Murder. A baker’s dozen of suspects.
A sleepy village and a Public School. A 1920s Mystery.
What more could you want?
Murder paints with death in Portrait with Death.
Chapter 1
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.
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.
Publishing on July 20!
Preorder here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0973GVKSQ
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