The Sign of Death

by Callie Hutton

  THE SIGN OF DEATH

  A VICTORIAN BOOK CLUB MYSTERY

  Callie Hutton

  Dame Agatha Christie, the Queen of Cozy Mysteries.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks so much to my husband and beta reader, Doug. It was the only way to get him to read my books.

  A huge thank you to my agent, Nicole Resciniti from the Seymour Agency. Your diligence on my behalf is appreciated.

  To my hard-working editor, Faith Black Ross for her excellent suggestions that makes my books so much better. Thank you.

  Maria Connor, my personal assistant takes so much off my shoulders that I am able to write my books. Thanks a million, girlfriend.

  And thank you to all my romance readers who took a chance on my cozy mysteries.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bath, England

  January 1891

  William, Viscount Wethington, stared in horror at the missive in his hand, the blood draining from his head. He read it a second and then a third time, but the words never changed.

  My dearest son,

  After much consideration I have decided to retire from our townhouse in London and take up residence with you in Bath. Since the family holding is quite large, there is no reason for me to seek my own dwelling.

  I have many things to do to close up the London townhouse, so it will be a week or two before I arrive.

  I am so looking forward to spending time with my only son.

  Affectionately,

  Mother

  His mother was coming to live with him.

  They had not lived under the same roof for so many years that he’d lost count. He loved his mother dearly, but she consulted her dead husband for advice, found happiness and joy in every second of her life, which could be trying on some days, and had a tendency to get lost if she walked more than a block from her home.

  Worst of all, his beloved mother was also determined to see him married with children. He oftentimes thought the sole reason she had given birth to him and his sister, Valerie, now the Countess Denby, was to provide her with grandchildren.

  When he reminded her that Valerie and her husband had been reproducing at an alarming rate—seven children so far—she sniffed and said that as much as she loved them, she needed grandchildren she could see regularly. The earl and countess were currently living in France.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. She was correct, the house was very large, but nothing was large enough to shelter both him and his mother. He folded the letter and dropped it on his desk, relegating it to the list of things to think about after a brandy. Or two.

  James Harding, his man of business, was due to arrive any moment. William had an uncomfortable feeling that something wasn’t right with his finances, though he had very little to go on.

  He’d employed James for three years and had never had reason to mistrust the man. However, some of his own numbers did not add up to the information James had last provided.

  William’s father, the former Viscount Wethington, had left him a tidy sum when he passed away, but William, wanting to ensure his future—and yes, the future of his one-day children—had used a good portion of the money to invest in various businesses and stocks.

  He currently held an interest in two restaurants, one hotel, a small bank, and a printing company. Although James had advised against it, William had also financed a couple of industrial ventures in the United States, which were currently his best-performing investments.

  His government bonds were solid as his railroad stock. Yet something wasn’t right, and he hoped to discover what it was today and set his worries aside.

  He shook his head. Lord knew he had enough to worry about with Mother moving into his house.

  “My lord, a note has arrived for you.” His butler, Madison, entered the library and held out a folded piece of paper.

  William opened the note and frowned. It appeared that Mr. Harding was ill and unable to attend him. He looked up at Madison. “Thank you. No response is required.”

  He stared at the note on his desk, considering this latest development. When had he started mistrusting James? A little more than three years together, and only recently had he felt a shift in their arrangement. Hopefully the man was legitimately ill and not just avoiding him.

  William stood and strolled over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The garden was bleak as the day: cloudy, damp, and dismal. This time of the year was his least favorite. The merriment of Yuletide had ended, and nothing would appear on the horizon for a few months.

  Shaking off his gloom, he strode from the room and made a last-minute decision to call on Lady Amy. He always smiled when he thought of her. She was a fellow member of the Mystery Book Club of Bath as well as a congregant in his church, St. Swithin’s.

  Several months before, they’d worked together on solving the mystery of the death of her ex-fiancé, Mr. Ronald St. Vincent. As unusual as it sounded for there to be a gently reared young lady involving herself in a murder investigation, the subject of homicide was not something completely unfamiliar to Lady Amy. Unbeknownst to the public, she was the very well-known murder mystery author E. D. Burton, a fact he had learned during the course of their investigation.

  He still smiled whenever he thought of that.

  “I will return in time for dinner,” William said to Madison as he shrugged into his coat.

  “Very good, my lord. I will advise Cook.”

  He strode to the small stable at the back of his home to tack his horse, Major. The Cleveland Bay had been carrying him about town for many years.

  The familiar, comforting smell of hay and animal greeted him as he approached Major’s stall. He ran his palm down the horse’s satin nose. “I promise I will take you for a good run sometime soon. I’m afraid right now we’re only traveling to Lady Amy’s house.”

  Almost as if the horse understood, he stomped his foot and shook his head. William spoke soothing words to the animal as he finished tacking, then led him from the stable and mounted. With a squeeze of his thighs, he headed away from Wethington Manor toward Amy’s house.

