Books by Alyssa Maxwell
Gilded Newport Mysteries
MURDER AT THE BREAKERS
MURDER AT MARBLE HOUSE
MURDER AT BEECHWOOD
MURDER AT ROUGH POINT
MURDER AT CHATEAU SUR MER
MURDER AT OCHRE COURT
MURDER AT CROSSWAYS
Lady and Lady’s Maid Mysteries
MURDER MOST MALICIOUS
A PINCH OF POISON
A DEVIOUS DEATH
A MURDEROUS MARRIAGE
A SILENT STABBING
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A SILENT STABBING
ALYSSA MAXWELL
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Lisa Manuel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019951395
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1742-9
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: March 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1744-3 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1744-9 (e-book)
To my readers who found me through my Gilded Newport Mysteries and followed me across the sea to Little Barlow to meet Phoebe and Eva and the rest. Thank you for your kindness, your support, and most of all, thank you for reading!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I always say it takes a village to write a book, and that doesn’t change whether it’s the first book or many books later. I feel incredibly fortunate to be a Kensington author. My deepest thanks go out to my editor, John Scognamiglio, Robin Cook and the copyediting department, the amazing people in the art department, publicist Larissa Ackerman, who never fails to light a promotional fire under me with each new release, and so many others who transform a manuscript into a book worthy of the shelves. And, always, many thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall, who is there to see that all goes well.
CHAPTER 1
The Cotswolds, September 1920
Her arms full of fresh cut flowers, Eva Huntford entered her parents’ kitchen and yet again caught her mother studying her reflection in the window above the cast iron sink. Eva went to the scrubbed pine table and set down the bundle of feverfew, primroses, and violets she’d snipped from the front garden. Soon the flowers bordering the house would be gone as brisk fall winds chased the last of summer away.
“Do stop fussing, Mum,” she said with a tolerant smile and a shake of her head. “You look lovely.” She meant it. Her mother’s health had taken a turn for the worse during the last year of the war and had remained a concern for Eva until recently. Now, the color had returned to her cheeks and she no longer huffed with every physical effort or wheezed to catch her breath. At fifty-four Betty Huntford might no longer be a young woman, but surely she still had many good years left, not to mention three grandchildren on whom she doted. “Besides, it’s only Alice and the children coming.”
“Just the children, you say.” Her mother turned and leaned her back against the edge of the sink. “It’s been months and months since they’ve seen me. What if they think their poor grandmum is getting old?”
Eva stifled a chuckle. “They’re three, five, and seven.” The oldest had been born right before the war; the other two, during, the result of Oliver’s rare trips home on leave. “They think I look old. Besides, all they care about is getting a warm hug from their grandmum, being told how big they’ve gotten, and sitting down to an extra-large piece of your lardy cake.”
She sniffed the warm, spicy scents rising from the oven. Her mum’s lardy cake, made with freshly rendered lard, plenty of sugar, currants, and raisins, was the best Eva had ever tasted, and that included Mrs. Ellison’s at Foxwood Hall. It was a trifle expensive, of course, and Mum only made it for special occasions. “Smells wonderful.”
“To tell you truly, Evie, I didn’t expect this visit, it came so out of the blue when Alice wrote to say they were coming. It’s left me the tiniest bit addled, having to get the house ready for them on such short notice.” Mum cast a nervous glance at the old coal-fired range, cast iron like the sink, but black rather than white. The house dated to the early decades of the last century, and the range had been set into the cavernous hearth that had once served for cooking meals. “They should be here any minute. Provided, that is, Old Bessie doesn’t break down again. I do wish your father would spend the money on a new truck.”
“Even if he had the money, he wouldn’t spend it on a new truck, Mum. Not while Old Bessie still has a breath left in her.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true. I’ll just . . . I’ll set the table. Oh, and I’ll put those flowers in a vase. You go keep watch for them.”
Eva didn’t argue. If setting the table and seeing that every little detail was just so helped her mother expend some energy and feel less jittery, then Eva would leave her to it. In the parlor, she took up position by the front window that overlooked the road. Across the way, the poplar trees flanking the Pittmans’ farmhouse were already glowing brightly gold, while the oak beside the Huntfords’ barn retained most of its summer green, tipped only here and there in licks of flame.
The dry autumn air intensified the blue of the sky and the sharpness of the sunlight, making her squint a bit to see down the road. She did indeed hope Old Bessie, Dad’s prewar motor wagon with its flatbed for hauling farm equipment, made it to the train depot and back. Poor Bessie had been making odd, grunting complaints lately that didn’t bode well for her future.
“It was ever so good of Lady Phoebe to give you the day off,” Mum called from the other room.
