Supernatural Psychic Mysteries: Four Book Boxed Set: (Misty Sales Cozy Mystery Suspense series)

by Morgana Best

  I was tempted to say, none of your business, and add a very rude adjective or two in there as well, but merely said, “Douglas Brown.”

  Jamie Smith looked stricken. “Don’t,” he began, but then Cassandra appeared at my side and interrupted.

  “Misty, can we go? I don’t feel well. I think the shock is setting in. I need to lie down.” Without so much as a nod at Jamie Smith, she steered me back up the hill.

  “Cassandra, does Aunt Beth’s car go?”

  “I doubt it. I never saw her in it. I drove her everywhere. Why?”

  “That man I was speaking to said she was driving it last month.”

  Cassandra stopped and looked at me. “I really have no idea. What else did he say?”

  I tried to recall. “He said he was a friend of Beth’s. Did you ever see him around?”

  Cassandra took off walking again, more steadily this time. “He was never there when I was visiting Beth. What did he want?”

  “He said he had just gotten back into the country and apologized for being late for the funeral.”

  Cassandra paused to get her breath, and turned to face me. “Misty, I don’t trust him. My husband used to say I have women’s intuition. I don’t know if he was right, but sometimes I get feelings about people, and the feeling I got about that man was not good. He’s probably a terrible womanizer. Don’t date him.” She fixed me with a steely look.

  I laughed heartily. “Cassandra, he didn’t ask me out. There’s no chance of him dating me. I’m sure I’m quite safe.” I could have added, Worse luck! Instead, I said, “Cassandra, would you mind if I called at the office before we leave?”

  “Do you have the address?”

  I waved a piece of paper at Cassandra by way of answer.

  The office proved to be another dead end, pardon the pun. They informed me that the doctor who had called them was a Dr. Spence and they supplied his cell phone number. I called it but there was no tone, not even a voice message saying that the phone had been disconnected—nothing.

  When we got back, I thanked Cassandra, and then hurried inside to the hallstand, on which was a small porcelain bowl containing Aunt Beth’s keys. Thankfully there weren’t many to choose from, and even without my reading glasses I was able to see the one with a key ring marked Triumph.

  I hurried back outside to the car. The door was easy to unlock but the car smelled stale inside as if it had not known fresh air for some time.

  I turned the key in the lock expectantly—nothing. Not even a whirr. I opened the hood, expecting to see the battery leads unattached, but they were firmly on. The terminals didn’t have any powdery substance on them, but I picked up a half brick which was perched on the edge of Aunt Beth’s fence and hit both battery terminals. I tried the key again. Silence. Well, it might just have been a very flat battery but there was no sign that the car had been driven recently.

  Score One to Douglas; score Zero to Jamie Smith. Perhaps he was indeed the man who had knocked me over. He might have been just too embarrassed to admit it and made up a cover story, but I have no respect for lying men. I’d had enough of that with Steve. He might not have been lying about the car; that might have been a simple mistake.

  I heard my ring tone and looked everywhere for my phone. Oh, I had shoved it in my bra when I was looking under the hood. I fished it out and saw to my dismay that it was Daisy, my editor.

  “How are you going with the West Wycombe copy?” she barked.

  No hello, typical. “My aunt just died, Skinny, um, Daisy. The copy isn’t due until next week.”

  “Oh yes, sorry to hear that.” Her voice was rushed and held no hint that she was the slightest bit sorry. “I wanted to see some preliminary stuff about the Hellfire Club, but you’ve just noted that several exclusive clubs for high society rakes were called Hellfire Clubs in Britain and Ireland in the 18th century and that the Hellfire Club of Sir Francis Dashwood met irregularly from around 1749 to around 1760, and possibly up until 1766.”

  I was furious. “Look, can this wait? I can’t remember what I emailed through and I’ve literally just come from my aunt’s funeral.”

  “Sorry to hear. This is what you emailed through next. I’ll read it to you:

  Sir Francis Dashwood did not call his club a Hellfire Club.

