by Sarah Kelly
The India Kirby Witch Mystery: Book 6
DYING TO KEEP A SECRET
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission for the publication / use of these trademarks.
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The India Kirby Witch Mystery Series
Dying to be a Star
Dying to be Married
Dying to Break Free
Dying for a Vacation
Dying to Make a Fortune
Dying to Keep a Secret
CHAPTER 1
“Can you believe it?” India said, her eyes bright as she peered out of the taxi window at the rolling English countryside. “It’s like one day I’m a lifeguard and you’re being blocked from being a detective. The next day we’re rolling through England in a chauffeured car.” She shook her head. “Incredible.”
Xavier laughed a little as he laced his fingers into hers. “Don’t think it was quite the next day, In. Took us a lot of blood, sweat and tears.” He looked out of his own window as they passed by stone cottages covered with flowers and fields divided up into patchwork by hedgerows. “But it is… amazing. Almost kind of magic.”
He took a quick glance at the driver, then winked at her. She loved having such a secret between them – she felt it bonded them even more deeply as husband and wife. Neither of them could tell anyone they were initiated into a secret worldwide order of witches, or no one could even dare imagine what the Magic would do to protect itself. Their magical mentor Luis, who was just hitting his 70s but still dressed like he was ready to strut down a runway, had regaled them with terrifying stories of the Magic – or the Energy, as some called it – turning against witches who spilled its secrets, driving them into madness. Everything they touched turned to dust. Everyone they loved decided to cut them off. Rumors swirled and fortunes soured and all their good luck spilled out and disappeared down the drain of disobedience. When Magic was crossed, it didn’t hesitate to defend itself, bending the whims of man and the elements to wreak destruction.
“Oh, I know what it reminds me of now,” India said with a giggle. “St Mary Mead. Miss Marple!”
“Oh yes!” Xavier said, smiling broadly. It was their favorite of all the murder mysteries and they’d even had a boxset marathon the previous Christmas, their first anniversary. “It’s like we’ll see Cherry come out of one of those little stone houses just now with her duster.”
“Not too long now,” the chauffeur said as he turned into a winding country lane. India couldn’t get enough of hearing the British accent. “We are just passing Stratford-upon-Avon. Maybe fifteen minutes after that we’ll get to the house. You must visit Stratford. You know, see the Shakespeare stuff and all that. Sometimes Laurence… Well, I should say Lord Drummond-Coe, shouldn’t I? Though he’d go spare to hear me call him that. Well, he goes down there to see the RSC put something on.”
“The RSC?” India asked.
“Royal Shakespeare Company,” the driver said. “The Tempest is his favorite. Perhaps he might take you if you’re here long enough. Though, what with all this business, he might not be in the mood for it.”
“Maybe it might take his mind off it,” Xavier suggested.
The driver nodded. “It might just, lad. It might just. In any case it’s terrible what’s happened. Being stolen from by your own flesh and blood? It’s just despicable. But Laurence is hard pressed to get much sympathy anywhere out of Aston Paddox. They all think posh equals rich. It’s not always the case. In my job most of my clients are nouveau riche, you know? The real aristocrats will be bumbling about in a rusting old Ford Escort falling apart at the hinges, just about scraping together enough money to holiday in the south of France. I’m richer than most of them, I reckon, and that’s not saying much.”
Xavier laughed along with the driver, then asked, “Do you drive for Lord Drummond-Coe often?”
The driver burst into peals of laughter. “Oh, gosh no, lad. He hasn’t got two pennies to rub together. I used to when his father was still alive. He had a bit more money but it all went to repairs on that mansion. It’s a money pit, I tell you. A sensible man would sell, or give it over to the National Trust. Laurence is a lot of things. Sensible isn’t one of them. Great man, though. Great man.”
India had been watching out the window at the flower bushes either side of the lane, and where it gave way occasionally to gorgeous old houses made of stone. “What’s the National Trust?”
“These old mansions, no one can afford to keep them up anymore,” the driver said. “The heating bills alone would eat up my yearly salary, I’m telling you. Once these families get sick of trying to cling onto their great big white elephant they try and sell it to some rich Arab or hotel developer or the National Trust will have it. They’ll do it up. Then families and history buffs come and visit, lounge around in the gardens, that sort of thing. They have to pay a bit of money and all that money added together makes enough for the upkeep. Quite a good system, really. Otherwise they’d all be torn down and sold to developers for these ghastly new build estates. And they never put in a school or a hospital or whatever and these lovely little villages are packed to the brim with people.” He shook his head. “I’d move out, I would.” Then he nodded up ahead to where the road opened out into a triangle shape, three roads on each side. “Look, here we are. Aston Paddox. That’s the pub on the right, The Arms.” He swung into the street on the right, going past the tiny little stores and packed together houses that looked straight out of the 19th century, then took a left into a long gravel driveway lined with trees.
