Into Death

Into Death
Last in Series Now Available!

My Amazon Author Page

amazon.com/author/malee

Progress Meter

Coming Soon! 2nd novella in the Miss Beale Writes series: The Bride in Ghostly White. A touch of gothic, a touch of mystery.
In the Sketching Stage ~ Miss Beale Writes 3: The Captive in Green. A touch of gothic, a touch of mystery
Current Focus ~ Audiobooks from The Write Focus podcast. Published this year: Discovering Characters and Discovering Your Plot; Coming SOON: Defeat Writer's Block

Tuesday, January 7, 2025

Portrait with Death / 1st Three Chapters and Links

 Can an artist avoid death when murder paints with blood?

Portrait with Death ~ 

3rd Novel in the Into Death series

Chapter 1

 Wednesday, 31 January 1920

The train whistle blew. Steam clouded the grimy platform. People rushed past, laden with parcels that hadn’t gone to freight. Others sauntered along the platform, through the vapor wafting from beneath the engine. Small clutches of people lingered, saying goodbye.

Madoc hoisted his tightly-packed canvas duffle over his shoulder. He gave a shake of his head, to get his black hair out of his eyes. In the months since they’d met, his hair had grown. Isabella thought he had a personal goal to rid himself of anything like the military cut forced on him for years.

The conductor called for boarding, and tears flooded Isabella’s eyes. He was leaving. Now. Not weeks, not days. Now. She wouldn’t see him for months.

He touched her cheek. “None of that, Bella.”

“I wish I were traveling with you, Madoc.”

“Not yet. Only two and a half months. Then I will count the days until your ship arrives in Calcutta.”

“Seventy-six days, during which I work madly to finish an oil painting and store what we won’t need in that box room that Gawen’s offering, then I count the days. And try to finish the illustrations for his articles. He hasn’t written the last two yet.”

“You’ll come up with something he can use. You also have those pen-and-ink drawings for Tony Carstairs. London sites.”

“I have no worries about the drawings for Tony, but I’m running out of artifacts for your brother.” She fretted over the drawings because she dared not fret about his leaving. Married a month, and Madoc was heading to a faraway place. “Madoc, must you work your passage on this cargo ship? I can take a smaller berth or share with someone.”

“I need to stay active on this voyage.” He had rejected all her ideas for his travel to India, every idea she’d advanced over the past month of their marriage. “Captain Harvey is a cousin of one of my former soldiers. And working my passage will keep me busy. I’ll fall into my bunk every night, too worn out to miss you, love.”

Isabella clutched his arm. Nightmares no longer plagued him nightly, but they still occurred at odd times, for odd reasons. He’d been demobbed for over a year now. He wouldn’t want his new shipmates to know he had any weakness. Madoc made friends easily; he’d win them over—but they would be cautious if nightmares were their introduction to him.

“Besides,” he added, “I’m not certain what living arrangements Mr. Tredennit has set up in Calcutta. We won’t cross to Australia until July. Our summer is their winter.”

“An upside-down world.”

“A shake-up of your normal world. It will affect your art.” He flicked the golden end of her braided hair. “I’ll write letters or send a cable from every port until we reach Calcutta.”

The conductor called again.

Madoc bussed her lips with the briefest caress, risking censure for that public affection. Then he was gone, climbing into his compartment. He dropped the window to lean out.

She wanted to climb into that compartment with him.

The train engine groaned then began to pull, wheels squealing on the tracks before they caught and tugged. A man bumped her. A boy dashed between her and the train. When she steadied, the passenger cars were rolling, taking Madoc farther and farther away, faster and faster. He waved. She blew him a kiss. He stretched as if catching it, carried his closed fist to his lips. Then the vapor swirled, the train gained more speed and left the station, heading into the rain and away from her.

She yanked out a handkerchief and blotted her wet cheeks.

“Very touching,” said a wry voice behind her. “Shall we have tea before we start back? I know a shop a few streets from the station. They have clotted cream fresh from the countryside.”

“Cecilia,” Madoc’s brother Gawen said to his new wife, in a sigh rather than a quelling tone. “We planned to have tea at home.”

Gawen and Cecilia had insisted on joining them on the platform, partly to see Madoc off, partly to give Isabella support.

The two brothers were tight-knit. Gawen also hadn’t liked his younger brother working his passage to India and then to Australia. He understood the reason. He posed his arguments. Madoc hadn’t listened to him or to Isabella.

Cecilia had insisted on coming to the station for Isabella’s sake. She was intent on bolstering her friend. Isabella hadn’t moaned to anyone about Madoc’s leaving, yet Cess sensed her dismay. She’d tried dozens of distractions in the past fortnight. She had many more planned for the brief days before Isabella left to paint that portrait.

She didn’t begrudge the commission for the portrait. It would bring money, a lot of money, money to give her and Madoc a good emergency fund when they set up home in Australia. His job there would take months. Nor was the portrait the chief reason that she had to wait before taking ship to join him. That was the lack of a berth. With the war over and all countries in harmony imposed by treaty, their citizens had eagerly returned to traveling. The first affordable berth that Isabella could book wasn’t until April.

Seventy-six days from now.

An oil portrait. Six illustrations for Gawen, based on her remaining sketches from Crete and two artifacts. Ten pen-and-ink drawings for Tony Carstairs. Watercolor landscapes. Surely those will fill my empty hours without Madoc?

Cecilia pointed at the railway clock visible on the platform. “It’s a half-hour to lunch. Let’s eat at a tea shop then go on to St. George’s. Gawen, you do need talk to Isabella about your last two articles, and she can see the artifacts that you’ve picked for illustrations. Then she shall come to the flat for dinner.”

“No, I must call a rain check for dinner. I must finish my packing. I want everything almost out of the Kirkgardie Street flat before Filly Malvaise moves into your old room. I still have boxes and boxes.”

“I still want you to stay with us.” Cecilia looped a hand through Isabella’s elbow. Her other hand hooking on her new husband’s arm, she steered them off the platform and to the stairs. People coming down the steps had to venture to the side.

“I will not, Cess. You and Gawen married last weekend. You need time alone together.”

“We’ll have time when you leave.”

They emerged onto the street and into a cold rain that spat ice. Isabella popped up her umbrella while Gawen managed one for Cess and him. Cess turned and spoke, but the street traffic drowned her words. Isabella nodded anyway and followed them like a well-trained puppy.

Funny. Last summer I had to fend for myself, and I’ll be alone again when I travel to Upper Wellsford for the portrait. Not completely alone, though. Far from her, Madoc was still her husband, and Cess and Gawen were family.

London looked grey and dingy and dreary. Weeks in the countryside as spring emerged would be much better than cooped up in the congested city.

She hoped Madoc found a friend on ship. He’ll make friends quickly. He’ll find out their destination and their jobs on board and draw out their life stories.

That didn’t reassure her.

His ability to talk easily to strangers, to manage an unknown crew of workers, and to know work that needed to be done even without a prep for it: those traits had impressed Michael Tredennit. The older man had offered Madoc this chance. The new job had excellent pay and compensation for travel and an opportunity for advancement.

I’m happy for him. I am. I just wish—.

“Isabella, what do you think?”

She came to the present with a jolt and realized they’d passed Gawen’s roadster. “Sorry, I was wool-gathering. What did you ask?”

Cess exchanged a knowing look with Gawen then indicated the tea shop across the street. Brightly lit windows offered comfort from the elements. Ice pellets spattered her umbrella. The tea shop’s sunny interior, revealed above the bright blue café curtains, promised warmth and welcome. Cecilia launched into a description of a large luncheon.

Isabella listened to little of it. “Of course. Whatever fits with your plans.”

She tried to be less distracted as they lunched. The food was excellent and warming. The waitress allowed them to linger. Gawen talked of the last cataloging for the artifacts brought from Crete. Cecilia brimmed with plans for her columns for Modern Woman and how her work fit so easily into Gawen’s life. She tried a discussion of the new direction in the spring fashion magazines, but Isabella refused to engage in that conversation.

Then Cess began planning visits to four different couturiers, with Isabella needed for quick sketches.

“When are you planning to visit these fashion houses?”

“Next week.”

“You forget. I’m leaving for the Midlands in three weeks. I have packing. I have Gawen’s illustrations and those drawings for Tony. I can’t sketch countless models for you.”

“Your trip is a month away.”

“Not really. You will want these sketches to be magazine-perfect, won’t you?”

“Of course. Just like you do for Gawen.”

“That’s not enough time. Cess. It’s not. Not with everything else I must do.”

“Can you not delay your journey? Start the portrait at the end of February? Or in mid-March? Please! A few extra days only.”

Isabella cut into the luscious tiramisu, its aroma of coffee and chocolate promising delight. “I shall be at the outer edge of my timeline as it is. I dare not take extra days, or I’ll interfere with completing my commission. I won’t delay boarding ship.” She smiled at her friend, trying to take the sting out of her stubborn stance. “Let me talk to Tony. He may know of a young artist willing to do your fashion sketches.”

“Whoever it is,” she said glumly, “will want pay for their time.”

“Were you not going to pay me?” At Cess’s startled look, Isabella laughed.

“I fully intended to pay you, Isabella.”

“The hole gets deeper,” Gawen murmured then hid a smile behind his coffee cup while Cecilia blustered about payment.

The afternoon passed as planned. The ice turned back into rain.

When Isabella called a cab to take her back to the Kirkgardie flat, Cecilia waited with her in the entrance. “Do talk to your Mr. Carstairs. Give him my new address. Will we see you this weekend?”

“With a lorry in tow. I hope to have several boxes packed, ready for storage.”

“Stay for dinner. I’d have you visit us every night for dinner before you leave for Upper Slaughter.”

Isabella chuckled at the name. “Upper Wellsford. Next to Lower Wellsford. It has its own rail spur.”

“Upper Slaughter,” Cess declared firmly. “I predict that your curiosity will be slaughtered within three days of your arrival in that sleepy hamlet. You don’t have to stay there the whole time, do you? You can visit us. Every weekend.”

“Perhaps not that often. Oil paint sometimes has a mind of its own. I’ll ring you if I wish to visit.”

“How will you cart that monstrous canvas to Upper Slaughter? Why did the dowager want it nearly life-size?”

“He’s her only living grandson and heir to the barony. I’m making a very nice commission, Cess. The canvas and my easel should arrive before I do.”

“Oh, bother. That’s the cab man. You can manage everything else? If you need anything—.”

“I’ll see you several times before I go. And I will ask for help if I need it.”

“I feel as if my sole fledgling chick is flying the nest. I’ll miss you, Isabella.”

“I’ll write daily, Mother.”

“Oh, you!”

In this day of bright lipstick, they air-kissed. Like a posh Bright Young Thing, Isabella thought as she ran down the steps and slid into the cab.

She understood Cess’ strange feeling of loss. It had started for her when a gunshot nearly killed Cess. Madoc’s ocean voyage tripled the feeling of deprivation. Life’s changes weren’t always a blessing.

Cess had no one beyond their little circle. As the youngest daughter of Viscount Salton, she had had a wide circle of acquaintances. Yet she hadn’t had friends who became closer than family until the fraught events of last October. The viscount had threatened to cut ties when Cess wanted to marry Gawen. They had married. Maybe the viscount hadn’t followed through with his threat.

Isabella was just as alone. She had only an aunt for bloodkin, but that worthy remained in the States. Her marriage to Madoc had barely renewed the feeling of family before his imminent departure loomed. Cecilia and Gawen were her only friends on this side of the Atlantic, and soon Isabella would depart and enter another world where she knew virtually no one.

