death over the man who was most dear to him.
His father recovered.
That young doctor had done something with science and knowledge that money and power could not do. He had given life to the old man. He had given Theodore his father back.
So Theodore had pursued his dream in spite of the naysayers and he had eventually qualified, scandalously, as a doctor.
But he had only been in practice for a very short time when everything had been destroyed. His father finally passed away of natural causes, and not long after that, Theodore’s elder brother was killed in a carriage accident.
Theodore Caxton then found himself unexpectedly as the Earl of Calaway, with a frail young wife and a boisterous son, Bamfylde. He put his medical practise aside and shouldered all the duties of his title, a burden which grew even heavier when his wife died soon after the deaths of his father and his brother. For a while, life went very wrong. He made choices that were, in hindsight, ill ones. He made mistakes that he preferred to forget.
Those mistakes did not seem to want to forget him, however.
Still, nearly thirty years had passed since those dark times. The world had changed. His life had changed. A new wife, Adelia, and the births of seven daughters over a span of ten years had turned everything upside down, in the very best of ways.
That was until six months ago, when he had found himself in a position to take up medicine once more. His youngest daughter had finally married and left, and the house was echoing and empty, and his life was his own once more. His duties and responsibilities had been passed on to his seven sons-in-law. He had seized the chance, dusted off his leather bag of medical implements and strode out of Thringley House and into the local area armed with all the largesse of his position and the zeal of a modern aristocrat who wanted to use his power for good, expecting to be feted and celebrated or at the very least, cordially welcomed.
Not slapped with potential lawsuits.
He suddenly sat up straight. Mr Postlethwaite and his wife were talking. She took the yellow paper from Mr Postlethwaite and he backed away, murmuring a litany of apologies and explanations and daring, in a few short words, to offer some suggestions, although the suggestions were mainly “Please stop trying to be a doctor” wrapped up in flowery obscure language.
The solicitor slipped out of the room before either the Earl or Adelia had chance to ring the bell for a footman. It didn’t matter. Mr Postlethwaite knew his way out and if he was lucky, he’d be waylaid by the butler who would entice him to his cosy office on the ground floor. There, the butler would ply the solicitor with pilfered brandy to ease any juicy secrets out of him. It wasn’t worth stopping that little play; sometimes those secrets found their way back to the ears of Adelia and many a potential scandal had been nipped in the bud by the understanding and machinations of his wife.
Theodore sat back in his chair and tapped his long fingers on the table, agitated. Adelia read the official letter and glanced up at him, a look from under her lowered lids that reminded him of the girl he’d met three decades previously. She had told him some hard home truths back then, and saved him from a steady slide into dissolution. In gratitude and genuine love, he’d married her. For fear of how his life would unravel without her, he had stayed loyal to her ever since.
He knew he had to listen to her now.
He pre-empted her advice by saying, “Yes, yes, I know. It is a difficult situation but one, I am sure, which can be resolved amicably.”
She threw the paper down and shook her head, smiling ruefully. “You’re simply going to have to pay them a great deal of money and stay out of sight for a while.”
“Pay them to go away, do you mean?”
“Pay them to stop their silly campaign – and I mean for you to go away.”
“You’re sending me away from my own house?”
She laughed. “We ought to be in London anyway. We left far too early.”
“We shouldn’t have gone to London at all. We don’t need to any more. You know how I feel about the season. It’s a waste of money and time. All one does is parade oneself around like a prize cow being offered for sale at an auction.”
“We are both far too old to be considered any kind of prize, livestock or otherwise. But I’ll concede you did your bit when you were called upon – for our daughters’ sakes.” Every one of the seven was now well married to a range of significant men.
Theodore said, “In a few weeks’ time I could go up to Scotland. That will get me away.”
“You’ve never wanted to take part in the grouse hunting before.”
“No, and I shan’t do so this time. Far too flappy. And all that striding through wet heather. Dogs, everywhere, licking your hands when you least expect it. But there are always injuries to attend to. Whisky and guns do not mix.”
“Theodore, my dear heart, my rock, my captain, my most well-beloved,” Adelia said. “Listen to me. You must give up medicine, at least, in the manner in which you are currently trying to practise it. There is much to be done in the field of research. We have the space here to build laboratories! There are many advances you could make if you dedicated yourself to the study of diseases. Think of the lives you might save if you apply your intellect to rooting out the causes of illness!”
Theodore knew that she was trying to mollify him. “It is not the same,” he protested. “To me, a real doctor is there at the
patient’s side, extending a hand in the very darkest of times.” Like Doctor Hardy had done.
“But you don’t extend a hand, dear heart. You sit there and you give them a list of the very worst things to expect, cheerfully outlining the details of their case, and they promptly expire in fright.”
“No one can die of fright. It has been proven.”
“Mrs Duncan Cosslett would disagree. As would the family of that young labouring lad, Jem Irving. As would Mr Benson the butcher. As would...”
“Adelia, please. No one likes to be reminded of their failings. Although of course, these weren’t exactly failings.”
“What, do you think that it isn’t your fault? You think that the patient is simply too silly to put their mind to a decent recovery?”
“I didn’t mean that.” But he was beaten and he knew it. “I shall go to Scotland,” he said wearily. He thought about midges and rain and tweed, and grimaced. There would be enthusiastic Labradors. He would hate it.
Adelia smiled. She rang the bell and a smartly-dressed middle-aged maid appeared.
“Smith, arrange more tea, if you will. And my letters from the hallway.”
“My lady.”
Smith could move silently like an assassin and always gave Theodore the impression that she knew what was needed before anyone asked for it. The fresh, hot tea appeared far more quickly than could have been predicted. Tea was not generally a suitable breakfast drink but both Adelia and Theodore agreed that its potential harm was outweighed by its benefits. Smith presented a silver salver of correspondence to Adelia, who appeared to be hunting among the envelopes for something that she expected to find.
“Yes, here it is. Thank you, Smith. Advise Mrs Petty that I shall be down directly. I wish to discuss the matter of the disappointing herring.”
“My lady.” Smith virtually faded out of the room without appearing to move.
“Something you were expecting?” Theodore said, craning his head to look at the long, thin letter. It had been folded in the old-fashioned way, with no need for an envelope. The handwriting was looping and careful, each letter exactly the same height. “Is that from Harriet?” The bishop’s wife was Adelia’s best friend and general irritant in Theodore’s life.
