M. C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin and Hamish Macbeth series, as well as a quartet of Edwardian murder mysteries featuring heroine Lady Rose Summer, the Travelling Matchmaker Regency romance series and a stand-alone murder mystery, The Skeleton in the Closet – all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds and Paris. Visit www.agatharaisin.com for more.
Titles by M. C. Beaton
The Six Sisters
Minerva • The Taming of Annabelle • Deirdre and Desire
Daphne • Diana the Huntress • Frederica in Fashion
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
Snobbery with Violence • Hasty Death • Sick of Shadows
Our Lady of Pain
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter • Belinda Goes to Bath •Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Beatrice Goes to Brighton • Deborah Goes to Dover • Yvonne Goes to York
The Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener • Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage • Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death • Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam • Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate • Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance • Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison • Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body • Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip • Death of a Cad • Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife • Death of a Hussy • Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster • Death of a Glutton • Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man • Death of a Nag • Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist • Death of a Scriptwriter • Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas • Death of a Dustman • Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village • Death of a Poison Pen • Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer • Death of a Maid • Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch • Death of a Valentine • Death of a Sweep
Death of a Kingfisher
The Skeleton in the Closet
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd, 1983
This paperback edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © M. C. Beaton, 1983
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold,
hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84901-486-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-84901-951-4 (ebook)
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon
Printed and bound in the UK
1 3 5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4 2
The Maunder’s Praise of his strowling Mort
Doxy, oh! thy glaziers shine
As glimmar; by the Salomon!
No gentry mort has prats like thine,
No cove e’er wap’d with such a one.
White thy fambles, red thy gan,
And thy quarrons dainty is;
Couch a hogshead with me then,
In the darkmans clip and kiss . . .
Anon
(from W. H. Auden’s Oxford Book of Light Verse, Oxford
University Press)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
ONE
The only sign that the Armitage family was rising out of the mire of debt into which they had sunk the year before was the addition of two splendid hunters to the Reverend Charles Armitage’s stable and several highly bred hounds to his pack.
Rigorous economy was still practised in the vicarage. Meals were of the cheapest cuts of meat, and clothes were still darned and altered and handed down.
The vicar of St Charles and St Jude in the village of Hopeworth had eight children, six girls and twin boys. His eldest daughter Minerva, now twenty years of age, had only a month before announced her engagement to Lord Sylvester Comfrey, the Duke of Allsbury’s youngest son. The Armitage brood had somehow hoped this forthcoming noble alliance would immediately pour gold into the coffers of the vicarage. But although Lord Sylvester and his friend Peter, Marquess of Brabington, had generously lent the vicar money, and Lord Sylvester had lent him the use of his steward so that the tenant farms should flourish under professional guidance, no immediate signs of any affluence were to be felt.
The vicar had explained that the money must be paid back as soon as possible, not only to his daughter’s fiancé and to the Marquess, but also to Lady Godolphin for the expense that lady had incurred in bringing Minerva out.
The twins, Peregrine and James, aged ten, admittedly had their future education at Eton secured, but for the girls and Mrs Armitage life went on much as it had done before Minerva’s engagement.
Christmas passed quietly. Minerva was to be married in March and her younger sisters were already tearfully pleading for new gowns to be made for the wedding.
Apart from Minerva, there was Annabelle, seventeen, Deirdre, fifteen, Daphne, fourteen, Diana, thirteen, and Frederica, aged twelve.
Annabelle, the next in line, suffered from a nagging feeling of discontent which had nothing to do with her family’s straitened circumstances.
She had fallen in love at first sight with her sister Minerva’s fiancé, Lord Sylvester Comfrey.
The admiration of his lordship’s friend, the Marquess of Brabington, had been noticed by Annabelle and quickly discounted as unimportant.
At first, it had been the Marquess of Brabington who had occupied her dreams. He had descended on the vicarage to explain that he and Lord Sylvester Comfrey had decided to help the impoverished family out of their predicament by restoring the vicar’s land to good heart. The Marquess had given the vic
ar a generous loan and had then proceeded to win the hearts of the Armitage family in general and Annabelle in particular. He had walked with her about the village and the neighbouring countryside, implying by every look and gesture a closer, warmer relationship to follow. He had reluctantly left, telling Annabelle he must rejoin his regiment, but that he hoped to return as soon as possible.