  * * *

  Lady Amy Lovell tapped her pen against her desk as she considered the next red herring in the murder mystery she was currently working on. For some reason, she had been having a hard time concentrating the last few days.

  It could very well be the dreary weather. She glanced out the window and rested her chin on her hand. Nothing of interest ever happened this time of the year, now that the social events of the holidays were over. It was too early for spring and her annual retreat with Aunt Margaret to Brighton Beach.

  Amy stood and stretched, dropping her dog to the floor. She scooped the Pomeranian up. “I’m so very sorry, Persephone. I forgot you were sitting on my lap.”

  The dog regarded her with disdain. It amazed her how she could ascertain her dog’s moods. Of course, no one believed that her dog had moods and that she could determine them. But when Amy did something of which Persephone didn’t approve, the dog would raise her nonexistent tail in the air and stroll away as if she were the queen.

  What Amy needed was to get out of the house. Go for a walk. Even in the damp, cool weather, a stroll could help clear her brain. Her mind made up, she shuffled her papers and stacked them neatly on the corner of her desk.

  “Persephone, let’s go for a walk.” She reached out and pulled the dog to her chest. “We will take a nice walk and get some fresh air. You are beginning to put on weight and need some exercise.” She rubbed her nose in the dog’s soft white fur and glanced out the window again. “Well, maybe not fresh, but better than indoor air, at least.”

  Perhaps her close friend, Eloise, would be up for a stroll. They could tak
e a walk to the Pump Room and hope the entire time that the threatening clouds did not dump on them.

  She hurried down the stairs, the idea sounding better every minute. She handed Persephone off to her butler, Stevens, while she buttoned up her coat. Just then, the door knocker sounded and Stevens opened the door.

  William stood there, bringing a smile to her face. After that ghastly business with her ex-fiancé’s murder, she and William had celebrated by getting a wee bit tipsy. Unexpectedly, he had kissed her, and now their relationship had shifted. Nothing about courting had been formally announced, but there was definitely something in the air whenever they were together.

  “What brings you here, my lord?” Amy asked, aware of Stevens standing next to her. She felt it important to maintain formality whenever she and William were not alone.

  “I thought perhaps you would like some company, but it appears you are on your way out.” Was that disappointment she heard in his voice?

  “Actually, I was just about to take a walk, possibly to the Pump Room. I felt the need to get out of the house. My brain is having a hard time focusing, for some reason.”

  “Then I suggest we stroll together.” He stopped and considered her for a few seconds. “Unless you were meeting someone else?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I thought to stop at Eloise’s house to see if she was up for a walk, but now I won’t have to drag her out of the house.” Amy laughed. “She is not overly fond of walking.”

  He glanced at the dog snuggled in her arms. “Are you taking Persephone with you?” He tried his best to look unconcerned, but she knew he was not enamored with her beloved dog. He didn’t exactly dislike her, but the animal did seem to enjoy snubbing him. Almost from their first encounter, they had seemed to regard each other with uneasiness.

  “Yes. I just need to get her leash.” Amy retrieved the leash from a hook hanging by the door and snapped it onto Persephone’s collar. “There. Now we’re ready.”

  They made their way down the steps, and Amy took William’s arm as they began their stroll.

  “How is your new book coming along?”

  She scrunched her nose. “It was just fine, but I need one more red herring, and I cannot come up with someone.”

  He patted her hand. “I’ve no doubt that you will do it. I am still amazed that you write such fearsome stories.”

  Amy waved her hand. “It’s not so terrifying when you’re writing it. I mean, I know who is going to get killed and how.” She studied Persephone as the little dog moved from one side of the pathway to the other, sniffing and pulling on her leash.

  “I will tell you, it is much more fun than when I was the suspect in a murder myself.” She shuddered. “I dread to think what would have happened had we not stepped in and figured out who killed Mr. St. Vincent.”

  “I like to think that our police department would have eventually come to the same conclusion.”

  Amy looked at him sideways. “You have much more faith in Detectives Carson and Marsh than I do.”

  They were silent for a few minutes. Then William said, “I received some rather interesting news today.”

  “What is that?” Amy tugged Persephone’s leash. The dog was getting much too close to another dog’s leavings for her comfort.

  “Lady Wethington is moving from London to Bath.”

  Amy frowned. “Who?” She tugged again, this time dragging her dog away from a dead bird. Why must Persephone find all the unpleasant things to entertain herself with?

  He sighed. “My mother.”

  Amy almost broke into laughter at the look on his face. William reminded her of a young boy who had just discovered that his tutor was about to pay a visit to his parents.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. She is everything most mothers of my rank are not. She took daily interest in me and my sister. She nursed us through illnesses and made sure our lessons were done. She read us stories and took us for long walks.”

  Thinking of her own mother, whom Amy had lost when she was only ten years old, she couldn’t imagine anyone finding fault with such a woman. “I believe I hear a but in there.”

  “Yes. You do. The involvement in our daily lives did not stop when we reached adulthood.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Indeed. I think if I permitted it, she would read me a story every evening before bed and ask if I had cleaned my teeth and scrubbed behind my ears.”