  John Wilkes described the group as ‘A set of worthy, jolly fellows who got together to celebrate women in wine.’

  The order’s other members included Lord Sandwich, John Sales, and the Prince of Wales who was the son of current King of England, King George II. Benjamin Franklin was a close associate of the order and a good friend of Sir Francis Dashwood.

  “That’s not very well written and it’s boring,” she concluded in her usual strident, accusing voice.

  “Skinny, um, Daisy, that is not the beginning of my story. I emailed that to Keith as he wanted some background information. It’s hardly my story.”

  “Well, take it to the next level. Were they devil worshipers?”

  Typical. Daisy would be better off working for the sensationalist tabloids rather than a paranormal magazine. What a shame Murdoch’s News of the World had shut down years ago. It would have suited her perfectly. “Most certainly not.”

  “I’m sure I heard somewhere that they were.”

  “Daisy, a lot of websites allege that Sir Francis was a Satanist, but he was nothing of the sort.”

  “Well make sure of your facts before you send anything else and if you can tie it to Satanists, all the better. Take it to the next level. You’ll have to stop submitting substandard work, Misty.”

  “Now look here.” I was cut short as the call disconnected. Probably just as well, too. I needed my job, after all. I had a mortgage and car payments, not to mention all the bills which always appeared just after I’d finally paid off the last ones.

  I was so upset and frustrated after speaking to Daisy that I didn’t distinguish the sound of a car pulling up outside Aunt Beth’s from the noise of the cars driving up and down the street. I was halfway back to the door when I was overcome by an uneasy feeling.

  I turned around, only to see Jamie Smith getting out of his car, a silver Audi R8 Limited Edition. I almost drooled. Audis were my favorite car, not that I could afford one. I still had two years to pay off on my ancient Ford. It needed two new tires and back brake pads, and the battery was on its way out.

  Well one thing was settled—Jamie Smith was no petty thief if he could afford a car like that. I could barely take my eyes off the car, but then Jamie blocked my view by walking up the path.

  “Yes?” I asked uncharitably. I didn’t have to like the man just because he had impeccable taste in cars.

  “Misty, can I speak with you?”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out. I’m not usually so rude, but the funeral coupled with the phone call from Daisy had set me on edge.

  “This is important. Can we go inside?”

  I gave in. I was in no danger from a womanizer. I expect he thought all the girls would fall over him with a car like that, but I for one was not among their number.

  I led the way inside then waved him into the living room and didn’t offer him coffee. I saw Diva coming, but I before I could warn Jamie, she ran over to him. “Watch out,” I said.

  To my amazement, Diva purred around Jamie’s legs. “Nice cat,” he said, and bent down to stroke her.

  Diva purred even more loudly for a minute or so, and then arched her back and stalked away, leaving me shaking my head.

  Jamie and I sat opposite each other in awkward silence for a moment, before he spoke. “Misty, your Aunt Beth donated an old, rare book to the Cambridge University Library.”

  “Yes,” I interrupted. “I know all about that.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Everyone.” As soon as I said that, I imagined Skinny saying to me, Misty, you have to stop exaggerating. I amended it. “Well, Cassandra showed me the newspaper clipping, and t
hen Douglas told me.”

  Jamie suddenly became tense and leaned forward in the chair. “Have you found the missing page?” The air almost crackled with electricity.

  “What’s it to you?” I was getting angry. Who did he think he was!

  “Misty, whatever you do, if you find the page, do not tell anyone you have found it and do not give it to anyone. Your life is in danger.”

  This was all a bit melodramatic. “Are you crazy? What are you on about? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  I was about to order him out of the house when he said, “Trust no one.”

  Trust no one. Aunt Beth’s note had said, MISTY DANGER DASHWOOD TRUST.

  I sat in silence for moment, and considered what to say next.

  “Who is Dashwood?” I was ready to study his reaction.

  “Dashwood?” he repeated, but sure enough, there was a reaction which he quickly masked. “Why do you ask?” Without waiting for me to answer, he spoke again and changed the subject. “I believe Beth died for that page.”

