Murder at Archly Manor Read online

  “With an incredibly loud voice.”

  His eyes, which could be so lazy and reserved, took on a piercing quality as he ran his gaze over me. I was very aware of my mended cuffs and that my Cuban heels had definitely seen better days. I took in the excellent cut of his suit and the quality of his gloves. Compared to his sartorial splendor, I must have looked down-at-the-heels. “I’m just on my way to tea,” he said. “Will you join me?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  He offered his arm, and we set off down the street. “I passed a tea shop not too far back,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Far too plebeian.”

  “Not your style?”

  He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “I do have a reputation to maintain.” He smiled. “No, that’s not it at all. Reestablishing an old friendship calls for something a bit grander. The Savoy, I think.”

  Chapter Two

  I savored the last bite of peach Melba and sighed with contentment. Once the food began to arrive at our table at the Savoy, the music and tea dancers and the hum of conversation faded out of my awareness. I didn’t pay nearly as much attention to Jasper as I did to the scrumptious scones and the delicate cakes and sandwiches. I put down my spoon. “That was delicious. So delicious, I’m afraid I haven’t been a good companion.”

  Jasper took a sip of his tea. “It’s perfectly fine. It’s good to see a woman actually eat. I don’t see how you society girls survive. Most exist on tea, champagne, and an occasional cucumber sandwich. And then they dance all night. It’s astounding, really.”

  “It’s these fashions.” I gestured at my narrow dress. “Everyone is reducing now. Of course, when one is hunting for employment, traipsing all over the city and scraping to make every shilling last, it’s easy to fit into a frock like this.” There was no point in trying to hide anything from Jasper now. Even though he lolled in his chair and his hooded gaze roamed over the restaurant lazily, he was astute. After my unladylike consumption of every morsel placed in front of me during tea, he was perceptive enough to deduce my circumstances.

  He asked, “Financial difficulties?”

  “Haven’t got a bean, not really. I thought it would be easy to find a position as a governess, but it was the same every time. When I sent my references and explained my background, it always seemed so promising. But once I actually met the families, everything changed. No one was interested.”

  “I daresay not.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I doubt there are many mistresses who like the idea of inviting a young woman like you into their homes.”

  I lifted my chin. “What do you mean? That I’m not qualified?”

  “No, I meant you’re far too attractive.”

  A blush heated my cheeks, and I toyed with my spoon. “I’m sure that wasn’t it.”

  Jasper laughed. “Oh, I’m sure it was, old thing. Perhaps if you hadn’t cut your hair and were able to scrape it back in a tight bun, and if you wore some dowdy clothes . . .” He tilted his head as he studied me. “No, you’d never be able to disguise those eyes.”

  I raised my eyebrows, surprised. He wasn’t speaking in his usual disinterested tone. He settled back in his chair, and his voice shifted to a lighter note. “That’s where you went wrong, obviously. You should have mentioned it all up front. ‘Attractive female with arresting navy blue eyes seeks governess position.’ It would have saved you hours of bother.”

  “I shudder to think what sort of replies I would get to an advertisement like that.”

  He grinned. “Yes, of course. Totally inappropriate.”

  “Yes. In so many ways.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make light of it.” He sobered. “You’ve tried other avenues?”

  I shifted straighter in my chair. “Clerk, shop attendant, cashier. But no one sees a young woman with a classical education and extensive training in how to be a lady as a good candidate for those positions. My eyes are no help to me there either. I even applied to work as a domestic, but I was told it wouldn’t do—that I would cause problems in the servants’ hall.”

  “Indeed, you would.” Jasper leaned over the table. “You’d be wasted polishing silver and answering the door. What you need is something that will let you use that first-class brain of yours. You always ran rings around me and Peter when your father tutored us.”

  “Unfortunately, no one else seems to think my brain is appropriate for their vacancies. If only I had trained to be a typist or secretary. I would enroll in a class to learn Pitman’s shorthand, but that will take longer than I have.”

  “That desperate, is it? Surely you can return to Tate House?”