The cab trundled away, bouncing over pavement that needed repair, the rain pelting the windows and blurring everything around.

Or maybe that was the tears in her eyes.

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 Thursday, 5 February 1920

Flick Sherborne perched on a corner of Alicia Osterley’s littered desk and watched as her friend examined the photographic prints she had handed over as soon as she entered.

Blinking owlishly behind the thick round glasses that gave her the nickname of Owl, Alicia closely examined several of the prints. She hadn’t commented when Flick had presented her the courier envelope. She merely unwound the string and drew out the prints, spreading them on her desk to see the full range.

That’s how Flick knew Alicia would rise in the editing world. Already she had the behavior of Alan Rettleston, managing editor of the London Daily. No one had taught Owl the editing job; she came full-fledged with the knowledge. Cold logic about the facts, critical objectivity to judge the audience, emotional reaction held last, after all decisions.

With over two decades in the newspaper world, Alan Rettleston was emotionally stunted. Would Owl become that way? Her boss Lottie Crittenden wasn’t. Lottie was a publisher, not a busy editor. Modern Woman was her third publication. Where had Lottie gotten her seed money for Modern Woman?

Lottie and her nieces Greta Ffoulkes and Tori Malvaise threw fabulous parties filled with London’s Bright Young Things and artistic effetes. Flick rarely attended. Even more rarely did she receive an invitation—although the current obligatory invitation was propped on the dining table underneath the kitchen window. Like Owl, she was an employee more than a social equal. When Owl did attend a party, Flick imagined she blinked—well, owlishly at the goings-on in London’s high society. Those attending the fast and wickedly daring parties weren’t the readership for Modern Woman. Owl didn’t need to understand wild scavenger hunts and swimming in public fountains and all-night binges driven by white powder.

Owl was a babe in the editing world. Maybe she would escape the jaded cynicism of Alan Rettleston.

The current red-edged invitation came from Greta Ffoulkes, for a Valentine’s party. A masquerade The best of young London would be there, eager to celebrate the lives they hadn’t risked in the past war. Champagne would flow faster than conversation, and the dancing faster still. Secrets would become public, rumors would start, facts would be forgotten. She might go. In the crowd, no one would look too closely at her reworked black satin. A black mask for her eyes, a red flower pinned to her dark hair, and the Spanish shawl for an artistic touch.

“These are good.” Owl slid six prints toward her, the ones of women workers taking a smoke break outside a factory. The women’s coveralls hung baggily, with rolled cuffs at wrist and ankle. Their scarves and earrings said Woman at Work. The only thing that they shared with the few pictured men were tired faces and slouched bodies leaning against the brick factory walls. “Very good yet not for us. Sorry, Flick. I don’t have an article in the next six months that these photos will support. If something changes—.”

Sliding off the desk, Flick stacked the photos and tucked them back into the courier envelope she’d swiped from her father’s firm. “No worries, Owl. Rettleston will want a few of them. I wanted you to have first pick.”

Her friend sighed. “I wish I did have something. So many women will lose their jobs now that the men are demobilized. Perhaps I could commission an article—.”

“Not me. I don’t write the heavy-hitting. My garden features suit me very well, thank you.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Do you need a break? You look as tired as those workers.”

“Perhaps we could do a photo spread. No words. You can tell a narrative without words.” She held out her hand for the envelope.

Flick tugged harder at the string that closed it. “You don’t get two refusals in one visit, my friend. Alan Rettleston gets second refusal. Besides, a photo spread of working women is not really the audience of Modern Woman.”

“I know, but the occasional feature—I could argue for it.”

“Let Rettleston do his work. Don’t worry about me.”

Owl pursed her lips as she scrutinized Flick. “You look thinner.”

“It’s the pants.” She tugged at the wide-legged worsted pants made from a man’s suiting pin-stripe.

“Are you eating enough?”

Gosh, Owl was determined. She pressed a false humor into action. “Three meals a day. Positively stuffed.” She blew out her cheeks.

“Are they square meals?”

“On a round plate. Stop worrying about me, Owl. Or do worry in this way. Would you be interested in a public school garden feature? Boys on a manicured lawn would make fond mothers sigh with contentment. The public school I’m thinking of has clipped topiary. Very photogenic. I have a couple of photos from last October that would work for any publication date, even summer, and the topiary is evergreen.”

“Anything you bring us about flowers and gardens we’ll take. That’s from Mrs. Crittenden herself. We had a flood of letters after your December feature on orchids. It was as if English women had never heard of orchids. Are you thinking of Greavley Abbey where your brother is?”

“Yes. All unexpectedly, too.”

“He’s not doing well?”

Flick didn’t answer that. Owl’s fascination with Chauncey was long standing. Chauncey didn’t know of it and likely never would. Owl just blinked owlishly at him. “He needs a visitor to take him out of Greek conjugations and Old Guard politics, for which he has little patience.”

“When do you leave?”

“A couple of weeks.” She slung the strap for her tote over her shoulder. The big bag held her most prize possession, a Kodak Autographic Special camera, bought off a newshound who worked at the London Daily, Rettleston’s paper. “I must wrap up things here.” She grinned, knowing she would look like an eager street imp with her bobbed dark hair and over-sized flight jacket handed down from her brother Allworthy, an ace in the Royal Air Force. “Lottie’s party this weekend. The mater’s tea before Valentine’s Day. A masquerade. Dinner with Rettleston one night.”

“You don’t have to dine with—.”

“Whirlwind shopping with friends. One must have tweed for the country. I might see the rest of winter in Upper Wellsford and bring back more than one article with photos for you.”

“I wish I could take those workers,” Owl fretted.

“It’s not a problem.”

“Will you—?” She dropped her eyes and toyed with the fountain pen on her desk. “Please tell Chauncey that I said hello.” The bland words didn’t match the eagerness that had started her broken-off question.

“I will.”

Chauncey might not remember Owl. The petite dark-haired girl with a round face dominated by thick black spectacles would have barely registered on his pre-war scale.

Maybe he had changed. Maybe serving as Greek master at Greavley Abbey School in a sleepy village had changed him for the better.

Shame about the photos, though. Women losing work should be the focus of Modern Woman, not flower features.

Chapter 2

Friday, 27 February

Herbert Pollard ran the Hook and Line Pub with a strict hand. From under thatchy brows threaded with more silver than his sandy hair, he stared at the small watercolor easel that Isabella had brought on the train. Beside it on the bar lay her sketchbook, sliding out of her artist’s tote, a leather satchel confiscated from Madoc. Isabella fished in her purse for the three envelopes sent from the dowager Lady Malvaise, introductory letters to Mr. Pollard and the prep school’s headmaster and young Edward Malvaise, the subject of her portrait.

“We don’t approve of the wild goings-on that painters do,” Mr. Pollard said heavily. “Specially American painters what call themselves artistes.”

“We run a nice establishment,” his wife interjected from the end of the bar where she worked on ledgers.

The whistle for the departing train blew.

Chilled from the late February wind, Isabella stopped hunting in her purse and turned to the satchel. “Of course not. I mean, I’m reassured that you don’t approve of wild goings-on. A woman alone—.” She trailed off, letting them complete the sentence with the clichéd responses. Her icy fingers finally felt the three letters forwarded from Lady Malvaise’s secretary-companion. She withdrew them and removed the red cord that bound them. Mr. Pollard’s letter was on the bottom. Fighting shivers from her walk from the train station, she handed over his. “Did you receive the large easel and canvas and box that I sent? Those were supposed to arrive this morning.”

He stared at the letter as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “Aye, brought to us this morning they were. I put them in the room you hired.”

Isabella winced, thinking of small rooms offered by pubs and the size of the easel and the canvas. The box, the size of a milk crate, had her paints and brushes and turpentine and palette. Would the room hold her?

“What’s in this?” He tapped the envelope on the bar.

“Lady Malvaise has promised to pay for my room and board. She writes of the arrangements for you to draw the funds.” At least, that was the agreement in her own letter from the secretary. She hadn’t opened any letter but her own. “I don’t know all the particulars. Will there be a problem with my staying the length of time that I mentioned in my letter of the fifth?”

“No, no problem.”

His wife left her stool and came behind the bar to take the letter her husband handed her. “When you wrote, we thought you were a momma worried about her son. His first time away from home and all that. We didn’t know you were an artist from America, not until that easel arrived.”

“Oh. A momma with a son at Greavley Abbey School. No. I’m not really all the way from America, either. I live in England with my husband. He’s Welsh. Madoc Tarrant. The reason that I’ve come here, to Upper Wellsford, is that Lady Malvaise’s grandson attends Greavley Abbey School. It’s his portrait that I am to paint.”

“The dowager Malvaise?” Mrs. Pollard slanted a look at her husband as she unfolded the letter then dropped her gaze to read. She looked two decades younger than he. Her pale brows pinched in, then she turned to the second page. Whatever she read there turned her incipient frown into a wide smile. “Why, that’s fine, then.” She turned to her husband. “We’ll have no trouble accommodating Mrs. Tarrant. It’s as she says. Lady Malvaise will cover any charges for her room and board.” She tucked the letter back into the envelope. “And her grandson’s at the Abbey School. Has he been there long, Mrs. Tarrant?”

“I think he has attended for several years. I’m not certain, though. I suppose it is too late to introduce myself to Mr. Filmer the headmaster or to Edward Malvaise.”

As a bar maid appeared, Mrs. Pollard waved her husband back to his work. She rested an elbow on the bar and watched Isabella tuck the remaining two letters and her sketchbook into the leather satchel. “As to the boy, it’s much too late. He’ll have Friday Evensong and Compline to attend. Dean Filmer usually comes in after the service. That’s late,” she added.

Isabella nodded and smiled and murmured her gratitude. Everything they said was helpful. If that meant pretending that she knew nothing about Church of England services, then so be it. Her father had enjoyed what he called “high church liturgy” and the prayers of the canonical hours. A professor of history, he’d relished steeping himself in ritual and music and a setting with a strong weight of centuries.

She missed him terribly sometimes.

Not so much since her marriage to Madoc—although now she missed her husband.

“Will Mr. Filmer come to the pub after ten o’clock?”

“Closer to half-past. You better call him Dean Filmer. That’s what he goes by. The dean. The teachers are masters. Some kind of Greavley foolishness, but you know public schools and their traditions.”

That reminded Isabella that she’d hadn’t seen any women in the pub. “Do you have any policies that I should know about?”

“We have quiet nights here. No ladies in the pub after tea-time unless accompanied by their husbands or sons or a man of the village. Since you wish to meet Dean Filmer, I suppose that gives you permission to be in the pub, but not on a regular basis, Mrs. Tarrant.”

“I will keep that in mind. Will I take meals in my room?”

“Bless you, no, Mrs. Tarrant. We have a small sitting room reserved for guests. Mr. Pollard calls it the lounge. We have seating there and tables to serve dinner and breakfast to our paying guests. We keep city hours,” she added, sounding proud of that. “Lunch here in the pub, of course. If you’re to miss a meal service, be pleased to let us know several hours in advance.”

“That suits me perfectly.” She and Mrs. Pollard exchanged smiles.

After their original quick judgement, Isabella hadn’t expected to like the Pollards. She’d gradually revised her opinion of Mrs. Pollard. The husband remained a mystery.

