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Mystery novelist Hazel Martin’s maid suspects foul play when her childhood friend Doris jumps from the third-story turret of Farnsworth Abbey. Unable to resist an investigation, especially one that’s staged to look like suicide, Hazel calls in help from her chauffeur, her cook, and even the mysterious butler her husband hired before his death. Hazel soon learns that Doris’s death was no accident. Someone had a secret, and they wanted to keep it that way.
With her trusty Siamese cat, Dickens, by her side and handsome Detective Chief Inspector Gibson at her disposal, Hazel follows a trail of clues to reveal a surprise twist that even the killer didn’t suspect.
USA Today Bestselling Author Leighann Dobbs brings back the spirit of the Golden Age of mysteries in this classic whodunit set in the 1920s.
Murder by Misunderstanding
Hazel Martin Mysteries Book 2
Leighann Dobbs
Leighann Dobbs Publishing
This is a work of fiction.
None of it is real. All names, places, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real names, places, or events are purely coincidental, and should not be construed as being real.
MURDER BY MISUNDERSTANDING
Copyright © 2017
Leighann Dobbs Publishing
http://www.leighanndobbs.com
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner, except as allowable under “fair use,” without the express written permission of the author.
Created with Vellum
Contents
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
Also by Leighann Dobbs
About the Author
Chapter One
From the way Dickens was acting, Hazel Martin should have known that murder was afoot.
The sleek Siamese cat paced the perimeter of the sitting room, his tail held high and his pale-blue eyes alert within the dark-brown mask of his face. Quite striking. And upsetting, truth be told. Dickens usually only acted that way when there was a suspicious death to be investigated.
Or when Alice, her cook, chased him with a broom.
This early, however, Alice was ensconced in the kitchen, baking and preparing items for the daily meals ahead. Hazel sniffed and detected a hint of warming yeast and frying bacon in the air. The first rays of the rising sun beamed through the window to Hazel’s left, drenching her in light while she enjoyed a triangle of toast and her morning tea.
Hastings Manor was one of those old Regency-period gems, tucked away on a quiet country lane in Oxfordshire, from the two-story beige-brick Georgian exterior and crisp-white front door, to the well-manicured circular gravel driveway and the plethora of gabled dormers and balustrades. Hazel had lived in the nearly two-hundred-year-old-place her entire life, first with her parents, and later with her husband, Charles.
Now that her dear Charles had passed away, she lived in the big, drafty house alone. In the three years since her husband had died, she’d slowly made some changes, both to herself and her home.
First, her appearance. Never one to fuss with it too much—she was always so busy writing—she’d finally gotten around to having her long brown hair cut into a shorter, flattering bob style that was all the rage these days, though she’d left the brown color and the few scattered strands of grey the way they were. She’d worked hard for them and considered them a sign of all she’d been through and survived.
Hazel had also updated her wardrobe at last, from the somewhat frumpy housedresses and comfortable skirts she’d worn when Charles had been alive, to more modern sheath dresses and even a few flapper-style gowns for evening. In that vein, she’d chosen a lovely drop-waist floral frock in shades of blue and white, with a darker-blue grosgrain band around the hips and the hem. It had long sleeves and a high neckline, and the shop assistant had gone on and on about how the color brought out the peaches-and-cream in her complexion. Charles would’ve had kittens if he’d seen the price tag—chief detective inspectors didn’t make huge salaries—but her inheritance more than covered the cost of this and the entire household, plus supported her as her mystery writing career gained readership, so why not splurge a bit?
Hazel glanced around the sitting room and smiled. She’d designed this space to be her own private oasis, filled with books and mementos, lace and portraits of better days with her and Charles together. He’d been gone three years now, though she still missed him as if it were yesterday. There were also lots of knickknacks from her childhood—her favorite old china doll, Miss L, with her voluminous hoop dress; a papier-mâché bulldog pull toy; a small framed needlework piece she’d sewn when she was eight of two cats sewing while sitting on a chair.
“Good day, madam,” her maid said, drawing Hazel back to the present. Maggie stood just inside the doorway to the small room, wringing her hands. Her brown hair was covered by a white cap to match her apron, and she wore a blue serge dress beneath. Her expression hovered between nervous and fearful, and her brown eyes were troubled.
Behind her stood Alice, ruddy faced from the heat of the ovens. She was several inches taller than Maggie and a good deal wider too. Her deepening frown spoke volumes. Something was definitely wrong this fine day. Hazel glanced at Dickens again and then, with a sigh, bid adieu to her peaceful morning and welcomed the two women inside.
“Please, ladies, come and sit.” Hazel set her tea and the final edits on her latest mystery novel aside, gesturing toward the settee across from her. After she’d lost her dear husband, the long-standing servants had almost become Hazel’s family now, and if something was bothering them, then it bothered her too. “You both look horribly upset. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Maggie and Alice took a seat on a lovely Victorian settee embroidered with red and pink roses, and Dickens, being Dickens, immediately ran over to flit about in Alice’s skirts. The cook tried to shoo him away, but he persisted—as if he took the battle of wills between them as a personal affront.
