Murder at Bray Manor: a historical cosy mystery

by Strauss, Lee

  It only took a split second for Miss Smith to swoop an arm towards the fire and pluck out a piece of wood that burned like a torch on one end. She swung the fire as if she were a wild caveman holding back the lions. The flames from the torch reflected in her spectacles, making her appear possessed.

  “Stay back!” Miss Smith’s voice went up an octave, her words like the screeching noise of nails on a blackboard. The hairs on Ginger’s neck stood on end. “Easy, Miss Smith,” she said calmly. “No one wants to hurt you.”

  “Liar!” Flames danced through the air as she shouted. “You want me to hang!”

  “That’s not true,” Ginger said. “We want to help you.”

  “You’re all liars and killers! With your silence.” Tears streamed down Miss Smith’s face and a collective gasp rose when she almost lost control of the torch.

  Miss Smith stared at each one in the room her voice steadying eerily. “All the citizens of Chesterton are guilty. My dear sister died and justice was not served.”

  Realization dawned. “Jean Smith was your sister?” Jean Smith was the fourth girl in the group that had worked on the sheep farm with Felicia.

  Tears ran in rivulets down Mary Smith’s face. “My only sister, ten years my junior. I raised her like my own when our mother died. She was the world to me.”

  A small sob escaped her lips, and Ginger felt a deep pang of empathy for the woman.

  She pointed to Mrs. Richards. “Your husband was on the jury.”

  “Th-there were twelve of them,” Mrs. Richard’s sputtered. “Mr. Richards wasn’t the only one.”

  “The jury was unanimous—which means they found those land girls innocent!”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Smith,” Miss Whitton said with her gentle nursing voice. “Your sister committed suicide.”

  “She was bullied into it!” Miss Smith screeched. “She was too plain pudding for them, and they made her life miserable! Angela Ashton was the worst of the lot. Always belittling her, telling Jean—my beautiful and gentle sister—that she was useless and ugly. The other girls did nothing to stop her. They killed my sister.”

  “Mary,” Ginger started.

  “Stop!” Mary Smith thrust out a palm. “Angela deserved to die. She was evil to the core. Always leading people on and then dropping them when it suited her. She was a loose and immoral woman who was destined to be a Baroness. She didn’t deserve a life of privilege like that.”

  She stared hard at Ginger. “Felicia and Muriel Webb were to be next. I’ll never forgive you for stopping me.”

  At this, Mary Smith made a large figure of eight with the burning wood, purposefully hitting the lace curtains.

  “Miss Smith!” Basil barked, but it was too late. The curtains caught fire, the flames jumping from one panel to the next. Haley rushed to the sideboard for the jug of water, but it was too little too late.

  Miss Whitton whipped at the flames with a knitted blanket, but it only stirred them and caused the afghan to catch fire as well.

  “Everybody outside!” Ginger yelled. Miss Smith was ahead of the bunch, having snatched her handbag and escaped out the French windows. Ginger hiked up her skirt and ran after her.

  “Mary!”

  The librarian was spry on her feet. The early November night was cloudless and though the moon was only half-full, it shed enough light to see dimly. Mary Smith dropped her torch onto the dry grass, and Ginger lost valuable time stomping out the flames and throwing dirt on it until it was fully extinguished. Mary raced through the garden, but she didn’t know the layout like Ginger did. She ran around the rosebushes, through the begonias and behind the sycamore tree. Ginger felt the stinging bites of thorns and dry branches as they tore her skin, but her adrenaline pushed her onward.

  Miss Smith had tried to throw Ginger off by circling back—a plan that backfired because she soon found herself cornered between the lake and the boathouse.

  “Stay back,” she threatened.

  Ginger slowed, panting to gain her breath. When she looked up, Miss Smith had a bow and arrow pointing at Ginger’s heart. The instrument was smaller than most, child-size, and fitting for the diminutive librarian. That was what she had stored away in her large handbag.

  Ginger sprung behind the thick trunk of a maple tree and cringed at the sound of the first arrow penetrating the bark with a snap.

