A Grave Matter
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
Mortal Arts
“Set largely in Scotland in 1830, Huber’s well-done sequel to The Anatomist’s Wife includes all the ingredients of a romantic suspense novel, starting with a proud and independent heroine.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Anatomist’s Wife
“A riveting debut. Huber deftly weaves together an original premise, an enigmatic heroine, and a compelling Highland setting for a book you won’t want to put down.”
—Deanna Raybourn, New York Times bestselling author of the Lady Julia Grey novels
“Lady Darby is an engaging new sleuth to follow . . . [A] history mystery in fine Victorian style! Anna Lee Huber’s spirited debut mixes classic country house mystery with a liberal dash of historical romance. Fans of Tasha Alexander and Agatha Christie, rejoice!”
—Julia Spencer-Fleming, New York Times bestselling author of Through the Evil Days
“Anna Lee Huber has delivered a fast-paced, atmospheric, and chilling debut featuring a clever heroine with a shocking past and a talent for detection. I’m already anticipating Lady Darby’s next adventure.”
—Carol K. Carr, national bestselling author of India Black and the Gentleman Thief
“Lady Darby is an unusual and romantic heroine, haunted by a deadly past and trying to be herself in a society that wants to silence her—and worse.”
—Judith Rock, author of The Whispering of Bones
“Huber’s protagonist is complex and likable and the well-plotted mystery is filled with fascinating secondary characters . . . You’ll be engaged right to the end.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Huber’s debut . . . reads like a cross between a gothic novel and a mystery with a decidedly unusual heroine.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[Huber] designs her heroine as a woman who straddles the line between eighteenth-century behavior and twenty-first-century independence . . . If Ms. Huber continues writing her ongoing adventures in the same manner as The Anatomist’s Wife, she is sure to have a successful career as a mystery writer.”
—New York Journal of Books
“One of the best historical mysteries that I have read this year.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
“A great turn-pager which keeps you guessing. I loved it!”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Anna Lee Huber
THE ANATOMIST’S WIFE
MORTAL ARTS
A GRAVE MATTER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
Copyright © 2014 by Anna Aycock.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
eBook ISBN; 978-0-698-14032-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Huber, Anna Lee.
A grave matter : a Lady Darby mystery / by Anna Lee Huber—Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-425-25369-4 (paperback)
1. Upper class women—Fiction. 2. Anatomists—Fiction. 3. Grave robbing—Fiction. 4. Ransom—Fiction. 5. Upper class—Scotland—Social life and customs—19th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.U238G73 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014005610
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime trade paperback edition / July 2014
Cover illustration by Larry Rostant.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For my mother, whose love and strength is as fierce as a lioness.
With affection and gratitude.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR TITLES BY ANNA LEE HUBER
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME TITLES BY ANNA LEE HUBER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
HISTORICAL NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book presents its own challenges, and this one was no exception. My unending gratitude goes to the following people for helping me to not only complete A Grave Matter, but craft it into the best book it could be.
My brilliant editor, Michelle Vega, for all of her confidence, understanding, and expertise.
My intrepid agent, Kevan Lyon, for her support and encouragement.
The entire team at The Berkley Publishing Group for their expert contribution to the design and composition.
My writing group partners, Jackie Musser and Stacie Miller, for continuing to make me a better author, and being willing to read a rough draft and provide feedback on such short notice.
My family and friends, for their continued love and support.
My amazing husband, who never ceases to amaze me.
And my greatest blessing—my beautiful daughter, who I was pregnant with through much of the writing process of this book. Your stamp is written all over this book in big and small ways, and makes the story all the better for it.
CHAPTER ONE
Remember, friends, as you pass by,
As you are now so once was I.
As I am now, so you must be.
Prepare yourself to follow me.
—EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY GRAVE EPITAPH
CLINTMAINS HALL
BORDER REGION OF ENGLAND AND SCOTLAND
DECEMBER 31, 1830
The flames leaped high into the starry sky. Revelers clapped and reeled about each other in the golden flickering light, there and then gone, swallowed by the darkness and the whirling
mass of their fellow merrymakers. As the orchestra behind me paused between songs, I could just make out the feverish pitches of a fiddle and the low thump of a drum playing a Scottish jig. It floated on the crisp night air through the open French doors. What the players lacked in skill, they certainly made up for in exuberance.