The two had acted that way toward each other—Alice keeping her distance from the feline, Dickens having none of it—since the day Hazel had adopted the cat, though she suspected Alice was fonder of Dickens than she let on. The cook would never admit that, of course. Alice was stubborn through and through, most likely from her German heritage. She was also quite stocky and had no problem lifting and carrying the heavier pots and pans around the kitchen either—most likely also due to her stout German ancestors.
“Well, madam. You see, there’s a bit of a problem, I’m afraid,” Maggie said, stumbling over her words as the hand wringing continued. The girl seemed so innocent at times that Hazel was glad she was employed here at Hastings Manor, where scandalous, shocking things hardly ever happened. “I’m not sure how to say this.”
“Just tell the truth, Maggie dear.” Hazel gave her a sympathetic smile. The girl was young and always eager to help her with her investigations. The least Hazel could do was return the favor now. “That always works best.”
Alice nudged Maggie in the side and gave her an urging look, cocking her head toward Hazel. “Tell her, Mags.”
The maid nodded then frowned down at her hands, now clasped so tight in her lap
that her knuckles were white. “It’s my godmother’s sister’s daughter, madam.” Maggie sniffled, and soon her thin shoulders shook with sobs. “You see, she died last night.”
“Oh no.” Hazel reached over and covered her maid’s hands with hers. Alice put an arm around the girl and tucked Maggie into her side as well. “I’m so very sorry. What happened?”
“She fell,” Maggie said, her voice hiccupping on a sob. “From a third-story window in the turret room at Farnsworth Abbey.”
Stunned, Hazel blinked and sat back slightly. Farnsworth Abbey was a Jacobean country house much grander than Hastings Manor. It sat on several acres to the south of Oxfordshire, land that had been in the Wakefield family’s name for centuries. To have a death like that at such a fine property was sure to draw all the wrong sorts of attention.
“They’re saying it’s suicide, madam.” Maggie bit back another sob, her face scrunched with grief and tears. “But I know Doris would never kill herself. I know that because that’s what happened to her mother, and she swore to me she’d never do that to herself. She’s a good girl, Doris is.”
Hazel exchanged a glance with Alice before continuing. “Did you know her well then?”
“We grew up together, were best friends when we were young. And I was there at her mother’s funeral too, saw how deeply the death affected Doris. That’s why I’m so adamant that she’d never, ever kill herself. It went against everything she believed.”
“Right.” Hazel patted the maid’s hand then sat back in her seat, frowning. “Well, if it wasn’t suicide, then it had to be an accident or murder.”
At the mention of that word, Dickens meowed.
“If it was an accident, then that should come to light quickly during the police investigation. But if there were nefarious acts committed against your friend Doris,” Hazel continued, giving a curt nod, “then I will help discover the truth.”
“Oh, I appreciate the offer, madam” Maggie said, swiping the back of her hand across her wet cheeks. “But I know you’re busy with your book, and the police have the area closed off already, and—”
“Nonsense.” Hazel waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll have made good progress with my editing by midmorning, and there’s nothing like digging into a real-life murder to give me inspiration for the next novel, which I’m just starting.” She frowned, picking up her jade Radite Sheaffer pen from the tooled leather case that held her personal collection of fountain pens, and a blank sheet of paper to jot notes from what Maggie had told her. “Though we can’t assume it’s murder just yet, I suppose.”
The maid started to cry again, and Hazel placed a comforting hand on her knee.
“Now, Maggie,” she said, keeping her tone quiet and soothing, “please understand. Most people don’t want to believe their loved one could kill themselves, and you’re no different. From what you’ve told me about Doris’s mother, however, it does seem unlikely. How about if I pay a visit to Lord and Lady Wakefield at Farnsworth this afternoon and find out more about what happened?”
For the first time since entering the sitting room, Maggie smiled, albeit a sad one. “Thank you, madam. I’d be ever so grateful.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
Hazel waited until Alice bustled Maggie from the sitting room, with the promise of fresh tea and biscuits in the kitchen, before picking up her editing again. Paying such a visit to the Wakefields’ estate without it looking as if she were another gawker, there to see the gruesome scene, would be tricky. She’d need a solid plan of action and a bit of time to prepare.
Good thing Hazel knew exactly what to do and had time to implement her plan.
Chapter Two
That afternoon, Hazel bumped along in the back seat of her maroon Sunbeam Tourer with the black cloth top and white sidewall tires as her chauffeur, Duffy, headed toward Farnsworth Abbey. He was a handsome young chap, with his blond hair and sunny disposition. Enterprising too, from what she’d seen. He always seemed to be looking for other ways to help around the house when he wasn’t driving her around. In many ways, he reminded Hazel of her Charles.