  “I have a dozen arrows on me, Lady Gold, and as you know, I’m a good shot. You’d be wise to let me go.”

  “I can’t do that Mary. You’ve killed a woman.”

  “And now I have to pay? Do you think I haven’t already paid? My heart is broken . . .” Mary’s voice cracked and large tears streamed down her face. “Jean wasn’t pretty like the others. Nor rich or even that clever, but she was lovely, kind, and would never hurt a soul.”

  Ginger sighed. So much heartache in the world.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ginger said. “I truly am. I know how it feels to needlessly lose someone dear.”

  Mary’s eyes grew cold as the window of her emotional vulnerability closed. “It’s not the same, Lady Gold. Sir Daniel died at the hands of the enemy. Jean died at the hands of her so-called friends.”

  The air had thickened with the tang of smoke, and Ginger’s hand flew to her chest at the sight of the ridge of flames that licked at the darkening sky. Bray Manor was on fire. In the distance, the wail of sirens filled the air.

  Ginger’s attention was diverted for mere moments, but long enough for Mary to hop into the rowing boat. She scrambled for the oars.

  Ginger jumped out from behind the tree. “Mary!”

  The librarian swiftly lifted the bow and worked an arrow into place. She aimed it at Ginger. “Stay back.”

  Ginger darted back to the tree. Slipping her hand under the hem of her skirt, she reached for her garter and removed her Remington. She hated how much she’d been using the weapon lately.

  She stepped out from the tree far enough to point. “Put the arrow down.”

  Mary let the arrow fly. Ginger backed up in the nick of time as it whizzed past her face. She stepped into position, revolver pointed. Mary hurried to load another arrow.

  “I’ll shoot you before you can fire it again.”

  Mary stared hard, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Go ahead! Kill me.”

  “I don’t shoot to kill,” Ginger said. “But it will hurt.”

  Mary Smith’s shoulders dropped in defeat, letting the small bow fall to the floor of the boat.

  “Ginger?”

  Ginger didn’t take her eyes off the librarian at the sound of Basil’s voice and kept the pistol pointed should Mary get any wild ideas.

  “Over here.”

  Basil broke through the bush. His eyes darted from Ginger and the pistol to the woman in the boat. Though his limp was intact, he strode with authority to the lake’s edge.

  “Miss Smith, I’m arresting you under the suspicion of the murder of Angela Ashton.” He helped her out of the boat onto the jetty and placed cuffs on her wrists now behind her back. “You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Ginger lowered the gun. It wasn’t even loaded. She’d shot her last bullet when she’d broken up the fight between the inspector and the captain.

  “How’s Bray Manor?”

  Basil’s eyes flashed with regret. “Everyone is out and safe, but I’m afraid . . .”

  Ginger didn’t wait to hear the end of his sentence but took off like a shot through the darkness.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Chesterton Inn emptied out considerably once the leaves fell—a lull before the Christmas visitors came through. Plenty of room for the Gold women and Haley to lodge temporarily.

  Bray Manor had suffered considerable damage, the sitting room was gutted, and smoke damage was extensive throughout. The building was ancient and had been falling apart struct
urally over the years, and Ginger suspected it would cost much more to fix than one could ever sell it for.

  Everyone was devastated by the loss, and tears were shed openly. Shattered by the fact that their livelihoods had literally gone up in flames, Bray Manor staff returned to their respective homes.

  Since dinner had been missed, Haley insisted they gather in the restaurant for a bite to eat. “We don’t want anyone fainting from hunger.”

  Ginger paid the management well to close the restaurant for a private function—the four women needed time to share their grief together. When the fire started, Boss had run upstairs to Felicia’s room to warn her of the danger. They considered him a hero, and Ginger ordered him his own piece of beef as a reward.

  Though they mourned the loss of Bray Manor, Felicia’s release from custody in Chesterton and the dropping of all charges was a reason to celebrate.

  “It’s good for us to eat and be thankful for what we do have. Family,” Ginger said. Then squeezing Haley’s hand, she added, “And friends.”

