by Clare Jayne
The Convenient Murder
(Campbell & MacPherson 4)
Book Four of the Historical Mystery Series
By Clare Jayne
Kindle E-book Edition
Copyright 2019 Clare Jayne
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the prior permission in writing of the author, except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews.
All names, places, characters and incidents in this book are fictional and any resemblance to any person, business, place or event is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Amai Designs
Chapter One
Edinburgh, January 1790
A NOISE outside her room awoke Miss Fiona Chiverton. She stared at the unfamiliar decor around her in bewilderment – a feeling of panic rising in her – until her mind cleared and she recalled that she was staying for a few days at Lord Strand’s estate. She sat up abruptly and shivered. She had been lying on top of the bed covers and was still fully dressed in last night’s evening gown, the corset digging painfully into her skin.
She had not closed the heavy green curtains last night so the room was filled with the weak light that had managed to break its way through the glowering storm clouds outside. The rich green and yellow decoration of the room was lurid in the light and the walls felt as if they were pushing inwards, trapping her here.
Miss Chiverton pushed herself off the bed and stood up. She reached awkwardly behind her to pull the buttons of her dress undone, battling each layer of clothes until she was naked. The fire that had burned in the grate last night was no more than ashes now and she was surprised but relieved that her maid had not yet come to tend to it. Her body shaking with cold, she viewed the pitcher of water unhappily before steeling herself and pouring it into the bowl beside it that sat on a table at the foot of her bed. The water proved as bad as she had anticipated, having the temperature of ice, and she grabbed the slab of soap and got herself washed and dried in the fastest time possible before throwing on her woollen shift, the slight warmth it offered an immeasurable relief. It would be almost impossible to get on her stays without assistance and she wondered again where her maid was.
The sound of a woman’s shriek from somewhere in the house made her jump and she remembered the similar noise that had woken her. She had thought at the time that it was part of a nightmare but there was clearly something amiss.
Her hands shook from more than cold but she managed to dress as best as she could alone and pulled back her tangled blonde hair into an unflattering bun. Finally she battled with the large mahogany chair that she had shoved in front of the door for protection late last night, dragging it to one side so she could escape.
There was no one in the hallway but she could hear voices, loud and agitated, and followed them downstairs. Amongst the collection of half a dozen people she saw Lady Strand sitting, pale but composed, in a chair, her son standing beside her with a hand on her shoulder. A man broke away from the group and headed towards Fiona: it was Mr Gell, the gentleman who had paid her compliments last night and had twice asked her to dance with him. She thought he was going to speak to her and opened her mouth to ask him what was going on but, with his mouth compressed into a tight line and a chilling look in his eyes, he strode past her and up the stairs.
“Miss Chiverton.”
She looked round and was momentarily happy to see Mr McDonald’s frowning countenance as he hurried to her side. He was warmly dressed in a fashionable russet coat with matching breeches but his neck cloth hung limply over his shirt, with none of its usual style.
“What has happened?” she asked him.
He frowned and glanced towards a room she had not been in. “We must find your family and make preparations to leave immediately.”
“Has there been an accident?” She caught sight of a maid, who was crying uncontrollably, and saw that it was Mhairi – her own maid – who had an arm round her and was clearly trying to calm her down. The crying woman made a gesture towards the room Mr McDonald had looked towards and then turned abruptly away from it.
Miss Chiverton took a step forward and Mr McDonald caught her arm. “You must not go in there; it is too disturbing for you to see.”
Having had her interest thoroughly piqued, she pulled herself free of him and took another step down the shadowed corridor towards the unknown room.
Mr McDonald hurriedly moved to block her path. “I forbid you to go into that room. Go and pack immediately.”
It had been a long night and she was too tired and confused to deal politely with such officious behaviour. “Mr McDonald, I suggest for your well-being that you never again attempt to give me an order and, if you get in my way again, I will push you out of it.”
He glared at her and began to speak but she was already moving and marched past both him and the others standing between her and the room, entering it before anyone else could stop her. It was a study, she saw from the dark shape of a writing desk. The curtains were still closed and the fire had gone out, so the only illumination came from the hallway behind her. She stood peering round as her eyes adjusted to the dimness, the sound of agitated voices behind her, and then she saw the human figure lying on the floor.
Her heart beating fast, she took a step towards it. The dark shape slowly resolved itself into a man, unmoving, eyes open and fixed in her direction, face contorted as if in pain. There was an appalling smell coming from him and, as she got closer, she realised he had vomited.
He was clearly dead and, amid the shadows, she was able to recognise the white curling hair and last night’s elegant evening clothes. It was her host, Lord Strand.
She gave a shuddering sigh and whispered, “Thank goodness.”
Chapter Two
EWAN’S BUTLER hated her.
Ishbel was not sure what she had done to cause such strong feelings but every time she tried to politely give an order – as the new mistress of this house – she was met with a blank expression and an explanation of why there was a better way of doing things than she was suggesting, and it was already being done. It was like trying to argue with a lump of rock.