Isabella slung the strap of Madoc’s satchel over her shoulder and gathered up her small easel and purse. Then she bent her knees to pick up her bulky suitcase.

“Sibby!” Mr. Pollard called. “Sibby! That girl!” When no one appeared at the swinging door behind the bar, he pushed it wide, offering a view into a busy kitchen. “Sibby! Get in here.”

The bar maid came out, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. With her dark hair and trim figure, she would have been pretty, but a scowl marred her sharp features. “What am I to do now?”

Mrs. Pollard rolled her eyes and returned to her ledgers. Mr. Pollard rapped out several sentences about “come when you’re called” and “work for me at whatever I say”. He finished with “Don’t be frowning at me, or you’ll be looking for another position.”

Sibby kept her gaze on him throughout and nodded or shook her head at the appropriate moments. When Mr. Pollard wound down, she crossed her arms over her bibfront apron. “What’s to do?”

“This is Mrs. Tarrant,” his wife said calmly from the end of the bar. “Take her suitcase, and show her to the room we’ve prepared. Freshen the water in her pitcher, and give her extra cloths.”

Sibby came around the bar. “This it?” and she reached for the suitcase.

Having lugged it from the station along with her small easel and satchel while the February wind bit through her, Isabella happily relinquished it.

For all her slenderness, Sibby had no trouble with the suitcase on the steep stairs to the first floor. The hall had windows at either end. Light filtered through lacy curtains. The uncarpeted floor looked oiled rather than waxed. Isabella’s city pumps clicked on the wood while the bar maid passed more soundlessly in plain brogues.

Sibby stopped at the last room. “This room looks onto the back. You’ll like that. Not so noisy as the front.” She swung the suitcase onto the bed.

Isabella winced, for the coverlet was a pale printed quilt with interlocked rings in pink and rose and purple. “Do they call that pattern ‘wedding ring’?” She peered around the room. The large easel and canvas that she had shipped were just inside the door, leaning against the wall, taking up the scant walk-space on this side of the bed. Madoc had knocked out the easel of rough wood and left it unsanded since it would be freighted. Brown paper wrapped the canvas, protecting it during transport.

“I have no idea. I’m not much for sewing.” The bar maid edged around the bed to a square table tucked into the front corner. She claimed a transferware pitcher adorned with a country scene. “I’ll get your water, ma’am.”

Isabella pressed against the bed to let Sibby pass, then she placed her purse and satchel beside her suitcase. She propped the little easel under the large one.

This room would be her home for the next twelve weeks. Surely the painting will be done by then! The little square table for the pitcher and basin took up the corner, with a small round mirror hanging above a shelf. A man who had to shave would devolve to many gyrations to see his face. She stepped over her box of paint supplies, shoved against the foot of the bed. Once around, she found that the other side had much more room. Under the window was a narrow table and a single chair. She switched on the japanned metal lamp, and the room took on a muted glow. Lace curtains half-covered the windows, but there were also heavy drapes pushed aside to reveal the misty landscape. After peering at the twilight-dim back garden, she drew the curtains. She was examining the shelves and hangers of the wardrobe between the bed and the outside wall when Sibby returned.

“Will you have dinner in the lounge or up here, Mrs. Tarrant?”

“Below, please. I intend to start as I mean to go on. Do you think we’ll have snow in the morning?” That didn’t bode well for her paints. Hopefully, she would soon have her preliminary sketching done, on paper and on the canvas.

“Weather report says Sunday will be warm and sunny, then we’re back to cold and rain. There’s towels in the bathroom. That’s down the hall, right next to the stair. The WC is across from it. Do you think you’ll need more cloths for washing?” Sibby had taken to heart Mrs. Pollard’s order to give her more cloths, and she crammed the stack onto the little shelf of the triangular corner table.

“Not for a few days.”

“I work afternoon and evening. In the morning till afternoon it’s Nuala. She’ll have your morning tea at 7 sharp. Breakfast a half-hour later. You have a couple of hours before dinner.” She nodded abruptly, remembered to smile, then retreated.

With the door shut, Isabella towed her suitcase across the coverlet and set to unpacking. Her few clothes which had crammed the suitcase looked lonesome in the wardrobe. She arranged and re-arranged them then decided to empty the contents of the satchel onto one shelf. Her sketchbook, pencils and eraser, sharpening pen knife and charcoal fit very neatly on the eye-level shelf. A long jacket, two good frocks, and her blouses hung neatly from the short rod. Folded skirts and jumpers and jodphurs filled the other two shelves. Her spare shoes, one pair for walking, the other pair in case of a special dinner, tucked easily onto the bottom shelf. Staring at the empty top shelf, she turned about, wandering what else would fit in the wardrobe and give her more room.

She stubbed her toe on the paint box. In a trice she fit her watercolor paints and brushes and palette, papers and clips neatly onto the top shelf. The small easel fit neatly under the table.

Tomorrow was her first meeting with Edward Malvaise. She also needed to cart to the school the large easel and canvas and paint crate with everything she needed to work with oils. Lady Malvaise had stated positively that the headmaster would provide a room at Greavley Abbey School in which she would work, and the paint crate would store there easily.

Full dark had fallen while she unpacked. Catching the time on her wristwatch. Isabella hurried into a plain taupe frock and tugged on a warm cardigan patterned with gold and bronze overblown roses. She finished her look with eardrops of seed pearls in a gold setting and the single twisted gold strand that Madoc had given her after their marriage. Sliding into a pair of mahogany pumps, she locked her door, slid the key into her purse, then clattered down the narrow stairway and turned down the hall that Mrs. Pollard had indicated with a wave of her hand when she’d mentioned the lounge.

There she encountered Sibby, carrying a tray with covers.

The bar maid gave her a jaundiced look that repulsed any greeting. “Mrs. Pollard says you are to linger over your dinner. You can use the lounge as a sitting room. When Dean Filmer arrives, she’ll send him there so you can meet with him.”

“That’s considerate of her.” She held the door then followed Sibby into the room.

The lounge was dim, with only three lamps providing a weak glow. The only welcome was a cheery fire. Three round tables with heavy chairs were set for dinner service. Well away from the fireplace were a settee and two fauteuils. The curtains were drawn against the night. They didn’t create a cozy ambience. Their dark color absorbed the light, adding to the dimness.

Sibby set the tray on the first table, well away from the fireplace. She removed the covered dishes then departed.

Isabella barely waited for the door to close before she dragged a table closer to the fire and scooted over its chairs. Then she transferred the covered plate and dessert coupe and bread plate. Covers off, she could see the steam rising from the steak and kidney pie. The dessert coupe had an apple crumble that surprised her by being delightful, with cinnamon sprinkled on the custard portion.

When Sibby returned an hour later, Isabella had rearranged the whole room, one table dragged to the window that overlooked the garden with its low wall and view of the trees beyond and the other table relegated to the far end of the room, in front of a set of low shelves, sparse of books yet rich with curios. She’d dragged the settee from the wall. With the deep armchairs across from the settee, she had created a conversation circle on the other side of the fireplace. The circle caught the fire’s heat and became cozy. She had claimed the fauteuil nearest the fire and was flipping through an old magazine when the door opened.

Sibby stopped short when she saw the changes but said nothing. She gathered the dishes onto her tray. “Will you be wanting coffee now?”

Should I risk coffee in the countryside? American born and raised, she’d acquired a coffee habit early, and English tea didn’t quite replace it. Only Middle Eastern restaurants could brew it properly, but sometimes their incarnations of coffee were too strong. “Yes, please, and thank you. My compliments to whoever baked that apple crumble. It was an unexpected joy.”

The bar maid smiled, a true smile, not a fake one. “That’ll be Mrs. Halsey our cook. I’ll tell her you liked it.”

“Thank you, Sibby.”

“Will you be wanting anything else? Cream and sugar for your coffee?”

“Black, please. I suppose it would be an imposition were you to tell me when the headmaster arrives? I think Mrs. Pollard intended to do so, but I doubt she will bring him immediately.”

“He’ll be late. Close to eleven. He comes in his auto. Too much trouble to walk from the school. I’ll be happy to give you a head’s up.” She hesitated then, “He likes to be called Dean Filmer.”

“Yes, Mrs. Pollard said. I appreciate this, Sibby.”

“You’ll be here?”

“Yes. I thought I would investigate the books on that shelf.”

Sibby lifted the tray, took a step, then paused. “Will I come back to more changes in the room?”

“I hope not. I thought I would leave the sideboard and the shelves where they were.”

“Mrs. Pollard may not like it. Is this one of those London room arrangements, furniture out in the room and not against the wall?”

“The dowager Malvaise is paying handsomely for my stay here, for over two months. I would like to have a bit of comfort in the evening. These chairs were too far from the fire.”

“You needn’t explain to me. I suppose you found cobwebs and dust bunnies.”

“I did.”

She shrugged. “It’s Nuala what cleans this room. You’ve given her more work of a Saturday morning.” Then she walked out the door she’d left ajar and hip-bumped it closed.

Isabella hoped Mrs. Pollard was not too upset with the changes.

How was Madoc enduring his changes? He would be on board his ship by now, with a narrow berth in a cabin shared with other men. A ship mess for his dinner, likely without any sweet dessert.

She tugged out a handkerchief to dab her eyes.

 . ~. ~ . ~ .

 Flick didn’t like cigarettes, but a cigarette in a lacquered holder was de rigueur among the faster crowds. She didn’t have to smoke it. If she waved it around, it might stay lit.

Her flatmates had left an hour ago, both in frocks copied from Lanvin’s newest creation, thin straps and a deep vee, a dropped waist with a full skirt beneath. Millie paired her rose pink frock with a feathery boa from props while Stefa in yellow threw on the glen plaid throw from the couch, wearing it like an enveloping shawl. They had laughed at Flick’s wish they “stay warm”. The rain had been spitting ice pellets when Flick arrived back from Fleet Street where she’d gone to sell her photos.

Alan Rettleston ran London Daily, and on the 16th he bought every photo that Owl had rejected. As he lit one  cigarette off another, he said, “I want more. Men only. Women only. Same style. Same factory if you can work it. Come back in a week with all of them. Do that, and I’ll pay a third more.”

Flick wasn’t a fool; she knew what he was doing. He wanted a narrative: the men gone, women doing their work; men returned, pushing the women out of jobs. Since that was the narrative she’d spotted, she’d follow his instructions.

The money from the photo feature would keep her ahead on funds, an entire quarter ahead.

When she returned to London Daily on the next Tuesday at noon, Rettleston set her to work with “Old Pickwick. He’s good at crafting a story after the photos come in.” While the newspaper’s official photographer developed the negatives, she and Pickwick poured over her contact prints, tiny images the same size of the negatives.

This morning Rettleston counted out her payment from his petty cash box. As he handed it over, he talked of a party hosted by Lilibeth Hargreaves.

Lilibeth was a member of the Bright Young Things. At their parties, champagne flowed freely, the music was jazzy or snazzy, and dancers crowded any tiny space. Only the flashiest of London’s ton would be on the guest list. Rettleston promised her dinner with dancing before.

Dinner. Dancing. Millie and Stefa had chattered during their morning cuppa that they had a party in the theatre district. Rather than stay alone at the flat or venture alone to a restaurant, Flick agreed to the evening. She immediately worried at Rettleston’s grin, more lascivious than she expected. “Would you take me to the Fitzwilliam Victoria Hotel?”

“That old dodge.”

“It does lean to the traditional.”