  “No, I’m not going back there. It’s awfully grim. Sonia—my stepmother—doesn’t want me in the house. She’s decided the local curate will do nicely for me.”

  “Not a good specimen?”

  “He has a huge Adam’s apple that bobs up and down in such a distracting manner that I can hardly think of anything else when I speak to him. And then he’s nervous and—well, to be perfectly honest, he perspires awfully. He’s a nice fellow but not for me.”

  Jasper took a cigarette case from his pocket. “Yes, you need someone other than a sweaty curate.” He held out the cigarette case to me.

  “No, thank you.”

  He snapped it closed. “I’d forgotten your asthma.” He pocketed the case.

  “No, it’s fine. It’s gotten so much better in the last few years. Don’t skip on my account.” Cigarette smoke did sometimes trigger a tightness in my chest. And occasionally being under a strain brought on a feeling of shortness of breath, but I’d had fewer incidents as I’d grown older.

  Jasper shrugged. “I’ll wait until later. So you’re determined to avoid Tate House?”

  “Sonia is such a managing female—she was a nurse. You know how bossy they are. I’m sure that if I returned to Tate House, she’d maneuver it so that the banns—with the curate or anyone else—would be read in a fortnight. And I won’t have that. I won’t be managed.”

  I realized my voice was too strident and a few people had looked my way. I relaxed my shoulders and leaned back in my chair. “I may have to sell the Morris.” My birthday fell a few days after Gwen’s, and for as long as I could remember, Uncle Leo had given us both the same gift. Last year it had been motors, Morris Cowleys. Mint green for Gwen and forget-me-not blue for me. It was far too extravagant. When I’d protested, he’d said gruffly, “Caroline and I feel like you’re one of our own. Let’s not hear anything else about it.” The motor was one of the few things of significant value that I owned. Well, other than Mum’s pearls, but I wasn’t selling those no matter what.

  “You have it in London?”

  “The Morris? No, it’s in Nether Woodsmoor. In dry-dock, so to speak. It’s not running, and I don’t have the funds to fix it.” Father was stony, and I wasn’t about to ask Uncle Leo for the money. It was one thing to give a gift; it was quite another to have to maintain that gift. It was probably fortunate it had broken down shortly before I decided to set off for London. I wouldn’t have had the money to garage it in town.

  “Have you thought of—”

  A shriek sounded behind my right ear, and a thin woman in yellow chiffon swept into view. She pulled up short beside Jasper’s chair. A matching turban covered her head except for a few perfectly formed golden curls that curved against each cheek, framing her aquiline nose. Kohl lined her close-set green eyes, and her lips were bright red. “Jasper, darling. What a treat to find you here.”

  Jasper stood. “It’s a pleasure to see you as well. Lady Pamela, this is a good friend, Olive Belgrave. Olive, Lady Pamela Withers.”

  Lady Pamela barely bothered to turn her head. “Delighted.” She tapped Jasper’s arm. “Now, do tell me you will be at Sebastian’s Silver and Gold party.” She pointed a red lacquered finger at his chest. “And don’t tell me that you didn’t receive an invitation, because I specifically told Sebast
ian to send you one.”

  “Commanded it, did you?” Jasper asked.

  “Of course. And Sebastian always does what I want. Most men do,” she said in an aside to me.

  “Not I, I’m afraid,” Jasper said. “I have a previous engagement.”

  Lady Pamela’s red lips puckered into a pout. “Break it off. You know Sebastian’s parties are divine. You can’t miss it, darling. You’ll regret it forever if you do. Oh, there’s Thea. I must fly.” She took a half step away, then looked back over her shoulder. “So nice to meet you . . . Olivia.”

  “Olive. Olive Belgrave,” I said, but Lady Pamela was already sailing away, her chiffon rippling.

  I raised my eyebrows at Jasper as he sat down.

  “I have no excuse or explanation,” he said. “That is the infamous Lady Pamela.”

  “I have heard of her.”

