by Cindy Anstey
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THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY WONDERFUL FAMILY, ESPECIALLY MIKE, CHRISTINE, DEB, AND DAN, AND NEW MEMBERS OF THE CREW, IAN, NICOLE, AND PRECIOUS SCARLETT.
Before
He lounged under the ancient elm tree as dusk painted the sky a soft blush. Yawning, he tugged at the fob of his silver pocket watch and confirmed that he had waited well past the usual meeting hour. With a shake of his head, he stood, smoothed the wrinkles from his trousers, and started toward the path.
An unnatural stillness settled throughout the forest; the howling wind was muted, the leaves no longer rattled, and the birds were silent. Frowning, he squinted into the shadows all around him.
Deliberate, stealthy footfalls crunched through the rough grasses.
His heart quickened, and he swallowed in discomfort. Discomfort was soon replaced by fear.
This is ridiculous, he chided, giving himself a mental shake. There was no reason to be afraid. And yet this logic did nothing to stop the fear from growing.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
He received no reply.
A twig snapped close by, and suddenly, he was running. He raced for the path at the edge of the glade, the fastest way out of the woods. And then he stumbled, tripped by an animal snare. He fell to his knees, struggled to untangle the wire—
A sharp, intense pain under his ribs stilled his hands. He felt a warm cascade spill across his gut and he tilted, slowly collapsing to the ground.
As he lay in a puddle of blood, a figure stood over him.
“Why?” he managed with his last choking breath.
The figure did not answer, and the silence of death filled the glade.
CHAPTER ONE
Investigating Murder and Mayhem
JULY 1834
As she had hoped, Sophia Thompson found the Risely Hall library empty. Choosing the settee closest to the window, she dropped onto it in an unseemly sprawl. Quickly breaking the seal of the letter, she turned it toward the light and prayed for good news.
But it was not to be.
Dearest Cousin Sophia,
While I would like to talk of pretty dresses and my newest pony, I can’t. Other, much more weighty matters possess my every waking thought—besides, my dresses are still in the planning stage and the new pony is a plodder—hardly exciting, at all.
You were wrong! Life has not returned to normal! Nearly a year since Andrew’s murder, and the tension in the manor increases daily. The family is in danger of shattering into a thousand pieces.
I cannot ease the anxiety that eats at every person in the house. I have tried … distracting Mother with conversations about the neighbors, pestering William with sisterly fun, and talking to Father about field rotation (whatever that might be). Nor can I unravel the purpose behind Andrew’s killing.
And to make matters worse, there are rumors that Constable Marley wants to close the case, and is looking to accuse someone, anyone, of my brother’s murder—even Father! It makes no sense. Why would Father kill his son and heir? Really, there is no logic in some people!
As you see, we are desperate! Andrew’s murder must be solved quickly and the villain brought to justice before Constable Marley locks Father in irons or an angry mob burns down the house. Perhaps I exaggerate a trifle, but there is no telling what will happen in these unsettled times. I have no faith in Constable Marley’s ability to solve the mystery of Andrew’s death. What if the murderer still has his sights on the rest of the Waverley family? One day, we might all wake up dead.
By now you must realize the purpose of my letter. We need you! Yes, we need you and your inquisitive mind. You love puzzles and mysteries—the very reason you wish to be a detective. This case would go a long way to recommend you for training as a police investigator … if you succeed, of course. But I have far more faith in your clear thinking than the little minds around the town of West Ravenwood.
You must come to Allenton Park straightaway! And while you are here, we will prepare for a joint coming-out. Yes, I know it is a trivial consideration in light of Andrew’s death, but I need to escape this eternal dread somehow.
Please help me. I am in desperate need of a friend—someone I can trust. I have no one else to turn to.
Be sure it is your papa you ask about a visit. I’m not sure that your mama thinks kindly of this side of the family.
Please hurry. Time is running out.
Your loving cousin,
Daphne
Sophia frowned at the letter as she reread it. She was almost sick with worry when she read the letter a third time. Such hysteria was not like her cousin Daphne at all.
Giving her head a shake, Sophia tried to stave off her worry. She must think logically … as a Bow Street Detective would do. Logic and calm!
Holding up her fingers, Sophia took a deep breath and counted off the oddities of Daphne’s letter and why they bothered her:
One. While Daphne had a tendency toward melodrama, this was excessive, and her cousin’s call for help, uncharacteristic.
Two. Daphne was close to her brother, William, and yet he had warranted only a passing mention.
Three. Daphne had spoken of her coming-out in such a way that it almost equaled her concern about her family.
Four. Daphne mentioned, almost casually, that Uncle Edward could be arrested, accused of Andrew’s death.
What was going on in West Ravenwood?
Sophia gulped a deep breath of air, calming her racing heart, and turned her eyes to the window.