“Stuffed shirts and dowdy women,” he sneered.

“The food is excellent,” she countered, “and they have a chamber orchestra for dancing, not one of the newer brass bands. I met my parents there last month. Dinner, dancing, and Miss Hargreaves’ party. That’s a wonderful evening.”

He let himself be convinced. With dinner in the offing, Flick skipped the late lunch she’d planned and only had tea.

The red dress that she’d bought on a dare from Stefa came off its hanger. A sheath dress, calf-length, demure with its high neck and long sleeves, but the back draped so low it might be called backless. She wore her highest black heels and jet eardrops that she’d picked up at a market stall. The Spanish shawl with its vivid flowers on a black ground was her only concession to warmth. Then she picked up her black beaded purse that held in-case cab fare and ran down the steps to wait for Rettleston in the entrance.

His red roadster surprised her then didn’t, for she was discovering he had more than a bit of flash in him. He had the top up against the weather, thank God. She opened the door and slid in before he had a chance to put a hand to his own door latch.

The whole evening whirled. Pre-emptive maneuvering limited the cocktails he pressed on her. Couples crowded the Fitzwilliam Victoria’s dance floor, so he didn’t request too many dances. Flick spotted a good-looking man staring at her. She winked—yet he didn’t see. He looked away just as she did.

He was dining with other couples, the stuffed shirts and dowdy women that Rettleston had decried. One woman was flash, though, glittering rings on her fingers, a spandelle in her marcelled hair, an embroidered dress from a Paris catwalk. Handsome looked younger than the woman, an obvious single in the group, and he looked older than Flick’s brother Chauncey but younger than her oldest brother Warren. Her brother Allworthy’s age, she guessed. Then Rettleston demanded her attention, and she stopped speculating if Handsome Is was also Handsome Does.

The party at Lilibeth Hargreaves was wilder than she liked but not as wild as the theatre parties that Millie dragged her to. Lilibeth had hired a jazz band on a promotional tour from Louisiana in the States. The dancing was fast, the drinking faster, and Rettleston kept handing her fizzy cocktails. Conversation was impossible, but people talked louder, creating a din that still rang in her ears the next morning.

When Rettleston suggested breakfast, Flick winced. “I have a long drive tomorrow. I need sleep.”

“Come with me. You’ll sleep after I relax you.”

She groaned. “Take me to my flat, please. I’ve had a wonderful evening, but it has to end. I have to drive. I’m expected.”

Flick let him kiss her in the roadster, the gear shift keeping them apart, then she dashed out and up the steps to her flat. She waved from the door. He revved the motor then sped off.

She’d survived the evening.

Now to drive to Upper Wellsford.

Chapter 3

 Friday Evening, 27 February

Michael Wainwright did not normally dine with his superior on a Friday evening. A murder investigation solved that very morning, no new case to mull over, he’d been trapped into an affirmative when the chief inspector cornered him to be the spare man at a celebration. Since he liked Chief Inspector Malcolm and had no plans for the evening, he didn’t try too hard to winkle out of the invitation.

His tuxedo fit loosely. He hadn’t regained the three stone lost in the last years of the war, looking into the fanged maw of hell and surviving only by a screech of talons.

When he woke in the night, darkness surrounding him like a predator monster lurking silent and still, he would forget where he was, when he was. Then an automobile’s revving engine would filter from the street below or an ambulance’s clangor would peal distantly. He would remember he had returned to London. The next seconds reminded him the Armistice was signed, and most of the soldiers were demobilized. On those nights he thanked God and dropped back to sleep.

Malcolm offered to pick him up, but Michael refused, saying he would make his own way to the Fitzwilliam Victoria Hotel. He hopped a bus and was glad of his overcoat that hid his tuxedo from the workers heading home.

The hotel’s marble edifice flew international flags. The Fitzwilliam was beyond his monthly budget except for special occasions, but he had dined there enough to know to walk through the elaborate lobby to the frosted glass doors that led to an atrium and thence to the restaurant with its exclusive dining and dancing. The string orchestra played a foxtrot rather than the international tango gradually replacing it.

Subdued conversations flowed under the strings’ harmonies. An occasional flute created a counterpoint. Not for the Fitzwilliam the clarinet and brass.

He was early but recognized by the maître d’, a dour man who adopted the mien of a stiff butler.

“Mr. Wainwright, if you will follow me.” He walked the fringes of the dance floor to a long table in the corner. “Do you wish a highball or John Collins to start the evening?”

He avoided the proffered chair that set his back to the room. “Whiskey and soda, please. Forgive me, have we met?”

“On the occasion of a wedding, sir. You dined with the bride and groom. Last autumn, I believe. And Easter last, you escorted an elderly couple. The happy couple also attended that evening.”

He had treated his brother and new sister-in-law to a celebratory evening here at the Fitzwilliam. He didn’t hide his surprise at the maître d’s memory. His grandparents were the elderly couple. “You’ve an excellent memory.”

The man allowed a small smile. “Our guests to the Fitzwilliam change rarely, sir.” Then he faded away.

While he waited for his superior and the rest of the party, Michael watched the dancers and discretely examined at the other diners. The tables around the dance floor were for couples, with tables for four and six farther back, and larger tables widely spaced behind columns.

A flash of red silhouetted against somber black caught his eye. He watched a couple taking a table behind a column. The woman wore the red, a dress that looked demure until she turned her back and he saw an expanse of pale skin above the draped back. The waiter drew out her chair, sitting her behind the marble column so that he had the barest look at her pretty face and dark hair, bobbed but not crimped as so many women did now. The man looked familiar. Michael caught an edge of trouble associated with his memory of the man.

A waiter delivered his drink. Sipping it, he reminded himself that the day was done, labor ceased. He could shed his role as an investigator. Tonight, his chief had cast him into the role of the charming Spare Man.

Chief Inspector Malcolm arrived, led by the maître d’. Malcolm escorted his wife. A lone woman followed then came three other couples, all chattering. He would be Spare Man for the unescorted woman. She wore one of the shapeless styles that were becoming popular, feminized with swirling embroidery that reminded him of India.

Michael stood and greeted them. He bothered to remember last names only, including the single woman’s. His job as a detective inspector had built his memory for names. He had to shift down table, away from the couple being celebrated, but that gave him a better view of the woman in red. Attractive rather than beautiful, he judged, her waif look imparted by her bobbed hair. She smiled as she responded to her escort’s conversation, smiled when the waiter delivered a sidecar to her and a highball to the man. Yet she kept looking around the dining room, as if she looked for someone.

He needed to focus on his own party, but his subconscious kept watch. He knew the instant the man stood, coming around to draw out the woman’s chair. They joined the couples gathering for another foxtrot. The man spoke. Her expression appeared frozen, without its earlier animation.

“Enjoy dancing, Wainwright?” his chief asked.

“Sir, no, sir. Not my thing, especially now.”

“No?” the single woman queried. Mrs. Pomphrey. Margaret, Margret, Margot, something like that. A widow. “Did you suffer an injury in the war, Mr. Wainwright? You seem healthy now.”

Margot Pomphrey, he remembered. “No injury,” he confessed. “I’ve turned stodgy since the war. My sergeant despairs of me.”

“Yet you were watching the dancing. Or the dancers. Has someone caught your eye?”

“Actually, I wondered if the Fitzwilliam had moved into the new decade and would shock us all with the Tango. They’ve tamed the Foxtrot, I see.”

The comment earned muted laughter and turned conversation from him to dancing.

The celebratory couple joined the next dance. Michael felt honorbound to ask Mrs. Pomphrey to dance, and she accepted with an alacrity that kept him distant on the dance floor.

The young woman and her escort had returned to their table. The waiter had presented the entrée. As the evening progressed, the couple received their services more quickly than Michael’s table did. Yet the number of times that they danced kept their progress through the dinner at a similar pace.

Mrs. Pomphrey rattled on about after-parties. He listened with half an ear and waited for his glimpses of the dark brunette. He had no hope that he would ever meet her. She would not deign to enter his local pub or dine at the humble restaurants he frequented. He rarely ventured into the society to which the Fitzwilliam Victoria catered.

Their worlds were far apart.

Yet he found himself lingering at the restaurant’s entrance as the party dispersed for the evening. The chief expressed his appreciation for Michael playing Spare Man. He clapped Michael on the shoulder. His wife said, “Margot enjoyed the evening. Your idea was brilliant, my dear.” Then she patted her husband’s chest and clattered through the atrium to the hotel’s lobby.

His chief hesitated, as if he knew he needed to say more. Michael quickly said, “Thank you for the invitation and dinner, sir. I will see you on Monday.” That put him back in lower status, and Malcolm nodded and followed his wife.

He lingered a few minutes longer, giving the others time to collect their checked evening wraps while their automobiles were brought to the entrance.

The maître d’ appeared. “Sir. Have you need of anything?”

“A bit of information, if you please. The couple that were seated across the dance floor from us. The table was beside a column. The woman wore a red dress. I have met the man somewhere, but I cannot recall his name.” He edged a bob across the lectern.

That last comment and the doucement cleared the maître d’s expression. “Yes, sir. The gentleman is Alan Rettleston, managing editor of the London Daily. We do not see him often. The young lady, however, is well known to us. She has dined several times, usually with her parents of a Sunday, once a quarter, I would say.” Then he stopped, waiting for the question that he had guessed prompted the first question.

“Her name?”

“Miss Felicity Sherborne. A photographer, I believe.”

“For the London Daily?”

“That I do not know, sir.”

Michael thanked him and left.

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

Saturday Morning, 28 February

Isabella introduced herself to the maid Nuala then enjoyed her morning tea and poached egg on dry toast.

Mrs. Pollard came into the room when she was refusing marmalade and more toast. Nuala saw the woman and ducked her head before retreating to clear the table now beside the window. Feeling a smidgen of guilt for rearranging the room, Isabella poured the last of the tea into her cup and stirred in another little spoon of sugar.

“Mrs. Tarrant?” The woman placed her hand on the back of a chair. “May I join you?”

“Please do. The sunshine is brilliant this morning. I shall enjoy my walk to Greavley Abbey.”

“You spoke with Dean Filmer last evening?”

She nodded as she tapped the spoon then laid it on the saucer. “He will send a man this morning for my easel and canvas and box of supplies. The headmaster has also promised to introduce me to young Mr. Malvaise.”

“You haven’t met him?”

“The dowager commissioned me. I have her letter of introduction to her grandson.”

“I see. You should have no trouble up at the Abbey School then.”

Isabella decided to tackle the furniture rearrangement before Mrs. Pollard did. “I hope you don’t mind.” She swept her hand around to indicate the room. “It’s a drastic rearrangement. Last evening the fire hadn’t had time to warm the room. I decided to shift my table closer which led to shifting a armchair, and then I had to balance the room. The more I moved, the more had to be moved. I didn’t realize until this morning that this room faces the south and will take advantage of this glorious sunshine. That table by the window will be wonderful on a warm and sunny morning.”

“Mrs. Tarrant—.”

“February doesn’t have many sunny days, I know, but I’ll be here through March and into April, and we will definitely have more days like today.” There, she’d reminded the woman that she was a long-term guest of the Hook and Line.

Mrs. Pollard grimaced and shifted in her seat. “We have other guests, Mrs. Tarrant. We have three fishermen staying with us. You didn’t see them last night because they supped in the pub. This morning they rose early. They didn’t quite know where to sit for breakfast.”