“It’s like a storybook,” India whispered to Xavier, the noise of the gravel crunching under the wheels keeping it quiet enough so the driver wouldn’t hear. “Everywhere you look it’s like there’s nothing new. Except the cars. Everything seems ancient.”
“I know,” Xavier said. “It’s kind of like a dream. It doesn’t feel real, does it?”
“Nope.” India’s eyes were bright. “We might just have to add another place to our list of where we want to live.”
Xavier groaned, grinning. “We’ll have to have some kind of teleportation machine. How can we live in Florida, Grenada, Mississippi, Wisconsin and Aston Paddox all at once?”
India winked. “We’ll work something out.”
The white Mercedes continued along the gravel until a house came into sight. India’s mouth actually fell open. “No way,” she said.
It was a sprawling red-brick mansion, three stories high and immeasurably wide, the largest India had ever seen in her life. Two wings of the home, one at either end, jutted forward onto the slightly unkempt green lawn, while the main bo
dy of the house was sunken back, boasting a plethora of huge windows with cream stonework surrounds. The main door stood in the sunken back area, encased in a sandstone arch, a wide path leading directly up to it. It would have been a dramatic entrance, but was so dwarfed by the rest of the place one barely noticed it. Rounded turrets at either end bore swelled cream-puff style roofs with gold detailing and spires that looked stately as they stood proudly in the sky.
“There must be 100 rooms,” Xavier said, breathless.
The driver shook his head as he pulled the car up in a turning circle, where a fountain graced the center and weakly spurted water. “Think of the heating bill,” he said gravely. “That’s enough to put the fear of God into anyone. I’ll go back to my cozy little cottage and be quite satisfied, thank you very much. I wouldn’t take this place if someone gave it me for free. Now, let’s get your bags out.”
“Wow,” India said to Xavier as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “This is just… wow.”
“You got that right,” he replied. “I can’t wait to see inside.”
Soon they were rolling their wheeled cases out of the gravel turning circle and up toward the lawn. Bushes that had clearly once been trimmed into squares thrust tendrils out in every which direction.
As they reached around halfway down the path, the heavy front door was pulled open, and a scruffy looking man strode out, with a wide smile so infectious they all found themselves smiling right back. His tall lanky frame stretched up to more than six feet, India was sure. His dark blond hair fell in short waves that flopped back away from his face, looking static with frizz. Sandy stubble dotted the lower part of his slim pale face. The look of scruff was so perfectly completed with a gray jumper with a small hole, covered in bobbles from overwashing, jeans ripped at the knees, and scuffed tennis shoes. He swung an old brown parka on as he walked toward them. “To keep away the spring chill,” he said, in an immensely posh voice. “Hello, Tom. And you must be India and Xavier.” He pronounced it Zav-ee-eh, with a French sophistication.
“Hello there, sir,” Xavier said, stepping up to shake his hand. “Or should I say Lord.”
Laurence shook both their hands and pushed the other through his hair with a nervous awkwardness. “No, not at all. Laurence will do. It’s only an accident of birth. If I had been one minute younger, I wouldn’t have had that title at all. Anyway, enough of all that nonsense. India, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Xavier, it’s a joy, certainly. Tom, you’re a superstar.” He reached into his pocket for a note, then slapped it into Tom’s hand.
Tom took a quick peek and lifted his head, looking shocked. “But Laurence, it’s—”
“It’s fine,” Laurence said firmly.
India got the distinct impression he’d overpaid.
“Now let’s show you inside and a bit of the gardens,” Laurence said, taking both their cases for them. “Despite the size there’s not all that much to see, I’m afraid.” With that, he was striding out back down the path toward the front door. “But you’ll meet Mrs Rowan and Liam.” He laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to be dreadfully stereotypically British and offer you some tea, as well. And cake, if Old Row still has any left. Lemon drizzle, my absolute favorite. Otherwise it’ll be biscuits. I think there’s a packet of custard creams in the cupboard. Do you have those in America?”
“I don’t think so,” Xavier said, as they followed him into the hallway.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” India said with a little gasp. The entire place was made out of dark red wood – the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the pillars. An old Persian rug stood at the center with an antique table upon it. A flower arrangement and decorative bowl and plate rested on top. Besides that, a grandfather clock on the right and a grand fireplace on the left, the large room was empty. Stairs at the far end were carpeted with a rich fuzz the color of red wine, branching up to a small landing with an ornate stained glass window.
Laurence nodded. “Mrs Rowan keeps it in good nick for me. Just the parts I live in. I would need an army of Mrs Rowans to maintain the whole place. Come into the kitchen, won’t you, and meet her. We’ll do the bedroom stuff afterwards.”
He took them through a side door and into a long corridor. The wood paneled walls were so narrow it felt they might close around them. “This used to be the servant’s quarters,” he said, “in my granddad’s day. We don’t do any of that silly sort of thing now. But the house still has the bells and whatnot.” He opened a door at the far end and cried out, “Old Row!” with a joyful face, stretching his arms out.
