Murder at Blackburn Hall Read online

  Chapter Two

  At half past nine that evening, I was pressed into the crush of a Mayfair townhouse, looking for my finishing-school chum, Gigi, more formally known as Lady Gina Alton. It was her birthday, and Gigi was having a little party. I was glad I had the party to attend. Otherwise, I’d have spent the whole evening wondering if I’d done the right thing when I cancelled with Madame LaFoy.

  I’d returned from the Savoy and changed out of my day dress into one of my cousin Gwen’s cast-off evening gowns, a sleeveless, V-neck frock in black that fell in a straight line to my calves. The simple lines of the dress emphasized the beautiful scalloped beading that spread across the material in a blooming silver sunburst.

  I danced with Monty Park, a man who’d been at Archly Manor. So far, I’d managed to avoid another of the guests from that party, a man I knew as Tug. He tended to overindulge in drink and become too friendly. Dancing was going on in one room, cards in another, and a spread of food was displayed buffet style in a third. I stared at the tables piled with salmon, sponge fingers, tiny frosted cakes, and puff pastry.

  What a pity Gigi’s party fell on the same day as my tea with Jasper at the Savoy. If the party had been on another day, I could have indulged in scrumptious food on two separate occasions. I normally dined on threepenny buns and weak tea in the evening as a matter of economy. The sight of all the luscious food made me wish I’d brought a larger handbag. The salmon was out of the question, of course, but the sponge fingers were a definite possibility. If I could tuck a few of them in my handbag, they’d make for a decadent teatime tomorrow.

  “Olive! It’s been positively forever since I’ve seen you.”

  “Hello, Gigi. Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you. I’m so glad to see you.” Gigi’s midnight-black hair was cut in an Eton crop. Trimmed short in the back like a boy’s cut, the sides barely skimmed the tips of her ears. On someone else, the hairstyle might have been boyish, but with her long lashes and delicate features, she oozed femininity. A cigarette smoldered at the end of a holder, which was clamped against the edge of the cocktail she held. She was even shorter than I was and popped up onto her tiptoes to survey the area behind me. The fringed hem of her dress danced as she moved. “Did Gwen come with you?”

  “No, she and Violet and my aunt have gone on holiday to the South of France.”

  “And no wonder. After what happened at Archly Manor.” Her scarlet lips split into a smile. “Scandalous . . . but so thrilling too!”

  “It sounds that way, doesn’t it?” This was especially true in the case of the articles written immediately after the arrest of the guilty party. Some of the stories had been so far from the truth that I’d given another finishing-school chum, Essie Matthews, an interview. Essie was a society reporter for The Ballyhoo, and I expected to see her tonight. “Is Essie here?”

  Gigi waved a languid hand, sloshing her cocktail and leaving a trail of cigarette smoke floating upward between us. “Somewhere about.”

  I stepped back from the smoke. I’d always had issues with asthma. It had been much worse when I was younger. As I’d grown, I’d had less frequent episodes, but I’d found breathing cigarette smoke directly could bring on one of my attacks. So far, the high ceilings of the townhouse’s rooms along with the open windows and doors had kept the air fresh.

  Gigi’s gaze, which had drifted over my shoulder, sharpened. “Oh, I must fly. There’s Daphne, and I haven’t seen her in an age.”

  Gigi flitted off, and I moved away from the food, deciding to raid the table immediately before I left.

  I ran into Monty in the hall, and he asked, “Care to dance again?”

  “Yes, that would be lovely.”

  The townhouse didn’t have a formal ballroom, but the furniture had been removed from one of the large drawing rooms, and the rug had been rolled up. The musicians played the first chords of a foxtrot, and Monty extended his arm. “It seems like all anyone wants to talk to me about is what happened at Archly Manor.”

  I stepped into his arms. “I know the feeling.”

  “I had no idea it would make me such a celebrity.” He maneuvered us to the left, deftly avoiding a rambunctious couple headed our way. “Haven’t dined at home in weeks, but I’m finding the questions tedious. I enjoyed it in the beginning. But, I say, there’s only so many times a chap can answer the question, what’s it like to know a murderer?”