  The page! Why hadn’t I thought of that! The motive for murder had been right there in front of me all the time. “Are you saying she was murdered? The doctor said she had a heart condition and had been sick for years. He said there were no suspicious circumstances.” I wanted to draw Jamie out, to see how much he knew.

  He was still speaking. “I’m also familiar with Douglas Brown. He is dangerous. I suggest you get back to Australia as fast as you can. Let me call and book you the next available flight. I’ll drive you to Heathrow.”

  That did it. “You won’t be driving me anywhere, you British control freak! Now get yourself out that door and don’t show your face here again or I’ll call the police!” My voice had risen to a high pitch.

  Jamie did head for the door, which was a relief. He paused on the doorstep. “Misty, you have no idea what you’ve got yourself into. Do not tell anyone if you find the page. You are in great danger. Do not mention I’ve been here to anyone. Do not...”

  He was unable to finish the sentence as I slammed the door in his face, and locked it. I hurried around the house and checked all the doors and windows. I looked under the three beds, and in the closets too, and turned on all the lights in the house, even though it was daytime.

  Then I got out some paper and a pen and sat at the kitchen table. I made a To Do list. First on the list was to call the police. I doubted they’d listen to me, but I had to try.

  Ten frustrating minutes later, and I was sorry I had called. I had been on hold for about five of those minutes, and then had spoken to a police officer who said more than once that there would be a logical explanation for all my concerns. He also said that there was no possible way to have a post mortem for Aunt Beth. He had been polite, but completely dismissive of what I had to say.

  After that great lack of success, I had trouble coming up with a Number Two for my list. I was going to the Dashwood family mansion, West Wycombe Park, the following day with Douglas, so would gather as much information as I could on the Dashwoods. I needed to find the link between Aunt Beth and the Dashwoods. More importantly, I needed to find out the significance of the missing page, and why everyone wanted it.

  Chapter 8

  West Wycombe village, to my Aussie eyes, was like something out of a story book. I did the tourist thing and ooh-ed and aah-ed as we drove slowly down the High Street. I was already impressed by the centuries-old brick wall which stretched all the way from High Wycombe to West Wycombe.

  “We’ll come back and walk down here another time,” Douglas assured me. “These are mainly sixteenth century buildings. By the eighteenth century, the High Street had several coaching inns, due to the fact that it was the halfway rest point for the London to Oxford stagecoaches. See that building there? That’s the Church Loft. It’s the oldest building on the High Street. Part of it was used as a prison.”

  I wanted to stop and look in the most amazing Ye Olde English building with a small sign, Paul’s Sweet Shop, partly as I wanted to see inside such an incredible looking building, and partly because someone walked out with a coffee in hand. The gritty morning coffee was supplying me with my necessary caffeine hit, but the taste was not the best on a daily basis.

  To say West Wycombe Park was impressive is quite an understatement. We paid our entry, and then drove up the beautiful driveway through parklands to the front of the stately home.

  We walked around the back and joined the tour group, for the tour was about to start. The guide informed us that this was the best example of Palladian architecture in England. I had no idea what Palladian architecture was, so made a note to google it. I was hastily writing notes while the guide spoke.

  I was surprised to learn that it had appeared as a country hotel in Bridget Jones’ Diary and as the house in The Importance of Being Earnest. I had seen both those films several times but would be interested to see them again armed with this knowledge.

  “What a shame you missed Colin Firth,” the tour guide said.

  “When was he here?” I asked.

  “In 2002.”

  Okay, years ago is somewhat of a miss. The tour guide then directed our attention to the well-preserved frescoes on the exterior walls in the colonnade. “Sir Francis Dashwood, who you would know as the founder of the Hellfire Club, engaged in Bacchic revelries.”

  I elbowed Douglas. “Does that mean he was bombed out?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s Australian for being drunk.”

  Douglas shot me a thin smile. “Oh no, she means that Sir Francis Dashwood worshiped Bacchus, or at least followed him.”

