Murder at Archly Manor

by Sara Rosett

  “Sounds intriguing, possibly scandalous.”

  “It’s perfectly respectable. I’m working for Aunt Caroline.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ll do fine as long as she remembers to pay you.”

  “I got a retainer upfront.”

  “You are going to be a savvy businesswoman.”

  “I would love to tell you all about it, and I have a small favor to ask. Can you meet me later today?”

  “I’d like nothing better. I’ll give up the stodgy atmosphere of my club to meet with you anytime, my dear.”

  I triangulated the shops Essie’s maid had named and estimated how long it might take to find Essie. “Shall we say an hour from now, in Hyde Park, near Speakers’ Corner?”

  “Intent on a stroll, are you?”

  “It’s far too nice of a day to stay inside.”

  “You always were an active girl. I suppose I could stand a leisurely amble.”

  I found Essie in the second shop I tried. She had on a bicorn hat with the brim folded back, which completely covered her dark brown pageboy. She had a moon-shaped face, cinnamon-colored eyes, and pink cheeks. She tilted her head to the side, critically surveying the shop girl who was modeling a wide-brimmed straw hat with a pink sash and a spray of carnations. Essie spun her finger in the air. “Turn.”

  The shop girl rotated slowly, and I was glad it wasn’t me under the hat. Essie nodded. “I’ll take it.” The shop girl moved away, and I drifted toward Essie. She spotted me and met me halfway, hands outstretched. “Olive, where have you been keeping yourself? I haven’t seen you since the Duchess of Seton’s ball.”

  “I’ve been up to Parkview for a few days.” It was best not to tell Essie everything.

  “Such a lovely setting. And I hear that the happy couple is there as well?”

  “You do keep up, don’t you?”

  “One tries.”

  She might not have been interested in writing essays in boarding school, but she had a nose for news—of the society type. I knew if there were rumors or information—no matter how minuscule—about Alfred, she’d have heard them. The trick would be getting the information out of her without her realizing I was probing for details.

  She asked, “Have Violet and Alfred set a date?”

  I fingered the appliqué on a beret displayed on a hatstand. “Not yet. Alfred seems a delightful young man.”

  “Oh, yes. So dashing. And always so cheerful. I think he and Violet will do well together.”

  “And he has such an interesting history.”

  Essie put a hand on her chest, tilted her head to the side, and said on a sigh, “Romantic India.” She leaned toward me. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to live there myself, but it does make an excellent story. His father did quite well in the east, you know.”

  I only had to raise my eyebrows to get her to continue.

  “You don’t know the story?”

  “I didn’t get the details. You know Violet. She’s very much about what’s going on now and isn’t interested in anything to do with the past. Too boring.”

  “Yes, but when your deceased father-in-law to-be was a nabob, I think that is worthy of discussion.”

  “Really? I hadn’t realized.”

  Essie nodded. “How do you think Alfred affords his flat in South Regent Mansions? And he’s always so well dressed. And his motor! Have you seen it?”

  “No, but you’re the second person who’s mentioned it.”

  “A stunner. I really must get a photograph of Alfred and Violet in it. Now that would sell some newspapers.”

  “I’m sure it would. Colonial son returns to his roots in Derbyshire and makes good,” I said, picking a random region and tossing it into my imaginary headline to see Essie’s reaction.

  “No, it wasn’t Derbyshire. Somewhere in the Midlands, a little village . . .” Essie stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Setherwick, that was it. I remember because I misunderstood him. I thought he said Leatherwick. But he said, ‘No, Setherwick.’ I’ve never been there myself. Alfred said it’s a tiny little village, barely a speck on the map.”

  “And who are his particular friends?”

  Essie twisted a hatstand so she could look at the back of a fringed turban. “Sebastian, of course. Can’t think of anyone else. Of course, growing up in India, he wouldn’t have developed relationships here that go back years and years.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  The shop assistant returned, and Essie asked to see the turban modeled. As I left, Essie said, “Delightful to see you, Olive. Tell Violet I simply must have that photo of her. I’ll be in touch to arrange it.”