All she wanted to do was arrange a small dinner party for her own and Ewan’s family and it had turned into a battle of wits. She had had enough: this was her house too, the request was a reasonable one and if she had wanted to be treated like a fool she would have visited Harriette.
“Mr MacCuaig,” she said firmly, “I must insist...”
There sounded three sharp raps from the doorknocker outside.
“Excuse me, Madam.” MacCuaig turned his back on her and walked with slow dignity to the front door.
Ishbel huffed out a breath as she glared at him. He opened the door, spoke a few words and then admitted two familiar figures. Ishbel’s anger melted away at the sight of Miss Chiverton and Mr McDonald and, as MacCuaig relieved Mr McDonald of his hat and Miss Chiverton of her parasol, Ishbel hurried across the hall to them.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she said, smiling in greeting.
Miss Chiverton’s answering smile was unusually restrained and Mr McDonald’s expression was uncomfortable. It occurred to Ishbel belatedly that this was an unusually early hour for visitors and that it was even more rare – unheard of, in fact – to receive these two people together.
“I fear this is not so much a social call as a request for help,” Miss Chiverton said as she unpinned her bonnet and gave it to the butler. She impatiently pushed a blonde curl back from her face. “We have a murder for you and Mr MacPherson to solve.”
Ishbel’s first reaction to these words was pleasure and then she recalled that, in order for a death to be solved, someone must in fact be dea
d and she felt a touch of guilt at having been glad. “Please come into the drawing room.”
They followed her into the large room where Ewan was having a somewhat emotional conversation with his valet on the subject of footwear. Rabbie, the lively young servant who had helped with more than one of their investigations, looked at the guests with curiosity as he excused himself and left the room. Ewan grinned at Mr McDonald but the expression faded away when it received a strained smile in return.
Ewan glanced at her and she gave a slight shrug in answer to his unspoken question. “Please sit down,” she said to her guests. She had not had a murder to look into for nearly five months and found herself eager to hear the details.
They got settled and she automatically requested that coffee be served. Before she could ask about the death, Mr McDonald said stiffly, “I trust you are both settled comfortably in Edinburgh after your tour of Italy.”
It had been a honeymoon trip and the weeks away, alone with Ewan, had been perfect, but they had been home a month now and had seen Mr McDonald a number of times since then, so it was an odd thing for him to say. She glanced at Miss Chiverton in time to see the young woman roll her eyes and shoot a look of annoyance at him.
“Yes, indeed,” Ewan replied. “I have never been happier.”
His eyes were warm as he glanced over to her and Ishbel’s heart swelled. She had not known what love really was until she had married him and all her previous fears of being trapped and losing her identity in marriage had vanished. With his constant support, she felt more free than ever before.
“We have a wonderful life here,” she agreed. She sought in vain for a refined way of asking about the dead body and simply said, “Who has been murdered?”
Ewan started at the words and looked sharply at their visitors.
“I am sure the two of you have a great many pleasant duties to fill your time,” Mr McDonald said. “You should certainly not feel compelled to look into this matter...”
“...It is Lord Strand who was killed,” Miss Chiverton said, speaking over her companion, who looked none too pleased at the interruption. “We were staying at his home when it happened and I’m quite certain you will want to investigate it.”
Miss Chiverton lifted her chin and there was something deliberate in the way she did not look at the man sitting across from her. Mr McDonald folded his arms and glared at the carpet.
Ishbel’s lips twitched: this was certainly going to be interesting.
Chapter Three
“WHEN DID Lord Strand die?” Ewan asked.
“On Sunday,” Miss Chiverton replied. That was three days ago. “We had been due to stay for a week as the estate was some distance from Edinburgh and I knew you would want to question people, so I tried to at least get all their names, but they were in a rush to leave, so I fear I do not know half of them.”
Miss Chiverton looked perturbed over this, as if she thought she had somehow let them down, but before Ishbel could reassure her, Mr McDonald said with a quick sideways glance in her direction, “Of course they wanted to get away from the house – someone had just died there – and it was utterly improper for you to ask for an account of what they had seen.”
“I do not believe there are rules for how one should behave after a murder has been committed,” Miss Chiverton responded frostily. “I should think Lord Strand’s family would be very glad to find out what happened.”
“They certainly did not look to you to discover anything.”
Before the argument could grow more heated, Ewan spoke. “But, if they have no one else to turn to, they might be relieved if my wife and I looked into the matter. Perhaps you could both assist us by giving a brief explanation of what happened.”
“Of course,” Miss Chiverton said in a helpful manner that was at odds with her previous tone. “My family received an invitation some weeks ago to attend the gathering. My parents were still away at our country estate so my oldest brother, Henry, decided he should represent our family there. He went with Anne – his new wife – and me. Mr McDonald, who had also got an invitation, travelled there in our carriage...”
