Death in a Stately Home: Book Three in the Murder on Location series Read online

  Death in a Stately Home

  Book Three in the Murder on Location series

  Sara Rosett

  Contents

  About Death in a Stately Home

  Schedule of Events

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  The Story Behind The Story

  About the Author

  Other Books By Sara Rosett

  Death in a Stately Home

  Book Three in the Murder on Location series

  Sara Rosett

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  Newsletter sign-up

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  Copyright © 2015 by Sara Rosett

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  All rights are reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this work may be used, stored, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without express written permission from the author and publisher.

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  This is a work of fiction and names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, incidents, and places is coincidental.

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  Editing: www.ManuscriptProofing.com

  Cover Design: Alchemy Book Covers

  Created with Vellum

  About Death in a Stately Home

  Book Three in the Murder on Location series

  Good houseguests don’t get accused of murder…

  Kate Sharp loves the perks of her location scout profession. When she fills in for a researcher at a Regency-themed English house party, she’s looking forward to indulging in the posh atmosphere of tea on the lawn and elegant candlelight dinners, but when a guest is murdered in a locked room, Kate becomes the prime suspect.

  As she turns her attention to the guests, the staff, and the owners, Kate must unlock the mystery and uncover the murderer before she’s arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.

  Death in a Stately Home is the third installment in the Murder on Location collection, a series of British cozy mysteries. If you love engaging characters, compelling British detective mysteries, the works of Jane Austen, and vivid locations that transport you to another place, then you’ll love Sara Rosett’s latest whodunit.

  Schedule of Events

  Parkview Hall

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  Schedule of Activities

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  Friday

  4:30 ~ Tea on the Small Terrace

  7:00 ~ Drinks in the Drawing Room

  7:30 ~ Dinner

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  Saturday

  7:00 to 10:00 ~ Breakfast

  Tray in your room or join us in the Breakfast Room

  Morning at your leisure

  Noon ~ Cold luncheon served on the Small Terrace

  Afternoon ~ your choice of activities

  Regency needlework lesson

  Clay pigeon shooting

  Boating on the lake

  Garden and greenhouse tour

  4:30 ~ Tea in your room or as requested during activities

  7:00 ~ Drinks in the Drawing Room

  7:30 ~ Dinner

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  Sunday

  7:00 to 10:00 ~ Breakfast

  Tray in your room or join us in the Breakfast Room

  Morning at your leisure

  11:00 ~ Departure

  “Selfishness must always be forgiven you know, because there is no hope of a cure.”

  —Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

  Chapter 1

  BEATRICE’S CRISP UPPER-CLASS ACCENT had a worried undertone, which was not like her at all. “Kate,” she said as I listened to her voice message, “I have a spot of bother that I’d like to speak to you about. A rather delicate situation. Can you ring me back as soon as possible? The country house party begins today, and I must talk with you before then. It’s quite urgent.”

  Beatrice—whose formal title was Lady Stone of Parkview Hall, the local country pile that drew tourists from miles around—was straightforward and matter-of-fact. Evasive wasn’t her style. I frowned and called her back, keeping one eye out for a lumbering double-decker bus making its way to the village green. When I was put through to the estate office at Parkview Hall, I was told Beatrice had stepped out.

  “Any message?” asked a helpful voice.

  “No. I’ll call back in a moment.”

  I hung up and turned to Alex to tell him about the message, but his head was bent over his phone, reading a text. “Grace says she is almost here.”

  I put the unease about Beatrice’s message on hold and switched to the bigger concern that I’d been thinking about all day. “That’s…great.”

  Alex’s fingers stilled. “You sound worried.”

  I sighed. What had been a tiny doubt last week, had increased to full-blown worry as Grace’s visit neared. Standing in the warm summer sunshine, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. “Okay, yes, I am. I think I should go home.”

  “Why?” Alex asked, his face perplexed.

  “Because you said that when you told Grace that I’d be here, she just said ‘okay.’”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Grace is coming home to see you, not you and me. She doesn’t even know me. You should spend some time with her before you spring me on her. I mean, what schoolgirl on holiday wants to have a stranger horning in on her time with her brother?”

  “Don’t stress. Grace is awesome. She’s always grumbling about me being so much older and a boy, to boot. She’ll be thrilled that you’re here.”

  “Hmm.”

  Alex slipped his phone into his pocket and turned toward me, using his shoulder to separate us from the group milling around Nether Woodsmoor’s green as they waited for the bus. “And I’m not springing you on her. She knows about you. Like I said, I’ve told her about you. You’re part of my life now. I want her to get to know you.”

  He smiled that special smile that made my insides melt a little. Normally, I was all about losing myself in that smile, but I squeezed his hand and resisted the power of his smile. “What exactly did she say when you told her about me, that I’d be here during her half term break?”