  I made my way toward Hyde Park. Violet would love to have her photo in the paper, but Aunt Caroline and Gwen wouldn’t like it.

  Jasper was in the park before me, lounging against a bench, surveying the scene through a monocle. I joined him and said, “You’re much too young to use a monocle.”

  He screwed it into his eye and swiveled in my direction. “I thought it made me look jolly distinguished.”

  “It makes you look rather foppish.”

  “Dear me, I best not let Grigsby see it, then.” He pocketed the monocle and offered his arm. “Shall we begin this arduous trek?”

  “I promise it won’t be too taxing.”

  “Now, tell me all about this commission you have.”

  I said, “You must keep this completely between us.”

  “You know I can do that.”

  “That’s why I’m confiding in you.” Jasper was one of the few people that I knew who actually could keep a secret. I’d learned that many summers ago when I’d been scribbling in a notebook, writing an epic story of love and adventure. It had involved a mummy, a sheik, and—of course—a beautiful woman. I was carrying the notebook with me as I walked to Parkview and had paused on the bank of the river to write down some important detail.

  I didn’t realize Jasper and Peter were close, or I’d never have the notebook out in plain sight. Their cricket ball sailed into a tree overhead, and a distant buzz sounded, but I didn’t realize what it was. Jasper ran up to retrieve his ball just as a swarm of bees descended. I panicked and ran straight over the edge of the riverbank. The instant I made the leap, I realized I was still holding my notebook with my precious story in it. I tossed it to Jasper, who had the presence of mind to notice the bees weren’t actually coming in our direction. He caught the notebook and watched me plunge into the river. When I came up sputtering from the shock of the cold water, he raised his gaze from the open pages to me. “You’re writing a novel.”

  I scrambled up the steep bank, water sluicing off my dress. I squished through the long grass and pushed my wet hair off my face. “If you tell a soul . . .” So many emotions surged through me—mortification, anger, embarrassment. I couldn’t even finish my sentence.

  Jasper closed the notebook with a snap. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and his tone had a certainty that I trusted. He wouldn’t lie to my face and then later snicker with Peter about it. He handed the notebook back, then took off his jacket and dropped it over my shoulders. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He picked up his ball and trotted back through the trees to where Peter was shouting for him.

  A squeaking sound brought me back to the present as a nurse came toward us, pushing a perambulator with a wheel that needed oil. Jasper and I paused for a moment to let her cross the path in front of us, then I told him about Aunt Caroline’s concerns about Alfred Eton. I finished with, “And so you see, because of what you did during the war—”

  He looked at me sharply.

  “Your work for the Admiralty,” I said quickly. I knew it was a touchy subject. Many people had looked down on men like Jasper who didn’t fight on the front lines, but Jasper had contributed to the war effort, even if it hadn’t been on the battlefield. “I thought you might have connections—someone who could find out what Alfred’s father did in India.”

  “Oh—yes. Right. I can make a fe
w inquiries. Old Somerville might remember him. Delhi, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Might your father have known him?” I asked.

  “No. Father was in Bombay.”

  “Ah.”

  Jasper didn’t often speak of his family, and his tone indicated the subject was closed. His steps, which were already at an ambling pace, slowed even more. “You need to be . . . careful.” He whacked a tuft of grass with his walking stick. “Alfred doesn’t keep the best company. He spends a lot of time with Sebastian, and that set is rather . . .”

  “Fast. Yes, you told me. But I’m not marrying him. It’s Violet you should warn off. If there’s anything truly unsavory there, I’ll uncover it—”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.

  I ignored his comment. “. . . and that will allow Violet to untangle herself from Alfred before things get too much further along.”

  Jasper stopped walking and turned to me, leaning with both hands on his stick. “You’re determined to do this, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” He straightened, then offered me his arm again as we resumed walking. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.”

