Murder at Blackburn Hall

by Sara Rosett

  And he’d been creeping about last night on the path that ran from the cottage to Blackburn Hall. I hadn’t seen more than Zippy’s back as he entered his room last night, and he could have been carrying the envelopes. Anna seemed a much more likely candidate to have taken the envelopes, and I would have liked to ask her about it, but it was too close to dinner for me to go into the village.

  I did have some time before I needed to dress for dinner. I learned from Bower that Zippy was still on the golf course. I checked the time as I went back upstairs. Zippy was cutting it fine. Lady Holt wouldn’t be happy if he was late for dinner.

  I paused at the door to my room. The house was in its pre-dinner lull and extremely quiet. No servants hurried along the hallways, Zippy and Lord Holt were out, and Serena and Lady Holt were occupied in other parts of the house. If I took a quick peek in Zippy’s room, would I see the envelopes? I wrestled with my conscience for a few seconds, then let my curiosity override the sensible voice in my head.

  I padded down the hall to Zippy’s room. The door handle turned easily, and I stepped inside. Closing the door quietly, I stood with my back to it, my hand still gripping the handle as if I wasn’t totally committed if I didn’t let go. No stack of discarded envelopes sat in the open on the writing desk or in a chair. Blast. It was the height of bad manners—not to mention impropriety—to be in Zippy’s room, but since I’d come this far, I might as well finish the job.

  I released the door handle and scurried around the room, checking under the bed and—after a deep breath to steady my nerves—in the wardrobe and the bureau drawers. The writing desk contained only blank paper, a few pencils, and a couple of programs from London plays. I dragged a chair over to the wardrobe, stood on my tiptoes, and patted around the top, but there was nothing there either, not even a speck of dust. I had to admire the housekeeping standard Lady Holt set, and I carefully replaced the chair so its legs rested exactly in the grooves it had left in the rug. I went back to the door and checked the hall. It was empty, so I dashed to my room and closed the door, my heart thudding.

  I blew out a long breath. I wasn’t sure if that had been a waste of time or not. With a whole house at his disposal, Zippy could have put the envelopes anywhere. His room was probably the least likely place for them, but I now knew they weren’t there. I still had time before I needed to dress for dinner, but I didn’t want to go back downstairs in case Lady Holt drafted me to work on the manuscript again.

  The thought of Lady Holt’s manuscript brought to mind Mayhew’s last book. I hadn’t finished it yet, and I only had a short time to finish reading it before Mr. Busby arrived. I’d have to hand it off to him then, and I really did want to know “whodunit.”

  I felt edgy with nervous energy and wasn’t sure I could settle down and read, but within a few moments, I was engrossed in the story. I didn’t move until I read the words The End. The book concluded with a satisfying wrap-up that included an explanation of the crime, the apprehension of the guilty party, and a hint Lady Eileen might have more than friendly feelings for her chauffeur.

  But a stack—a thick stack—of manuscript pages remained after the page with The End typed at the bottom. Perhaps the book had a lengthy epilogue? I didn’t remember an epilogue in Mayhew’s other book, but I supposed he didn’t have to do the same thing in each one.

  The next section wasn’t an epilogue. It was headed with the title Chapter Thirty, but I’d just read Chapter Thirty. I recognized the opening lines. It was the same chapter, but scribbles and annotations in two different sets of handwriting covered the page. One was looped and curving. The other was more angular, and the letters were written closer together. Anna must have accidentally included a section of an earlier draft with the final manuscript.

  I skimmed over the handwritten notes. It was a fascinating look at how the chapter had been written. Who had Mayhew worked with to bring the chapter from its rough early form to its final polished prose? Mr. Hightower couldn’t be the editor. He was anxious to get the manuscript and read it.

  As I skimmed the handwritten notes, a pattern emerged after a few pages. The person who wrote with the more angular scrawl that was harder to read tended to write in complete sentences and ask questions. At one point, a note said Is it too soon to reveal the pipe was a red herring?

  The person who wrote with the curving handwriting in large loops answered the questions with short sentences or phrases, such as This is good, or blue eyes, not brown.

