by Shéa MacLeod
“But we were here,” I said. “And we’d seen who we thought was Sir Eustace on the ship. You had to make sure Sir Eustace, the real one, wasn’t seen by any of us. Is that why you made up those stories about him being a terrible person?”
“Of course,” Elenore said. “It seemed the best way to throw you off the scent.”
“Of course Algernon couldn’t die here in France,” I mused. “He had to be found elsewhere in order to give the two of you an alibi.”
She beamed. “Exactly.”
“So you stuffed Baron Vessy’s body in the trunk Lady Rample saw and shipped it off to London where your niece was to collect it,” Enzo mused. “No doubt she was to leave it somewhere it would be found at the appropriate time. How could you be sure it wouldn’t be discovered too early?”
“I couldn’t,” she admitted. “I just had to keep my fingers crossed.”
“And hope your niece got to it before it started smelling.” I wrinkled my nose.
She laughed. “She was in on the whole thing. She hated Algernon as much as we did.”
“Plus, you promised her a thousand quid,” Sir Eustace muttered.
Enzo and I exchanged looks. I knew Varant would be getting another call.
I still had so many questions. “What about all those goings on the night of the murder? Not only did Sir Eustace leave and come back with a large parcel, but he was digging around in the garden. And then there was the trip to the station. What was that about?”
Elenore rolled her eyes. “I’d given him a list of things we needed. Naturally, he forgot half of them.” She gave me a look as if to say, Men. What are you going to do? “The villa down the road is empty at the moment, so he went there. Fortunately, they had everything we needed. He had to mail the letter at the station with the information for my niece. And the garden... well, you know what he buried there.”
“And who was the man at the train station?” I asked Sir Eustace. “The conductor saw you talking to someone. An Englishman.”
He shrugged. “Just some random person who wanted to know the way to the nearest hotel. I told him and sent him on his way.” He hung his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Algernon deserved exactly what he got,” Lady Scrubbs said smugly. “I’m not the least bit sorry.”
“You will be soon enough,” Enzo said grimly.
The French police hauled the two of them away. It was such a shame. I’d rather liked Elenore. Which made me wonder about my taste in people.
“I admit, I’m baffled,” I told Enzo later. “Why would Elenore hide the dog? Fake his death?”
Enzo nodded. “It is baffling, as you say. But when I asked her about it, she simply said, ‘He was getting too close to the roses and I needed a distraction, but I wasn’t going to hurt the creature. I’m no monster.’” He shook his head. “You English are very strange.”
To which I had no reply. He wasn’t entirely wrong.
Poor Peaches must have caught a whiff of the bloody hammer Sir Eustace had buried. That’s why he’d kept trying to dig up the roses.
We got very little sleep the rest of the night and all woke in the morning groggy and in dire need of coffee. Louise declared that she was taking Peaches home immediately.
“I’m sorry, I simply can’t bear it to be next to the home of those terrible people.” She glanced at the villa and I knew she was thinking about her poor dog locked in some storage room.
By eleven she was packed and was on her way to the train station in Nice with Mr. Singh at the wheel and Peaches perched on her lap.
“You know,” Aunt Butty said as the car rounded a bend out of sight, “I think she’s right. It’s time to go home. But first, I think I’ll swing by Paris. Care to join me?”
I smiled at little. “I still have business to take care of here.”
She nodded. “Yes, Hale. What are you going to do about that?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to do about it. I liked him tremendously, but I wasn’t sure there was a future in it. Then again, I’d never wanted the sort of future most women did. I was perfectly happy with things going on as they had. I just wasn’t sure what he wanted.
I dropped by Chaz’s room to find him packing.
“You’re not leaving, too, darling?” I said, perching on the edge of his bed. “Everyone’s leaving me alone.”
“Poor old thing,” he teased. “Left alone to your own devices. No more murders to solve.”
I shook my head. “It isn’t that...”
His expression turned serious. “What is it?”
“No, never mind. It’s something I’ve got to handle on my own. Where are you off to, then?” I asked. “Back home to London?”
“Actually, I met a man in town while you were laid up. Italian. Devastatingly handsome. He’s invited me to spend a few days on his yacht.”
“Of course he has,” I laughed. “Have fun, will you? And don’t forget to write.” I breezed out of his room only to stop as he called my name.
“You sure you’re all right, old bean?”
“Right as rain.” Or I would be. Once I figured out what the future held for me and Hale.
It was early evening when Hale popped ‘round. He was dressed for the club, with a serious expression on his face. He refused a drink and asked that we speak in private.
“Ophelia, we need to talk.”
I felt queasy all of a sudden. Those are never the words a woman wants to hear. They boded nothing but ill. Then again, I reminded myself, I didn’t want happily ever after. Not the way most women did.
“What is it?” I asked, taking a seat on the sofa, my expression as neutral as I could manage.
He scrubbed his face looking suddenly tired. “Remember when we spoke of our families and you asked if I had children?”
