A Very English Murder

by Verity Bright

  A Very English Murder

  An absolutely gripping cozy murder mystery

  Verity Bright

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Hear More from Verity Bright

  A Letter from Verity Bright

  Acknowledgements

  ‘Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.’

  Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

  Prologue

  Staring up at the imposing facade, Lady Eleanor Swift wondered yet again if her decision to return had been a sound one. Since the letter informing her of her uncle’s death and her unexpected inheritance of Henley Hall had arrived, she’d been sure coming here had been what she needed at this point in her life.

  But now…

  She stood at the double-fronted oak door and looked up at the two narrow towers that flanked the entrance of the vast cream stone mansion. Separated by three rows of arched windows, the towers pierced the grey, overcast sky. The carved Henley family crest, set high on the building’s central arch, seemed to peer down disapprovingly at her.

  Around the Hall lay two hundred acres of formal gardens and parkland, while behind her the semi-circular drive with its central fountain sat empty of cars. She wondered if her uncle’s beloved Rolls was still running? She remembered riding in it along the winding half-mile drive to the Hall’s imposing wrought-iron gates and then on to Chipstone railway station. That was years ago, and it was the last time she’d seen it or her uncle.

  She sighed. Her last stay at the Hall had been as a thirteen-year-old in the summer of 1904. It had been one of the few holidays from her boarding school when she’d been allowed to come home. Her uncle, however, hadn’t been there for more than a week or two. Business had taken him abroad, as it usually did, leaving her in the care of his inscrutable butler, Clifford.

  It had been a particularly wet summer, and she’d escaped the monotony by losing herself in her favourite books by day and dreaming up fantastical plans to avoid returning to her even more dreary boarding school by night. And now, after an absence of sixteen years, here she was, once again.

  She took a deep breath and pulled on the doorbell, recalling that the last time she’d stood here she’d been too short to reach the bell at all.

  As she waited, she stared up again at the Henley family crest.

  What were you thinking of, Ellie?

  One

  After what seemed like forever, Clifford, her late uncle’s butler, opened the door. He looked as impossibly stiff as the last time she’d seen him. And, implausibly, he looked the exact same age, whatever that was. She couldn’t remember a moment without him at the Hall. She was convinced that all butlers were born a certain age at which they stayed until they disappeared in a puff of discreet smoke. For a good servant would never die on his employer, that would be just too inconvenient.

  However, he didn’t give her the warm greeting she was craving. He bowed stiffly, and said, ‘Welcome to Henley Hall, Lady Swift.’

  Had he been rehearsing that line? How else could he have infused it with coldness plus a touch of aloof disapproval? But what had she expected? In truth, she hadn’t expected anything, not having thought that far ahead.

  ‘Thank you, Clifford.’

  Clearly he remembers you, Ellie, she consoled herself. Although unlike him, I know I have changed considerably. I can reach the doorbell now, after all.

  He held the door and pursed his lips as she stepped over the threshold carrying her somewhat minimalist and wind-blown baggage. ‘Forgive me, my lady, did I mishear your original communication? I was given to understand that you would be arriving tomorrow evening by the six thirty train. I intended to pick you up at Chipstone Station in the Rolls.’

  ‘Yes indeed, but I didn’t want to put you to any trouble. So, here I am.’

  ‘Very good, my lady.’

  A forceful scratching distracted her attention as the oak door behind the butler burst open. An elderly bulldog lumbered in, jaws flapping, with its claws scrabbling on the wooden flooring between the thick rugs that lined the entrance hall. The dog launched itself onto her lap, pushing her back into a low chair with a thump. Shoving its wrinkled face into hers, it bashed her nose with the leather slipper offered as a welcome gift. At least someone seemed delighted to see her.

  Clifford clapped his hands. ‘Stand down, Gladstone!’ The dog sat obediently. ‘This is Master Gladstone, my lady. He was purchased by your late uncle sometime after your last visit here.’ He paused. ‘It has been a long while since you were at the Hall.’

  Instead of replying ‒ she was well aware of how long it had been since she had been anywhere she could call home, however loosely – she crouched down to scratch the bulldog.

  Gladstone flopped onto her feet, his stumpy tail beating out a muffled rhythm on the deep pile rug. Clifford changed tack. ‘Would you like to take some tea, my lady? You must be thirsty after your long journey.’

  ‘That’s most kind of you. But, actually, I would like to get changed and gather my thoughts.’

  ‘There are some papers from your uncle you may wish to read.’

  ‘Papers? It’s been almost seven weeks since I saw a half-decent bed. Can’t they wait?’

  ‘Very good, my lady. Shall I show you to your room?’