But then Lord Sylvester had followed Minerva from London, Minerva who had run away – inexplicably, from all those sophisticated delights – and had proposed marriage. One look at Lord Sylvester, and the fond memory of the Marquess of Brabington shrivelled and died in Annabelle’s pretty head.
Her every waking minute seemed filled with thoughts of Lord Sylvester. She had not seen him since his monumental visit when the engagement was announced. Minerva and Mrs Armitage had departed for a month’s visit to Lord Sylvester’s parents’ home. But absence was turning love into an obsession. Annabelle felt that Lord Sylvester was making a dreadful mistake. Minerva would not make him a suitable wife.
Minerva was strict and prosy. How she had managed to capture a handsome and dashing rake like Comfrey was beyond any of Annabelle’s wildest imaginings. Admittedly, Minerva was very beautiful with her black hair and wide, clear, grey eyes. But she, Annabelle, knew that her own looks were startling. Fashion might decree that blondes were ‘unfortunate’ but Annabelle Armitage had learnt at an early age that the combination of golden hair, blue eyes, a trim figure and neat ankles had a delightful effect on any gentleman in the county of Berham.
Hadn’t she nearly been engaged herself and well before Minerva? But Guy Wentwater had turned out to be a slave trader and so the engagement had never come to pass. And then just as her feelings towards him were becoming warm again, he had mysteriously disappeared, and even his aunt, Lady Wentwater, swore she had not heard a word from him.
Mrs Armitage, who loved to believe herself ill with all kinds of humours and strange infections, had left Minerva to be head of the household. With Minerva and her mother gone, Annabelle found she once more had to take over the tiresome duties of the household and the parish.
And the more she did, the more she became convinced that Minerva’s natural role was that of spinster. Minerva had shown all signs of contentment with the dull routine of village life. Annabelle had always kicked and railed against it. Therefore, it followed – so ran Annabelle’s busy thoughts – that should Lord Sylvester decide he would be better suited with the younger sister then it would not be doing Minerva any great disservice.
That prim lady would suffer a little hurt, a little grief, but that was all. Minerva could surely never suffer from the strong passionate feelings which were churning around in her own bosom.
But how could she even begin to plan to take Lord Sylvester’s affections away from Minerva, if Lord Sylvester himself were never present to be charmed?
Although the vicarage boasted a cook-housekeeper, a housemaid, an odd man, and a coachman, Annabelle was expected to help with the household chores. As these thoughts ran through her head, she was engaged in removing grease spots from the plush upholstery of the dining chairs, a messy business which involved rubbing the stains gently with hot bread rolls.
Minerva and her mother were not expected home until the afternoon and Annabelle planned to put on her best dress just in case Lord Sylvester accompanied them.
She did not, therefore, even pause from her task at the sound of carriage wheels on the weedy gravel of the short drive outside, assuming her father had returned from his parish rounds.
Then she dropped the last roll in consternation as her mother’s plaintive voice sounded outside, saying, ‘Is there no one to welcome me?’
Annabelle ran to the window and looked out. If Lord Sylvester had arrived then she would escape to her room and prettify herself as fast as she could.
But there was only the small person of Mrs Armitage, who was languidly directing a brace of magnificent footmen to be careful with the baggage.
Lord Sylvester’s coach had arrived, but without either his lordship or Minerva.
Annabelle ran out and hugged her mother and planted a kiss on that lady’s withered cheek.
‘Mama! Where is Minerva? Why are you come alone?’
‘I feel monstrous travel sick,’ said Mrs Armitage faintly, disengaging herself from her daughter’s embrace. ‘Do not fuss so, child. I must lie down. I can feel one of my Spasms coming on.’
But Annabelle, unlike Minerva, was not to be intimidated by her mother’s famous Spasms. ‘You cannot disappear to your room, Mama, without first giving me intelligence of your visit. How do they live? Are they very grand?’
‘Oh, very well,’ sighed Mrs Armitage, capitulating. ‘But let me indoors to remove my bonnet and tell Mrs Hammer to fetch me a dish of tea.’ Mrs Hammer was the cook-housekeeper.
Annabelle fled to the kitchen and was soon back to join her mother who was seated by the fire in the parlour.
It’s so good to be home,’ said Mrs Armitage. ‘The Duke and Duchess of Allsbury live in such a grand manner. And so many guests, coming and going! And the clothes, my dear. The fashions! I felt quite the country dowd, although Minerva lent me some items from her wardrobe. It is as well that Lady Godolphin was so generous. Not that her grace is too high in the instep. She gave me a good recipe for Shrewsbury cake which surpasses ours. And she . . .’