  Amy burst out laughing. “I can see your dilemma. Unless, of course, you do not scrub behind your ears.” She smirked at him.

  William stopped their walk as they approached the end of the pavement. They waited for the traffic to clear, then continued.

  “Tell me about your sister,” Amy said. “You rarely speak of her.”

  “Valerie is five years my senior. She married the Earl of Denby about twelve years ago. They have managed to reproduce themselves seven times.” He winced.

  “Good heavens, they’ve been busy,” Amy said.

  “Indeed. I visited her last year before the last one was born, and it was like living in a foundling home. She has plenty of help, but everywhere I turned, there was a small child staring at me. It became quite alarming.”

  Amy hadn’t given a great deal of thought to having children of her own. She’d imagined that if she ever did marry, there would be a child or two. But seven? Now it was her turn to shudder.

  “There is also something that you need to be aware of about Lady Wethington, since you and I have become … fast friends.”

  Fast friends. Was that what they were? He’d kissed her a few times since that first occasion, but he always seemed to pull back just when it became interesting.

  They came to another stop to allow traffic to proceed. The Roman Baths and the Abbey were a mere block away. She could see the church steeple from where they stood. There were more people about than Amy would have expected for January and the nasty weather. “Of what do I need to be aware?” she asked.

  He looked her in the eye, humor clearly written there. “She intends to marry me off. Sooner rather than later.”

  CHAPTER 2

  A light tap on Amy’s bedchamber door drew her attention from the bracelet she was struggling to clip onto her wrist. Every time she neared snapping it closed, it slid off.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “Come in.”

  Aunt Margaret entered and frowned at Amy. “My, you look exasperated. Whatever is the matter?”

  Amy held out her arm. “I’m trying to fasten this bracelet. One would have assumed jewelers made these clasps a little easier to affix.”

  “Why didn’t you call for Lacey?” Aunt Margaret moved to Amy, took the bracelet from her hand, and had it closed in two seconds.

  “It is Sunday morning, remember? She is off until dinnertime.”

  The two women shared the Winchester townhouse. Aunt Margaret, the younger half sister of Amy’s father, had stepped in to raise young Amy after her mother passed away when she was ten years old.

  Aunt Margaret was a wonderful companion; the bane of her brother’s existence, since he’d never gotten her married off; and Amy’s best friend. Aunt Margaret was the proud owner of a thirty-year-old cockatoo who quoted Shakespeare—unlike Amy’s fluffy Pomeranian, who made her thoughts known with a swish of her missing tail.

  Only fifteen years apart in age, aunt and niece were more like sisters. While Amy was of medium height and filled out her clothes quite well—in some cases more than quite well—Aunt Margaret was tall and willowy. And as expected, both women wished they had the other’s figure.

  “Is William coming to escort us to church?” Aunt Margaret bent to view herself in the mirror over Amy’s dressing table. She moved her hat around and stuck a pin in the center. Satisfied, she straightened and picked up her reticule and Bible from the table.

  “Yes. He should be here any minute.” Amy placed her own hat on her head, made a face, and took it off. She rummage
d in her wardrobe for another and pulled out one of her favorites, which unfortunately had been crushed.

  “I will meet you downstairs then,” Aunt Margaret said as she left the room.

  Amy waved her on and pulled out two other hats. Neither of them looked right with her outfit. She sighed and went back to the first one.

  She truly had to get herself better organized. While involved in writing a new murder mystery, she let everything else go. The project took over her life to the extent that on occasion she even forgot to go downstairs for dinner. Not one to deny herself food, however, she spent many a late night raiding the kitchen for cold leftovers.

  She plopped the original black-and-white straw hat back on her head and anchored it with a pearl hatpin. She picked up her gloves, retrieved her reticule and Bible, and joined Aunt Margaret at the front door.

  Aunt Margaret glanced at Amy’s feet. “You have on two different shoes again.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Amy ran back upstairs, frustrated at her lack of attention. She often bought duplicates of the same pair of shoes so she didn’t have to worry about wasting time searching for a missing one.

  Were she an old lady, they would have called her eccentric. Instead, she was afraid those close to her merely thought of her as harebrained. Except, she assured herself, it took quite a bit of intelligence to write her wonderful murder books.

  Back downstairs again, Stevens helped her into her cloak. The door knocker dropped just as Amy finished buttoning up.

  “Good morning, ladies.” William bowed in their direction, the warm smile he always greeted them with fully in place. He nodded at Amy. “Fix your hat.”

  She looked in the mirror, readjusted the headpiece, and seriously considered returning to bed and waking up the next day.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Aunt Margaret smiled back at him.

  He stepped out into the cool morning air and allowed them to precede him down the steps.

  They were on their way to St. Swithin’s Church on the Paragon in the Wolcot area of Bath, where they worshiped every Sunday morning. It was a lovely old church that Amy had attended with her mother and Aunt Margaret since she was a small child.