“I believe I saw them. Three men, young, middle-aged, older. We spoke as they left. Do they each take a different table? I thought they had eaten together this morning.”

“They did, this morning, but they don’t often do so.”

“They chose the window table. That table will be popular, especially this spring. Candlemas was cloudy, wasn’t it? We should have an early spring. Did I see crocuses at the gate?”

“You did. Mrs. Tarrant, the fishermen aren’t our only guests. Miss Felicity Sherborne arrives today to visit her brother. He’s a master at the Abbey School. She plans to stay a fortnight. She will arrive by tea-time, I should think. We have more guests expected next week. Where are they to sit, Mrs. Tarrant? Miss Sherborne cannot retreat to the pub. You will both be vying for the best table and the best seat.”

“If we are that crowded, then I hope Miss Sherborne and I can share the same table. It will be lovely to have someone to talk with during meals. Someone new always has a wealth of conversation.”

“You have a hopeful view of Miss Sherborne.”

“Should I not? What do you know of her? Has she stayed here before?”

“She stays once a season for several days. A long weekend for each of her visits last fall, this time a fortnight, as I said. I believe she’s keen on photography.”

“I shall enjoy her explanation of photography, I’m certain. I assisted a photographer once.” Poor Richard Lamb. Murdered by a colleague at the archaeological dig on Crete. The memory subdued her sparkle. “We will definitely have several conversation starters.”

Mrs. Pollard cleared her throat. She compressed her lips, as if she had more to say but wouldn’t. She stood and thrust her chair under the table. “I see that you plan to make your rearranging work. Please don’t be changing more things without consulting me.”

“Nuala didn’t have more work, did she?” She pretended not to know that the young woman had had more work. Moving furniture had revealed dust and cobwebs and gravel and bits of leaves hiding under the settee and chairs.

“You said a man from the Abbey School would collect your canvas and easel? Should I admit him to your room to collect them? I assume you’ll be at the Abbey all day?”

“Yes, please. And a box. Everything’s beside the door. I hope to introduce myself to young Mr. Malvaise before this morning is much advanced.”

“The boys play rugby on Saturdays. Preparation for the exhibition games on Founder’s Day, the first weekend in April.”

“Then I shall definitely need to speak with him early. Thank you for telling me that, Mrs. Pollard. Mr. Filmer didn’t mention it.”

Her smile looked pinched. “For asking you not to rearrange the room?”

“For giving me the warning about the games today and for telling me about Miss Sherborne.”

Mrs. Pollard didn’t snort, but she looked as if she wanted to.

The barmaid Nuala came in as Mrs. Pollard left. Staring into her tepid tea, Isabella wondered if Nuala had waited in the hall while Mrs. Pollard delivered her scold … which didn’t really come off. She hid a grin and drank the tea, even if it had lost all warmth.

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 “Report’s filed, boss.” Sgt. Callaway followed Michael into his office. “In triplicate,” he added, imitating a nasally corporal. The story of the corporal had entertained Michael over several pints in the first weeks after Callaway returned to work with him.

“Sit down. Tell me we haven’t caught another case.”

“Not yet, boss. Sunday’s still free.” Callaway started to lower himself into a chair, then the door behind him opened. He quickly straightened and tucked his hands behind his back, a noncom giving a report to his captain.

Chief Inspector Malcolm barely gave the sergeant a glance. “Closed your case?”

“The sergeant filed the papers earlier.”

“Good then. You two will have the rest of the weekend free.”

“We hope so, sir.”

“I have a commission from my wife.” He acted as if the sergeant wasn’t there. The chief was probably used to servants standing around. “My wife and I hope you are free for dinner Saturday next. Just the four of us. Margot Pomphrey enjoyed last evening.”

He saw Callaway’s eyes roll. The sergeant would relish that bit of information and ruthlessly tease Michael. “If no case arises, sir. I must insist on paying my way, however.”

“Nonsense. This will be a favor to us. Evening attire, I would think, though we do not plan to attend a party afterward. Plans do change, however. Best to prepared.” He waited expectantly then, and Michael was forced to thank him for the invitation. His chief then turned to  Callaway. “How is Mrs. Callaway, sergeant?”

“My mother is doing well, sir. Thank you for asking.”

The door shut behind Malcolm. “You’re doing better, Callaway,” Michael praised. “You gave no hint that you knew he’d forgotten you aren’t married.”

“He’ll never remember that, boss.”

“Not until you rise in the ranks.”

“That’s not likely to occur.”

“The world’s changing.”

“And you’re having dinner with him, boss. Again. The world’s staying the same. People find their levels and stay there. Like him and his wife setting you up with that Pomphrey woman. Again.”

“Then we’ll have to hope a case will interfere. That reminds me. We had a man in our station some months back. I cannot remember the case. Alan Rettleston. Editor on Fleet Street. London Daily. Do you remember?”

“Not our case, boss.”

“No. Just here in the station.”

“I can ask around, quiet-like.”

“Do that. I’m curious.”

“Trouble, boss?”

“No. Not even a hint of it. Just my curiosity.”

“You know what curiosity did. A case right up our alley. I’ll see.” He faded back and shut the door just as quietly.

Michael worked through paperwork until he reached an old file from months back, the weeks immediately after he’d returned to police work. He hadn’t thought the war had returned home with him until he came on that crime scene. Unsolved still. He rarely had time to review the case, but he kept the file on his desk for spare moments like this. He leaned back and started through the documents, reading each one individually, trying to shift them around, like puzzle pieces that fit in multiple spots. A new angle? Missing facts? Different kinds of interviews? He’d thought at first that his newness as a detective inspector hampered him. He no longer thought that.

Callaway knocked then poked his head around the doorframe.

“Come in.” Michael closed the file. “I need the interruption.”

“MacBride case, boss?”

“How did you know?”

“Still worries me, too. We’ll get to the answer, boss, never you doubt it.”

“In this year, I hope. Already a half-year has passed, and we’re still no closer. What do you need?”

“That man, boss, Alan Rettleston. He was in the station. Charges never brought.” He touched his nose.

That nose-touch meant that Rettleston had paid his way out of the charge. “What brought him to us?”

“Assaulted a Jane at a Mott Shop. Broken bones the worst of it. Re-arranged her face for her. Surgery needed there. The Jane was willing to charge, but nothing doing. You have anything we can use?”

“No. I just recognized him. He was at the Fitzwilliam Victoria.”

“Was he? That nice place? With who?”

“Whom. A pretty lady in a red dress.”

“She’ll need to be warned.”

“Unfortunately, she might not view me as creditable. You know these new things. They don’t automatically accept everything the police says.”

“No one should do that. But a word of caution ….”

“Anything else, sergeant?” He drew the file back toward him.

“No, boss.”

“Then we’ll plan to have a normal Sunday, shall we? We might manage some interviews on this before a new case crops up.”

 . ~ . ~ . ~ .

 The walk to Greavley Abbey did not take long. Few vehicles passed on the road. Isabella took to the wide verges whenever she heard a motor, but the macadam was easier walking. The road was bitumen in Upper Wellsford itself, but it changed to the crushed gravel mixture once she passed the last village cottage. Trees grew along the grassy verge. The forest looked cleared of undergrowth although deep within the old-growth trees were tangles of bushes. The understory along the verge looked to be flowering trees, drinking up the sunshine that didn’t penetrate the oaken canopy. Driving the road in spring would be a celebration of color.

When a brick wall began running alongside the road, she knew the Abbey was near. The wall seemed to die away deeper into the forest. She wondered the reason for its building.

She hadn’t searched for Greavley Abbey’s history. Lacking a cathedral or an influential monastic order, the abbey had escaped Henry VIII’s deprivations, and the village had built its own church, a plain grey-stone building with a Palladium style front and an octagonal bell tower at the back.

Her sole source at the London Library in the Pall Mall had claimed Greavley Abbey had a checkered past. The monastery, still Catholic yet its influence greatly reduced, survived until Henry VIII and then Oliver Cromwell. In the Jacobean Glorious Revolution, the monastic order was forced to remove. A wealthy merchant purchased the whole, Abbey Church and dormitory and extensive grounds. The merchant’s heirs grew wealthier in successive monarchies. Yet while the family accumulated wealth, the blood was not as prolific. By the 1780s, the last merchant had no direct or collateral heir to name. He fastened upon the idea to form a school and spent his last three decades doing so.

Isabella reached the grand entrance with its round spheres topping the supports for the open ironwork gates. She stopped to catch her breath. Distant shouts let her know the boys already were at play. She saw no one moving about the front. The Abbey Church stood to her right, medieval in shape with stained glass windows and a high bell tower that reminded her of Notre Dame in Paris. Before her was a manor house, Palladium style, and she wondered if the childless merchant had built both manor house and village church.

In the narrow opening between church and manor she could see through to a building of grey stone, much like the church. That must be the monks’ dormitory. She saw the barest corner of a further building and wondered at it. The manor was of a warm brick with grey stone quoins. The house rose three stories, taller than the church and its dormitory, although the crenallated bell tower ran a story higher. The manor’s architect must have sought symmetry with the church buildings rather than an imitation of the earlier buildings.

Trees grew, old and strong, to her left. Along that side of the house was a boxwood hedge. She wondered if that was the approach to the maze that had fascinated the librarian.

The church and the manor formed two sides of a square. The librarian had spoken of a cloister walk and three other buildings, one for administration, the second for teaching, and the third for the teachers’ lodgings. Only they didn’t call them teachers, Isabella remembered. Mr. Filmer had called them masters, and he was the headmaster, but she was to refer to him as Dean Filmer.

Surely in this great place would be a lockable room for her painting. The headmaster had said that she could leave her work without worry. Yet her late father had taught at public schools, in America and here in Britain. Boys easily became imps.

LINKS

Tuesday, December 24, 2024

3 Gifts for Christmas

Christmas Gift!

That saying on Christmas morning is one of my family’s traditions, carried through four generations and more now.

How does the tradition work? The first person who wishes “Christmas Gift” to another wins the prize. That prize is supposed to be winner’s choice of one of the loser’s gifts, but we never took it that far. For us, we merely glory in being the first to say it.

I’m saying “Christmas Gift” to you—not to glory in being first, but to offer a gift or two or three for Christmas. Am I one of the three magi? I wouldn’t call myself wise in any respect LOL.


It’s THREE STORIES for you to fill your spare time from Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day (except if you’re like me, you’re asking “Spare time? Who has spare time?”).


First up is shiny new story, not yet published, wrapped up in a tartan bow. “Spanish Moss” as the New
Orleans of 1925 as its backdrop, and a death, a will, and a way to commit murder. Remember Nedda Courtland from the Sailing with Mystery collection? Nedda and her wealthy employer visit south Louisiana, and trouble results.

This novelette is only available to you through Book Funnel; it will not officially publish until May or June. The current cover is merely a placeholder until the real cover arrives in late spring.

LINK Spanish Moss https://dl.bookfunnel.com/12isciosjd


Story #2 is from my pen name Edie Roones, a Wild Sherwood short story from the Out of Wild Sherwood collection. (Yes, I’m trying to get you to read my historical fantasy.) In “Keen-Edged Dagger”, we have a new character falsely accused of murder. Brigit is intent on achieving some kind of justice after her cousin’s death.

The short story published this past September, but this Book Funnel link will provide a free copy to you.