‘But what of Minerva?’ interrupted Annabelle impatiently.
‘Oh, Minerva seems quite accustomed to the grand life. I declare, you would think she had been bred to it. Not that Lady Godolphin could have taught her much in the way of decorum, for that lady arrived when we were staying there and I was never more shocked. She dresses like laced mutton and mixes up all her words. Kept referring to dear Lord Sylvester as Minerva’s “fancy”. I only realized after a time, she meant fiancé. The Duchess is to furnish the bride’s gown, which is a blessing. Thousands of guineas it must have cost. Real Brussels lace over white satin and a vastly fetching cottage bonnet of Brussels lace with two feathers and . . .’
‘Mama!’ said Annabelle slowly and carefully. ‘Where is Minerva and why has she not returned?’
‘Because of you, my dear,’ exclaimed Mrs Armitage.
Annabelle suddenly blushed. Had Minerva discovered, somehow, her secret passion for Lord Sylvester?
In a daze, she heard her mother going on, ‘Minerva felt it would be a good opportunity for you to go on a visit to meet some suitable gentlemen and become accustomed to the ways of the ton since you are too young to make your come-out . . .’
‘I am seventeen!’ protested Annabelle, though her heart had begun to beat erratically. She would see him again.
‘To meet some young gentlemen,’ pursued Mrs Armitage. ‘The Duke’s servants are putting up at the inn and you are to travel tomorrow . . .’
‘Tomorrow! I have nothing to wear.’
‘Well, as to that. Lady Godolphin gave Minerva a most extensive wardrobe and you are of a size. Such a disgraceful old lady. She is only a distant relation of mine, some sort of cousin who isn’t far enough removed. I must say there has always been bad blood in that family. Now, I am fatigued with the journey and there are your things to be packed. Tell Betty’ – Betty was the housemaid – ‘she is to help you pack and prepare to travel with you, since you must have a maid. And put on your bonnet and go to Mr Macdonald’s shop and choose some silk ribbons to trim your blue velvet gown which will be just the thing for travelling in this weather.’
Annabelle tried to find out more about the Duke’s residence, and who was staying there at present and who were these young men she was to meet, but Mrs Armitage only closed her eyes and languidly complained of the headache and so Annabelle had to content herself with saving all her questions for the evening.
The day was steel grey and cold as she walked towards the village of Hopeworth. A faint powdering of snow dusted the thatch of the houses and lay on the frozen ruts in the road.
Annabelle’s brain was in a
whirl. For the first time, her supreme self-confidence began to fail and she experienced a qualm of fright at the thought of meeting high society in the mass for the first time. What vails did one give the servants, for example? And did one give them money when one arrived or when one left?
But Minerva would know, she thought with a sigh of relief. And straight after that pleasant thought came one of pure irritation that her sister, her rival, should know to a nicety as to how to go on with members of the ton when she, Annabelle, did not.
The shop was fairly busy and Mr Macdonald’s young men were pivoting themselves over the counter with amazing ease, their faces shining and their coat tails flying. Farmers and country people from the neighbourhood were standing around, sleeking down their hair, and glancing shyly about as they summoned up the courage to ask one of the smart young shop assistants to find them some notion to take back to their wives or daughters.
Annabelle was turning over various colours of silk ribbons in a box when two young exquisites entered the store.
‘I know it’s all very rustic and these yokels do stare so, George,’ drawled one, ‘but a chap can find amazing bargains in these backwaters.’
‘If you say so, Cyril,’ said his companion with a little titter.
Annabelle studied them covertly. Both were slap up to the nines in blue swallowtail coats and Marseilles waistcoats. They smelled strongly of musk. Their hair was teased and curled and pomaded. Although the one called George had brown hair, and his friend Cyril, black, they somehow looked remarkably alike. But one thing was evident to Annabelle, both were Pinks of the ton.
She decided to listen to their conversation to see if she could pick up some crumbs of fashionable speech to use on her visit.
‘How’s Barry?’ asked the one called George.
‘Oh, still at College. Got enough money to pay chummage though. Got two chums to rough it sleeping on the stairs. I told him not to play in that low dive. That Greek ivory turner used a bale of bard cinque deuces on him so its all Dicky with poor Barry. He was in his altitudes at the time. Well, now he’s in the nask. See here, fellow, let me see a bale of that sea-green silk.’
Taming of Annabelle Page 1