  “I completely agree, but I think your popularity is directly related to matchmaking mothers.”

  Monty laughed. “It’s not that. I’m not even a second son. Third, you know. Hardly an outside chance at the old family pile, not to mention the family funds. No, they don’t want me for their daughters. They only need me to make up the numbers.”

  It was a shame young women were not as in demand for dinner parties. While I’d rather avoid the questions, it would be nice to have a good dinner every once in a while.

  Monty pulled my hand to his chest as another couple twirled by. “Now I refer them to your interview. Nicely done, by the way.”

  “Thank you. Essie did a good job with it. Since it’s a topic that you and I are tired of, let’s talk of something else. What are your plans for the autumn?”

  “Am I going hunting, you mean?” Monty shook his head. “No, not my line. I do have a little golfing holiday set up. I depart in a few days to visit some of the best courses. Do you golf?”

  “No, I haven’t tried it.”

  “You should. It’s a jolly good game.”

  As the dance ended, a couple next to us jostled Monty. They turned to apologize, and the young woman squealed then clamped her hand onto Monty’s arm. “Monty! I haven’t seen you since you came to dinner. Where have you been hiding yourself? We simply must dance.” She looked back at her former partner. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  The other man exited with a gracious bow. Monty gave me a look I imagined a drowning man would give to a passing ship. “Olive?”

  “Oh, I mustn’t get in the way, and I want a breath of fresh air. Enjoy.” I gave him a wink as I moved on. So perhaps being on duty to fill out the numbers at dinner parties did have a downside after all.

  I inched through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor. The room was becoming crowded and stuffy. A pall of cigarette smoke now hung over the whole room, and I moved toward the windows as my chest tightened. As I neared one of the windows, a man passing by me pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled a puff of smoke directly into my face.

  The weight pressing against my chest increased. I waved the smoke away and made for the door that stood open to the garden. Slowly. Breathe slowly and evenly, I lectured myself as I walked at a steady pace out of the room. Frantic movements only made it worse, although I was itching to break into a run to get into the fresh air. I reached the door and went to the edge of the steps that dropped down to a garden with a towering chestnut tree that blotted out the stars.

  I leaned against the coolness of one of the stone pillars that framed the stairs and supported the townhouse’s next story. I concentrated on breathing slowly in and out. After a few moments, the noise and lights of the party, which had receded as I focused entirely on my breathing, came back to my awareness. The band around my chest eased, and I took a few deep breaths without pain.

  “Olive?”

  Essie Matthews stood at my elbow. Her always ruddy cheeks were now flushed a bright red. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I knew I’d be okay now, but I shouldn’t go back into the party, or I might have another episode.

  Essie fanned her face with her hand, ruffling her short brown bob. “It’s so close in there. I couldn’t stand it anymore either.” She reached into her handbag. “And I just absolutely must have a ciggie.”

  She took out a cigarette and lighter. The flame danced, she drew in a breath, then she exhaled toward the garden. She grimaced and examined the end of the cigarette. Even though she was breathing away from me, I still took a
step back. She noticed my movement. “I’m sorry. I forgot they set you off.” Essie had seen me struggle with my breathing a few times during finishing school, in particular on the ski slopes. “But don’t worry,” she continued. “These are asthma cigarettes.” She held out the cigarette. “Want a puff?”

  “Thank you, but no.” I’d heard about asthma cigarettes, and once I’d asked the doctor in Nether Woodsmoor about them. “Can’t see how they’d help,” Dr. Miller had said. “From what I’ve seen, smoke irritates, doesn’t soothe. Probably do more harm than good.” Since Dr. Miller suffered from asthma in a worse way than I did, I’d taken his advice and avoided regular cigarettes as well as the medicinal asthma ones.

  Essie drew on the cigarette with a frown. “Not like a real cigarette at all.” She waved it, the red tip jumping in the darkness. “You’re sure? It’s a new brand that’ll be out soon. One of the reporters at the newspaper wrote a story on it and gave me a few.” With the cigarette tucked between two fingers, Essie opened her handbag and dug around with her free hand. She pulled out a small package and thrust it into my hands. “Here, you can have the rest of these. They don’t do the trick for me.”