  “She said ‘okay.’”

  “And that was it?”

  “Yes. She’s fine with it.”

  “Alex,” I patted his arm. “You are so sweet. You’re usually so intuitive about women, but I don’t think you have a clue about twelve-year-old girls. One-word responses are not good. Not good at all.”

  Alex frowned. “You think so?”

  “Yes. Twelve is the age when girls can’t stop talking…unless they’re in a mood, and then you can’t get them to say a word.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I was a twelve-year-old once. Listen, I’ll head back to my cottage. You two go on the picnic. I’ll meet her tomorrow—” I broke off as the bus came into view. I spotted a girl with long dark hair in the front seat of the top deck, her round face hovering near the window like a balloon. Our gazes connected, then she spotted Alex and waved, her f
ace breaking into a grin.

  I couldn’t leave now. “Or…I’ll just stay here and meet her.”

  The bus circled the roundabout laboriously like a tired circus elephant performing in the ring and shuddered to a stop. With a hydraulic wheeze, the driver lowered the bus. Despite being on the top deck, Grace was one of the first riders off the bus. She dodged through the line of people waiting to get on the bus and made for Alex, the plaid skirt of her uniform fluttering. Alex swept her up in a hug that lifted her off her feet.

  I stood back while they greeted each other, looking on with the other strangers around the bus, most of whom smiled as they watched the reunion. My phone in my pocket buzzed, and I checked it quickly. It was Elise, the producer of the Jane Austen documentary. Both Alex and I worked for her. She wasn’t a woman who liked to leave messages, but I couldn’t take her call now. I pressed the button to send the call to voicemail, wondering uneasily why she had called. The whole production had the weekend off.

  Alex set Grace on her feet and stepped back. “Grown another inch, I see.”

  “Two centimeters.” Grace wore a white short-sleeved shirt with her plaid skirt. Navy knee socks and dark shoes completed the outfit. She held a navy blazer balled up under one arm. “We’re in the U.K., remember? That’s what Mrs. Maslan keeps telling me,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “We use the metric system here,” she repeated in a singsong voice. Anyway,” she said, returning to her normal tones, “I’m one hundred sixty centimeters.” Like me, both Alex and Grace were American transplants to England.

  Alex squinted up at the church’s steeple that soared over the green. “So, in feet and inches….?”

  “Five-three,” she replied instantly.

  “Thank you. Now I don’t have to Google it. I bet you didn’t have to look it up.”

  “No, it’s a simple formula.”

  Alex draped his arm around Grace and said to me. “Her favorite subject is math.”

  “Maths, you mean.” Grace gave a little shake of her head, conveying loving exasperation with her brother.

  “Kate, this is Grace,” Alex said, shifting so that they were facing me. “Grace, my good friend Kate.”

  “Hi, Grace. Amazing how many little differences there are between American English and British English,” I said, latching onto the subject, hoping to find a little common ground with her.

  “Yes, like torch. The girls kept talking about torches, and I really wanted one until I found out it was just a stupid flashlight.” Her gaze ran over me from head to toe, then she asked, “Are you Alex’s girlfriend or just a friend?” She gazed expectantly at me with the same dark chocolate eyes as her brother.

  I looked at Alex over her head. “I think you could say I’m his girlfriend.” No formal declarations had been made, but we were certainly a couple.

  Alex smiled back at me with an intense gaze, and I felt like I was the most important thing in the world to him, his only focus at the moment. “Definitely.”

  “Oh,” Grace said in a small voice.

  I dragged my gaze away from Alex and realized that Grace had turned and was glancing back and forth from Alex to me. I redirected my attention to her, but she whirled around and called, “Suitcase,” as she disappeared back through the line of people now inching into the bus.

  When she and Alex returned with her suitcase, Grace announced, “I’m starving,” and looked over at the White Duck pub. Alex hitched his backpack, which was slung over one shoulder, higher. “Picnic lunch. Where would you like to go? The river or the green? Or we could drop your suitcase at the cottage and go up to the ruins, if you feel like a hike.”

  Grace scanned the street. “Is your car not fixed?”

  “No, it’s repaired.” Alex said.

  Alex’s classic MG Midget convertible had been damaged and was in the repair shop for a while, but it was functioning again.

  “Then why didn’t you bring it?” Grace asked.

  “We couldn’t all fit in it for one thing.”

  Grace shot me a look from under her lashes, and I knew she was thinking that if there were only two of them, it would have been fine—plenty of room. “You brought it last time.”

  “It was pouring rain. Today is a gorgeous day. So river or green?” Alex asked again.

  It was the sort of day that inspired poets to wax lyrical about the English countryside. A cloudless, brilliantly blue sky contrasted with the varying greens of the trees. A profusion of flowers from palest pink roses to tall bright yellow sunflowers filled the gardens around the green. A light breeze made the delicate petals dance and the sunflowers bob.