LINK Keen-Edged Dagger https://dl.bookfunnel.com/r147mbnqrh



Finally, it’s the annual gift of my first short story attempt. “The Lion’s Den” turned into a novella, 17K words when I was trying for 5K. The story is set in the London of the early 1920s with Jack and Filly. It’s a puzzle mystery and a bit of a love story.

Jack Portman had never forgotten Filly Malvaise. Then she walked into his local pub and into the clutches of a loan shark.

I enjoyed writing “The Lion’s Den”, but I realized that I definitely needed practice writing short stories. You may have previously received this novella as a gift. I keep offering it as a freebie because I do love how this story worked out.

LINK Lion’s Den https://dl.bookfunnel.com/zjnmxoc3rb

Take advantage of these gifts before the New Year begins rolling along. The links expire January 5. I’d hate for you to miss your Christmas gift.

You can also share the joy with family and friends. Forward the link to anyone who wants some reading.

Merry Christmas. May your holidays be filled with joy, peace, and love ~ and a little mystery.

All the Best ~

M.A. Lee


Cover images by Emily R. Dunn and Deranged Doctor Design.

All images licensed from depositphotos.


Friday, November 1, 2024

Christmas with Death / first chapter and links

 Christmas with Death

Christmas is for Miracles, Merriment, and Murder.

Christmas 1919 should be a joyful celebration. The Great War is over, and Isabella is at home with her friends Cecilia Arkwright and the brothers Madoc and Gawen Tarrant. They expect a lean Christmas, however, until an invitation to the country manor of Emberley arrives.

Sir Reginald and the Malvaise family fill their grand house with friends, acquaintances, and business associates. With money tight, Isabella and her friends enjoy the rich meals, hot fires, and comfortable rooms. Yet rumors of affaires and drug addiction as well as accusations of blackmail sour the holiday atmosphere.

They plan to leave before New Year’s Eve, then Isabella discovers the body of a fellow visitor, shot dead in an ice-skimmed pond.

With multiple motives and suspects, will Scotland Yard solve the crime before Isabella is the murderer’s next target? Will an imperfect murder be impossible to solve?

Chapter One :: December 1919

Gawen Tarrant dropped the rope-tied box before the sofa. Madoc promptly propped his feet on it.

Isabella shut the flat’s door then maneuvered around Gawen’s tall form. “Cecilia is not going to be pleased.”

“They told me to clear out her husband’s office.”  He dropped onto the chintz chair then tossed the silk pillow with its embroidered brown and pink tulips to his brother. Madoc flipped it to the other end of the sofa.

“Nigel is no longer—Cecilia is not collecting this things. She’s trying to divorce him.”

“A crate of books will come after the Christmas freight traffic is over.”

“She will definitely not like that. After she closed out their Mayfair flat, the shipping cost to send his possessions to his parents emptied her bank account. She recovered a little of her money when she sold their furniture, but then she sent half of that to his parents as well. Now you bring her another cost.”

He shrugged. “She’ll have to swallow the expense or store Arkwright’s things here.”  Gawen loosened his tie and collar then propped his feet on the box. “Any tea going?”

Isabella didn’t complain or sigh, just slipped into the tiny kitchen. Rain slicked the square window to the fire escape. As she set the kettle to boil, she heard the brothers talking. She didn’t try to listen; Madoc would tell her what she needed to know. She stared out the window, peering past the ironwork to the distant lights twinkling in the darkness. Then she shrugged off her gloom and began setting out the tea things. Gawen may have come when he thought Cecilia would be away, but Isabella expected her back soon. Fresh biscuits and Mrs. Kittner’s meat pasties covered a white plate. The kettle whistled as she stuffed the tea ball with fresh leaves.

She bore the tea tray into the sitting room and aimed it for the box. The men hastily removed their boots then grabbed for the meat pasties. Isabella sat beside Madoc and poured three cups.

Gawen eyed the empty fourth cup. He said nothing, just dropped two biscuits onto the saucer and scooped up another pasty. “These are good.”

Isabella watched his huge bite that took off one crimped corner. “Mrs. Kittner in the third floor flat. She gives us a daily dozen to earn extra cash. I do wish you hadn’t brought more of Nigel’s things, Gawen. I hoped Cecilia would cheer up over the holidays.”

“What’s the matter?”

Madoc brushed crumbs off his cardigan. “Bad news from her solicitor.”

“About the divorce? Her husband’s in a Greek gaol for conspiring to commit murder. He’s obviously not a worthy husband. What’s holding the decree up?”

“Nigel refuses to admit to any adultery while on the archaeological dig, and her solicitor says that’s the only reason for which the marriage can be dissolved. His or hers.”

The ginger biscuit cracked. Half fell into Gawen’s teacup. “Not her adultery,” he snapped. “Her reputation should be kept intact. I can’t believe Arkwright is so lost to honor.”

“That’s the reason she was crying yesterday,” and Isabella didn’t mistake his wince. “Today she’s off lunching with friends in the hopes they’ll help her forget for a few hours.”

Madoc snared a fourth pasty. “We can give depositions, Bella, you and I.”

“I could—.”

“No, not you.”  Madoc shut down his brother’s offer. “Not if you intend to have any relationship with her after the divorce is granted. We might enlist Professor Standings and his wife.”

“They’ll talk about her flirtation with me,” Gawen growled.

“Flirtation only. As long as you two aren’t seen as a couple until after the divorce. Castlereagh and Matthews can give depositions as well. They won’t talk about her flirtation with you. Matthews probably didn’t even notice.”

Gawen still hadn’t eaten his third pasty. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come today.”

“You are her husband’s colleague,” Isabella pointed out. “You’re delivering his possessions. And you are the brother of Madoc who is seeing me.”

Madoc squeezed her shoulders. “More than seeing you, Bella. I’m going to put a ring on your finger.”

Happiness glimmered in her pale blue eyes.

Gawen set his saucer down and stood up. “Cecilia needs to give her solicitor options. You need to tell her what we’ve said.”

“Tell her yourself,” for they heard light footsteps hurrying up the third flight of stairs to the fourth-floor flat.

The door opened then shut quickly. Cecilia stepped into Isabella’s view when she hung her umbrella on the four wall hooks. “Goodness, it’s wet. Rain every day for a week.”

She gave her hat a shake then placed it on the glass-topped Demilune table that had once graced the marble-floored entry in the Mayfair flat she had shared with her estranged husband. She shed her raincoat then paused as she reached to hang it on another hook. She bit her lip then hung her coat over the dripping umbrella. Her heels clacked on the bare wood floor as she came into the flat.

Cecilia stopped when she saw Gawen. “I didn’t know you were expected.”  Then her gaze fastened on the rope-tied box that Madoc’s feet had reclaimed as an ottoman. She glanced at Isabella, who started to explain the arrival of Nigel’s things only to be interrupted by Gawen.

“I came to pick up a box that Madoc brought me.”  His boot nudged the box while his bright green eyes challenged his brother and Isabella to contradict his lie.

“Do sit down. Have some—more tea,” she added when she saw the cup he’d abandoned. “Mrs. Kittner’s meat pasties are very good.”

“They are indeed,” Madoc said and reached for another.

Isabella pushed his hand away. “You’ve had four. Gawen’s had three. Leave some for Cecilia.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m still stuffed from that luncheon.”  She towed over one of the straight-backed chairs from the drop-leaf table that they used for dining. Then she bent her head over the steam from the teacup and closed her eyes briefly before she sipped. “Ah. Good and still hot. Sit down, Gawen,” she repeated.

He resumed his seat but sat on the edge. When pressed, he took another pasty then held out his cup for more tea. “I thought we could dine at Guiseppi’s around the corner, the place you told me about, Madoc, when you rang about this box.”  He frowned at his brother.

They discussed dinner while Cecilia had a pasty and a second cup of tea. Then she interrupted. “I don’t believe this is a box that Madoc brought. What’s in it, Gawen? More of Nigel’s things?”

Honesty battled with his lie and won. “Out of his office. The dean required that it be cleared before the New Year.”

“He had more than that box in his office at St. George’s.”

“The books are coming after Christmas—but if you’ll give me his parents’ address, I will have it routed straight to them. The University will pay the freight. That is where you are sending his things? I can send this box there for you.”

“No. Leave it. I want to sort through his journals. His parents shouldn’t see—.”

“I purged anything that looked nefarious.”

“That’s good of you, but I would still like to go through the box. Knowing me, I will pull out one or two things. Besides, I like that box. We can put an old shawl on it, Isabella, and keep it right there as a coffee table.”

“A great idea,” she agreed promptly. “Now, I expected you back an hour ago. What delayed you?”

“A lucky meeting and a most fortunate invitation. Fortunate for all of us.”

“How fortunate?” Madoc asked. He finished his tea and held his cup for more.

“Do you have plans for the next fortnight?”

He nudged Isabella. “Just being here.”

“Will you want to go to your grandparents?”  This time she looked at Gawen.

“Not until mid-January, when they want us to come for Grandmother’s birthday. They’re planning a quiet Christmas and New Year.”

“That works,” Madoc said.

“Will you want to see your Grandfather Chadwick over the holidays?”

“I’m still persona non grata, I think, because I refused his job in the shipping office. Gawen may go,” but his brother grunted a negative.

“Then the invitation is fortunate for all of us.”

“What are you talking about, Cecilia?”

“Do you remember Greta Ffoulkes? Tall woman. Lovely clothes but wrong color palette, I think you said. With a nose. You met her at Tony Carstair’s gallery.”

“Brunette? All dramatic in gold when she should have been in silver?”

“That’s the one. She was at Tilda’s.”

“I thought you went to Chelsea, not Mayfair.”

“I needed a fitting. Greta was there, picking up a new frock. She wanted to hear about my adventurous autumn, but she had no time. So, she has invited me and my friends—since I said I couldn’t abandon my flat-mate alone in London, so dreary—and we are to drive down on Christmas Eve to her family’s home.”

“Drive where?”

“Emberley, the Malvaise estate. It’s in Cumbria. We are invited for the fortnight of Christmas to Epiphany.”

“Who is we? Who did she invite?” Madoc asked.

“My flat-mate and her fiancé. And I hoped Gawen would drive us in his automobile. She said four of us would be fine.”

“Not I,” Gawen quickly refused.

“But you’ll be alone at Christmas.”

“We want you with us,” Isabella coaxed.

“You boxed yourself in, brother,” Madoc added and nudged the tea tray table.

His mouth twisted, but it wasn’t a grimace. “I think I am boxed in.”

“Perfect,” Cecilia smiled, smug that her plan had come together. “We’ll have a late breakfast on Wednesday then leave before 11 o’clock.”

“Pasties from Mrs. Kittner?” Madoc asked. When he opened his blue eyes wide, Isabella could see him as a little boy, eager for a kitchen treat.

Cess laughed. “Of course. Breakfast, then we’re on the road. We should reach Emberley by tea. Greta said the family will attend a late Christmas Eve service at the parish church, and we are expected to attend that, so be prepared.”

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

Yawning, Isabella came back into the flat to see Cecilia reach deep into the box Gawen had carried in hours earlier. “Cess!  You said you would leave that for tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning I am off to my solicitor with Madoc’s idea for depositions to prove Nigel’s adultery. I’ll leave this box on the landing, and contact the local carrier on my way.”

“I’ll help you repack it.”  Isabella tied her wrapper before she knelt.

“Sweet of you, but don’t you have to be up early to go to the theatre?”

“Early for Mr. Adderholt is 1 p.m.”  She looked at the items spread around the box: files, journals, a portfolio, and the sundry paraphernalia that people somehow accumulated. “Did you find what you were looking for? What is it?”