  I tilted the package toward the light from the open door. “Breathe Easy,” read the biggest line. “For relief of the paroxysms of asthma. A unique blend of herbs. Effective for treatment of asthma and hay fever as well as diseases of the throat. Not recommended for children under six.”

  I held the box out and felt the remaining cigarettes shift inside. “I won’t use them.”

  She pushed my hand back. “Keep them. You might change your mind.”

  Essie was one of those determined people who were difficult to sway from their chosen course of action. The easiest thing would be to keep them and throw them away later. I tucked the cigarettes into my handbag. Essie stubbed out the cigarette on the balustrade, then scanned the crowd at the door. “I must find someone who has a real cigarette.”

  She took two steps away, then spun back. “If you have any more juicy stories, let me know. I’ll be there in an instant.”

  “Of course.” Essie’s society column was never far from her thoughts.

  She hurried away. “George, you always have a cigarette. Might I have one?”

  I left the party by way of the buffet and managed to tuck some sponge fingers and two cakes into my purse.

  One should not have cake for breakfast. I tried to ignore the slightly seasick feeling as the lift swept me to the top floor of the building where Hightower Books was located.

  I’d intended to save the purloined cakes for tea, but their lure was too strong. I’d eaten one before I set out for my appointment with Mr. Hightower. Now I wished I’d exercised more self-control. I wasn’t used to such a blast of decadence so early in the morning, and it had soured my stomach.

  I flexed my fingers in my gloves, which felt too tight. It couldn’t be that I was nervous. I’d trooped back and forth across the city, meeting with all sorts of people in my search for a job. If Mr. Hightower turned me down, it would be nothing new. I’d just have to return to applying to dress shops while searching for lost pets.

  I assumed I’d have to wait, which would have given me time to tame the butterflies in my stomach, but I was immediately ushered into Mr. Hightower’s office. I suppose I’d expected his office would look similar to a solicitor’s office—a spacious room, a weighty desk with lots of polished wood, and rows of leather-bound volumes. But Mr. Hightower’s office reminded me of my father’s untidy book-packed study, where I’d often spread out on the rug before the fire with a book or a notebook while Father scratched away on his commentary.

  Mr. Hightower’s office was a small space, barely larger than his battered desk. I’d been right about the books, though. They were everywhere, tilting higgledy-piggledy on the shelves, stacked on the carpet at the corners of the room, and balanced on the corner of Mr. Hightower’s desk. However, the books weren’t leather-bound volumes. Row upon row of popular fiction with the Hightower Books logo of a stone tower filled the shelves. The bright colors created a rainbow effect and gave the room a cheerful atmosphere. My stomach settled. I felt at home in the book-stuffed room.

  Mr. Hightower came around the desk, and I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, indicating a chair in front of his desk. He was around fifty, I imagined, with a dark horizontal slash of bushy brows and a receding hairline on either side of a widow’s peak.

  I took a seat, and he returned to his chair, which squeaked as he dropped into it. He linked his hands on top of a stack of typewritten pages centered on his desk. The paper crinkled under his cuffs. “So, Miss Belgrave, tell me about yourself.”

  “Do you want the short version or the long?”

  “Let’s say, give me the short story, not the novel.”

  “Very well. I grew up in Nether Woodsmoor, a small village in Derbyshire where my father was a vicar before he inherited a legacy that allowed him to retire and work on a commentary. I attended boarding school and had a year at a finishing school in Switzerland. My mother, who was American, died when I was younger. She set up a fund for my education. Her wish was that I would return to her alma mater, a university in the United States, and pursue a degree from there as she had. I went to America last year but was called home when my father became ill. Thankfully, he’s recovered, but I’ve decided to stay on.”

  It wasn’t my choice to stay in England, but I wasn’t about to tell Mr. Hightower about my shock on discovering my father had married his nurse or the fact that he’d lost all the funds for my education when he invested the money in a fly-by-night operation. I realized I’d fisted my hands in my lap. I relaxed my fingers and smoothed my skirt. “But that’s not really of interest to you. I imagine the incident at Archly Manor is why I’m here.”