  “River, I guess.”

  A faint sulky undertone slipped into Grace’s voice, which I heard loud and clear. My unease grew as we walked the short distance to the river with Grace between Alex and me.

  Alex took Grace’s suitcase handle and pulled it along. “So how was the trip here?” He asked as we turned down one of the village streets lined with shops and restaurants, each with bright flowers trailing from hanging baskets or window boxes. The summer influx of cyclists and grand home touring families were out in force this weekend. Under awnings that breathed like living things in the gentle breeze, every chair at the sidewalk cafés were full, and we had to dodge through a crowd of milling tourists.

  Grace shifted around to the other side of Alex. “Fine.”

  We emerged into the open paved area that ran along the flat, but fast-moving river. All the benches were full, and people were strolling by the water, but Alex pointed to an open patch of ground near one of the bridges where the river curved.

  He claimed the section of open space, and didn’t seem to notice that Grace had slowed and was now several steps behind us. Alex parked the suitcase near the bridge, then I helped him spread the blanket he’d brought. I sat down on a corner, and Alex dropped down beside me. Grace stood a moment, then settled across from us, her back to the river.

  “Ham or turkey?” Alex asked.

  Grace shrugged.

  “Ham, it is.” Alex handed her the sandwich, then distributed the rest of the food and drinks. Alex was so easy-going that it took a lot to ruffle his feathers, but I saw him send a frowning look toward Grace, and I knew he wasn’t happy with her attitude.

  Grace devoured her sandwich, then finished off an apple and a large cookie. I exchanged a grin with Alex as Grace rummaged in the backpack for the bag of chips—or crisps, as she called them. Maybe the girl was just cranky and hungry. She sat with her head down, her dark hair falling forward, hiding her face.

  We ate, the steady hum of the water rushing along under the bridge, the only sound except for stray bits of conversation that floated our way from people walking along the river or over the bridge.

  A woman with faded brown hair made her way toward the bridge. She wore a saggy white tunic-type shirt over a pair of loose pants that flared around her ankles. I shifted, preparing to stand.

  “See someone?” Alex asked.

  I saw the woman’s face and relaxed. “No. I thought I saw Beatrice, but it wasn’t her.” I reached for a chip. “She called and left me a message. I returned her call, but she wasn’t in. She sounded….worried.”

  “Who’s Beatrice?” Grace asked.

  “Lady Stone,” Alex explained. “She and her husband Sir Harold live in Parkview Hall, the big estate we toured last time you were here.”

  “Oh. The one with all the chairs roped off.”

  “She sounded worried?” Alex asked. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

  “I know. She had said she needed my help with ‘a spot of bother,’ as she phrased it.” Beatrice was not a person who spent time worrying over things. She was much more of the let’s-get-this-thing-taken-care-of school of thought. She didn’t mull things over. She organized, sorted, and dealt with problems, neatly slotting them into proper categories.

  “I’m sure she’ll call you back,” Alex said.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Beatrice was also very d
etermined and focused. Once you were on her agenda, you might as well surrender to her plans. “She did mention this weekend’s house party. I hope nothing has gone wrong.”

  “If it has, I’m sure she’ll fix it in no time.” Alex balled up the napkins and chip bags as he asked Grace, “So what would you like to do today? Should we go to the ruins this afternoon?”

  “I’d rather slackline instead.”

  “Slackline? What’s that?” I asked.

  Alex eyed Grace as he answered. “It’s sort of like walking a tightrope, but you use a flat, webbed line.”

  “I knew you’d know about it,” Grace said, her voice animated again.

  Before Alex had taken up location scouting, he’d been heavily into extreme sports, his favorite being snowboarding. “Like up in the air?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Grace said, unperturbed. “But you don’t start high, only a few feet off the ground.” She shifted her attention to Alex. “So you’ve done it, right?”

  “I tried it, but I wasn’t into it. Where did you learn about slacklining?” Alex asked, in a rather parental tone.

  “We did it at Marie’s house when I went home with her over the weekend. Her brother had one set up, and he let us use it. You’ve got some tie-downs,” Grace said. “I saw them in the cupboard last time I was here. We could put them up between the two trees in the back garden—”

  “Not today,” Alex said. “We’re going to the ruins, while the weather is nice.”

  Grace shut down, the animation draining from her face. “Are you coming, Kate?”

  “Of course Kate is coming.” Alex reached out to take my hand. “Kate loves the hike to the ruins.”

  “I do,” I said. “It’s one of my favorite walks.”

  “Right.” Grace said so softly that I almost couldn’t hear her. Her gaze lingered on our linked hands. Abruptly, she asked, “Do you know how to french braid hair?”