  Our ramble had brought us back to Speakers’ Corner, and we parted there. I shook off my irritation at Jasper’s reaction. Who was he to tell me who to associate with and what to do?

  Instead, I focused on the upcoming house party at Archly Manor. I had several evening gowns Gwen had given me. We were close to the same size, except she was a few inches taller than I was. The only adjustments the dresses needed were shortened hems, and I did that myself, but none of the dresses were silver or gold. I did have a sleeveless white sheath dress. I could make a few adjustments to the dress to make it fit the party theme.

  I used my dwindling personal money to buy a tulle fabric shot through with gold thread, then returned to my room. I spent the evening sewing. The long lines of the current styles made it easy to sew the gauzy fabric into a loose overdress that would float around the white dress. With a gold sash tied around my hips, and Mum’s pearls, I looked passably fashionable.

  The next morning, I kept an eye out the window. When Gwen’s mint green Morris Cowley arrived, I grabbed my bags and hurried down the stairs. My lodgings were clean and respectable, but I saw them with new eyes after returning from my short visit to Parkview. The shabbiness of the building stood out to me now. I hurried out the door before Gwen could come inside.

  She was about to step out of the Morris. “You’re ready?”

  “Why do you look so surprised?”

  “Because you’re usually late.”

  “Not this time.” I stowed my bag and climbed into the seat beside her. “On to the party.”

  Chapter Seven

  Gwen and I set out from London for Somerset, and the first portion of the drive was uneventful. It was only after we turned off the main road that we realized Alfred’s vague directions left something to be desired. As we approached a crossroads with a faded signpost, I said to Gwen, “Slow down so I can read it. I think this may be our turn.”

  Gwen’s foot touched the brake—something she’d rarely done since we’d set off from my lodgings. Gwen, so sedate and measured in her personality, lost all inhibition when she got behind the steering wheel. Her philosophy was to power along at as fast a pace as possible, saying, “If we’re wrong, we’ll turn around,” which we’d already done twice.

  I looked back down to the page of scrawled directions. “Yes, take a right here.”

  Gwen made the turn, then stood on the brake, flinging the directions and the map to the floor. “What is that?”

  Arms braced on the dash, I said, “I have no idea.”

  Now that we’d made the turn, a life-size figure of a clown pointing down the road came into view. Gwen let the motor roll closer.

  “It’s papier-mâché,” I said. It was clothed in a bright harlequin-patterned suit and had a matching floppy hat.

  “Sebastian is a bit . . . unconventional,” Gwen said. “Perhaps these are signposts to point the way to Archly Manor.”

  “It would have been more helpful to have one at the actual crossroad,” I said.

  Gwen returned her attention to the road, and the Morris surged forward. “Sebastian’s an artist. He’s more into theater than practicality.”

  We saw three more papier-mâché figures—a mermaid, a knight, and, finally, a unicorn, which guarded the gates of Archly Manor. “They certainly are eye-catching,” I said as we passed through the gates. “It makes me wonder what’s in store for this party.”

  “Nothing traditional, that’s for certain.”

  The grounds of Archly Manor were extensive, and it was several minutes before the house came into view. Gwen tapped the brake so I could get a good look.

  “Gracious,” I said. “Perhaps I should become a society photographer.” The white stuccoed mansion dazzled against the green background of the surrounding parkland. A two-story recessed portico lined with Ionic pillars formed the central block of the house. Above it, a balcony enclosed the second floor. Two wings, each with an octagonal design, bookended the entrance block.

  “Family money. Violet says Sebastian bought Archly Manor so he could get away. Somewhere to go when he wants to get out of the hustle and bustle of London.”

  “Pity that it’s family money and not his photos that paid for it. I could see myself becoming the dashing lady photographer.”

  The drive leading to the house buzzed with activity. Gwen threaded between two lorries, then stomped on the brakes to avoid a servant pushing a barrow full of plants. She swept the motor around the man, then jerked us to a stop at the portico by the double front doors. A servant opened the door of the Morris and informed Gwen he’d put the Morris in the old stables then have our bags sent up to our rooms. He drove away around the side of the house.