  On the elegant landing of the second floor, Clifford stopped by a familiar door. Opening it, he stood to the side. ‘Your room, my lady.’

  Eleanor stepped forward and in a heartbeat was transported back sixteen years. ‘Oh, my!’ She looked around in disbelief. The room was obviously cleaned regularly for there was no evidence of dust. And it must have been aired frequently, as it smelt as fresh as new laundry. However, nothing else had changed since she had last stayed there as a child. ‘But, Clifford…’ she started, and then faltered as his retreating coattails glided noiselessly back down the stairs.

  Eleanor stood feeling lost in the middle of the room. She never imagined she’d be given this room. Since she’d gone abroad she had travelled to places and experienced things few women of her age could, or would ever be allowed to. But now, even though she had turned twenty-nine the month before, she felt like a small child. She looked into the mirror on the opposite wall. A slender woman with flame-red curls and world-weary green eyes, dressed in hopelessly unfashionable clothing looked back at her. She shook her head. Snap out of it, Ellie!

  The pink-and-gold eiderdown puffed behind her as she sat on the side of the bed, running her hand up and down the silky fabric. A giggle caught her by surprise. As a small girl, she had loved this bedsprea
d ‒ she had even tied it round her like a princess’ cloak and entertained the dolls on the chaise longue with her witty speeches. Then a few years had passed before she’d visited again as a young adult and she’d hated it.

  She looked around again. Between the two vaulted windows were three bookcases with carved elephants. And were those…? Yes! The very books she had devoured on those endless rainy days, with her feet tucked up on the window seat: Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn… And further along Arabian Nights, Treasure Island, Around the World in Eighty Days and The Jungle Book. As a child, those stories had seemed so real.

  Above the bed, there was a picture of an oasis. A camel train was resting there, recovering for the next leg of its journey. She had drunk in this image for so many hours in her childhood. At any time since then she could have reproduced a perfect copy. Palm trees ringed the water, with dunes of golden sand rising to a light purple in the distance. Under the palm trees stood camels with exquisitely detailed saddlebags with black-and-gold tassels cascading and glinting in the afternoon sun.

  It had been the camel drivers in the picture that had captivated her most all those years ago: their swirling, white robes and red chequered headdresses, set against the blackest of eyes. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with her journal she’d written enough stories about her imagined camel-train adventures to fill those bookcases several times over.

  And now you’ve done those things for real, Ellie. You’ve crossed the Dasht-e Lut, followed the Silk Road and had so many other adventures. And some of them were wilder than you could ever have dreamed of as a little girl.

  She sighed. Maybe it was time to stop beating herself up. The books only told half the story. She’d learned first-hand that exploring mountains, deserts and forests, and sleeping under a million twinkling stars, often went with days of hunger, exhaustion and illness.

  And even though she had never felt so alive, she’d never known where her next bed or meal were coming from.

  She didn’t claim to be the first, as she was following in the wake of her heroines: the few brave female trailblazers who had dared to defy convention and the odds and stand toe to toe with their more famous male counterparts. But still, doing it all as a woman was doubly hard.

  Was she glad she’d done it? Without doubt. Was it like the books? Not at all! She sighed. If only that blasted letter hadn’t come! But in truth, the letter had only been the catalyst. If she was honest with herself, she was already struggling to find the joy she had once found in the life she led. Usually she loved travelling, especially to exotic destinations. After all, she’d made it her life and job, but after living such a lifestyle for the best part of her adult life, the constant uncertainty and discomfort had lost its allure.

  Even her journey from South Africa to London hadn’t seemed an adventure, more like a fight for survival. She shook her head. In fairness, she thought, a voyage of some nine thousand miles that included two crash landings was bound to be a little wearing even to the most intrepid traveller. That was the trouble with inaugural flights, their unpredictability. And the first commercial flight from Cape Town to London was no different. They’d only spent five days out of the forty-five-day journey in the air. The rest were on the ground repairing the plane with whatever could be found first in the Sudan and then in Bulawayo where they’d crash-landed. But they had made it, albeit a little battered and bruised. She groaned. ‘If I never see sand again, I’ll be happy!’

  She stood up and walked over to the dresser. On it sat a marionette, still twisted up in his web of knotted string. Poor fellow. He’d seen one afternoon of bobbing round and round the circular rug and then another with his limbs being yanked in frustration. His strings had stayed hopelessly tangled from that day on. She sighed. She thought she’d cut any ties that bound her to this place long ago, never imagining she’d return, and certainly not with her emotions as tangled as that poor marionette’s strings.