  “Yes, that is the reason I wanted to speak to you. Mr. Rimington told me about it. He also said you’re as tenacious as a terrier after a rat.”

  “Hmm, yes, that’s true, I suppose. Although I’m not sure that’s a flattering comparison.”

  He chuckled. “And he said you have a sense of humor as well as the ability to be extremely discreet.”

  “Well, that’s better.”

  Mr. Hightower stared at me for a moment, then reached for a pair of spectacles and hooked them over his ears. “Miss Belgrave, I may not look like it, but I’m a bit of a gambler. I’m sure I seem to be the very picture of a staid city man to you, but I do love to take a chance. Not on horses or cards, you understand. In business. One has to like risk to be a book publisher. I thrive on hunches. And my hunch is you can help me. I’d like to hire you. Are you interested?”

  A tingle of excitement raced along my skin. This was so much better than modeling hats. “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Good. I’m about to share some information with you. If it were to go outside the walls of this office, it would cause a considerable amount of distress at Hightower Books. It’s a delicate situation. Do I have your solemn promise you will keep this information to yourself?”

  “Yes. I won’t mention it to anyone else.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Hightower gave a flicker of a smile. “Because you’re a vicar’s daughter, I know I can trust your word.” He pulled a folder from under the stacks of typed pages and removed a photograph from the file. “That’s Ronnie Mayhew. Our readers know him as R. W. May, one of our most popular authors. He’s missing, and I’d like you to find him.”

  Chapter Three

  I examined the photograph Mr. Hightower handed me across the desk. It was a studio portrait of a man with curly hair and a full beard. With his abundant hair and flowing beard, he resembled the illustrations of Moses in Father’s religion books.

  R. W. May posed stiffly in a chair, one arm propped next to a stack of books on a table beside him, his bearded chin in his hand. The image itself was dark, which gave it the feeling of a daguerreotype from the last century. “If Mr. Mayhew—or is it Mr. May . . . ?”

&nb
sp; “Mr. Mayhew is who you’ll be searching for, so let’s use that. It’s how I think of him.”

  My excitement fizzled. I wasn’t the right person for Mr. Hightower. He didn’t need a quiet inquiry. He needed someone more official than me. “If Mr. Mayhew is missing, this is a matter for the police, not me.” I handed the photograph back.

  “That’s where the delicacy comes in. Hear me out, then you can turn me down if you like.”

  A frisson of interest bubbled up again. “Sounds reasonable.”

  Mr. Hightower returned the photo to the folder, then picked up a stack of four hardcover books from beside the piles of paper. He came around the desk and handed them to me as he sat down in the matching visitor’s chair next to me. “Take a look at these.”

  The cover on the first book depicted a young brunette with red lips in a bright sleeveless dress. A rope of pearls swayed to the side as she raised a candle high and peered around the corner of a dark tunnel. “Oh, I recognize this one. The Mystery of Newberry Close. The Lady Eileen mystery series. My aunt read it and quite enjoyed it.” The next one on the stack was Intrigue on the Scotch Express and featured a train speeding through the countryside. The third one was titled Murder at Castle Colfax. Its cover was more abstract. A feminine hand hovered over a gun against a bright red background. “I must admit I’m not a connoisseur of detective fiction. Mr. Rimington tells me it’s a wonderful escape.”

  “I highly recommend it.” Mr. Hightower said. “But, of course, I would.” He gestured to the bookshelves lining his office.

  I turned the books in my hands, skimming the back covers as well as the front and back flaps. Many books featured authors’ photographs on the back covers, but these only had text, no images. “You didn’t put Mr. Mayhew’s picture on these books.”

  “No, a marketing decision.” Mr. Hightower reached over his desk for the folder. He took out the photograph, examined it for a moment, then tapped it against the arm of the chair. “When we took on Mr. Mayhew as an author, all the arrangements were made through the post. I haven’t met him in person. Once the contracts were signed and we were preparing the manuscript for printing, we asked for a photograph.” Mr. Hightower held up the photo. “Mayhew sent this one along. The publicity department was appalled.”