  I scratched my head. “Bacchus, the Greek god of wine and partying, not to mention orgies?” A fleeting image of Aunt Beth eating grapes and indulging in orgies crossed my mind. Not a pleasant thought. Perhaps this was not the link I’d been looking for.

  “The very one,” Douglas continued.

  The guide pointed overhead and nodded. “Yes, in 1771 Sir Francis Dashwood had the West portico dedicated as a Bacchanalian temple.”

  Nevertheless, I was surprised to see the paintings hanging in the dining room. They were nothing like the stuffy, starched portraits which I had seen in movies hanging on the walls of English country homes; these portraits were quite cheeky. The portrait of Sir Francis closest to the door could only be described as jolly. He was wearing a turban and an ermine trimmed cloak, smiling broadly and waving. His hand held a full glass of red wine.

  The portrait clearly surprised everyone else in the tour group, as we all stood in front of it, looking up. “Typical of Sir Francis Dashwood,” the tour guide addressed us. “He was involved in several aristocratic clubs that promoted paganism as well as the pleasures of sexual freedom, and after visiting Italy a few times, developed a severe dislike for the Catholic Church. In this painting here he is toasting a statue of Venus. This portrait was painted by Knapton in 1742. Now see that painting there.” She pointed to the portrait of a woman. “That is the celebrated courtesan Fanny Murray.”

  Just then a cold feeling went through me, and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I turned around and saw a black mist behind me. As I stared, horrified, the mist crystallized into human form. Dizziness threatened to overcome me, and just as I felt I was losing grip on reality, the figure moved away. I could only watch with my mouth open as the figure disappeared through the door.

  I shivered violently. No one else appeared to have noticed anything amiss, as the guide was still talking about the portraits.

  “Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was a member of the Hellfire Club. She had married John Sales, the third Earl of Bute, who was the first British Prime Minister to have been born in Scotland. John Sales another high-profile member of the Hellfire Club. Lady Mary was a writer, poet and feminist, but what is remarkable about her is that she came across the smallpox vaccine before Jenner. She was investigating the vaccine when she infiltrated the Sultan’s harem in Constantinople. The vaccine for smallpox was unknown in Europe
at the time, and when she returned home she caused public controversy by advocating it.”

  “Lady Mary was ahead of her times, an amazing woman. You would have liked her,” Douglas said to me.

  “Sounds like you knew her!” I turned to Douglas, but instead of laughing, his face had turned red and he looked stricken. I had no chance to ponder this, as the guide walked past me and spoke.

  “The Dining Room holds portraits of members of the Divan Club. The membership was open to those who had visited the Ottoman Empire and was founded by John Montagu and Sir Francis Dashwood. You would all know John Montagu as the Earl of Sandwich. He’s is the one said to have invented the sandwich.”

  While the guide was speaking, she led us back through the entrance. “That concludes our tour of the lower part of the house. The family lives here, and the upstairs section is private. All of you, please feel free to walk around the grounds and the lake. You will see Classical architecture from Greece and Rome. You will see the beautiful Temple of Music on an island in the lake, based on the Temple of Vesta in Rome. Keep an eye out for the Temple of the Winds, an octagonal tower based on the Tower of the Winds in Athens. If you follow the path around the lake, you will come to the Temple of Flora, which is a hidden summerhouse, and the Temple of Daphne. Another hidden temple is the Round Temple, and then closer to the house, you will find the Temple of Apollo and the Temple of Diana. See that equestrian statue up there on the hill. It looks real, doesn’t it!”

  We all agreed.

  “It’s actually only fiberglass. It was put here by a film crew. Sir Francis Dashwood, not the original Hellfire Club Sir Francis, but the late Sir Francis who passed away recently, asked them to leave it here.” With that, the guide thanked us and left.

  Douglas steered me down to the lake by my elbow. “You know, that last part isn’t correct. Sir Francis bought that fiberglass statue from Pinewood Studios. He only paid eleven bottles of champagne for it.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, not that Sir Francis. I’m just interested in the Dashwoods.”