  I flipped to the final page of the draft. Under the last line of the typed text, the person who wrote with the angular scribble had penned a short note.

  * * *

  The next book is coming along. I have Lady Eileen going on a journey to the South of France to spend time on a friend’s yacht where someone will be pushed overboard (of course!). What do you think? Will Hightower like that idea? I’ve written the first three chapters.

  * * *

  The answering note was written in the looping handwriting.

  * * *

  Well done, Anna. Hightower will be pleased with this one. It’s come together really well. Just type up a clean version, and I’ll send it off. As far as the next book, a mystery set on a yacht sounds perfect. I’m sure Hightower will like it. I’ll mention it in my next letter to him.

  * * *

  I dropped the pages into my lap and pressed my fingers to my temples. Anna was so much more than a typist. She was Mayhew’s ghostwriter.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The dull boom of the dressing gong pulsed through the air, and I jumped up from the chair, scattering manuscript pages across the carpet. I’d been so involved in the story and then in reading through the handwritten notes in the draft that I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. I gathered up the manuscript pages and returned them to the box, but I kept the draft pages separate.

  Mr. Busby had probably arrived while I was reading the manuscript. It was too late to deliver it to him before dinner, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to hand it off to him in the drawing room. I’d have to give it to him either after dinner or tomorrow.

  I rubbed my forehead. What should I do with the draft pages with the handwriting? Should I return them to Anna . . . or give them to Longly? If Mayhew’s death was suspicious, did being Mayhew’s ghostwriter give Anna a motive to want her dead?

  A tap sounded on the door and the maid, Janet, entered to help me dress for dinner. I shoved the draft pages in the drawer of the writing desk under the manuscript box and turned to tell Janet which dress I wanted to wear that evening.

  I was glad I hadn’t worn my best dress yet. It made the choice of what to wear simple, and I could mull over what I’d learned about Anna and Mayhew while I went through the motions of preparing for dinner. Janet wasn’t one to chatter, and her reticence let me think while I changed. The royal-blue silk gown, another of Gwen’s hand-me-downs, whispered over my shoulders and settled around my legs with a ripple. The beads that fringed the zigzag hem quivered as I moved.

  I was confident now that my guess about Anna taking the envelopes was spot-on. I’d maneuver her away from everyone else and have a chat tonight. Janet handed me Mum’s rope of pearls. I draped them around my neck, smoothed my gloves over my elbows, and went down to dinner.

  I entered the drawing room, and Jasper came across to me, a drink in his hand. “You look smashing.”

  “Thank you. You look as dapper as always.” I didn’t recognize the drink, which was a pale yellow. “What’s this?”

  “A concoction of Zippy’s. He calls it the Three O’Clock in the Morning.”

  “He should know all about that.”

  Jasper frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Zippy wasn’t feeling well and missed dinner last night, but I saw him return to his room—fully dressed—at three in the morning.” If I was right and Anna had taken the envelopes from the cottage, then where was Zippy returning from at that hour?

  Jasper sipped his drink. “And what were you doing a
wake at that hour?”

  “I wasn’t awake. Zippy’s whistling woke me. I had been reading but not that late.” I tilted my glass. “This is actually quite good—sweet with a kick of citrus.”

  “So you’re enjoying the lurid detective fiction I gave you?”

  “I haven’t gotten to the book you gave me yet. But I am enjoying the genre.”

  “I’m intrigued. Were you perusing Mayhew’s last manuscript?”

  “I really shouldn’t say.”

  “So you were. How is Lady Eileen? And has that Nick chap worked up the courage to jump the social barriers and propose?”

  “You’ll have to read it yourself. What do you think about Mayhew’s books?”

  “I enjoy them. Always a good mystery. The first books were a little serious for my taste, but they’ve lightened up considerably as the series has progressed. I prefer a touch of humor with my murder.”

  His words resonated. I jabbed my glass at him. “That’s it.”

  Jasper stepped back. “Glad you agree, connoisseur that you are.”