The professional musicians playing in the ballroom behind me had also gotten into the festive spirit. Our hosts, my aunt and uncle, the Lord and Lady Rutherford, never would have stood for anything less. Most of the assemblage of local nobility and gentry were dancing, just like their servants and the villagers outside, and those who were not were either too old or too infirm to join in.
Or perhaps they’d simply wished for a quiet moment to themselves.
Unfortunately my brother, who’d been hovering about me all night, failed to understand this.
“Kiera, stop sulking,” Trevor chastised, appearing at my side.
“I’m not,” I protested.
He arched an eyebrow in skepticism. “Then why are you off in this corner by yourself?”
I nodded toward the scene outside. “I’m watching the antics of the servants at the bonfire. It’s quite diverting.” Once or twice I thought I saw the silhouette of one of our servants from Blakelaw House dance across the light, but they were too far away to be certain.
“That may be, but you’re supposed to be diverted by our antics in here,” he teased. Though his tone was light, I didn’t miss the glint of annoyance in his bright blue eyes.
We had argued over my coming to the Hogmanay Ball. I had not wanted to attend, while Trevor had insisted I must. Ultimately he had his way only because he had pointed out that many of our loyal servants would feel they couldn’t attend the accompanying bonfire if I remained behind, no matter how strongly I protested otherwise. But even my reluctant attendance still wasn’t enough for him. He had to linger about me all evening to ensure I was enjoying myself, which was irritating in the extreme, even as it was also endearing.
“Come.”
He gripped my elbow below the fashionably puffed sleeve of my midnight blue gown and tugged me toward the dance floor, where the orchestra played the first strains of a waltz. He pulled me effortlessly into the swirl of couples circling the gleaming wooden floor. The women were dressed in bright full-skirted gowns and the men in austere black coats and colorful tartan kilts.
I considered arguing with Trevor about his high-handedness, but then decided it would be silly. I did want to dance, and my brother was as skilled a partner as any. When he swung me into a tight turn, surprising a smile out of me, I suddenly realized how long it had been since we faced each other so. Certainly, I had danced with Trevor far more than any other gentleman of my acquaintance, for he had been forced to partner me by our childhood dancing master. We had stepped on each other’s toes and smacked one another in the face with an errant hand too many times to count. Once I had even bloodied his nose.
But that had been a long time ago. Sometimes it even seemed to me that it had been in another life. One I had lived before my disastrous marriage to Sir Anthony. Before his death and the resulting scandal from the charges brought against me because of my involvement with his gruesome work.
I shook away the troubling memories and tried to concentrate on the room before me. Trevor and I glided expertly across the floor to the Schubert waltz, proving that neither of us had forgotten how, though I suspected it had been far longer since I had done so than my brother. Trevor had always been a popular dance partner, and I doubted that had changed in the years since I had attended a ball in his company. Though even at my most awkward, he always had time for a dance or two with his little sister. That may have only been a small matter to him, but it had meant a great deal to me.
“Where have your thoughts gone?” His voice was flippant, but he couldn’t hide the concern I saw reflected in his eyes. “From the way you’re frowning, I expect my toes to be strategically crushed at any moment.”
I tilted my head. “As if my feet in these dainty slippers could cause you much discomfort.”
“You think not, but I seem to remember that the bone in your heel has always been remarkably sharp.”
I smiled sweetly. “Only when I’m grinding it into your instep.”
On the next dance step, he shifted his foot back as if to avoid my encroaching foot, and I laughed.
He grinned at my amusement and spun me in a faster circle, making the skirts of my gown bell out.
My cheeks flushed as the heat of the ballroom and the exertion of the dance began to warm me. I suspected Trevor and the other gentlemen might be sweating beneath their snowy white cravats, but he gave no indication of unease. Aunt Sarah had confided in me earlier that she worried the large ballroom would not hold the heat generated by the fireplaces on each end on this cold winter’s eve, but her concern proved unnecessary. Even though the gathering was not as large as I’d expected, being mostly extended family of my mother’s brother, Lord Rutherford, and his wife, and nobles and gentry from the nearby Border villages, the four score of people present still warmed the space quickly.