  Felicia ran fingers under her eyes. Ginger wasn’t used to seeing Felicia without makeup, and her natural appearance made her look younger and more vulnerable than Ginger had ever seen her.

  “Thank you for believing in me,” Felicia said to her. “I’ll never take my freedom for granted again.”

  “I’ve always believed in you.” Tears leaked from Ginger’s eyes at the gratitude she felt at the mended bridge between them.

  Ambrosia fanned herself with a menu, her doughy cheeks flushed red with emotion. She wailed, “I can’t believe my dear Bray Manor is gone!”

  “It’s my fault,” Felicia said grimly. “It was my idea to bring strangers into the house.”

  “Nonsense,” Ginger said. “Your ideas were innovative and would have been successful. You’re not responsible for the actions of Miss Smith.”

  Felicia’s eyes, brimmed once again with tears, pleaded, “But I knew how Angela treated Jean and I did nothing to stop it.”

  Ginger took Felicia’s hand in hers and tenderly stroked it. “You were a child, Felicia, without the wisdom and hindsight of time. Sure you could’ve tried to stop Angela, but she might’ve just turned her venom on you. What happened to Jean Smith was tragic, but it wasn’t your fault.”

  Felicia burst into tears and blew into her linen serviette in the most unladylike manner. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just all so awful.”

  “Now, now, Felicia,” Ambrosia said. “Do pull yourself together.”

  The older woman’s lips quivered and Ginger sensed the admonition was for herself as well as her granddaughter.

  Felicia let out a soft hiccup and hid the serviette under the table. “Yes, Grandmama.”

  “I agree with Ginger,” Haley said. “Dr. Guthrie stated that Miss Jean Smith had known mental problems. Had she been given the help she needed, she might’ve stood up to Angela herself.”

  It was yet to be determined if Mary Smith was also plagued with mental problems. Perhaps, Ginger thought, a jury would show mercy and Mary’s life would be spared

  “Thank you, Miss Higgins,” Felicia said. “I appreciate your saying so.”

  Haley inclined her head and smiled. “Would you find it possible to call me Haley? I know I’m a foreigner . . .” Her gaze moved to Ginger relating what was left unspoken. And a commoner.

  “I’d love that,” Felicia said, her eyes brightening a little. “And you must call me Felicia.”

  Ambrosia watched the exchange with an expression of incredulity. “I’ll remain Dowager Lady Gold if that’s all right with you.”

  “Of course, madam,” Haley said, biting the inside of her lip to keep from smiling.

  Ambrosia returned to her own woes. “Whatever are we going to do? We can’t live in this inn forever.”

  “Not forever, Grandmama,” Felicia said with a deep sigh. She’d lost her vivaciousness since her break from Captain Smithwick and her stint as a prisoner. Ginger hoped that time would heal the wounds of her sister-in-law’s embarrassment and disillusionment. Captain Smithwick had disappeared from Chesterton and Ginger could only hope that he had gone for good.

  “How do you know?” Ambrosia insisted. “Even though the north wing remains, the firemen said it suffered tremendous smoke damage.” Her round eyes rolled upwards. “Oh, dear. I feel faint.”

  “Drink this,” Ginger said, reaching over with a glass of water. “I’ll order you some strong tea.”

  Ambrosia tilted the glass to her lips, stopping partway to continue with her grief. “And my poor staff—their jobs gone with the smoke.”

  Felicia patted her grandmother’s hand. “It’ll work out,” she said dully. “I just need time to think it through.”

  Ginger shared a nervous smile with Haley. Earlier they’d discussed another possibility, and now Ginger made her final decision. “Grandmother and Felicia, you must come to Hartigan House and live with me.”

  The room stilled, both Felicia and Ambrosia froze momentarily until Felicia squealed. “Do you mean it, Ginger? Really?”

  “Indeed,” Ginger said, her smile broadening. “Hartigan House is certainly large enough for us all.”

  Ambrosia remained straight-faced. “What about my servants. I can’t just abandon them.”

  Ginger shrugged. “Bring them too. I’m understaffed right now anyway.”