“I do.” He’d assured me he had none. So if he was bringing that up now... “I take it you either lied, or that circumstances have changed.”
“I didn’t lie.”
It felt like someone was squeezing my throat. “What changed?”
“There was a woman in London. Before I met you,” he hastened to add. “I didn’t know... She never told me. But she’s going to have my baby. Soon.”
“Congratulations.” My mouth was dry as dust. I could really use a drink right about now.
He winced. “I grew up without a father. I won’t do that to my child.”
“So you’re going to do the right thing.” Of course he was. He was just that sort of noble. A man of character. Damn his eyes.
“I suppose I am. I must. I’m sorry, Ophelia, I wish...”
“I know.”
He gave me a long look. A look that spoke of deeper wells of feeling than I’d realized. “This has to be goodbye.”
“I know that, too.” He simply wasn’t the sort of man to cheat on a woman. And I wouldn’t have him if he were. I think maybe my heart cracked just a little.
He stood. “I guess this is goodbye.”
“Yes,” I said simply. There was nothing more to say.
He twisted his hat in his hands for what seemed an age, the he stooped down and kissed me. This time a long, sweet goodbye. He smelled of spice and musk and smoke. “Goodbye, Ophelia.” The smooth timbre of his voice sent shivers down my spine.
“Goodbye, Hale. I wish you well.”
And that was it. He was gone.
For the first time in my life I wished I were the sort of woman who wanted the happy ever after that other women wanted. I wondered if I’d see him about London. If we’d run into each other in a club or on the street.
Maybe. At a club anyway. He’d be playing piano. I’d be dancing. Our eyes would meet...
My throat felt tight. My eyes prickly. I knew what I wanted, but it was too late. For a single instant, grief threatened to overwhelm me.
Then I straightened my shoulders, stood, and went to call Maddie. It was time to go home.
KEEP READING FOR A sample of Lady
Rample’s next adventure: Lady Rample And The Ghost of Christmas Past.
Lady Rample And The Ghost of Christmas Past
Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Five
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover Art and Design by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs
Editing by Alin Silverwood
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Chapter 1
"Penny for the guy, Miss?"
I stared down at the small, slightly ragged child with some startlement. He’d a smudge of what I could only assume was soot across a chubby cheek. "Good gosh! Is it Bonfire Night already?" Where had the days gone?
Bonfire Night—or Guy Fawkes Night—was a celebration of Guy Fawkes’s failure to blow up Parliament back in 1605. Children ran around with effigies, begging for money while the adults lit bonfires and fireworks and drank too much.
"Yes, Miss." The child held out his metal bucket which already had at least a dozen coins. Behind him two chums held what I could only assume was an effigy of Guy Fawkes between them. It was a ghastly thing made of burlap stuffed with straw. Impatient, the child rattled his bucket. "Penny for the guy?"
His angelic expression undid me. I'm not usually so soft, but what is one to do when a chubby-cheeked cherub begs one for a penny?
I fished around in my handbag until I found a copper and tossed it in his bucket. "There you go. Now get on with you."
The three children scampered off giggling, dragging their effigy behind them. I repressed a shudder—personally, I do not approve of Bonfire Night, though I do enjoy the food and drink that goes with it—and marched on.
It was early November—the fifth, to be precise—and the air had turned crisp with the autumnal chill of oncoming winter. A rusty oak leaf floated from a nearby branch and landed light as a feather on the pavement in front of me. Had it truly been less than a month since I'd been basking in the golden sun of the south of France?
I buttoned the top button of my claret merino wool coat. It was full length with the perfect sable collar, the height of fashion for the winter of 1932. I'd found it at Harrods shortly after my return to London and had to have it immediately. I refused to consider that my need for shopping was in any way connected with the loss of my paramour, Hale Davis. Ridiculous.
Speaking of Harrods, I was currently bound there on a mission to meet my aunt who had just return from Paris. She'd rung me the previous night to inform me that she had a Marvelous Idea. I repressed another shudder. Aunt Butty and her ideas were a dangerous combination.
My name is Ophelia, Lady Rample. I am not what you call “to the manor born,” but rather married into it. My late husband Felix—God rest his soul—left me with a title and an enormous amount of wealth. For which I am forever grateful. It's amazing what one can get away with in life if one has money. It gave me a great deal of amusement to stick it in the faces of the aristocracy who like to turn their collective noses up at anyone they deemed less than themselves. Which would be me, except I could probably buy most of them, so they let me be.
Harrods loomed ahead with its elaborate terra cotta facade. The Queen Anne Revival architecture was something to behold. And it ought to be. The royal family shopped there, thought I’d never run into them. I imagine they had everything delivered. Personally, I like the hands-on approach to shopping.
Just before I passed through the doors, the blast of a motor horn startled me. Not that it was an unusual occurrence, even in the rarified air of Knightsbridge, but something tickled at my senses. Almost an impending sense of doom, I suppose. I turned and scanned the street.