The Rutherford Hogmanay Ball and the accompanying bonfire and ceilidh dance for their tenants, the local tradesmen, and the servants of all who attended were an annual tradition. It had been many years since I last took part, but I had not forgotten the festive air, or the spirited ratafia punch so heavily brandied it burned the back of your throat. Great bowls of it stood on tables at one end of the ballroom next to bottles of whiskey, brandy, champagne, and a lavish spread of food—all within easy reach so that fewer servants were needed to attend to the guests of the ball, allowing them to enjoy their own gathering.
As a child, I remembered watching my mother ready herself for the Hogmanay Ball. Though I had been less fascinated than my older sister, Alana, who couldn’t wait to grow old enough to attend, I was nonetheless still enchanted by the sight of my parents together, descending the curving stair at Blakelaw House, dressed in full evening apparel. My father and mother certainly made a handsome couple, but it was the eager gleam I saw in each of their eyes, the joy and anticipation that arced between them that intrigued me. They kissed each of us children good night at the top of the stairs, and by the time they reached the bottom, it was as if they’d forgotten us entirely, so lost were they in each other and whatever mischief they anticipated that night.
I wished I could say that some of that enchantment remained. Perhaps had my father chosen differently, selecting a husband more like himself for me, someone steady and honorable, and without nefarious intentions kept hidden from us all until after the vows were spoken. Perhaps then I would feel more excitement at attending the Hogmanay Ball.
An image of Sebastian Gage swam to the forefront of my mind, as it inevitably did whenever I contemplated such matters. It had been almost two months since I had seen the golden-haired gentleman inquiry agent I had partnered with during two previous investigations, and somehow entangled myself with romantically, but the memory of his face, his voice, his lips pressed against mine had not lessened. The manner in which we had left things after I departed Edinburgh had not been satisfactory, but neither of us had been ready to discuss the tangled web of emotions that stretched between us. I had been raw with grief over my friend’s death during our most recent investigation, and he still had secrets he hadn’t reconciled with sharing.
As Trevor spun me through another set of turns, I couldn’t help wondering if Gage was still in Edinburgh. Was he attending another Hogmanay Ball, much like this one? Was he dancing with a lovely young lady?
“Stop.”
I glanced up at my brother. “What?”
“Stop contemplating whatever it is you’re thinking about,” he clarified and then shook his head. “It’s not making you happy. And I refuse to allow you to have any more gloomy thoughts. Not this night.” He leaned closer toward me, a twinkle in his eyes. “If need be, I shall force you to drink two, no three glasses of that vile ratafia punch, and then
proceed to push you into every available male’s arms one after the other and order them to dance with you.”
“You wouldn’t,” I replied, feeling less confident than I sounded.
He narrowed his eyes. “Try me.”
I searched his face for any sign of weakness. “You know you would be risking your coach’s leather seats. I cannot always handle such strong spirits.”
“Oh, I know,” he chuckled ruefully. “Remember Dottie Pringle’s card party? You vomited down the front of my jacket.”
Our cousin Jock laughed loudly at Trevor’s words, clearly having overheard at least part of our conversation from where he danced with a pretty brunette next to us.
I turned to scowl at him as a blush burned its way up into my cheeks. “I didn’t know their wassail was mostly spirits,” I replied defensively.
Trevor’s stern expression cracked at that. “Well, regardless, I’m willing to risk my coach seats to keep that stark expression from returning to your eyes.”
“How do you know the punch won’t make me maudlin?”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you foxed, Kiera.”
“Wish I had,” Jock called out from over my shoulder.
I turned to glare at my annoying cousin, but his wide unrepentant grin had me smiling instead. “Fine,” I declared with a melodramatic sigh. “I shall endeavor to be joyful.”
“That’s my Kiera,” Trevor declared, swinging me around so sharply that my legs were lifted momentarily from the ground.
At a normal gathering, such behavior would be highly inappropriate, but at the Rutherford Hogmanay Ball it was a matter of course. I estimated that half the assemblage was already well on its way to being sotted, if the giggles and raucous laughter were anything to go by. Mr. Trumble and his dance partner were barely able to stay on their feet as they twirled drunkenly through the assembly, narrowly missing the other couples. It was impossible not to join in the good cheer.
As the waltz entered its last stanza, a cry went up from across the room. Trevor and I turned toward the sound, but were distracted as Uncle Andrew leaped up in front of the orchestra, where they were positioned on a dais in the corner of the room. The strains of the waltz slowly died away, and a murmur of excitement swept over the crowd.