  “And probably not in a good way,” Jasper said. “She runs with a fast set.”

  “About your speed, isn’t it?”

  “You ask too many questions, Olive.”

  “On the contrary. We’ve talked about me the whole time. Terribly rude of me. Tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you last.”

  “Nothing of significance. I totter down to the club then totter home most days. Occasionally I exert myself and go to a frivolous party. I’m frightfully useless. When the Communists take over, I’m sure I’ll be one of the first sent to the gallows.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment—that you don’t do anything useful. I’ve known you for years. You might look as if you’re lazing around, but your mind is always busy—planning and plotting. Now, tell. I know you must do more than read the newspapers and play cards at your club.”

  His manner changed, and the easy rapport between us evaporated. Even though he didn’t move an inch, it felt as if he’d physically shifted his chair away from me. His voice was light, though. “I assure you I’m a boring old sod now.”

  “I still refuse to believe that. Now, the truth.”

  His eyes narrowed. “All right . . . let me think. You mean something useful, I suppose? Hmm, thought so.” He tapped the table. “Here’s something—I dabble in the arts.”

  “You always were excellent at caricatures.”

  He looked shocked. “Not me, my dear girl. I sponsor artists.” He looked at his watch, which was in the new style, a strap on his wrist. “I’m afraid I must be going.”

  “Have to get to your club for your afternoon snooze?”

  “Wicked girl,” he said. “I should have known you’d make fun of an old man. Have you no respect for your elders?”

  “I do, but you’re far from elderly.”

  As we departed the Savoy a few moments later, Jasper said in a serious tone, “I’m sorry about your . . . difficulties. I will keep an ear to the ground.”

  “For someone looking for a well-read and well-bred young woman with no typing or shorthand skills. Good grief, when I say it aloud like that, it’s a wonder anyone would want to hire me.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Right. I have a first-class brain. I’ll be sure to put that in my Situation Wanted advertisement, right under the line about my eyes.”

  He adjusted his hat. “I can see now that you’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Never.”

  “Very well. I’ll let it be a reminder not to give unsolicited advice. It rarely goes down well—giving advice, I mean, solicited or unsolicited,” he said, but I didn’t take him seriously because he had a definite twinkle in his eye.

  He walked as far as the tube station with me where we said goodbye. I rode home in a blissfully sated state. It had been weeks since I’d had a proper tea. When I arrived at the boarding house, Mrs. Gutler handed me a small envelope. “I hope it’s not bad news.”

  A cold wash of fear hit me. All I could think of was the telegram I’d received in America from Uncle Leo with the news that Father was seriously ill and I should return to England as soon as possible.

  We had all lived in dread of these little envelopes during the war. The words inside could change the course of one’s life. Thankfully, the one that had arrived about Peter had informed us he’d been injured, not killed. But my cousin Gwen had received one from the family of her fiancé with the news that he was missing. I ripped the envelope open before my thoughts could get carried away.

  It was from Gwen.

  Need your help. Urgent. Return to Parkview soonest.

  Chapter Three

  Ross, the chauffeur from Parkview, opened the door of the estate’s saloon motor. “Are you quite sure you don’t want me to wait?”

  I stepped onto the drive of Tate House. “Yes, go on to Parkview with my bags.”

  He closed the door and scratched his hairline. “Are you sure?” Since Parkview’s chauffeur hadn’t returned from the Battle of Loos, Ross had taken on the additional duty of driving the estate’s saloon motor. He’d changed out of his gardening clothes into a pair of faded slacks and a jacket to meet me at the station in Upper Benning, but he hadn’t been able to scrub the dirt from under his fingernails. “I’m happy to wait.” He looked up at the clear blue sky.

  “No, you go on. I’ll enjoy the walk to Parkview after this,” I said, my gaze going to the gabled house, which stood in the shade of the towering trees that surrounded it.