“A framed photograph of me. From before our marriage. I inscribed it ‘All my love,’ more fool me. I was such a starry-eyed innocent. Nigel kept it on a narrow table at the window. He said the sun wouldn’t fade my photo, but I think he liked to keep his back turned to me.”

How do I answer that? She looked at the neatly stacked items. “I don’t see a photo.”

“Because it’s not here. I know it was in his office before we left for Crete. I moved it out of the sunlight. Perhaps Gawen overlooked it.”  She returned the manila folders to the box.

“Maybe Gawen kept it.”

Cecilia paused then shook her head so hard that her dark hair slipped free of the silk ribbon tied at her nape. “Don’t get my hopes up, Bella. If he kept it, he would be interested in me. If he were interested, he wouldn’t ignore me most of the night.”

“He would if he wanted to guard your reputation. Before you came in, he did say how necessary that was.”

“Did he? No. I would still prefer that you not raise my hopes. He certainly didn’t want to spend a fortnight in my company. He was still protesting our Christmas at Emberley as we walked back from the restaurant.”

“Look at the obstacles before him, Cess. He wants you, but you’re still married. He has to wait on your divorce before he can court you. If he doesn’t, your reputation suffers. And he’s a university professor, still bound by the Old Guard’s traditions and censures. I think he stole your photograph to keep for himself. To give himself hope.”

“Hope? Any way that we can come together would need a miracle. I don’t think Gawen took the photograph. I think the maid broke it and swept the bits into the dustbin.”

“Choose to be optimistic, Cecilia.”

“I could be if Gawen did not persist in a ‘merry war’ between us.”  She closed the lid and tied the ropes. “Help me push this onto the landing.”

They pushed, slippers sliding on the bare wood. By the time they pushed the box against the balusters, out of the way of the landing and the corkscrew steps climbing to the attic, they were out of breath and giggling.

Isabella straightened and tugged her wrapper back to decency. “I thought we wanted to keep this box.”

“Bother. We were. That’s what four glasses of wine at Guiseppi’s will do.”  She linked her arm with Isabella’s. “We’ll get a crate from the attic and pack his things in it. Has Madoc heard from that engineer?”

“He’s to come in after the New Year and get his orders.”

“Is he worried?”

“He hasn’t said so, but I think he is.”  She locked the flat door, even though they trusted their neighbors and the house doors front and back were kept locked. She always locked up at night. “He needs to work, and managing a crew of men is something he does well.”

“Nigel’s recommendation about his work on the dig would be useless even if we could wrestle a recommendation from him. I think he wants to rot in that cell.”

“Madoc doesn’t need his recommendation. He has Professor Standings and Gawen’s, and Mr. Tredennit saw him direct men that he didn’t even know to finish a job in a few short hours. I think that may be more helpful than any recommendation.”

“He tells you nothing of this, though, does he? Our close-mouthed men.”

“You are just as close-mouthed. You said nothing all evening about Greta Ffoulkes. I thought you would regale us with information over dinner.”

Cecilia primmed her mouth. “There’s very little to tell.”

“Greta Ffoulkes. From an old family. An old estate. You must know more than that.”

“She is willing to invite a soon-to-be-divorced woman with a husband gaoled in Greece to her family gathering over the holidays. She wants someone there with greater gossip potential than her own affairs. That’s all I need to know, Bella.”

Put like that, Isabella realized that was all she wanted to know about Greta Ffoulkes.


 

Chapter 2 ~ Christmas Eve

After a long afternoon of winding roads and narrow village streets and flocks of sheep, they reached the red-bricked stout columns of Emberley, two miles beyond the village of the same name. Gawen turned through the open gateway. The Crossley automobile puttered along the drive through the trees for several more minutes. Then the woodland ended, and the manor confronted them at the top of a long, straight drive. Isabella gaped at the massive façade, twice as large as any Federalist-built house in America, five stories and too many chimneys to count dotting the roofline. She’d seen several such manors in England, many of them much larger, but finally, finally was her chance to stay with the true British upper-crust. The idea excited her.

Gawen swept the Crossley up the drive and rolled slowly over the gravel to the forecourt.

From the backseat, Isabella offered, “She could have just been trying to fill the house.”

“Meet people before you give them the best motives,” Cecilia cautioned.

Madoc turned to look at them, blanketed but still cold in the open back seat. “What are you two on about?”

“What have you gotten us into, Cecilia?” his brother asked.

“It’s an old family is all. I met the dowager Malvaise only once, in London, just after Nigel was appointed General Linley’s aide at the War Office. She cut me dead.”

“She may not have recognized you.”

“Greta had just introduced me to her. Old witch. She’ll be here—if she’s not dead. And Sir Reginald with his new bride. He lost three sons in the War. There’s a fourth, but he’ll be after a spare for the heir.”

Gawen braked with a jerk that spewed gravel before the grand entrance. “I thought these people were friends.”

“Free meals for fourteen days and thirteen nights. Warm rooms. Soft beds,” Cecilia said cheerfully as Gawen helped her from the backseat. “That I would like to see the old witch roasted with the chestnuts is neither here nor there.”

Marron glacé,” Isabella murmured. She gazed at the bricked edifice and hoped the chef would serve up the dish at least once during the holidays. “Sugared chestnuts. Then she’s roasted and served up sweet.”

They were laughing as the door opened. A dark-suited butler emerged, somehow looking formidable even though the black-lacquered door dwarfed him. He was followed by two footmen in a griege livery with darker grey edging on collars and cuffs. Someone—not Greta, certainly—had a dapper eye.

“Mrs. Arkwright?” the butler intoned.

“And my guests,” Cecilia said promptly, “as Mrs. Ffoulkes agreed. Miss Isabella Newcombe and the Tarrant brothers.”

“Very good, madame. I am Thompson. Mrs. Ffoulkes and several friends have journeyed to the village, but the dowager and Lady Malvaise remain in the conservatory off the blue sitting room. I am instructed to inquire if you would wish to join them or remain in your rooms until tea.”

“When is tea?”

“Five o’clock, madame.”

“I think we shall beard the lioness in her den before retreating to our rooms, Thompson.”

“Cess!” Isabella hissed, but her friend merely smiled. The butler remained dour.

After driving in an open auto for hours, Isabella wanted to fix her hair and freshen up, remove her hat and renew her lipstick, but she had to follow them into the house. Once inside, she forgot what she wanted to do, caught up by the grandeur.

The entrance hall had the classic paneled walls and waxed floor. A large marble-topped table, graced with a tall Ming jar, centered the hall. Ancestors marched up the staircase, but Thompson led them beyond the entrance, turning down a side hall just past the staircase.

The side hall ran the length of the wing, ending in a dark-paneled door. Before they reached it, the butler stopped and opened a door. He led them into a room with blue wallpaper and blue upholstery and blue-toned carpets, gilded mirrors and golden pulls on painted furniture and polished brass fittings at the fireplace. Thompson carried on without pausing to a glazed wall with a single glassed door. Through the windows Isabella could see greenery, ferns and acacia palms. He opened the door to the glass-encased room beyond. “Mrs. Arkwright and her guests,” he droned.

Before he finished his piece, Cecilia had drawn a cool mantle about her, assuming a haughty guise that would have repelled Isabella had she ever encountered it. Several women and men were seated around the plant-filled room, but Cecilia stepped down onto the black-and-white tiles and crossed to the women seated at the center of the winter paradise.

“Lady Malvaise,” she addressed the stiff-backed woman in heavy tweeds. “We met in London, back in ’15, I believe. May I introduce Miss Isabella Newcombe, an artist and—.”

The dowager held up a long-fingered hand, so pale the blue veins were prominent and so thin it looked like bone covered only by skin. “You will only have to introduce these people at tea and then at dinner. We are not all gathered.”

“It pleases me to introduce my friends. As I was saying, this is Miss Newcombe, an artist. Her fiancé Madoc Tarrant. His brother Gawen Tarrant, a professor at St. George’s University. He is also an archaeologist.”

Her dark eyes flickered over the men. “Like your husband?”

“No, he is much more honorable than my soon-to-be-ex-husband.”

“You are divorcing that husband of yours? First intelligent thing I’ve known you to do. Going back to your maiden name? Hetheridge, wasn’t it?”

“I believe the accepted form of address will be Mrs. Cecilia Arkwright.”

The dowager’s dark gaze flashed over Gawen. “You won’t style yourself that way for long. This is my daughter-in-law Lady Loretta Malvaise. She was a Halliwell.”

She looked to be mid-twenties, like Cecilia, but any resemblance ended there. The younger Lady Malvaise held her body in a slight lean, her head slightly turned, her cigarette holder inches from her mouth, both painted a vermilion, stark against her skin and the grey wool dress and cardigan she wore. Her dark hair was in a smooth chignon that an older woman would prefer. It was a studied portrait, and Isabella wondered how often Lady Malvaise was so deliberate in her clothing and poses. The dowager, looking ancient beside her daughter-in-law, still appeared more alive with her glittering eyes and commanding presence.

“How do you do?” the young woman said, with rounded vowels that spoke of an equally deliberate education.

“You and your friends are not our last arrivals,” the dowager said. “Has Thompson shown you to your rooms yet?”

“No, my lady.”

“I see. Mrs. Arkwright, you may be acquainted with my son Cleveland. His wife Milly. She is an American. Philadelphia. Godfrey Hunsted.”  Each person nodded as the dowager introduced them. “His wife accompanied my granddaughters and their friends to the village. And Wyatt Williamson. Your artist should speak with him.”

In a far corner, almost hidden by lush ferns, a newspaper lowered, and the man said, “Not another artist. I am on holiday. Tori promised.”

Wyatt Williamson the noted art critic could skyrocket new artists and skewer the poseurs. Yet at this depressive tone, Isabella’s flutter of anticipation dropped to the floor.

“We will have yet another artist soon,” the dowager informed him, “and you will have to acknowledge that this one is a true artist. He is quite celebrated. St. John Lamont.”

The man groaned. “Already we have Dadaism, and now you bring Cubism. God forbid. You don’t paint the ugly, do you, Miss Newcombe?”

She could barely see him for the green fronds. “At the moment I am to paint the backdrop at the Chelsea Garden Theatre for a new production of The Tempest. ‘O brave new world that has such people in it.’”

He leaned forward. Frizzy white hair straggled over his collar and shoulders. His grey flannel suit looked too large for his shoulders. A narrow chin and a hooked nose completed his picture. Yet he smiled. “Refreshingly honest. You and I must talk.”  Then he leaned back and put up his newspaper.

And Madoc squeezed her hand.

The dowager’s lips curled upward then flattened. “We are to be thirty for dinner. Thirty-two tomorrow. The vicar and his wife will join us for Christmas dinner. Their presence, I daresay, will not improve the tone of the conversation. Now, I believe you will wish to freshen up before tea. Promptly at five, if you please.”

They trooped to the hallway. As they returned to the entrance hall, Cecilia whispered, “I never know where I am with that woman. She makes me feel nine years old.”

“Seven,” Gawen said, “with muddy knees to my trousers.”

“And a frog in my pocket,” Madoc added.

The brothers grinned at a childhood memory.

Thompson stood at the base of the staircase. He cleared his throat. “If the ladies will be so good, your rooms are on the second floor, to the left. The gentlemen are on the third, also to the left. You will be met.”  Then he pursed his lips and waited, a black-clad statue until they reached the first landing and continued on to the second flight.