  I gave him my most disapproving look, the one I used with young men who tried to misbehave with me in taxis. “No need to jump like that. I have better manners than to slosh my drink onto your evening clothes. You reminded me of something.” Jasper had described what bothered me about the difference between Mayhew’s first book and the latest manuscript—the tone.

  Murder on the Ninth Green was madcap and fun, while the first book had a more somber mood. I knew from the handwritten notes on the draft pages that Anna had written Murder on the Ninth Green. It definitely had a lighter tone. Jasper had noticed the more recent books had a similar tone. Did that mean Anna had been ghostwriting for Mayhew for several books?

  I scanned the room for Anna, but she and Dr. Finch hadn’t arrived yet. I wanted to speak to her before I told Jasper what I’d learned about Anna writing Mayhew’s books.

  Lady Holt joined us. “Olive, let me introduce you to our guests.” Jasper saluted me with his glass and moved off to talk with Zippy as I followed Lady Holt. She stopped beside Colonel Shaw. A plump woman with a feathered clip in her faded brown hair stood at his elbow, fanning her face. Her dress was pale pink, the same shade as her flushed cheeks. She closed the fan as Lady Holt began the introduction. “Colonel and Mrs. Shaw, this is Olive Belgrave, one of our guests from Hightower Books.”

  “How do you do?” I said to Mrs. Shaw and waited a beat for Colonel Shaw to mention I’d met him earlier, but he only smiled and said, “Pleasure.” I was relieved I didn’t have to explain to Lady Holt why I’d been chatting with the Chief Constable.

  Mrs. Shaw opened her fan. “What do you do for the publishing company, Miss Belgrave?”

  “Yes, what is it that you do?” The second question came from a deeper voice at my shoulder.

  Lady Holt and I both stepped back, and Leland Busby entered our circle. I’d seen him across Mr. Hightower’s office, but now that I was closer, I realized he wasn’t as young as I’d thought. His dark hair, which fell across his forehead, had a few threads of gray at the temples, and a couple of wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. He removed a cigarette from his lips. A smile played at the corner of his mouth as his gaze swept around the circle. He was only a few inches taller than me and had a spare build, which reminded me of a jockey. He angled his arm to one side, and the cigarette smoke curled up over his back as he lowered his voice. “Miss Belgrave is such a new employee that even I haven’t met her.”

  Lady Holt’s eyebrows shot up. “Surely that’s not true.”

  He drew on the cigarette. “Yes, it is, my lady,” Mr. Busby said and looked to me as if to say talk your way out of this one. He exhaled, and I stepped back.

  Irritation simmered inside me, but I smiled at Mr. Busby. If he thought I’d slink off after a few challenging words, he was mistaken. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Busby.” I used what my cousin Gwen would call the “lady of the manor” voice.

  Clearly, Mr. Busby wasn’t pleased Mr. Hightower had hired me and sent me to Blackburn Hall. Whether Mr. Busby was irritated because the decision had been made without his input or whether he thought he should have been the one to visit Blackburn Hall, I had no idea, but I wasn’t about to stoop to his childish behavior.

  I shifted my attention to Lady Holt. “Mr. Hightower brought me on at Hightower Books specifically to work with you, Lady Holt. He felt the situation needed a special touch, not”—I glanced at Mr. Busby—“the normal run-of-the-mill handling.”

  Lady Holt nodded and looked satisfied. “Very appropriate to send a lady to speak with me.”

  Mr. Busby excused himself to refresh his drink, leaving a puff of smoke hanging in the air. As he turned away, he murmured under his breath so that only I could hear, “Round one to you.”

  Beside me, Mrs. Shaw swished her fan back and forth so quickly it blurred, dispersing the smoke. Wisps of her hair fluttered around her pink face.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  Mrs. Shaw shook her head, drew in a labored breath, and patted Colonel Shaw on the arm. “Rodney, my—cigarettes.” Her words came out in a wheeze.

  “Oh dear,” Lady Holt said. “Victoria, are you having one of your spells again?”

  Mrs. Shaw nodded and whipped the fan faster.

  “Asthma?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Colonel Shaw patted his pockets. “I don’t have your cigarettes,” he said to his wife. “Must have left the case in my other jacket.”