Andrew’s death had affected them all; although over time, the great sorrow of his loss had tempered into a dull ache of sadness. While alive, Andrew had been … difficult. His teasing often had a nasty edge, and he showed no interest in his sister or cousin’s conversation, interrupting or walking away midsentence. It was most irritating but not unexpected, for Andrew was well aware of his exalted position as son and heir. But since his murder, Sophia had come to appreciate those few—too few—memories of when Andrew had shown her kindness.
Sophia shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. It did not matter what type of person Andrew was—he had not deserved his fate. The mystery of his death needed to be solved. The murderer had to be found and punished. And if the constable in West Ravenwood was unable to do so without throwing out false accusations, then someone else was needed. Yes, perhaps even a green girl with an ambition to be a Bow Street Runner.
The Waverleys needed her. Daphne needed her.
Were she able, Sophia would have raced upstairs, grabbed some clothes, and set off on the high road, rushing north to West Ravenwood that very moment. But Sophia was not equipped to dash off by herself as of yet. At eighteen she needed funds and parental permission. Not to mention a horse, carriage, maid, a satchel … Dashing off was not as quickly achieved as it was so often stylized in fiction.
But Daphne needed help, and as quickly as possible.
Looking toward the door, Sophia im
agined her mother in the morning room across the hall, a scowl on her face as she sat surrounded by overstuffed pillows. She knew her mother would not agree to a hurried journey north, but as Daphne had suggested, her father might.
Jumping to her feet, Sophia raced into the hall, hurrying across the tile on tiptoes, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was fortunate that her father’s study was closer than the morning room, and Sophia ducked in without encountering her mother.
Papa sat in a wingback chair by a partially open window, well away from the insipid fire that Mama insisted upon. He had a calm disposition, gray curls to the nape of his neck, and a Vandyke beard of brown, black, and gray.
Lowering his newspaper, he looked over the edge at her. “Nothing to do today?” he asked, staring at her with a quizzical expression.
“No, actually. I have come about a request from Cousin Daphne,” Sophia said offhandedly, hoping to get approval without having to produce the overly dramatic letter. Father thought little of high emotions and would not be swayed by them. “She has requested a visit, a distraction from the upcoming anniversary of Andrew’s death.”
“Really? I have had no letter from your aunt Hazel.” Papa shrugged. “Your mother will not wish to travel so far.”
Then, as if no more needed to be said about the matter, he shook his paper straight, hiding behind it once more.
“It is barely a two-day ride,” she countered. But her words were quietly spoken. She did not wish to be disagreeable; it would not serve her purpose.
“You know it’s not the distance, Sophia,” Papa said from behind the newspaper, as if aware of her inner protest. “Your mother expects to be treated poorly now that her brother has been sent to the penal colony in Australia. She has no faith in the kindness of others.”
“No one has said a word, Papa. They wouldn’t dare. And really, one cannot help the follies of one’s family. She is not to blame for Uncle Gilbert’s behavior.”
“I quite agree. Still, there is no convincing her.”
“But, Papa, Daphne is all but begging me to visit. She sounds plaintive, and Daphne never sounds plaintive.” Melodramatic, yes, plaintive, no.
“Does she? That’s unfortunate. Well, I will speak to your mother … but, Sophia, don’t get your hopes up.”
“I won’t,” Sophia said, getting her hopes up. “We need not all go. I could travel to Allenton Park on my own—with Betty,” she added. “In a hired coach.”
Papa shook his head, his expression sour. “I will not see you in a hired coach.”
Brushing her hands down her wrinkled gown, Sophia nodded, returning to the library. She shifted one of the settees closer to the window and dropped onto it once more, lifting the letter from Cousin Daphne. By the time she had read it a fourth time, Sophia knew that she had to find a way to get to West Ravenwood as soon as possible. She had to help her cousin!
* * *
Sophia stared at the small puddle on the white marble floor of the grand hall and frowned. Dropping to her knees, she looked closer. The liquid was not tinged yellow, therefore not a “contribution” from one of her mama’s two pugs.
For the better part of three days, Sophia had marched through the halls of Risely, begrudging every moment not spent speeding to Daphne’s rescue. With no sign from either of her parents about the possibility of a journey to West Ravenwood, her anxiety and concern for Daphne had soared.
Hearing approaching steps, Sophia jumped to her feet. Fortunately, it was not Mama who breezed into the hall but Betty, one of the housemaids.
Sophia huffed, impatient with passing time, herself, the maid, even the puddle on the floor. “Betty, there is liquid of a mysterious nature on the floor. Do you know what it is?” she asked, being blunt on the advice of a book she was reading, Investigating Murder and Mayhem: A Runner’s Journey. She puzzled a moment longer, thinking about the instructions in the book. “Or how it came to be here … there?” She pointed needlessly.
Betty barely glanced at the puddle. “Oh, never you mind. Just some drops of water from the vase when I moved it into the dining room. I’ll get it up in a jiffy.”
“Oh.” Sophia huffed again—still frustrated with the puddle. Not mysterious after all. Just a bit of water spilled from a vase. Really!
“I have something for you,” the maid said, flapping a paper in the air. “Your father collected the post again this morning.”