“A tightly controlled household,” Isabella whispered.

“And we’re as controlled as automatons,” Madoc returned. “Not certain I care for that.”

“Free meals. Warm rooms. Soft beds,” she reminded, and he chuckled.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

A footman directed them to the expansive drawing room for tea. Maids stood with several teapots at the ready. The dowager Malvaise poured and handed out the teacups, giving each taker a direct look. Isabella arrived behind the others. At first she felt like the automaton Madoc had named. Upon seeing the available pastries, both sweet and savory, tartlets and petit-fours, Isabella found it difficult to begrudge her obedience.

A woman crossed to greet the four of them, and Isabella tore her attention from the upcoming food. She recognized Greta Ffoulkes, exactly as she had remembered her. The woman wore an unfortunate dress of slime green that reflected on her skin. Isabella’s simple periwinkle jumper and brown flannel skirt might be plain, but it flattered where that green jersey dress did not. The deep brown cardigan tossed over her shoulders could not mitigate the slimey color.

Remembering Greta’s gold dress at the gallery show, the artist in Isabella wanted to draw her aside and create a more flattering palette.

“Cecilia!”  She opened her arms wide as she neared them then drew in her wings and merely brushed cheeks. “Grandmother told me that you had arrived.”  She opened her eyes wide as she surveyed them. “Now, which of these is your flat-mate?”

“Miss Isabella Newcombe.”

She stepped forward and offered a hand. “Mrs. Ffoulkes—.”

“You must call me ‘Greta’. I hear one of these handsome men is your fiancé.”

Madoc gave a little bow.

“Are you the professor?”

“I am. Gawen Tarrant,” and he stuck his hand out.

She had ignored Isabella’s offered hand, but she took Gawen’s then slid her own up his jacketed arm. “Quite handsome. I do love green eyes. I will steal you away.”  She waved, and a couple separated from the group beside the windows. “Phyllida!”

A young woman seated beside the dowager looked around.

Greta gestured for her to come. “My cousin Phyllida. Very sweet. Out last year. Don’t let her scowl put you off. Stop frowning, Filly;  you’ll have wrinkles before you’re 30. This is Madoc Tarrant. Introduce him around, dear. And Cecilia, I give you to my little sister Alexa,” a darker brunette than her sister and with green eyes Greta must envy, but equally slim, equally pale, equally assured of her world. “Alexa is not out. Miss Newcombe, Isabella, I think you will go charmingly with Captain Portman.”

And she bore Gawen off.

Madoc and Cecilia were towed away.

Captain Portman drew on his cigarette as he scanned her. Isabella tilted up her chin and gave him an equal scrutiny. His build was square, his chin was square, his haircut was square. His handkerchief in his pocket was folded to make three neat triangles. “Miss Newcombe. Or may I call you Isabella? I’m Jack.”

“Hello. Greta said captain. Army or Navy?”

“Army. American?”

She had thought her accent faded. “Yes. You have sharp ears. Have you known Greta long?”

“We were close once upon a time, when the world was still green.”

She knew better than to ask of his recent past, but that comment was designed to provoke a remark. She obeyed the provocation. “You don’t look like a doomed romantic.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “I like you. Shall we walk about, as the Australians say, and introduce you? You won’t remember many names, but Greta likes to think her methods are the best ones, and it’s easier to give in.”

“Do you know everyone here?”

“I know the Malvaise tribe and their current attachments. A few others. We’ll muddle our way through, and you can introduce me to your friends. I already know Cess.”

“From when the world was still green?”

He shot her a quick glance. “Just so.”  He stopped at the dowager, who handed him tea that he passed on to Isabella. He also let her choose a tartlet and a petit four for the edge of her saucer before taking a cup of tea for himself. “Now,” a hand on the small of her back, he guided her away, “where were we?”

“You know Cess.”

“Exactly right. Have you known her long?”

“We met in October. On Crete. At the dig.”

“The ill-fated dig.”

“If by ill-fated, you mean that it was plagued with a thief who didn’t hesitate to commit murder, then yes.”

“Her husband’s in gaol there. Theft and accomplice to murder, I hear.”

“You are well informed.”

They stopped at the first group. His quiet “Tori” commanded attention, and a young woman close to Isabella’s age broke off her chatter. She wore a red day-dress with a persimmon and gold shawl flung over her shoulders. Dangling carnelian earrings matched the carnelian combs holding back her pale hair.

“Jack. Is this Greta’s invitation to our holidays?”

“One of them. Victoria, may I present Miss Isabella Newcombe?”

Once more she  repressed the urge to curtsey. The young woman had her grandmother’s presence. She had missed the nose by a fortunate circumstance, and Isabella had to refrain from looking for Greta to compare noses.

Portman continued his introductions. “Attached to Tori is her fiancé Tommy Gresham. Currently a playwright.”

“Currently?”  Overly thin, even to his moustache, the young man drew on his cigarette. “What are you?”

“Artist.”

“Artist?”  The man to his right leaned forward as if to see her better. “Oil or watercolor?”

“Both. Primarily watercolor.”

“Women do seem afraid to work in oils,” he chuckled, and she didn’t like him from that point. “Anything in a gallery?”

“At Tony Carstairs, in Soho.”

“Hmm. I’ll have to check that out when I return to London.”

“So will I,” Jack Portman said, and she flashed him a smile.

“I’m Stephen Pettigrew. My work is in several galleries.”  He placed a flat-fingered hand on the man beside him. “This is Calum Eliot. He likes acting, don’t you, Cal?”

Mr. Eliot winced then offered his hand. His gaze flickered briefly to Portman.

“Are you on stage?” she asked.

“I don’t have a role yet. I’ve been auditioning, and the directors claim to like my readings, but—.”

“I’ve told him not to worry. Everyone’s flooding onto the stage now. And Tommy’s writing the perfect part for you. It will elevate you above the masses.”

“Trust Tommy, Calum,” Tori urged and gave a pat on his other arm.

“And we’re off,” her escort said. He steered her to another group. Older people this time. He pressed hard to push her into insinuating into the tight circle. When he crowded in beside her, the silver-streaked blond on his left had to give ground.

Their arrival had killed the conversation.

“Sir Reginald,” Portman said, indicating the silver-haired man with piercing green eyes he had gifted to only one daughter and the Malvaise nose he had cursed another daughter with. “May I introduce Miss Isabella Newcombe, a friend of Mrs. Cecilia Arkwright?”

The battery of eyes never ceased. Isabella gave a brief curtsey.

“Lady Malvaise,” he named.

Side-by-side with her husband, the wife’s youth was glaringly apparent, yet she spoke with the ease of a seasoned hostess. “We met earlier, didn’t we, Miss Newcombe? Did you have an opportunity to look from your window?”

“The garden must be glorious in spring and summer, Lady Malvaise.”

“Mr. Malvaise,” Portman continued around the circle, “and his wife. Filly is their daughter.”

The couple nodded. He did not have his brother’s silver, but he sported last decade’s whiskers along with baggy corduroys and a leather-patched cardigan. His silver-streaked wife was expensively-dressed and bejeweled, ears and neck and wrists and fingers.

“The Ryders, Douglas and Rosamunde. And this is Godfrey Hunstead.”

The couple murmured greetings. The stocky man smiled. Liking his cheery eyes above his ruddy cheeks, Isabella smiled back.

“My wife’s taking tea upstairs.”

“By which Hunstead means,” Portman said in her ear as he steered her to the third group, “that his wife’s upstairs with a different tipple.”

They were headed for the far end of the room where three sofas boxed the hearth. Madoc stood at the edge of a sofa, with his escort lingering at his elbow. He had his arms folded, his legs braced apart, his posture when he confronted something or someone he didn’t like.

The girl—Filly—tugged on his arm. He allowed himself to be turned back to the room. When he saw Isabella, he smiled, but then he saw Portman’s hand on her. He slowed, but Filly towed him relentlessly back to the elder Lady Malvaise.

And Isabella focused on new group. Which one of them had kindled Madoc’s temper? Two older men and two older women sat on sofa across from each other while two younger persons sat at either end of the third sofa.

Portman launched into his introductions. “I’ll start with Mr. Buxton,” an angular man in grey silk. He offered no smile with his nod, just an assessing survey. “This is Miss Isabella Newcombe, Philip. And his wife Maureen,” a bone-thin woman who didn’t look up from her jangling bracelets. “Their son Anthony.”

The young man’s grin warmed up the angular features he’d inherited. And he stood up, showing manners. “Tony, please. Mr. Tarrant, Madoc Tarrant, just informed us that you are his fiancée.”

Portman’s hand shifted, but he didn’t remove it. Isabella wondered what he was thinking. “Yes, we are betrothed.”

“No ring,” Mr. Buxton judged.

“I don’t need a ring to feel engaged to Madoc.”

“I understand you two didn’t meet until October, when he was off on that dig with his brother instead of working for his grandfather.”

A comment like that would have sparked Madoc’s anger. She tilted her head and continued to smile. “I think dire circumstances must strip away the social veneer and give us the true person. I certainly may not know everything of my fiancé’s past, but I know he is honorable and reliable, strong of mind and steady of character.”

“Strong? Steady? He doesn’t have a job. I understand he rejected his grandfather’s offer of a position in the main office.”

This was the man. Isabella did not like to fight battles, but she wouldn’t back down from this one. “Yes, he refused that offer. He was de-mobbed in June, and he did not want to chain himself immediately to a windowless office. He does have a job, though, Mr. Buxton. He reports there after the New Year.”

“You surprise me.”

She opened her eyes wide. “How so, Mr. Buxton?”

“Your defense of him—.”

“Oh, come, Philip,” the other older woman said, “leave the young lady alone. She’s not been here more than a couple of hours. I’m Lottie Crittenden, Reggie’s sister. I publish Modern Woman. You may have read it. We’re at all the London newsstands. And this,” she pointed at the young woman sharing the sofa with Tony, “is my assistant, Alicia Osterley.”

Miss Osterley removed her black-framed glasses and smiled with a squint as she polished the lenses using the hem of her skirt.

“Which leaves Wyatt Williamson,” and Portman indicated the straggle-haired art critic.

“Last but not least,” Williamson said, neither cheerfully nor mordantly. “I have recalled your work, Miss Newcombe.”

Her eyes opened wide again, this time without false innocence. “You have?”

“You have a watercolor I found interesting in Tony Carstairs’ gallery. He sold it, unfortunately.”

“Fortunately for me, Mr. Williamson. Was it the mountains in Crete with the foothills covered in dittany?”

“A shoreline. And I’m glad to hear you’ve sold more than one but disappointed that I missed this other painting.”

“I delivered two more canvasses to Mr. Carstairs just yesterday, sir. A small oil and a watercolor of the size of the shoreline.”

“Then I must visit Carstairs again. I would be pleased to have one of your works in my collection.”

Her heart pounded at the praise. “Thank you, Mr. Williamson.”

Portman made their apologies and led her away, back to the dowager and her tea tray, where her friends waited.


View the trailer here. https://youtu.be/Cgr99ForHpA

Purchase Here.

Ebook and Paperback at Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SBB4DN

Ebook only at Worldwide Distributors https://books2read.com/u/4EKwXY


Free Novella

Christmas Gift!

Free Novella! Whether you like historical mystery, historical suspense, 1920s romance, crime / mystery / suspense, or all 3 -- check out The...