Eva nodded, though Mum couldn’t see it. “It feels almost sinful not to be working on a Tuesday.” Officially, she had time off only on Sunday afternoons, after church. But she happened to work as a lady’s maid for a tolerant and thoughtful mistress, not to mention that Eva had helped Lady Phoebe’s sister, Julia, now Lady Annondale, out of a particularly doleful situation earlier this year. Phoebe and the entire Renshaw family were only too happy to grant Eva the occasional favor, though she would never take advantage of their kindness.
Outside, movement caught her eye. There, down the road at the fork that led either west, to the village of Little Barlow or north to the train depot, a little cloud of dust stirred in the air. A moment later Old Bessie’s snub, rust-stained bonnet came into view. Soon, through the open windows, Eva could hear the truck’s creaking and groaning and the chug-chug of her engine. “They’re here,
Mum!”
Although it must have been a tight squeeze to fit Dad, Alice, and three small children into the cab of the motor wagon, Eva was glad to see none of them rode in the bed. She always grimaced at the sight of local children riding in the back of open lorries. But then, Eva didn’t believe any seat in a motorcar to be completely safe; they went too, too fast for her comfort, and all that jostling at high speeds couldn’t possibly do a body any good.
Mum shuffled into the room, realized she held a dishrag in one hand and still wore her apron, and doubled back into the kitchen. When she appeared again she was smoothing her cotton frock—her second best—and patting stray brown hairs peppered with gray into place. Outside, Old Bessie puttered to a halt in front of the house and let out a hiss. Mum ran to open the front door, grabbing her shawl off the back of a chair on the way.
When Eva expected her to hurry across the threshold, her mother instead went still, rather like Old Bessie with her tires gone flat. Eva peered out the window to see into the truck; there, just inside the passenger door, was her sister’s profile. Just then Alice turned, spotted Eva, and waved enthusiastically. She opened the door to hop out. Eva heard a sigh from her mother. “Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Where are the children? Where are my Hannah, Lizzie, and Ollie Junior?”
Indeed. Three small children should have poured out the door after their mother, but there was no one left inside. Alice went round to the back of the wagon and slid out her overnight satchel. Dad joined her there and hefted her larger portmanteau. Together they came up the front path.
“Mum, Eva, it’s so good to see you both,” Alice cried. She smiled broadly. “It’s so jolly to be home.”
Before stepping outside, Mum cast Eva a look over her shoulder, and in that instant Eva saw her effort to bring her features under control, to hide her disappointment. Eva felt a sense of letdown, too. She had so looked forward to playing the indulgent auntie to her nephew and two little nieces. As her mother had said, it had been months and months since their visit at Christmas.
“Here she is, all safe and sound.” Dad shifted the weight of the trunk in his arms, and Eva noticed that he, too, worked to keep his expression amiable.
“I didn’t expect you to be here today, Eva,” Alice said after Mum had embraced her, inspected her appearance from head to foot, and declared her “looking lovely though a smidgeon tired.”
Alice and Eva hugged and then stepped back to admire each other. Alice, Eva’s senior by three years, had their father’s eyes and Mum’s dark hair, as did Eva. And like Eva, Alice’s features drew from both parents. People had always said the Huntford sisters looked very much alike, but Eva was taken slightly aback now to detect the beginnings of crow’s-feet beside Alice’s eyes and lines that spoke of weariness around her mouth. Those lines deepened to brackets as Alice grinned. “How spiffing of the Renshaws to let you out for the day. You must have them wrapped around your little finger. They say a good servant eventually becomes the master, and the master the servant.”
“Do they? I’ve never heard that.”
“Well, let’s not all stand outside for the neighbors’ entertainment.” Their father led the way into the parlor. With a grunt, he set the suitcase down against the wall. Dad had trimmed his beard short for the summer and sported a bit more of a paunch between his braces than he had last winter, a result of Mum’s talents as both a cook and a baker. He gave his stomach a pat now as he scented the aromas coming from the kitchen. With a sideways glance at his elder daughter, he said, “Little Ollie loves his lardy cake, doesn’t he, Alice?”
When her sister didn’t reply, Eva decided there was nothing for it but to ask the question quivering in the air between them. “Alice, why haven’t you brought the children?”
“Yes, Alice.” Mum closed the front door; turning, she clasped her hands at her waist. “Surely you didn’t leave them in Suffolk with Oliver. How on earth is he to tend to them and the farm at the same time?”
“Don’t be silly, Mum.” Alice set down her overnight bag, collapsed on the sofa, and let out a weary sigh. “No, they’re with their Ward grandparents, well looked after, I assure you.”
Mum’s frown etched deep lines across her brow. So much for concealing her true feelings. “You do realize they have grandparents right here who would have adored looking after them.”