Normally, Hazel preferred the two-seater Resta for running her errands, but for visiting the stately Farnsworth Abbey, this vehicle seemed more appropriate. Charles had loved this car too, insisting on buying it even though it was too large for just the two of them. Even more so now that she was alone. But she did so love the rich quilted leather seats, dyed to match the exact color of the exterior, the dark paneling on the doors, and the sparkling silver trim. He’d originally wanted the Resta as their sole transportation, but they’d later decided on the five-seater model too, thinking they’d need room for the children someday. Except those children never came. Now it was just her, trying to get along as best she could.
Hazel sighed and stared out the window at the passing countryside.
Even after a sunny morning, the early-autumn air was still chilly. She adjusted her new floral brocade coat and patted the berry-colored cloche hat on her head. The milliner had claimed the shade complemented her chestnut hair and helped hide the glimmer of grey in the strands. It also picked up the color of the tiny crimson centers of the flowers on her coat and made her feel spiffy at the same time. A win all around in her book.
Still, with the briskness in the air, it certainly felt as if winter might come early that year to Oxfordshire, and she was glad for her new thick coat and the matching set of kidskin leather gloves. The trees had all turned, and leaves were scattered everywhere on the ground, blown to and fro by the wind and the car’s whirling tires. They hit several bumps in the road, and Hazel bounced slightly on the seat.
A few minutes later, Duffy pulled up in front of the sprawling grand house and parked. It held all the hallmarks of the architectural style, including lots of columns and pilasters surrounding the entrance, and the usual Jacobean decorative flourishes—scrolls, strapwork, and diamond-shaped lozenges—decorating the redbrick exterior.
Duffy jogged around the car quickly to open Hazel’s door for her then bowed slightly as he took her hand to help her down. The mischievous look in his green eyes always made Hazel wonder what he got up to when he wasn’t chauffeuring her around.
“I’ll be back in an hour, madam, as you requested.” He tipped his black hat to her then got back behind the wheel and took off back down the gravel drive.
Hazel walked up to the massive entry door and knocked, using the golden lion’s head knocker. Where her home, Hastings Manor, was small enough to feel cozy, Farnsworth Abbey was gigantic—the kind of place with dozens of rooms, stables with horses, several cars, and multiple butlers, cooks, chauffeurs, and maids. There was a wing for the staff, another wing for the family, and the center part of the house where the two mingled.
Moments later, the door opened and an older gentleman dressed in formal livery bowed to her, inviting her inside. A flutter of butterflies swarmed through Hazel’s stomach. She’d visited Lord and Lady Wakefield on several occasions but didn’t know them terribly well. In addition to them, the family included their twins, Eugenia and Thomas, both tall and in their midtwenties.
Hazel gazed around the gorgeous oak-paneled main hall of the home, the carved wooden staircase leading up to the second floor, the vaulted ceilings, and the stained-glass windows that dated back to the early seventeen hundreds.
“Right this way, Mrs. Martin,” the butler said after taking her coat. He ushered her into a large, elaborate drawing room lined with sculptures and tapestries, where Eugenia sat sobbing with her brother, Thomas, at her side, trying to console her. Both had inherited the pale skin and freckles of their lineage, though Eugenia’s hair was more of a light blond, whereas Thomas’s had more of a red tinge.
Across from them was Lady Wakefield, her writing desk mounded with papers. Lord Wakefield read the newspaper before a crackling fire, ignoring them all. It seemed great wealth did not necessarily go hand in hand with great warmth. He wore black-rimmed reading glasses, and his hair was sal
t-and-pepper grey now, the color contrasting with his burgundy smoking jacket. His dark brows were knit, as if he was concentrating hard on his reading material. His pipe billowed a constant stream of smoke, scenting the air with the fragrance of tobacco and vanilla.
“Oh, Mrs. Martin,” Lady Wakefield said, waving her over. She stood a bit taller than Hazel and had a rigid set to her shoulders that bespoke old money and tight restraint. Her auburn hair was clipped back in a low chignon, and her peach-colored dress and pearls highlighted the inquisitive sparkle in her hazel eyes. “I’m so glad to see someone who isn’t a police officer.”
“Please, call me Hazel.” She looked quizzically at the teetering stack of unopened mail, packages, and parcels on the desk. “And if it’s a bad time, I can return later.”
“No, no. Not at all,” Lady Wakefield said, directing Hazel farther into the room. The dappled sunlight through the large windows along one side of the room helped ease the cloistered feeling of the space. “Please don’t mind my mess. I personally open all the post when it’s delivered each day. You just caught me right after the postman came, that’s all.” She placed her hand over a mound of letters and moved them away from the edge. “With our family going back to the time of Henry the Eighth, I feel we have a social responsibility to promptly handle our correspondence ourselves instead of leaving it to the staff.”
Eugenia gave a loud sniffle, and Lady Wakefield glanced at her daughter then back to Hazel. “I’m sure you’ve heard the tragic news by now. With poor Doris being Eugenia’s lady’s maid, the two were very close. The horrible incident is too bad, really. Though I did warn my daughter not to get too attached to the servants.” She cast a disapproving stare toward her children. “This is what happens when you treat the staff like family.”
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