On the other side stood a man dressed in an olive trench, battered fedora pulled low over his eyes. Though I couldn’t see much of his face, there was something about his form, the way he stood, that jogged something far back in the recesses of my mind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but my unease grew.
Was he watching me?
Surely not. This was a busy street filled with people bustling about. One lone man standing several paces away meant nothing.
Turning purposefully, I nodded to the doorman and passed through to the inner sanctum. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way toward the escalator. As it worked its way upward, I found myself surrounded by marvelous Art Deco artwork in the Egyptian style. A bit over the top for my taste, but right up Aunt Butty’s alley. I was surprised she hadn’t turned her flat’s sitting room into an Egyptian temple.
The escalator arrived eventually at the fourth floor, spilling out onto a wide marble foyer directly opposite the tea room which was situated under a massive stained-glass window set in the ceiling. A string quartet played a soothing number while diners nibbled on tea cakes and murmured in appropriately low voices.
"Ophelia!" A buxom woman with waved, gray hair and a garishly orange cloche hat from nearly a decade ago half stood and waved wildly, her ample bosoms nearly diving into her tea. "Yoo hoo! Over here!"
The maître d' flushed crimson as he scampered to my side. I couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger. Frankly it could go either way. Aunt Butty had that effect on people.
"I see my aunt," I murmured softly to him, as he helped me out of my overcoat. "I'll just make my way over."
The maître d' sketched a bow, his pencil moustache twitching ever so slightly. He seemed most grateful as he hurried off to hang up my coat.
I made my way between the tables toward Aunt Butty. Frankly, I was dying for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Who was I kidding? Half a dozen biscuits.
I barely had time to sit down before Aunt Butty was upon me. "Ophelia, I have had the most Marvelous Idea." She gazed at me expectantly.
"So you said." A waiter leapt to help me into my seat.
"Christmas."
I lifted an eyebrow. "What about it?" I went about pouring my tea and helping myself to a handful of biscuits from the tiered tray. It appeared there were spiced ones and lemon ones. Lemon were my favorite, but spice would do just as well in a pinch.
"I fancy a proper old-fashioned English Christmas this year," Aunt Butty informed me. "You know the sort. Cozy cottage in the countryside. Smoke curling from the chimney. A proper Christmas tree and all the trimmings..."
"Yes, yes. I know what a proper Christmas looks like.” I had, after all, grown up in the tiny country village of Chipping Poggs. Proper English country Christmases abounded in my youth. That didn't mean I enjoyed them. "What's the point?"
"The point is, I have rented a cottage." She beamed at me as if she’d just done something spectacular.
"A cottage?" It wasn't exactly Aunt Butty’s style. She was more likely to take over Buckingham Palace than a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. "Where exactly have you taken this cottage?"
Her smile grew wider. "In this marvelous little village called Sheepswick Hill. Doesn’t it sound delightful?"
“Delightful.” I set down my tea cup with a clatter. "Where precisely is this village located?”
"It’s in the Cotswolds," she admitted. "But it’s nowhere near Chipping Poggs. I assure you. I have it all planned. Mr. Singh has his marching orders. You will be there."
I sighed and took a fortifying bite of biscuit. "You know how I feel about the country."
She sipped her tea beatifically. "Yes, I know. And it's high time to put that to rest. You will be at Christmas at Sheepswick Hill at my rented cottage and we shall have the most marvelous country Christmas ever." She said it was such a finality as if she would pull it from the very ether.
I took a sip of my own
tea, wishing it was something very much stronger. "And what if I say no?"
I'd no idea her smile could get any slyer, but somehow, she managed it. "Oh, you will. For someone special is going to be there."
I felt a little quiver of anticipation. Had she managed to talk Hale into joining us? Surely not. By now he was married and probably a father. There was no way that Hale Davis would be there for Christmas. Which meant that I didn't feel much like celebrating this year.
“I’m afraid I’ll be busy, Aunt.” Surely, I could come up with something to do.
“I’ll cut you out of my will.”
I snorted. “I don’t need your money.”
“I shall never speak to you again.”
“As if.”
Her jaw hardened. “You will go because I want you to.”
“No,” I said stubbornly.
“Please, Ophelia,” she wheedled. “It would mean the world to me.” She placed the back of her hand dramatically against her forehead. “I’m getting on in years, you know. Who knows how many Christmases I have left.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re stubborn enough to outlive us all. Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Delightful!” She clapped her hands, advanced age forgotten. “Let’s plan the menu.”
“I don’t care what we have as long as there’s Christmas pudding and booze.”
Aunt Butty pulled a piece of paper and pencil nub from her handbag, perched a pair of reading glasses on the end of her nose, and scrawled “Booze” across the top of the paper.
I took another biscuit. This was going to be a long afternoon.
Coming November 2018
Lady Rample And The Ghost of Christmas Past
Lady Rample Mysteries - Book Five
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