“Yes, but they have school now. Surely you didn’t expect me to take them away from their lessons.” Alice patted the cushion beside her, an invitation for Mum to join her. After bringing Alice’s larger case into the room she and Eva had once shared, Dad lowered himself into his favorite easy chair. Eva crossed the room to lean against the mantel. “The truth is,” her sister began, and sighed once more, “I needed a bit of a holiday. I’ve earned one. You remember how it can be sometimes, don’t you, Mum?”
“I’m . . . not sure what you mean.” Mum’s forehead knotted more tightly. Dad tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as if perplexed by a difficult math problem.
“All the demands of children and husband and farm life.” Alice held out her hands. “It’s all so consuming sometimes. I just wanted . . . no, I needed some time to myself. And time with my family.”
Mum’s frown deepened still more. “How is Oliver? Is everything all right with . . . him?”
Eva guessed her mother’s hesitation stemmed from her being about to ask if everything was all right with Alice and Oliver, meaning had they quarreled? Because that was exactly what Eva suspected.
“Oliver is just fine, Mum.” Alice smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirt. “He’s very busy now harvesting the wheat and barley.”
“And he doesn’t need your help?” Dad asked.
Alice looked up, her gaze shifting from parent to parent. “No. He’s got day laborers.”
“Oh. He can afford laborers? Isn’t that a frightful strain on his profits?” Mum glanced over at Dad. “Why, your father almost never—”
“Do I smell lardy cake?” Alice made a show of lifting her nose into the air. She rose suddenly and hurried into the kitchen.
Her lips pursed, Mum gained her feet a good deal more slowly, with Dad rising and coming over to lend her a hand. “What in the world?” she whispered to him. Dad shrugged. “Time with her family? Her husband and children are her family. And she certainly didn’t seem eager to answer our questions and put our minds at rest. Vincent, I’m worried about that girl. This isn’t like her.”
The oven door whined on its hinges. “Mmmm,” Alice sang out with appreciation. “I’d say it’s almost ready. Mum, have you any perry on hand?”
“In the pantry, luv,” Mom called back, but her gaze never left her husband’s.
“Is it Ripley’s?” Alice’s footsteps could be heard crossing the kitchen.
Her mother said impatiently, “Of course it is.”
“Alice is no girl, that’s certain,” Dad murmured. “And we’ve no cause to pry simply because she’s come home for a visit. Maybe it’s as she says—she needed a holiday.”
“Yes, but why?” The conversation continued in hushed tones, giving Eva the impression her parents had forgotten she was still in the room. “I tell you, Vincent, there’s something wrong. And I intend to find out what it is.”
“Ah, here it is.” Alice’s muffled voice drifted from the pantry. “How has Keenan Ripley’s yield been so far this year?”
No one answered the question about the local farmer whose family had long ago cultivated the species of pears that made Gloucestershire’s unique cider, called perry. The Ripley perry was considered some of the Cotswolds’ best. Even Eva, who only rarely drank spirits, was known to enjoy a pint on occasion.
“Would everyone like some?” Alice asked, her voice louder now as she apparently reentered the kitchen.
“Not for me, Alice,” Mum said, her impatience once more conveyed by her rising voice, and Eva was certain her mother couldn’t have cared less just then what she ate or drank. To her husband she whispered emph
atically, “I’ll soon know what’s going on with that girl.”
“Now, Betty . . .”
“No, I’m her mother, and I’ve a right to know when things aren’t right with one of my children—” Mum’s voice had begun to rise again, then suddenly choked off. A tide of red flooded her face, and her eyes filled, a sight that brought a sting to Eva’s own eyes. Her mother’s sudden wretchedness wasn’t about Alice. It was about the one child she hadn’t been able to help, to save. The child who had perhaps needed his mother, but he had been beyond her reach at the time. Eva’s brother, Danny, who died in the war, whose body still lay in an unmarked grave in France . . .
The oven door again creaked open. “It looks ready,” Alice called. “Shall I take it out?”
“I’m coming.” With a last determined glance at Dad, Mum hurried into the other room. That left Eva and her father staring at each other. He looked apologetic and at a loss. Poor man, outnumbered by his womenfolk and often unable to puzzle out what were, for him, their mysterious ways. Eva blinked away the moisture in her eyes, went to him, and smiled up into his kindly face.
“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m sure Alice is just fine. But if there is something wrong, I’ll find out what it is, and I’ll fix it.”
* * *
The tables lining the stone walls of St. George’s basement fairly groaned beneath their burdens, a circumstance that brought great satisfaction to Phoebe Renshaw. Her autumn charity drive for the Relief and Comfort of Veterans and Their Families, or the RCVF, had proved an unmitigated success, and by this time next week deliveries would be made to the wounded veterans of the Great War who resided in Gloucestershire, and to the families of those men who never returned.
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