  Gwen and I stood on the sweep for a moment, taking in the activity. On the wide stretch of emerald lawn that gradually dropped down to a lake, gardeners were trimming the grass while others bent over the flowerbeds that surrounded the house. Several men in flat caps and work clothes carried boxes labeled explosives down to a boathouse while servants hurried back and forth from one of the side entrances to the house. Other workers tottered along with potted plants, or perched on ladders as they hung Japanese lanterns on tree branches.

  A man emerged from Archly Manor’s front door. He held two green champagne bottles by their gold-wrapped necks and wore a three-piece suit with a gold watch chain across his vest. He transferred one of the bottles to the crook of his arm and came toward Gwen, his hand extended. He moved with a confident and leisurely stride. “Gwen, so glad you could come.” His fair hair was parted in the middle of his forehead and slicked back from his face, which was lean and bordered on gauntness. The sunlight highlighted his prominent cheekbones and the sockets around his eyes, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. The skin stretched tight over the bones of his face was a curious contrast to his obvious youthfulness. He couldn’t be more than a few years older than Gwen and me. He was in his early thirties at the most. I wondered if he’d been sick recently.

  “Hello, Sebastian,” Gwen said. “I don’t think you’ve met my cousin, Olive.”

  I shook his hand. His grip was strong and his handshake firm. I said, “I hope crashing your party at the last moment hasn’t caused any problems.”

  “Not at all. We’re informal here, as you can see.” He lifted one of the champagne bottles. “In fact, we’re having a little pre-party-party, if you’d like to join us. We’re picnicking far away from this chaos.” He waved the champagne bottle at a servant carrying a stack of chairs. “Or you may retire to your rooms if your journey was too fatiguing.” He smiled as he said the words, but there was a critical edge to his tone, which also held the barest trace of ridicule. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of a rest?”


  “I’m not as missish as that,” Gwen said. “And I know Olive won’t want a rest.”

  “No, I love a picnic.”

  “Excellent. This way.” He turned his back to the lawn that sloped down to the lake and led us around to the other side of the house. “We’re under that large chestnut tree. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must speak to someone. I’ll be with you shortly.” He moved away to talk to one of the workers.

  I raised my eyebrows at Gwen as we walked to the group gathered under the tree. “I can see why you don’t like him.”

  Gwen’s steps paused. “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I could tell from the way you spoke about him. Meeting him only confirmed my thoughts.”

  “Really? That’s disturbing. Do you think he knows I don’t like him?”

  “No. He’s far too pleased with himself to even wonder about what other people think of him.”

  “Yes. Smug down to his very bones. That’s why I worry about Violet. Alfred is so closely connected to Sebastian, and it’s clear that Sebastian doesn’t think of anyone but himself. I’m afraid Alfred is cut from the same cloth.”

  “And neither one of them has Violet’s best interests at heart.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said, then glanced back at Sebastian, who was still by the house. “He thinks I’m a dried-up busybody out to spoil everyone’s enjoyment. That comment about needing a nap! As if I was Violet’s decrepit spinster aunt. Just because I don’t indulge in the frivolous life like he and his friends doesn’t mean I’m old fashioned.”

  “You don’t have to convince me.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. He does annoy me.”

  As we approached the group in the shade of the tree, Violet, who was seated on a blanket and reclining against Alfred’s chest, shifted into a sitting position. Alfred rose and greeted us warmly, his grin wide. Violet didn’t look nearly as welcoming. “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said.

  “You must have misunderstood,” Gwen said. “I said I was arriving later. I went to London to bring Olive.” Gwen turned to introduce me to two women in wicker chairs with fashion magazines spread across their laps. The woman closest to me was Lady Pamela. Like the day I’d met her with Jasper at the Savoy, she wore an exquisite gown, this one a flowing cream silk with a lace overdress. “Lady Pamela and I have met,” I said.