  Next to the marionette, Eleanor’s least favourite plaything had been the most expensive: a doll’s house modelled on Henley Hall. Standing as tall as she was now, the whole front opened to reveal most of the Hall’s rooms reproduced in six tiers.

  Inside, furniture, paintings and four or five dolls rattled around. There was a man, her uncle she supposed, whose arm had dropped off; two women in maids’ outfits who she’d relegated to the kitchen; and a butlery-sort-of figure who ended up in the wardrobe after a particularly difficult afternoon with Clifford. They had fallen out over what young ladies should and shouldn’t do. None of his ideas had fitted in at all with hers as she set out to savour her moment of freedom from school rules.

  Something caught her eye through the top window of the doll’s house. Reaching into the miniature bedroom, she picked up the object. Turning it over in her hands she recognised it as her uncle’s fob watch. He’d spent an hour one wet afternoon showing her a trick where he pulled the watch on an invisible string from pocket to pocket.

  ‘Guess which one it’s in now?’ he’d said.

  ‘That one!’

  ‘Aha! Wrong again.’

  She realised this was one of the few fond memories she had of her uncle. Most of the time he’d seemed so distant. And the rest of the time he had been away, his business taking him abroad frequently. As a child she had had no idea what his occupation was, and even now she was still in the dark. She knew he used to be in the army, but he’d retired early. Everything after that was a mystery to her.

  She sighed and dropped the fob watch into her pocket, happy to have one positive memento.

  As she closed the doll’s house, Eleanor reflected on the irony that the one place that could have been home never had been. And yet, now it was. She owned Henley Hall. But as she turned away, she wondered if it would ever truly feel like home, the kind of home she’d dreamed of. Suddenly she felt as stifled as if she was still in that tiny buffeted cabin in the sky. She’d told Clifford that she wanted to gather her thoughts after the trip. What rot! Up here, being alone with her thoughts was murder. Outside had always been her haven, her escape, and she needed it right now.

  As she got to the bottom of the stairs, Clifford appeared. ‘Are you sufficiently rested to meet the rest of the staff, my lady?’

  ‘Meet the staff?’ Her thoughts flashed back to the anonymous maids in the doll’s house. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m just not up to it yet.’

  Throwing on her jacket, she fumbled the buttons with one hand and pulled open the front door with the other. Clifford stepped forward, blocking her way.

  ‘My lady, it is getting dark. It is not safe to wander the grounds at night. There are several—’

  Several what she never learned. Grabbing her hat, she strode past him and out into the gathering gloom.

  Two

  Outside, the weather had gone from a strong breeze to a near gale. Eleanor caught her hat as the wind snatched at it. But it wasn’t the noise of the wind she heard as she battled along the drive and towards the Hall’s gates: it was her uncle’s bulldog. Snorting loudly, his stiff legs made him rock back and forth as he wobbled to catch up with her.

  ‘Gladstone. What are you doing here?’ As she bent down the dog licked her nose and forehead in exuberant greeting. ‘Yuck!’ Glad of the company, if not the slobbery kisses, she warned him that if he did any more licking he’d be sent back to the Hall.

  That settled, she set off again to clear her head of those old memories. ‘Okay, boy, let’s see if we can walk out the stiffness and this grump. If I’m honest, you haven’t seen me at my best.’

  She sighed. Maybe Clifford hadn’t either? And the rest of the staff, well, they hadn’t met her at all. A little voice in her ear whispered to her, asking what the point was of meeting them when she might not be staying long enough to remember their names. All it would take was three maddeningly dull weeks on crowded trains and stifling steamers and she’d be back in the world she’d made for herself. A busy, adventurous life. Not one full of stuf
fed suits and uniforms governed by all manner of ridiculous rules and etiquette.

  Maybe there was a flight back to Cape Town she could catch? The passengers had paid handsomely to be the first to fly from Cape Town to London but she doubted many would pay for a return trip. She’d travelled for free as the company she’d worked for owned the plane, but she wasn’t keen on another two months of crash-landings and desert survival either.

  She had no desire to meet anyone until she was in a more positive mood and the ten-minute walk up the drive to the gates hadn’t achieved that yet. Sighing again, she turned right, away from the road down to the village, and puffed on up the hill with her companion in tow. After meandering for what seemed like a couple of miles, the road ended at a junction with a broken sign. As she had no idea where she was going it made no difference to her, so she plumped for the right-hand turning again and kept going.

  As she tramped along the deserted lane, she tried to marshal her thoughts. ‘Gladstone, my friend, what am I to do? I received a letter telling me of my uncle’s death and the unexpected news he had left me Henley Hall. So… I came back, hoping I could belong here, that I could call it home.’ She shook her head. ‘But, as usual, I feel like a complete stranger.’