* * *
Miss Chiverton was glad to have Mr McDonald on the excursion with them since he was slightly less stuffy than Henry and, unlike Anne, had a wider conversational range than, “Yes, Henry,” and, “Whatever you say, Henry”. Henry could scarcely have found a more dutiful, obedient wife and Miss Chiverton’s attempts to get to know the woman had got nowhere. She wondered unhappily if Henry had said that his sister was too unconventional and had forbidden any friendship between them. Either that or Anne had her own undisclosed reasons for disliking her.
To distract herself from depressing thoughts about her family’s disapproval, she asked Mr McDonald, “Do you know Lord Strand well?”
“We are acquaintances but not friends,” he replied. “Lord Strand is an older man with a son about your age. I have nothing at all against him but he can be a difficult person to converse with.”
“In what way?” She leaned her arm against the carriage window and Henry, sitting next to Mr McDonald, who was opposite her, immediately gestured to her to sit up. If she ignored him, he would say something aloud and embarrass her, so she straightened and concentrated on Mr McDonald, whose expression she must be misreading since he looked almost sympathetic.
“He is an overbearing man.”
She only just restrained herself from looking at Henry, since the description so perfectly matched what she had just been thinking about him. “How so?”
“He can be quite rude to anyone who disagrees with him. He is wealthy and intelligent, though, and, when he wants to be, I understand he is considered charming.”
Another domineering man. As if she did not have enough in her life. Her happy anticipation of the week’s holiday faded. “What of the rest of his family?”
“I have never conversed with his wife and his son, Lord Cameron, was educated in England, so I have not seen him since he was a boy.” He must have picked up on some disappointment in her expression as he added, “Their home is said to be one of the most beautiful in the district, though, and the entertainments they have planned will certainly be lavish, so I am sure the visit will be enjoyable for you.”
His attitude was a touch condescending but he was clearly making an effort to put her at ease, which she appreciated. She glanced out of the window and then leaned nearer to it. “Oh, I believe I can see the estate now.”
Mr McDonald removed his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time. “Yes, that would be about right. We have been travelling for three hours.”
They passed some trees and the house came clearly into view. It was enormous – three storeys high and double the width – and had a pleasing architecture, with towers, gargoyles and turrets. There was an intricately designed formal garden to the front and back that she could only partly see at this angle but it looked as if it would be interesting to explore, with statues, steps leading to different levels and a small building, perhaps a folly. “The house looks medieval; probably twelfth century.”
“A young lady should not know so much about history,” Henry corrected her. “You should wait for a gentleman to inform you about it.”
“Given your lack of interest in the subject, I would have rather a long wait, would I not?”
She thought she saw Mr McDonald’s lips twitch. He was really not such bad company as she had expected.
Lord Strand had already taken a party of men out shooting, so it was Lady Strand who greeted them. She was a woman of around forty who looked as if she must have been beautiful as a young woman, but now her face had a look of strain, with lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes. She was too pale and Miss Chiverton wondered if she had been ill recently. She greeted them with an anxious kind of concern, ordering servants to take them to their rooms. From the sounds of voices from one of the rooms behind her, a number of guests had already arrived and Miss Chiverton hoped she would
find some familiar faces there or at least meet some agreeable people. A week with them might, otherwise, seem a long time.
The rest of the afternoon was taken up in unpacking and getting dressed for dinner, so she did not meet her host until the evening.
Saturday night.
She could have no idea at the time that mere hours later he would be dead.
Chapter Four
“DID YOU like Lord Strand?” Ishbel asked when Miss Chiverton paused in her description of the arrival.
“No,” the woman said decisively and then she glanced at Ewan and Ishbel and amended her words. “That is, he thought too highly of himself and seemed to want nothing but flattery from everyone around him. He snapped at Mr McIntoll just for conversing with Lord Cameron instead of giving all his attention to him.”
Lord Cameron, Ishbel remembered, was Lord Strand’s son. She fetched a piece of paper, quill and a bottle of ink from the desk drawer on the other side of the room and returned, ready to begin making a list of suspects. “Mr McIntoll did not seem to get on well with Lord Strand then?”
“They were friendly enough,” McDonald answered. “McIntoll was an old family friend, I believe, so Lord Strand did not stand on ceremony with him.”
“There was something wrong between them,” Miss Chiverton disagreed.
“I believe not. Perhaps you are mistaking him with Mr Gell.”
“Mr Gell was on the friendliest of terms with Lord Strand,” Miss Chiverton said. “It is you who are misremembering the evening.”
Concerned that an argument would flare up between them, Ishbel said, “Perhaps you would finish your account, Miss Chiverton, and then Mr McDonald can add his own recollections.”
Miss Chiverton fixed her attention on Ishbel in a pointed manner and frowned as if trying to recall details. “Well, I was with Anne when I met Lord Strand. Henry had been waylaid in the hall by an old friend.”