  “All right, miss.” Ross touched his cap, then opened the driver’s door, his tone indicating he thought I was stepping out of bounds. In his mind, guests arriving at Parkview should be driven from the train station in the motor. They shouldn’t traipse through the countryside on their own. His attitude wasn’t the old-fashioned one of unquestioning deference. But things weren’t as they once were, especially not since the war. Of course, Ross had known me since I was a little girl playing with my cousins at Parkview Hall. When we tromped through his gardens, Ross hadn’t had any qualms about yelling at us to get out of his flowerbeds.

  I watched until the motor disappeared around the bend in the steep drive and the trees hid it from view. I turned to Tate House. I would have rather gone directly to Parkview to see Gwen, but I couldn’t arrive in Nether Woodsmoor and not visit my father, which meant I also had to see Sonia. I squared my shoulders.

  The front door was unlocked, and I went inside. The airy landscape paintings were gone from their usual spots in the entry hall. A new flocked wallpaper in a pea green shade covered the walls along with a heavy gilt mirror. A stack of paintings rested on the floor, turned to the wall. I recognized the size of them—they were the landscapes, except for the last, larger one.

  I flicked through them. I tilted the large one away from the wall, anger bubbling in my chest. I sucked in a breath. It was the painting of Mum. She stood in the garden, a pair of clippers in one hand and a bunch of roses in the other. Her bright smile radiated out from the painting. It had been Father’s favorite and had hung in his study.

  I gently let it fall back against the wall. This was Sonia’s doing, I was sure. I went down the hall to the coolness of Father’s study and inhaled the familiar aroma of aged leather. Underlying the scent of old books, was a new smell—beeswax.

  I stopped short. Father wasn’t at his desk . . . and the desk was clean. Instead of papers scattered across the desk and piles of books teetering on the corners, the desktop was empty except for a desk lamp. In fact, the whole room was tidy. No discarded newspapers littered the chairs in front of the fire, and the usual jumble of magazines and books on the side tables had been cleared away. If I needed more evidence of Sonia’s forceful nature, it was here. From the time Father had received a legacy from a distant uncle, which allowed him to retire from being a vicar and move to Tate House to work on his Bible commentary, he’d never allowed anyone in to clean his study.

  A voice floated through the open French doors at the back of the study. I made my way across the room, circling around the polished desktop where my father had spent so many hours working on his
commentary. The terrace was empty, so I walked around the corner of the house to the little grassy enclave tucked up against the south wall, which had been one of my favorite places to spend a summer afternoon. Father sat at the wrought iron table, his papers and books spread in front of him with various rocks, shells, and a bit of amber weighting down the pages.

  He looked up at my approach, and a smile broke across his face. “Olive! Did you tell us you were coming?”

  “No, I had a telegram from Gwen yesterday and came straightaway.” The cost of the train ticket had cut deeply into my meager resources, but I couldn’t ignore a plea from Gwen. I’d reasoned I’d save on food while I was away. And I wasn’t making any headway in London. A couple of days away wouldn’t set me any further back—I was already about as far back as a girl could get.

  I kissed his cheek and drew a chair over to sit beside him. “I’m staying at Parkview for a few days.” I’d sent a telegram to Gwen and arranged it.

  Voices again drifted through the air, and Father looked down to the garden. “The jobbing gardener is here, and Sonia is with him, giving him instructions. I’m sure she’ll be along shortly.” Tate House was situated at the top of the wooded hill that overlooked Nether Woodsmoor. The drive and the front of the house were thickly treed, but at the back of the house, the land sloped down in a series of terraced gardens. Mum had spent many hours in the gardens designing the cascades of flowers that flowed down the hillside.

  “Don’t disturb her on my account.”

  Father’s face was thinner and his cheeks looked gaunt. His skinny neck poking out of his loose collar reminded me of a turtle’s neck, wrinkled and vulnerable, as it cautiously extended its head. Father removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and rubbed his eyes. Without his glasses, he looked more helpless than I liked to think he was.

  The voices moved closer, and I distinguished Sonia’s strident tone. “. . . want those rosebushes moved to the south side of the house . . . espalier . . .”