With a squeal, Sophia snatched the letter from Betty. She recognized the handwriting: Cousin Daphne. Perhaps all was well and resolved? Sophia needn’t commandeer a coach and rush to West Ravenwood, risking her reputation and parents’ wrath? She held the letter tightly, wishing to break the seal and read it right there and then, but decorum prevailed.
“Where is Mama, Betty?” Sophia asked, casually glancing toward the smaller corridor leading to the back of the house. When Betty waved in the general direction of the morning room, Sophia turned toward the library. Her fingers picked at the edge of the letter as she walked.
She had almost made it to her sanctuary when the hall was filled with the echoes of running feet. Pivoting, she watched Henry—her fifteen-year-old brother—land on the bottom step of the grand staircase. He sprinted across the entry and yanked the front door open before the footman could reach it.
“Henry, where are you—” she began, but her words sputtered to a stop. Henry had not so much as hesitated at the sound of her voice, racing across the threshold and ignoring her completely.
Through the door, Sophia could see his friend Walter Ellerby pulling under the portico. His curricle halted only long enough for Henry to jump in. The boys were off on another adventure; Sophia nodded for the footman to close the door.
* * *
Sophia sat seething with impatience, tasting little of the meal in front of her. She had tried to broach the subject of visiting Daphne just after the soup had arrived, and again when the eel was brought around.
Her cousin’s latest letter did not bring happy news. Instead, Sophia had been bombarded with escalating distress about the family’s imminent downfall. Daphne’s pleas for help bordered on desperation. She seemed convinced that Andrew’s death was merely the beginning of their trials and tribulations, that the entire family was in danger. Soon to be murdered in their beds was how she had put it. It was possible that Daphne’s fears were exaggerated, but Sophia would only know for sure once she got there and investigated with her own eyes.
As dinner progressed, it became more and more difficult to hold her tongue. Waiting for the exact right time to bring up the subject of Allenton Park was a challenge. First, the conversation centered on Henry’s latest adventure with Walter Ellerby, riding around Welford Mills. It lasted for several minutes—several tedious minutes. When the subject turned to a harvest fair that was coming to a neighboring village, Sophia’s patience disappeared entirely.
“Salisbury is about halfway to West Ravenwood,” she blurted.
She would commandeer the family coach—and the coachman, Mr. Bradley, to drive it—if she must. The Thompsons seldom used it anymore; Mama might not even notice it was gone.
Sophia was about to say as much when Papa interrupted her.
“I have had a letter,” he said, giving her a measured look before continuing. “From my sister. We are invited to Allenton Park for a month or two.”
“Oh my, that is a shame,” Mama said, signaling the footman for another serving of eel. “Offer my apologies.”
Sophia frowned, staring at the end of the table. Her mama, hidden behind the frills and flounces of her yellow dinner gown, waved her fork in the air as she spoke. It was a face similar to Sophia’s, especially when she frowned. They had the same wavy dark hair, wide mouth, and oval jawline, though Mama was corpulent and going gray.
“I will do no such thing,” Papa said, smiling to nullify the harshness of his words. “I have instructed Mr. Bradley to be prepared by Thursday.”
Mama opened her mouth, but Henry spoke first. “I
would prefer to stay in Welford Mills, Papa. Walter will be heading back to school soon.”
Papa chuckled. “Mischief and frivolity still to be had?”
“Exactly, sir.”
“There. We cannot quit Welford, Mr. Thompson.” Mama looked relieved and sat back in her chair. “It would not suit Henry.”
“But, Mama, it suits me,” Sophia protested. “… and Daphne.”
“That is of no never mind, Sophia.” Her mother lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Your brother is happy to stay. Besides, the Waverleys are still not over Andrew’s death yet. It would be a dreary visit indeed.”
“One doesn’t get over a murder, Mama,” Sophia said, trying to control her tone of voice, though a smidgeon of anger snuck through. “And entertainment would not be the purpose of the visit but rather to lift their spirits.”
And solve the crime. But Sophia was hardly going to advertise her true intent to her mother.
Andrew’s death had been horrific, and to dismiss it so casually was cold and cruel. Sophia had not been at Allenton at the time, but Daphne had described the scene, including some of the more unpleasant details. Andrew was found in a puddle of blood in Glendor Wood just west of the Allenton manor. He had been stabbed in the gut—up under his rib.
“So, the question is settled.” Papa nodded sharply, glancing at his wife. “You, my dear, will remain in Welford Mills with Henry while Sophia and I visit my sister and her family to distract them from their melancholy … if possible.” He turned toward Sophia as Mama spluttered in protest at the far side of the table. “We will leave at ten sharp, Sophia, Thursday morning. Bring Betty as your lady’s maid. Your mother will require the services of Laura.”
Sophia gulped in relief. “Of course, Papa.”
Thank the heavens. It truly did sound as if nothing worthwhile had been done to find Andrew’s killer, and if the murderer was not found soon, all evidence and memories of that day would be lost. The tragedy of Andrew’s death would be compounded without any answers.