  Lady Holt said, “I’ll send someone for them. Your house isn’t far. It won’t take long, Victoria. Dr. Finch should be here any moment. Do you need to sit down?”

  “Asthma cigarettes?” I thought of the box Essie had pushed on me. Had I taken them out of my handbag? No, I didn’t think so. And I’d brought that bag with me to Blackburn Hall. “I think I have some. Upstairs in my room.”

  Colonel Shaw, who had taken Mrs. Shaw’s arm, supported her to a chair. “We’ll have something for you in a moment, dear.”

  Lady Holt motioned that I should speak to Bower, who nodded to a footman. I said to the footman, “In my handbag. I left it on the bureau in my room.” I turned back to Mrs. Shaw. “A friend gave them to me. I have asthma too.”

  Mrs. Shaw fought to pull in another breath of air. “Not if—you—need them.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t. I mean, I still do have attacks occasionally, but I don’t use cigarettes. My friend didn’t realize, and she insisted I take them.”

  Colonel Shaw, who had been checking his pockets, stopped his frantic patting and digging. “Wait. Here’s one.” He drew out a single cigarette from his breast pocket. He handed it to Mrs. Shaw. “It must have fallen out of the case and my man overlooked it,” he said to me.

  Jasper had crossed the room to us, and he flicked open a lighter for Mrs. Shaw. She drew on the cigarette, pulling the fumes into her lungs, waited a moment, then expelled the smoke, her shoulders relaxing. She drew in a strangled breath. “That’s . . . better.”

  “She’ll be fine now,” Colonel Shaw announced.

  “It’s so embarrassing,” Mrs. Shaw said between puffs on the cigarette. “I’m sorry to spoil your lovely evening, Maria.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Holt said. “Nothing is spoiled. The evening hasn’t even started. Just rest there until you feel more the thing.”

  The footman returned with the cardboard box of asthma cigarettes and handed them to me. I offered them to Mrs. Shaw, but she waved them off. “Thank you, but I’m fine now. I find one cigarette takes care of it.” Her breathing was much easier, and she didn’t look so flushed.

  I put the package on the lace-edged runner that covered the table behind the sofa. “I’ll leave them here for you in case you change your mind.”

  “That’s thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “We’ll leave you to rest a moment, Victoria,” Lady Holt said and drew me away. “I believe you’ve met everyone except our solicitor. He and his wife arrived during Mrs. Shaw’s ep
isode.” Lady Holt guided me toward an older man with a beefy physique, grizzled hair, and a waxy skin tone. A woman stood slightly behind his shoulder. She was at least two decades younger and had raven black hair and light green eyes. She glanced at the man’s face several times as Lady Holt and I crossed the room to join them.

  Lady Holt said, “Don and Emily, let me introduce you to Miss Olive Belgrave. Miss Belgrave, this is Mr. Donald Pearce and his wife, Emily. We were delighted when they moved to Hadsworth recently . . .”

  Lady Holt’s voice droned on, but the only thing I heard was the name Donald Pearce. It echoed around in my head. Donald Pearce. Could it be the same Donald Pearce? How many solicitors named Donald Pearce could there be?

  A rush of cold numbness and then hot fury came over me, just as it had a year ago.

  Lady Holt’s voice faded completely, and I was back in Father’s study, still reeling from the shock of learning Father had married his nurse, when I realized something else was wrong too. Father had been evasive when I’d talked about returning to the university in America to continue my education, but when I’d mentioned I’d looked into the cost of purchasing passage back to America, I’d caught the significant look Sonia gave Father.

  Like a little boy called to the headmaster’s office, he’d led me to his study and closed the door. The shelves of books went from floor to ceiling, the gold-tooled spines shining even in the dull twilight. I perched on the arm of the chair by the fire, where I’d spent many an afternoon reading while Father worked at his desk.

  He sat heavily in the chair behind his desk, then removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Olive. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll come right out with it. I followed some bad advice. I can see that now, but at the time it seemed completely safe. Pearce assured me everyone who’d invested had received double, sometimes triple, their money. But that’s not what happened.” He carefully arranged the arms of his spectacles.