“You silly boy,” the comforting voice of an older woman called out.
India giggled and looked at Xavier. Laurence was at least forty, she guessed, and seemed not to mind being called a silly boy at all. As they came into the kitchen they saw a lady with steel gray hair and friendly face, standing at the counter sorting out a cleaning basket. She must have been in her 60s.
“Oh, hello!” she said cheerfully. “You must be the private investigators. Laurence has been going on and on about you coming. He’s sure you’re going to solve it.”
“I hope so,” Xavier said modestly, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Mrs Rowan shook her head. “That scoundrel of a girl. Ugh. I knew she was bad news as soon as I laid eyes on her, but Laurence here wants to see the best in everyone. Away with the fairies, sometimes, you are.”
He had slid down onto the bench next to the counter, resting his cheeks on the heels of his hands and jiggling his leg up and down. “Fairies are better than demons,” he said. “Anyhow, it’s my poetic view of the world.”
“Poetic, my backside,” she said firmly. “It’s plain naïve, if you ask me. You should leave the art in the studio and find some common sense for when you’re out of it.” She rolled her eyes, but India could tell they were very fond of each other. “Now, I expect you’ll all be wanting some lemon drizzle cake and sweet tea.”
“Ooh, yes please,” India said.
Mrs Rowan smiled for the first time. “Eh, well it’s nice outside, if a little nippy. But you’ve all got jackets. Why not take it outdoors and see the garden? Everything’s budding now, if not blooming.” She nodded at Laurence and spoke to him as if he were her son. “And you’ll show them the bluebell woods, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Laurence said, springing back up, his wiry body full of energy. “I’ll take them now.”
“And you’ll return for tea in five minutes,” she said. “On the patio if it’s warm enough. Or else I’ll set it in the orangery. Now off with you.”
Laurence opened the back door and beckoned for India and Xavier to follow him. Once they had stepped outside into a walled herb garden, he laughed in a pleasant, carefree way. “She does like to keep me in line. It’s good for me. If only she were a financial whiz as well as a housekeeping one. Maybe then I wouldn’t be in such a pickle.”
They made their way through the winding path, bushes of rosemary and thyme and mint blooming at their knees. An old fashioned latch door took them out the other side and into a slightly overgrown English garden. Stone arches and walls abounded, leading them from one portion of the garden into the next. It was not neat or overly manicured, by any means, but India liked its rough edges and trailing tendrils and abundant blooming. In fact everything was flourishing so much it looked to be competing for space, and vines crept over the path.
“Tell us more about your niece,” Xavier said. Laurence had pinged them an email asking them to come over and investigate, but he hadn’t elaborated much further.
Laurence puffed out a breath. “Oh, I don’t want to think about it, but I suppose I must. That’s how I’ve ended up in this situation. Refusing to think about things that are uncomfortable. I must be more courageous.” They waited for him as he collected himself. “Felicia is my brother’s daughter. I’ll show you a picture of her when we get back inside. Pretty young woman, though she slaps on the makeup with a trowel and bleaches her hair like a fluorescent highlighter. Anyway, h
e couldn’t stand living here, my brother. Ever since we were boys he was staring at the TV, dreaming of America. So he bucked the family expectation, didn’t go to university or the army, but jetted right off to Florida at 16 to make his fortune. Dad thought he’d come back with his tail between his legs a few months later. But Alexander did make his fortune after all.”
“Ah, so that’s why you called us,” Xavier said. “You think she might be in Florida?”
“Exactly.” Confusion crossed Laurence’s face. “Didn’t I mention that? You must have thought my call rather an odd request. You’ll have to excuse my dreadful scatterbrain. Anyway, I wanted you to come here first to check her room for any clues. I’ve been meaning to go through it, but I can’t face it. She was here… supposed to be… well…” He looked down at his scuffed tennis shoes in embarrassment. “Well… seeing to the money.”
They walked on in silence for a while, through a stone arch and out into a meadow where spring grasses arched their backs in the breeze like tiny, stick-thin ballerinas.
“Seeing to the money?” India asked delicately.
“Oh, oh,” Laurence said, in some distress. “Why do I keep doing this?”
Xavier touched him on the shoulder in a supportive brotherly kind of way. “Keep doing what?”
“Burying my head in the sand!” Laurence said, getting red in the face. He stopped walking and looked over the horizon, his eyes narrowed. “I’m an artist, you see. Both sculpting and paintings. Classically trained in paintings, not that it means much. I just can’t do figures and practicalities. It doesn’t come naturally to me, I’m afraid. Sometimes I make resolutions to be more organized, but they all fall apart within a couple of months. It isn’t for want of trying. My brain just does not seem to be wired that way. It runs away with itself into artistic realms and before long the whole world disappears. It is just my canvas and me until the early hours when I collapse into bed. The next morning Old Row feeds me breakfast and I’m back in the studio instantly. I just can’t keep myself away from the painting.”