  Except for a butler. Pips was irreplaceable.

  Ambrosia addressed Ginger’s unspoken concern. “Wilson was due to retire at the end of the month anyway, and Phyllis is getting married in the spring. Mrs. Beasley and Langley could come, I suppose. And Clement. Goodness knows Hartigan House is in need of a competent gardener.”

  “Great!” Ginger said. “Then it’s settled.”

  The door to the restaurant opened, and a familiar voice rang out warmly, “I know this is a private function, but I hope you will let me say a few words before I go.”

  Ginger’s gaze latched onto Basil. “Of course,” she said civilly. “Come in.”

  Basil approached the table, hat in hand, and looked at Felicia. “I do want to apologize for the trouble I put you through, Miss Felicia.”

  Felicia’s lips trembled, but she managed a small smile. “I understand that you were just doing your job, Inspector.”

  Ginger couldn’t help but snort. She’d told Basil he was making a mistake when he arrested Felicia. That Felicia was innocent. Her sister-in-law’s trauma could’ve been avoided.

  Basil was insightful enough to pick up on how Ginger was feeling. “I hope that you can forgive me, Lady Gold, for not taking your word.”

  Ginger softened. It wasn’t often that a man would admit publicly that he’d been wrong. And Ginger wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. She sighed. “As Felicia has already said, you were simply doing your job.”

  Basil nodded and put his trilby hat back on his head. “I’ll leave you now.” His eyes settled on Ginger. “Please let me know if there is anything more you need.”

  The women remained silent until the inspector had gone.

  Haley leaned into Ginger. “You’re rather hard on him.”

  Ginger groaned inwardly. She was rather hard on herself. It was better this way. She and Basil weren’t friends. Circumstances had put them in a close working relationship—that was all it was. Close quarters had simulated an intimacy that wasn’t real. Besides, even though Basil had agreed to divorce his wife, Ginger knew that he was still in love with her.

  And she was still in love with another, as well.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It took a few days before everything was settled. Ginger would drive Ambrosia to London in the Humber later that day, while Haley and Felicia along with Clement, Langley and Mrs. Beasley—who’d agreed to relocate—took the train. What they could salvage of their belongings would be shipped over later.

  Ginger pulled the Humber to a halt in front of the Bray Manor ruins. It had been taped off to warn off looters and the curious; the grand blackened ha
ll appeared starkly defeated against the grey sky.

  She stepped out and walked around the charred remains to the lake behind. The damage to the house was worse from the back. The bricks darkened with soot, windows blown out with shattered glass on the ground beneath, the roof sunken and collapsing in parts. Ginger swallowed a lump, fighting against the emotion that had been building all morning, knowing what she had to do.

  Ginger climbed into the rowing boat, gingerly settled onto the wooden seat at the back, and tucked the skirt of her black crepe de Chine dress under her legs. Lifting the oars, she carefully placed them into the water and rowed.

  The paddles lapped gently through the waves and with each strong pull, the boat glided closer to her mark.

  With each strong pull she glided closer to her grief.

  It didn’t fully hit her until she reached the small cemetery and located his grave. It was easy to spot—the gravestone was new and clean, and taller than the rest; the flowerbed in the foreground well-tended.

  Felicia’s charity.

  Etched in delicate script were the words:

  Sir Daniel Livingston Gold

  7th April , 1895 - 2nd October , 1918

  Loving son, grandson,

  brother, and husband.

  Ginger fell to her knees and freely wept. There was no one around to judge her, no one to stop her.

  Until today, until this, it was easy to pretend that Daniel was just “away,” to return someday. Now she had to face the facts; her Daniel was dead. He was never coming home.

  She could still hear his voice in her head, warm as honey and gentle as a bubbling brook. Someday, Ginger, this war will be over and we can settle down—Boston or London—you pick. Perhaps then the children will come.

  “I chose London, love,” she whispered. There’d be no children. That was something she’d accepted long ago, even before Daniel had died.

  Further down on the tombstone were these words of comfort:

  “And God will wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying nor pain; for the former things are passed away.” Rev. 21:4